His name was Craig. I literally bumped into him after coming out of a nail salon while neglecting to watch where I was walking. I would’ve hit the ground, but he was there to catch me. As I noticed his handsome duds and flashy cuff links, and he noticed that I had curves in all the right places, a gorgeous 2015 blue convertible Lamborghini Gallardo screeched up barely missing the french tips of my freshly pedicured feet. He handed the valet driver a crisp twenty and swung his keys around on his finger as he looked at me. At the same time that he was undressing me with his eyes and I was imagining the feel of the leather in his Lamborghini, a horn honked abruptly and loudly, prying me away from my thoughts. It was my boyfriend – a sugar daddy to trip over in his own day, before his company went down. Now he was half a million cheaper, trading in some of his prized merchandise for less expensive models – except for me that is. I still get taken care of like the high-maintenance arm candy I am, but he can hardly afford it. I’d been looking for someone new, and now I’d found him. But I couldn’t just leave Derrick – I made a commitment to him, so I had to at least honor the decency of distancing myself from him in a professional and considerable manner. So I left this mystery man, giving him a look that he wouldn’t forget – a look that said he was soon to be mine. He smirked and turned to leave.
Sugar Baby – Getting To Know Each Other
A few weeks later, we had another “coincidental” meeting in front of the nail salon that neighbored the smashing hotel he was exiting. No attraction had changed; the only thing different was that I was newly single and – unemployed. We gravitated from shaking hands, to a flirty lunch across the street, to the opulent confines of his giant penthouse suite next door. I tasted the citrusy smoke emitting from the orange-liquor flavored cigar he was enjoying in wake of our first intimate encounter together. Just as I was thinking how I could definitely deal with the smell of his cigars in this big mound of plushy sheets, I told him I’d been dying to take a spin his lovely blue Lamborghini. He smiled and shot me a sideway glance, took one last puff on his cigar, and suggested that I join him for a shower before taking a ride. I agreed as I became wet at the thought of his warm leather seats against my skin.
After he dropped me off at my apartment, his engine roared away, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him and his darling car. The next day he asked me out to brunch, but this time he pulled up in a 2012 red convertible Ferrari F430 Spider that was so shiny, I could see the contours of my abs in it. When I asked him where the Lamborghini was, he simply said, “This is my casual-day-out ride.” I could hear the smooth rise in speed as he shifted gears, and I noticed that it wasn’t an automatic like the Lamborghini. “You know how to ride one of these things?” He asked slyly with a smirk that said he thought he already knew my answer.
“Yes, actually.” I had experience with these types of cars – and men, for that matter. “And that’s not all I know how to ride.” I added in a whisper, seductively grazing his right ear lobe with hot shortness of breath. His surprised drop of a jaw slowly curled back into a heavily lopsided grin that was far from the poker face he normally carries. I knew what fantasies were dropping into his mind like musical bombs from my lips. After a drive soaking up the sun, we arrived at his suite for a few pre-party cocktails – except the party was for two, and I brought the fun. In the bedroom, daylight still pouring in over his cream colored sheets, I showed off my own brand of stick-shifting skills for him to delight in.
Then and Now
That was three months ago and I couldn’t be happier than I was on our first date. Something is different about this sugar daddy though. I’m not sure if it was the 75 dollar sliders at Fleur in Vegas, the 700-something bottle of ’95 Krug, Clos Du Mesnil we enjoyed glass after glass, the crisp iron of his black Calvin Klein suits, or the way his eyes moved up my inner thighs as I spread my legs apart. It may have been the private screenings of movies at glamorous theaters, or the endless pairs of Manolo Blahniks I was given to indulge in my shoe fetish. Point is, somewhere in-between the divine dining, lavish drinks, priority third-party treatment, frivolous spending and grand stone floors of numerous high-end venues – I fell in love. I fell for the lifestyle and the luxury that the rewards of this job provide. But most of all – I fell in love with his desire.
I fell in love with the way his eyes burn into mine as my legs are wrapped tight around his waist; the way his slightly parted lips only close when he swallows as a reflex to his salivation; the way his grip around my waist tightens and his breath becomes heavily rapid as the pace quickens and he is reaching a climax; and the way he exhales and licks his lips as I slow down just before he bursts. I fell in love with the way his member swells up with the same shade of scarlet pink as his cheeks when it gets hard.
I fell in love with the way he could turn the pointed mountains of my chest into stiff peaks, and then explore them with the tip of his tongue, the brush of his kiss, and the way he devoured them momentarily, making me stifle a gasp and invite him deeper in below. I fell in love with the way he’d remove my fingers from my lips so gently, and said that “my moan was so sexy.” I fell in love with every vibration his body made when he shuddered from ejaculation. Anything I did – stripping my silk robes to reveal the lace bras and sting-bikini thongs he’d buy me, or lining my lips with a pink satin M.A.C. stick so that I could stain his with the shimmery matte color, or the way I’d rock commando in public and flash him a sneak peek with alternating crossed legs underneath skin-tight thigh-high dresses – made him blush, smile and pretend to look away so cutely. I knew what he was thinking when he looked at me, touched me, talked to me….and I became addicted to his desire for me.