by Jade West
SUGAR DADDIES Copyright © 2016 Jade West
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
Cover design by Letitia Hasser of RBA Designs http://designs.romanticbookaffairs.com/
Edited by John Hudspith http://www.johnhudspith.co.uk
All enquiries to [email protected]
First published 2016
Warning.
This is a Jade West novel. You existing readers will know the drill by now. Read with caution.
For those of you who are new to my work, hello!
This book is dirty.
If you don’t like them dirty, this probably isn’t a book you’ll enjoy.
If you do enjoy dirty, then make yourself comfortable.
Thank you.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About Jade
For Sue.
I couldn’t have wished for a better friend.
This is for those long summer days out on the horses, for the laughs, the fun and the effortless communication. It’s for those crazy made-up field names and the stupid ideas which never quite worked out as planned.
But mainly it’s for the countless magical memories you’ve blessed me with. xx
The envelope icon continued flashing at the bottom of the screen, but I ignored it, along with the lingering glances in my direction. Rick was exceptionally talented in many areas, but subtlety wasn’t one of them.
He was twitchy, and it wasn’t from the copious amounts of coffee he’d been guzzling all evening, he was excited. Rick was usually excited, naturally wired with a high metabolism and the expressive kind of features you can read a mile off, but this was a special kind of excitement.
It was endearing. Although I’d never tell him so.
He pushed his chair away from his desk, spinning to face me, yet still I didn’t react.
I enjoyed the game far too much.
Our home office is intimate. The tension stretched until he broke, with a mock groan.
“Well?! Have you looked?!”
“No,” I said.
“Pissing hell, Carl, will you just look? Please?”
I angled my laptop screen down and stared at him, long and sternly, trying my best not to break a smile.
“I’m busy. Foster proposal. Tender deadline tomorrow.”
“Piss off. There’s always a deadline tomorrow. Five minutes, just check it out. I only need a yes. One little yes. She’ll get a yes, I promise.”
I sighed for effect. “Who is it this time? Another Penelope Pout? I want a boob job, and an Audi TT and world peace? No, wait… Another broke but talented artistic genius, seeking true love on Sugar Daddy Match-up? You like those…”
He coasted his chair across the floor, propped his elbows on my desk and jabbed a finger at my laptop. “Just look. She’s nothing like the others.”
“You always say that.”
He smiled. “Yeah, but I don’t always mean it.”
I minimised my document and called up his email. Sugar Daddy Match-up! You have mail!
I hovered over the link, then folded my arms. “So, give me the elevator pitch. Why this one?”
He rolled his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side. “Elevator pitch, you got it.” He held up a finger. “She’s hot, like really hot. Not a Penelope Pout, no fake tan, no epic contouring, not even false lashes. She’s just hot. Cute, too.”
“Blonde? Brunette?”
“Blonde. Wavy. Natural. Blue eyes.”
I nodded. “Go on.”
“She’s local. Much Arlock.”
“Local?” I conceded a point to him in the name of convenience. Much Arlock was only a thirty-minute drive from Cheltenham. Hardly anything. “Ok, I’m listening.”
“She’s a little bit quirky, in a good way. Not all-out boho, just… she has personality.”
“I’d hope so, Rick. We want a companion, not a whore. Although a whore would be a whole lot cheaper.”
“Like I said, she has personality. She seems nice. Funny.”
I laughed. “You can tell that from her profile picture can you? Pulling the funky chicken is she?”
“Just fucking look, will you?” He pushed his glasses back on his nose, and smoothed down his beard, eyes twinkling.
Boho. Another one. Could I handle another trendy little free-spirit in the house? Probably. The thought didn’t altogether turn me off.
I clicked the link, and Rick leaned over, angled my screen so he could share my view. I resigned myself to the inevitable apathy, another pretty face in the catalogue of pretty faces looking for a healthier bank account and a nice rich cock. Or two. Two on offer didn’t seem to hinder our success any. Far from it.
The face that greeted me wasn’t out of any catalogue. Her hair was a cascade of natural blonde, tumbling over slender shoulders to rest at the curve of her vest top. Her eyes were alive and kind, pastel blue and full of mischief, and her smile was bright and genuine. A sweet little nose, with a sprinkling of freckles over glowing skin. Nice tits. Narrow waist. Long legs in faded denim, crossed under her as she leaned back, her palms splayed on the grass beneath.
She was beautiful. Beautiful and different from the others, he was right. A seashell necklace and two gemstone bracelets were her only adornments.
Bohemian, yes. But just a little.
Rick gave me the overview, but it sounded distant.
“Her profile says she’s twenty-two, not too young. Just about to finish up university. Worcester. Business degree. Still lives at home. Drives. Works two jobs. She’s outdoorsy, all-out natural, likes pizza and KFC, though. All the unhealthy stuff. Probably even likes service station sandwiches. You’ll get on well.”
“We can’t all pull a PJ party and work from home every day. Your de-humidified little veggie snacks hardly cut a day on the road.” My voice came out dry as my tone got serious. “This one. Does she know? Is she… suitable?”
I didn’t pull my eyes from the screen yet I knew he was rolling his.
“Don’t start. She knows some of it.”
“Some?”
“Some. From our profile.”
“So tell her the rest.”
He groaned at me. “Listen up, Mr tell it like it is, we need time. She needs to get to know us. We haven’t even met her yet.”
“Ok, so let’s meet her, and then we’ll tell her. Lay our cards flat on the table and see if he
rs match up.”
He shook his head. “Six months, you promised.”
“I promised three.”
“You said six, after Nicole from Northampton ran screaming for the hills, you said six. You sat right there, just where you are now, and you promised six.”
“Under duress. I’ve changed my mind.”
He clapped his hands in front of my screen, forcing my attention. “Six, Carl. We’re going with six months this time. I mean it.”
His tone tickled me. “Who died and made you Lord of Sugar Daddy dating? We all know who wears the trousers around here, Richard.” I smirked. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it that way.”
“I’d like it a whole lot better if we managed to coax a three-way just a smidge beyond your boar-headed negotiations. This isn’t some sales deal. It’s about… people, Carl, people…”
“It’s all about the soul, man…” I mocked. “I negotiate. That’s what I do.”
“Not this time.” He shook his head. “Six months. Let me handle this one.” His eyes were like a puppy dog’s. “Please… just let me handle this one…”
I scrolled down through the email. “Where’s the obligatory nude?”
“There isn’t one.”
I raised my eyebrows. “No tit shot? Not even underwear?”
He smiled. “Nope. Not a thing.”
I was strangely impressed. “She does know we come as a pair, yes? She knows it’s two at once or not at all?”
“She knows she will need to… accommodate…”
“Such a delicate way of putting it. She’s happy with that, is she?”
“It’s clear on our profile. She referred to it in her message. It’s pretty explicit… not slutty, she’s no tramp, but she’s… clear in her intentions…”
A tickle of excitement ran through my balls.
“…her name’s Katie, by the way.”
Katie. It suited her.
“Katie Serena Smith… and she’s keen…”
I scrolled past her picture, to the message below.
I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m sure almost every other message says the same, but I really mean it. I really have never done anything like this before… but I want to.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t on a sugar daddy website for the money, but I wasn’t expecting to find anyone close enough, and I definitely wasn’t expecting to find a profile like yours.
I’ve fantasised about taking two men at once since I was old enough to know it was possible. You ask in your profile if I’ve experienced sex like this before, and I haven’t. I don’t know how it would feel to have two men inside me, and I don’t know that I’d find it easy, but I want to try.
You ask if I’ve ever opened up enough to take two men in my pussy, and no, I haven’t, not even close, but I think about it every day since I read your profile.
It’s taken me a while to pluck up the courage to message.
But I’m ready now.
I really want this.
You ask what I want out of the arrangement, and I’m not really sure how to quantify it.
I’m just a small town girl with big dreams, that’s why I’m on this site. But it isn’t just about the money. Not anymore.
Katie. X
Explicit but not slutty. No grandiose claims of riding two fat dicks all through the night. No graphic demonstration of her pussy-stretching capabilities, and we’d had plenty of those. No take me, big boys, take my tight little cunt, or, you’ve never known a pussy as hungry for two as mine. None of that.
I tried to get a measure of Katie. “If she can’t quantify it, what does she want? Not college fees presumably, and she doesn’t look the type for a cosmetic surgery wish list.”
He shrugged. “A small town girl with big dreams… who knows. That’s cute, though, right?”
“Cute. Yes.”
Rick’s grin showed his dimples. “She’s seriously cute. I think I’m in love already.”
“With a declaration like that, how could I possibly say no?”
“You wouldn’t say no anyway. You haven’t stopped staring at her.”
Astute little asshole. I tapped my fingers on the desk. “Alright, message her back. It’s a yes from me.”
He punched the air. “I knew it.” He wheeled himself back across the floor, tatty jeans trailing the carpet. “I fucking love you, Carl Brooks, you will not regret it.”
“One last shot,” I said. “Then we’re out. Profile deleted. I’m done with this.”
He gave me a salute. “Yeah, yeah, one last shot. This one’s our girl, I can feel it in my bones.”
I laughed. “In your boner, you mean.” My cursor hovered over minimise, but I didn’t click. I didn’t want to click. Maybe, just maybe. “Message her, then, now. Set it up.”
He reclined in his seat, hands behind his head. “Don’t need to,” he said with a smirk. “I messaged her before I sent you the email.”
Hi, I’m Katie, pleased to meet you. Handshake? Hug? Air kiss? Maybe not. Hi, I’m Kate. So good to meet you, finally. Finally? Does that sound desperate?
I reversed the car at the bottom of the street. Again. Clunky gears made me over-swing and they ground like teeth on chalk. Nasty. I could just feel the curtains twitching. They’d be calling neighbourhood watch before long. I’d already circled the road three times in the past fifteen minutes, and still I was early.
Hi, Rick! Carl! I’m Katie. Katie Smith. So lovely to meet you! No. Too gushy.
I put the car in neutral and looked again at my surroundings. The road was suburbia central, and I was surprised the street itself wasn’t paved with banknotes. I felt totally out of my comfort zone, a pathetic little duckling bobbing on the waves.
But I should have known it would be like this. It should be like this. It would be considerably more concerning to rock up on some deadbeat estate somewhere and find my sugar daddies weren’t all they were cracked up to be. I’d checked this place out on Street View, many times, but Street View doesn’t account for scale. These properties were big.
It seemed so easy in the safety of my own fantasies, but now it was a whole other ballgame, parked up in money town with a bellyful of butterflies and a serious case of fight or flight.
Fight or flight. More like fuck or flight.
The thought gave me jitters.
Maybe that’s what they’d expect. Pleased to meet you, strip now, please and show us your pussy.
Rick said not, but he would, wouldn’t he?
Still, that wouldn’t be the worst that could happen. Murder on money row, sugar daddy slut gets butchered in Cheltenham suburbia.
Unlikely, I’d checked them out. Facebook profiles, electoral roll, the business connect website. They were everywhere, bold as brass, and all the lines matched up neatly. Plus, I’d left a practical dossier of information on them in my dressing table drawer. Even Much Arlock’s sleepy police force could crack that crime in a heartbeat.
I stared over at their house, realising all over again that my car was going to look like a bag of shit on their driveway. My car would look like a bag of shit on anyone’s driveway.
I took a breath. Here goes nothing.
I pulled my battered old Ford onto their property, and immediately wished I’d given it a jet wash. Mine was covered in mud and scratches and probably half a hay bale, and theirs were gleaming. Gleaming and new. A posh Range and some sporty silver BMW, pristine on their fancy pink-bricked driveway. At least I’d made the effort to spruce myself up. I turned off the engine and kicked off my pumps, replacing them with the killer heels I’d stashed in the passenger footwell. I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror, lipstick still behaving in a shade only one darker than nude, and a few token dabs of mascara. I’d pass. Hopefully. I shimmied my dress further down my thighs, conscious of flashing my slutty little knickers as I clambered into plain sight. Long legs are both a blessing and a curse, harbouring the ability to turn a perfectly respectable dress into a whore-go
wn with just one false wiggle. Finally I reached for my bag, checking my paperwork just one last time. Paperwork, yikes. This was some crazy shit, but my dreams weren’t getting any smaller.
I could do this.
I needed to do this.
I took a breath and stepped out into the cool evening air, a welcome relief against burning skin. My dress was the most expensive I owned; a soft pink strapless number with a demure little diamante rose at the bust.
My strides defied my lack of confidence, my heels clacking against the ground as I approached their front door.
Rick and Carl, Carl and Rick.
I hoped it would be Rick who answered. Rick seemed nice, and kind, and cool. Rick was hot, and funny. I could fall for Rick. He had full-sleeve tattoos and his clothes were nerdy-chic. He had messy brown hair and dark eyes, and a full-on hipster beard. He was a designer, too. What’s not to love?
Carl, on the other hand. I’d never spoken to Carl. Carl seemed… intense. Intimidating. Posh suits, and steely muscles, and chiselled features, and absolutely everything I wasn’t. The corporate bogeyman under my country-girl bedspread. Maybe the photos made him look more that way than he really was.
I knocked on the door and my heart thumped like a crazy bitch, my breath raw in my throat as I saw a shadow move behind the glass.
The door swung open and I couldn’t breathe, just plastered on the warmest, brightest smile I could muster and it stayed. It stayed because it was Rick who answered, and he was smiling, too. His smile was incredible, big and genuine, and it gave him dimples. He had tight black jeans on over brogues, and a purple tie over a short-sleeved checked shirt. Rick Warner, graphic designer extraordinaire, was absolutely goddamn fucking gorgeous, way more gorgeous than his gorgeous pics. One for the win.
“Katie! Hey!” He beckoned me in like a long-lost friend, and wrapped me in colourful arms that were hotter in the flesh than they were in any online photo, and he smelled of both the ocean and cherries simultaneously. His chest was hard under his shirt, and he was taller than I’d expected, as tall as me, even in heels.