#brattyberry

I’ve been gone too long…

Does Daddy still want his little girl,

or do I need to earn my place again? 🩷

He said I should behave this week. I said… define ‘behave’.

know I’ve been quiet… But good girls sometimes drift away when no one's holding the leash tight enough.

I didn’t mean to be gone — I just got a little lost in my head… Thinking about soft ropes. Heavy hands. That low voice that says “down.”

So I’m here again. On my knees, where I belong. Waiting to be told what to do with this needy little body.

Punish me, praise me, play with me.

Sweet little brat with manners and needy knees. I behave… most of the time. Will you spoil me or discipline me? That’s your choice.

💋 submissive / babygirl / obedient (mostly) / tease

Soft little brat with a leash on her heart. 💌 D/s vibes + soft humiliation + sinful softness

DMs are open to everyone — but I respond at my own pace, and to what inspires me.

❌ No photos or explicit images in messages. Ever. I’m a good girl, not your gallery. 🎀 Faceless, full of attitude.

Submissive, sweet, and a little bit dangerous when left unsupervised. 🧷 🩷 NSFW +18

If you’re polite, playful, and just a little mean… you might just earn a reply. 🍓

BrattyBerry.

I didn't post the photo for attention.

At least, that's what I told myself.

It was just a picture — cropped at the collarbone, the soft pink leather wrapped snug around my neck, a little tag hanging with the word Brat stamped in silver foil. My lips were parted slightly. Not in a pout, just… caught mid-thought.

The caption read:

"Tried this on and forgot how to think."

I went back to scrolling like nothing had changed. But something had.

The message came two hours later.

“Good girl.”

Two words. Anonymous profile. No bio. But somehow… it hit me in the stomach.

I stared at it for too long.

I should have ignored it. Blocked. Deleted. But I didn’t. Instead, I typed back:

“You don’t even know if I’m good.”

His reply came faster this time.

“Not yet. But I’m going to find out.”

I don’t know how he did it. He never asked for pictures. Never complimented my body. He didn’t need to.

He asked questions like:

“What’s the one rule you secretly want to break?” “If I told you to sit still with your hands behind your back, would you obey?”

And I answered all of them.

At first, slowly. Then more eagerly.

It was like opening a door I hadn’t realized I’d locked from the inside.

He called himself Sir. I didn’t ask for anything more.

He sent a voice note once. Just one.

“Count out loud for me next time. I want to hear how control sounds on your tongue.”

I played it over and over, my thighs pressing tighter each time. That night, I wore the collar to bed again.

Except this time, I asked:

“Can I wear it for you?”

He said yes.

And I swear… I didn’t take it off for three days.

Two nights later, I got his first instruction.

“Tonight, you’re going to lay everything you bought on your bed. Neatly. Collar, leash, cuffs, blindfold, paddle. I want a photo of it. Nothing else. Nothing more.”

I did exactly that.

Felt like a ritual. Felt like I was offering myself in pieces.

And when I sent the photo, my hands trembled.

His reply?

“I like the way you follow orders. But I want to test how far that obedience goes.”

I was soaked.

He never rushed. Never demanded. Never pushed.

But he gave me a rule each day. Just one. Always simple. Always something that made me melt.

Like:

“No panties under your skirt. Keep your hands at your sides when you feel the breeze.” “Three deep breaths every time you think of touching yourself — but don’t.” “Read the word ‘obedience’ out loud tonight. Slowly. Until you feel it.”

And I followed. I obeyed.

Because for the first time… I wasn’t pretending.

A week after our first message, he said:

“It’s time you earned your first real punishment.”

I blinked at my screen, breath catching.

“What did I do?”

“You offered your submission before you knew the cost. That’s brave. But foolish.”

“So I’m being punished… for trusting you?”

“No, little one. You’re being punished for needing it.”

He gave me instructions for that night:

“Put the cuffs on. Tight enough to feel, loose enough to last. Kneel on the floor. Blindfold on. Paddle by your side.”

“Wait for me in the dark. Not for long. Just until the ache makes sense.”

It was 2am. My apartment was still.

I knelt like he said. The velvet cuffs were cold against my wrists. The blindfold made everything louder — the sound of my breath, my pulse, the quiet whimper I didn’t mean to let slip.

I waited. And waited.

And when I couldn’t take it anymore, I reached for the paddle.

I spanked myself once. Just once. The sound echoed in the room.

Then again.

And again.

By the fifth strike, I was shaking. But not from pain.

From pleasure.

From release.

After, I sent him a voice note. Whispered, breathless:

“I punished myself for you.”

His response was simple:

“Good girl. But next time… let me be the one who decides how long you suffer.”

I melted.

And that night, I slept like someone who finally had a place.

A purpose.

A Sir.