. . . But You Can Call Me Lolita

“You’re spoiled! Spoiled rotten!!” That’s pretty much what I’ve been told since I was a toddler, usually by my mother, but by other people as well. At first I was too young to even know what that meant. I used to think everybody just got whatever it was that they wanted—seemed natural enough to me. But as I grew up, I realized that only a certain lucky few of us are gifted with that destiny.

The other thing I was continually hearing was how beautiful I am. Again, I just assumed that all little girls were told that as a matter of course. However, another lesson I learned as I grew up was that all girls are definitely not the same, and therefore don’t get treated as such. The boys at school always wanted to walk me to my classes and would give me cute little gifts all the time. I noticed that not many other girls got the kind of attention I was showered with. (I should also mention that once I get to know a guy, I’m usually pretty good at sensing what he really needs, better than he does himself, so I think that’s another reason I attract more than my fair share of admirers.)

As you’ve probably guessed by now, I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. He actually calls me “Princess”! Don’t get me wrong . . . He’s still pretty strict when it has to do with my comings and goings, and my safety and stuff—but yes, I do have him wrapped around my little finger. He’s always given me everything I ever wanted, much to my mother’s disapproval.

Men have forever been a bit flustered and nervous around me, so I'm totally used to having that effect on guys, but it wasn't until my senior year of high school, when I made a conquest of one of my father's friends, that I realized how weak you guys really are. Don't be offended! I just mean that every now and then, you need someone like me to show you the way (my way, which I always get—remember?). "Michael" was one of my dad's golfing buddies, an older man in his forties. I had always noticed that he looked at me a lot whenever my dad wasn't around, but that's just par for the course. I found him attractive in a George Clooney kind of way, but I have to admit I was a little intimidated by his maturity, since I'd only ever dated boys my own age. 

One night, Michael showed up at our house "to see my dad" when he 100% positively had to know my parents were away. When I answered the door, he acted shocked (bad actor!) to find out my parents weren't home. I guess this sad news went straight to his bladder, because then he asked if he could come in to use the bathroom. When he was done in there, he came and found me in the living room and sat down on the couch, right next to me (literally two inches away). Which was a bit presumptuous. (Although he smelled AMAZING.)

Hmm . . .

*Defining moment.* Something in me shifted. *Crossroads.* I instantly realized that this could go one of two ways—and it was up to me to make sure things went my way, at my pace, and to my satisfaction. I didn't want to be the passenger; I was going to be the driver. *Turning point!*

He began telling me how gorgeous I was, and wow, what a great body I had, and how surprising it was to find me home alone without any of my many boyfriends in attendance! I smiled sweetly and said, “Well, actually, I do have a date” (little white lie) “so I’m going to have to cut this short.” He looked so disappointed; I almost felt sorry for him. But as I’d learned with my high-school beaus, blue balls never killed anyone. As he left, I gave him my cell number just so he’d know he was still in the game (you men can be so insecure). “This has to be our secret,” I whispered right into his ear, letting my silky blond hair brush against his neck.

Michael started calling me constantly . . . taking me out to expensive restaurants, buying me gifts—and I don’t mean cute little gifts, either. I must confess that it was fun sneaking around (turns out I have a gift for subterfuge—go figure). I was turned on by how he moved through the world with such confidence and authority but turned to jelly around me. Truth be told, I could hardly wait to fuck him! But wait I did. His insecurity surfaced in the form of questions about how long my high-school boyfriends could last, and how hard their erections were, and how far they could shoot, etc. It was really cute. I just smiled sweetly (I do that a lot). 

Quite frankly, all the teasing and denial I was dishing out had me wet 24/7, plus it was starting to interfere with my grades (Daddy takes my GPA very seriously and doles out my allowance accordingly), so I finally fucked Michael. He came almost immediately, just exactly like a teenage boy! When I pointed this out—sweetly, of course—he seemed a bit embarrassed, but the constructive criticism really worked, because after that, his performance improved dramatically. We fucked like bunnies, at his house, in his pool, on his boat, outside on top of his car (that was my idea). 

The more dominant I was, the more it excited him. He went crazy when I wore my school uniform and made him paint my toes. (Can you say Lolita?) I would tease his hard cock with my feet, rubbing it through his pants but not letting him take it out. His balls would be aching so badly that he’d just beg me to please!! let him come . . . but he loved it when I wouldn’t. And if one of his expensive gifts didn’t thrill me for some reason (like: “How do I explain the sudden appearance of a gigantic Louis Vuitton suitcase in my closet to my parents? OMG!”), I’d whip his ass and the tip of his hard cock with a riding crop—one of the many toys we bought together—stroking the long shaft of the crop back and forth between his legs, teasing his balls until he promised to be a good boy from now on in.

Once I had a taste of being in control, there was no going back. I guess Michael can be considered my starter sub, and my experience with him only whetted my appetite for kink and adventure. Luckily, the world seems to be full of submissive men.


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