The #WickedWednesday prompt this week caught my eye: Vintage Art. I love art in a big way, so set out perusing way too many vintage erotic art images (Google Images has a lot to answer for—but it was fun!). While doing this, somehow I came across a Daddy Dom/little girl piece of fiction (consensual adults, in case there’s any doubt) that I wrote when I first began writing erotica. It was just sitting hidden in the dusty basement of my laptop. A bit of tweaking and editing, and it worked. So, as tenuous as this is, here’s my own piece of Vintage Art, recently and lovingly restored!
My Daddy Dom loves eating. Me, mainly. He’ll eat anything if it’s coated in my juices. Sometimes, when we’re having a snack before my bedtime, he flips me over, pulling down my kitty pyjamas to find a pussy squelching for him. I always say “Thank you, Daddy” for my finger fuck, and watch him wipe his digits on his biscuit. I might not be polite next time—I want him to spank me more. His hot hand on my arse. Not just spanking, but fucking as well.
I’ve been turned on all day; he woke me with kisses on my pussy, but I’d had to go to a meeting. I’d had to ease my throb, but it didn’t help, spreading my legs in the toilet cubicle, two fingers thrusting. He’d appeared in a mist of whirling desire somewhere between the door and the ceiling, sitting at a kitchen table eating porridge, and I soaked myself to the thought of him eating his fill. Then I returned to the boardroom to deliver my presentation.
I’ve been worked up ever since I invented my Daddy Dom. The things I do for him! Will they turn him on? I want them to, so I know my story works. But I don’t know whether I should add in more spanking. What would a Daddy Dom do? I think that, maybe, there would be lots of spanking, especially if I was his little girl. I’ll sleep on it.
I close my eyes and imagine he stands me before him and undresses me, carries me to the bed and tucks me in. But I’m tired; he’s not in bed with me tonight. Usually, he’s arching my body up to meet his mouth probing with his talented tongue until he finds what he’s searching for. And I let him have anything he wants, even if it takes all night. It often does. I haven’t been sleeping very well. Surprise.
From nowhere, Daddy Dom sinking his teeth into an apple appears at the end of the bed. I grab my note pad and write down how he could peel away the sheet, how he could nibble and suck on me, right down to my core. Then what does he do? Is he one who devours his fruit? Does he recycle my core—make use of it again? Or does he discard me? Daddies don’t do that, do they? My eyelids are fighting gravity now; my head nestles itself in my pillow, hand cupping my pussy for comfort. It’s my stuffie. I need stuffing. Is this my core? Or is it somewhere much deeper? Will he find it? Am I a little girl worth investing the time in to find out? I’m not going to sleep well—again.
My phone wakes me up. I think that, maybe, he’s started sending me texts, and I laugh at myself for even considering it. A social media sound—a follower. I follow back, and begin drifting off. But it’s there again, this time a personal message: “I’m Terry. I’m 32. What are you into?”
And I’m half asleep, and imagining I’m talking to him, not some random stranger, so I answer: “D/s, spanking”.
Then another: “Do you just write about it, or have you got real experience?”
Reply: “Does it matter?” The phone’s silent, so I try to go to sleep, imagining Daddy’s arms wrapped around me, pulling me close.
Message: “I’m a Dom. I could give you some experience.”
I don’t want a Dom. I want Daddy. But this is a dream, isn’t it? I concentrate, fix all the details in my mind, so I can tell Daddy all about it when I wake.
Message from me: “I’m sure. Can I have some advice instead?”
Reply is immediate: “Sure”.
We discuss my story; he suggests I’m tied to a tree, spread apart, chest clinging to the bark, so Daddy can satisfy himself between his little girl’s legs; and how Daddy could use kitchen utensils as punishment for a naughty girl who needs her backside made raw by the thwack of a wooden spoon. He changes tack, tells me he would use my mouth and my pussy and my arse, and lets my dreaming head fill out the details for imagination to do its work.
I’m drenched between my thighs, but not at the conversation—at the thought that I’m going to tell Daddy all this. What will it be like when I do? Will he blow smoke ringlets at the ceiling from the bed while he listens? Will his cock be hard? I wonder if he’d be jealous that I’m discussing my creation with someone else? With another invisible man. One who wants to fuck me. But that’s stupid, because I’m dreaming, and it doesn’t matter.
Except it does, somehow, and I become restless, my hands clammy and all over me because I wanted Daddy to tell me I’m a good girl before he said goodnight. But it’s my fault: I didn’t let him in tonight; naughty little girl. But then I see him in my bedsheets, his head nestled contentedly between my legs. He looks up at me and begins to make it all better, lapping at my pussy, nipping my clit between his lips as another message comes in: “I still think I could give you practical experience.”
Reply—as Daddy’s tongue tip tantalises my entrance, hot breath against tender flesh, and I let out a moan: “Yeah.”
His tongue is inside me, moving in and out, and there’s a message: “I’m serious.”
The way he kisses up one leg to the inner thigh and back down the other, and nibbles all the way until he finds my lips, pressing his tongue into my mouth; how the glimmering velvety maroon of his cockhead slides against my wet pussy lips, working its way to my entrance. All of this tells me it’s very serious indeed. I love my Daddy.
When he hears about my dream adventure, I know he’ll want to punish me. I’ll make him. I’ll take him to the edge and he’ll want to spank me. Tell me to bend over the bed; pulls down my knickers while he brings his other hand down hard against my backside. I want to tell him all about it while he makes me grip my vibrator inside and spanks me, over and over, because I know then he’ll forgive his little girl, make love to her, fill her up.
But the words won’t come.
Am I still dreaming? Come—I want to come. I have his fingers inside me, except they’re not, they’re my fingers. I’m hot and writhing on the pillow, and I don’t know if he’ll be mad with me and it makes me cry because I don’t want him to be mad with me, and I want him to spank me, and I want him… I come, there, in my bed, alone.
I can’t sleep. I have to type it up to remember it all. Do I tell Daddy all about it? I think—yes. I want his hand on my arse. Even if I do have to imagine it. All of it.