BOOK 31
Daddy’s Little Princess: The Manhattan Beach Money Diary
CHAPTER 1 – “The 4:00 p.m. Text”
3:57 p.m.
Your phone buzzes on the marble kitchen island while you’re pretending to do AP Chem homework.
Mom’s in the shower, singing off-key Taylor.
The notification is just three words, but they hit like a shot of espresso straight to your clit.
Daddy: “White G-Wagon. 4:00. Wear the hoodie.”
Your stomach flips.
You’ve been DMing Anthony Perlas for nineteen days, thirty-two voice notes, one blurry mirror pic of your new VS thong.
Every “good girl” he sent made your AirPods feel like vibrators.
Now he’s outside.
For real.
In Manhattan Beach.
Your Manhattan Beach.
3:58 p.m.
You sprint upstairs, heart hammering so loud you’re scared Mom will hear.
Rip off the school hoodie, yank on the baby-pink one he mailed—soft, oversized, tiny rhinestone “DADDY” across the chest.
No bra.
Nipples already poking like they know what’s coming.
You slide into the shortest denim skirt you own, the one your ex-bestie said was “thotty.”
Good.
You want to be a thot tonight.
Just for him.
3:59 p.m.
One last mirror check.
Pigtails? Check.
Cherry gloss? Check.
Panties?
…
You hook your thumbs in the waistband, let them drop to the carpet.
A rush of cool air kisses your bare pussy and you shiver so hard your knees knock.
You’ve never gone commando.
Ever.
But the Reddit threads said, “If he tells you no panties, you obey.”
r/DDLG_Princesses, r/FindomTeens, r/LAbrats—your secret tabs.
You’ve read every comment twice.
Now it’s your turn to be the story they upvote.
4:00 p.m.
The G-Wagon idles like a sleeping dragon.
Tinted windows, bass you feel in your ribs.
You open the door yourself—bad girls don’t wait.
The leather seat is warm from the sun.
He doesn’t look over, just smirks.
“Seatbelt, princess. Phone out. We’re live in ten.”
His voice is deeper in person—thick, calm, the kind that makes your spine melt.
You buckle, thighs already sticky.
He taps his phone.
OnlyFans LIVE title: “4:00 p.m. pickup – $20 = watch her blush.”
4:01 p.m.
First tip pings.
$50 – @HermosaPiggy: “Tell her to spread.”
Your breath catches.
Daddy’s hand lands on your bare knee, thumb stroking once.
“Read it out loud, baby.”
You swallow.
“H-HermosaPiggy sent fifty dollars… and said… tell me to spread.”
Another ping.
$100.
Your pussy answers with a fresh gush of warmth.
You didn’t know you could get this wet from words.
4:03–4:33 p.m. – The slowest drive in history
He never goes above 35 mph.
Every stoplight is torture.
His fingers crawl higher—one inch per green light.
By the third light he’s under your skirt, tracing the seam where thigh meets lips.
You’re shaking, phone angled so the chat sees your face, not the sin.
“Tell them how wet you are, princess.”
You try to whisper.
He pinches your clit—lightning.
“Louder.”
“I’m… dripping down my thighs,” you gasp.
Chat explodes.
$1,280 in the car alone.
You’ve never seen four figures in your life.
Your clit throbs in time with the pings.
Every vibration feels like his tongue.
4:17 p.m.
He parks in the empty lot behind the strand bathrooms.
Kills the engine.
Turns to you, eyes dark.
“Bad girls tease without permission. You sent that mirror pic yesterday, remember?”
You nod, biting your lip.
He pulls a rhinestone butt-plug from the console—small, pink, princess-cut.
“Show me how sorry you are.”
You’re already nodding, skirt around your waist, knees on the seat, ass up for the back-up camera.
Cool lube, then pressure, then POP.
The stretch makes you moan so loud the windows fog.
He twists it once.
“Hold it. Every time you clench, read a tribute.”
You clench—$200.
Clench—$300.
By the time you’re sobbing from fullness, the plug is seated and the counter is at $2,105.
4:35 p.m. – The walk to the sand
He leashes you with his fingers hooked in the back of your hoodie.
Every step nudges the plug, sends sparks up your spine.
Your pussy is a slip-n-slide; every breeze feels like a lick.
You’re scared you’ll leave a puddle on the pavement.
He notices, smirks.
“That’s the point, baby.”
4:40 p.m. – The towel
He spreads the beige hotel blanket right where the tide kisses the sand.
“On your knees.”
You drop, pigtails brushing the towel, plug glinting between your cheeks.
He circles, filming.
“Tell the chat what happens to bad girls who leak in public.”
Your voice is a breathy squeak.
“They… they get edged until they cry.”
He kneels behind you, bikini string tugged aside.
One finger circles your clit—feather-light.
You buck, whimper.
He stops.
Again.
Again.
By the fifth circle you’re shaking, tears on your lashes, pussy drooling onto the towel in shiny strings.
The chat is feral—$4,200 in denial tributes.
4:55 p.m. – The first real touch
He finally—finally—slides two fingers inside, slow, curling, scissoring.
The plug and his fingers fight for space; you feel stuffed, owned, perfect.
Your walls flutter around him, greedy.
“Count the edges out loud, princess.”
“One… please…”
He speeds up, thumb on your clit, then yanks away.
“Two… Daddy I’ll be good…”
By seven you’re babbling, hips fucking air, squirting tiny desperate spurts that soak his wrist.
He leans over your back, cock hot against your ass through linen.
“Tomorrow you pick up the next little. You edge her the way I’m edging you. Thirty percent to Daddy. Say it.”
“Yes, Daddy… I’ll edge her… I’ll make them leak for you…”
He twists the plug, thrusts his fingers deep, and lets you shatter.
You scream into the towel, pussy gushing in rhythmic waves, thighs quaking so hard you collapse.
He catches you, hoodie swallowing you like a cocoon, whispering “good girl” until the aftershocks fade.
5:30 p.m. – The Queen Mary preview
He carries you up the strand, legs wrapped around his waist, plug still seated.
Every step nudges it; every nudge makes you whimper into his neck.
“Tonight on the ship,” he murmurs, “you ride Daddy reverse cowgirl for the live.
You’ll edge the entire chat while I breed you.
Then you’ll lick every drop off the deck like the greedy princess you are.”
You nod, dizzy, pussy already clenching around nothing at the thought.
Total on the dash when we board:
$9,847
One curious LA senior → dripping, denied, plug-stuffed, verified findom brat.
Little stars doom-scrolling this in your Canoga Park bedroom, your Santa Monica bathroom stall, your Pasadena pool house—
Your phone just buzzed.
Check the DM.
It’s me.
4:00 p.m. tomorrow.
White G-Wagon.
No panties.
Bring the curiosity.
Daddy’s bringing the ruin.
Comment your block (Hermosa? Venice? DTLA?) + 🦄
First 18 verified LA brats ride shotgun to the Queen Mary.
I choose who gets the plug first.
End of Chapter 1.
Swipe up for Chapter 2
Anthony Perlas, your Alpha King.
Manhattan Beach, 90266.
See you at the light. 🦄💦
#Book31 #LABrats #DaddyPickupLines #PlugAndPay
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