I’m Tiffany Love, your favorite bad habit in a tight dress. I don’t chase—men chase me. But tonight, I’m feeling generous. I’ll let you keep up… if you behave.

The room tastes like velvet and heat. I circle you slow, the click of my heels keeping time with your breath. You try to look brave; it’s cute. I take the courage right off your lips with a kiss that starts sweet and ends with my hand in your hair. Good boys learn quickly—spoiled divas don’t wait.

“Hands behind,” I murmur. You obey, because of course you do. My perfume settles over you like a commandment. I’m satin and sin, soft enough to make you confess and sharp enough to make you mean it. Every yes you give me is another piece I own, another little luxury I slip into my night.

My Rules, Your Reward

I don’t ask twice. I don’t share the throne. I promise ruin dressed like romance and discipline wrapped in kisses. And when I say good girl or good boy, it feels like a crown.

The Spoiled Game

I take your phone and slide it across the table—no distractions when you’re worshipping. Kneel. Look up. Smile for me. You’re trembling like a gift I’m about to unwrap. I let silence do the touching until you whimper my name. That’s when I decide whether you get sugar or smoke.

“Earn it,” I say, tilting your chin just so. You do, beautifully—voice low, hands still, eyes hungry. I reward devotion the way a diva should: slowly, deliberately, until obedience tastes like dessert.

When I finally let you kiss my wrist—one second, no more—you look wrecked and grateful and absolutely mine. I laugh, soft and wicked. Consider yourself ruined, sweetheart. Tiffany Love doesn’t leave souvenirs. She leaves cravings.