Daddy, i have sinned

Your face is unreadable.

The phone creaks in your hand. You set it down calmly. You turn around and look at her mischievous face stone-cold. Sandra knows she went too far. The knowledge lives somewhere behind her eyes for half a second. Then her turned-on mind offers the only solution it has: she stays on her knees and gives a little wiggle of her ass, like cute might still work.

It does not.

You grab her by the neck and haul her up. Not choking to hurt—controlling. Lifting. Making her find her feet whether she wants to or not. She knows she is in trouble the second her heels leave the tile and she has to stay on her toes, and her face fills with that perverted smile anyway, bright and shameless, like trouble was the prize.

“You little slut think you can do whatever you want, don’t you.”

It is not a question. It is an accusation. Sandra’s lashes flutter. She looks like she could come from the tone alone, from being held like that and named like that, from the fact that you are not laughing with her this time.

Her next sentence makes you lose it.

“Sorry, Daddy,”
she breathes, already drooling, both mouths wet without even the hint of shame.
“I have been a bad girl”

You drag her upstairs.

She does not fight the stairs. She stumbles where you take her, grinning, dripping, letting herself be walked like the confession was a key. Her room. The bed. You pull belts from the chair, from the closet, from wherever your hands find leather, and you tie her. Wrists to the corners. A third around her waist when she tries to twist up and kiss you mid-knot. She tests the first restraint, finds it holds, and goes boneless with a moan that is filthy and grateful.

“Daddy,” she says again, just to see what it does.

It is not the first time she has called you Daddy.

It is new since yesterday—since the two of you stopped running from the idea of knocking her up, since the word picked up a weight it did not have when it would have been only a joke in the dark. Now it sits in the room with the belts and the girl tied to her own bed, still smiling like sin is a love language.

You take out her big massager.

Your eyes are dead when you turn it on. The thing comes alive in your hand with that low, ugly hum, more torture tool than toy in the way you hold it. Sandra sees it and her expression detonates into overblown regret.

“No, Daddy, please—I want your cock, not this thing.”

You grab her face by the cheeks.

Her mouth squishes in your palm, lips pushed into a pout she did not choose. You force her to look you in the eye. The massager buzzes in your other hand, close enough that she can feel the air of it on her thigh.

“Oh no no no, my love. Only good girls have a right to Daddy’s cock. Bad girls like you don’t deserve it.”

Sandra tries to keep the roleplay going. The words still fit. The shape of yes, punish me is still in her throat. Her face fails her anyway. Pupils blown. Cheeks hot under your fingers. A helpless little sound leaks out around your grip. She is close to coming right then and there—from the sudden display of dominance, from the sadism in how calmly you said it, from being denied the one thing she has been getting all week and offered a machine instead.

You drag the humming head down her stomach without giving her the mercy of touching where she wants it. She jerks in the belts. The leather creaks. Her hips lift off the mattress as far as the strap around her waist will allow, chasing, failing.

“Daddy—”

“You sucked my cock while I was talking to your mother.” You say it flat.
“You tried to make me moan on that call. You think that’s a good girl?”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, just—please, not that, I need you inside—”

The massager finally kisses her clit and she screams through her teeth. Not a pretty sound. A wrecked one. Her thighs try to snap shut and cannot. You hold her face so she cannot hide from you while the toy does the unkind work, circling, pressing, backing off the second her breathing tells you she is about to tip. Bad girls do not get to finish easy either.

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. They are not sad. They are overwhelmed. Her pussy clenches around nothing, dripping onto the sheets, and she is still trying to say the right lines while her body betrays how much the denial is doing it for her.

“Please, Daddy. I’ll be good. I want your cock. I want you to breed me. Don’t give it to the toy—give it to me.”