Sugar Daddy

by Sawyer Bennett

  And, here it comes.

  The brush-off.

  He may not have kicked me out last night after our last round, but I suspect it's because he was too tired. But now Beck is reiterating the point he made to me last night and that I readily agreed to.

  This was a one-night stand and nothing more would ever come of it.

  I start to roll out of the bed, intent on finding my purse and my clothes, when he stops me dead. "Want to join me?"

  Looking over my shoulder at him, I raise an eyebrow. "In the shower?"

  "Well, yeah," he says with a smirk. "We'll shower, we'll fuck...then I'll even take you to breakfast."

  I blink at him slowly, wondering what the hell is going on here. He's looking at me as if he doesn't want to let me go.

  And for the first time since I left the party with Beck last night, I have an attack of conscience. From what I've read and observed so far, he's seemingly a good guy, and here I am using him. He showed me unbelievable pleasure last night, made me feel semi-normal as a woman, and apparently wants to take me out for pancakes.

  It's not computing.

  "Um...I need to check the messages on my phone, but I'll be there in a moment," I tell him, needing a few minutes to collect myself. I've got too many emotions swirling and competing for supremacy. I have got to get my head back on straight and remember why in the hell I'm even here.

  I turn away from Beck and swing my legs out of the bed. I'm not even self-conscious in my nakedness, merely walking out of the bedroom and into the main living area of the suite. Beck calls after me, "Will you grab me a bottle of water from the fridge?"

  "Sure," I say over my shoulder, and I can hear him turn on the shower.

  I walk to the mini-refrigerator that's part of a built-in liquor cabinet and pull out a bottle of water. What in the hell should I do?

  Beck North wasn't on my radar yesterday. Now I've spent an unbelievable night with him, and he still has apparent interest in me. While I don't presume to think he's going to enter into a sugarship with me, I'm definitely not getting kicked out onto the street. Now I just have to figure out how to play this.

  Walk out that door right now and be done with this? Figure some other way to get at JT, which will take longer, though?

  Or do I try to hook Beck even further, draw him closer into my web, and use him to get in close enough to strike? No guarantee that will work. I mean, for all I know, he's going to fuck me again, buy me breakfast, and then cut me loose forever.

  My fingers fiddle with the label of the bottle in my hands, contemplating which route I should take. Either one will still put me on a path to my goal. One will be easier, although I'll be sacrificing some of what few principles I have left to use Beck in that fashion.

  The upside is more time with Beck. A little bit more time with a man who makes me feel like a real woman...whole, undamaged, and full of potential. That's a benefit I never would have expected, and I'm a little ashamed that it's something that I'm even considering as important.

  But fuck it...I like how he made me feel last night.

  Decision made, I ignore my pile of clothes on the floor and head back into the bedroom. I lay the bottle of water on the edge of the mattress and pad silently toward the bathroom. A billow of steam wafts out the door, and in the mirror over the large vanity I can see the naked form of Beck as he tilts his head back under the stream of water while one of his hands rubs a bar of soap over his chest. Then down his stomach and right in between his legs, where he glides it around the base of his cock, over his balls, and back up his stomach again.

  God, that's so hot.

  Then he turns around and I realize I'm going to get to look at his ass, something I haven't had the pleasure of yet. The minute he turns, I get just a peek of those tight twin globes paler than the rest of his tan skin, but then my breath catches as I look at his back. My hand reaches out, grabs hold of the doorjamb for balance, and I look at Beck with narrowed eyes.

  On his right shoulder blade, taking up no more than five inches or so, a tattoo.

  A red phoenix taking flight with wings and tail of flame.

  Oh holy fuck.

  Red bird on a rib cage.

  Red bird on a wrist.

  Red bird on a shoulder.

  Red birds fucking everywhere, closing in on me.

  A surge of terror mixed with adrenaline punches into my stomach and I spin from the doorway, stumble but catch myself, before running through the bedroom and out into the living area. I hastily put my dress on, abandoning my thong and heels, which are back in the bedroom. I can't even imagine how ludicrous I'll look walking through the lobby to hail a cab in early November with no shoes, but I can't give that another thought.

  I have to get the fuck out of here.

  With my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, I grab my purse from the table by the front door of the suite where I had left it last night and I leave, quietly shutting the door behind me.

  I have no clue what that phoenix tattoo means, but I know one thing:

  Right now, it scares the piss out of me.

  Chapter 8

  Beck

  I hang up the phone with my attorney and lean back in my desk chair. His news is not good, but it's also not unexpected. I cannot force a buyout with JT unless he basically does something illegal regarding the business. And no...snorting coke in your office doesn't count. The language is clear and it means criminal acts specifically related to the operations of the business and that are detrimental to said business.

  But as much as I am bothered by JT's behavior over the last several months, and it makes me extremely worried going forward, I certainly don't want to find that he's done something illegal. That just puts too much liability and risk on me, and I'd rather walk than face the potential of a criminal investigation brought on by a moronic and out-of-control partner.

  So I need to either suck it up or break free.

  The choice is easy right now...I'm going to have to suck it up and just ride his ass to stay focused. With us preparing to roll out the new Web platform that's in development, this could mean a 40 percent increase in revenue with virtually no increased overhead, which means a huge chunk of change. I don't own the proprietary rights to the coding--according to my lawyer--so if I walk right now, I'd be losing out on all of the gains when it launches next year.

  So I'll hold tight and keep a careful eye on my partner.

  I have to say, while the news from my lawyer wasn't good, it was a welcome relief from the multitude of insane thoughts that have been running through my head all day regarding my lovely and apparently skittish companion from the night before last. I'd been in the shower the following morning, soaping myself up, thinking of the way she worked my cock with her mouth. I got hard again and called out to her to hurry up. I got no response.

  So I called out again.

  Still nothing.

  Curiosity got the better of me, so I turned the water off and got out of the shower. With a towel around my waist, I walked around the suite three times before I'd convinced myself she actually had left. It made no sense, especially because she left her shoes and panties. Panties I could understand, but leaving shoes behind in early November?

  No way.

  So she left in a hurry and I have to wonder what caused her to run.

  Can't believe the prospect of a shower with me and breakfast would be scary.

  Unless...

  Unless she was totally serious about getting close to that Sugar Daddy in Santa Clara. Maybe she really just wanted a one-night stand and had her sights set elsewhere. And not that this guy would be a better catch than me, but considering I told her unequivocally that I didn't do relationships and not even to bother fantasizing about it, maybe that's exactly why she jetted out of the hotel without even a goodbye.

  Honestly, I thought the Santa Clara Sugar Daddy was a bunch of bullshit she threw at me to cover for the fact she really was sniffing around me for a potential sugarship. But n
ow I'm not so sure.

  What complicates things even more is the fact that I gave her the first orgasm she ever had with a man. I can't even begin to describe what that felt like, knowing that I was responsible for bestowing that on her, and then being completely perplexed how a woman as beautiful as that went so long without finding a real man to pleasure her. Her past experiences must have been horrid, and just thinking that last night sent me into a mindless frenzy to make her come over and over again.

  Sela called my name out many times and even cursed me when she said she couldn't give me one more. I then proved her wrong and accepted two more from her. It was the hottest night of my life, showing that beautiful woman all the joys of some really fantastic fucking. And I stayed purely vanilla with her too, and it makes me hard just thinking about some of the ways I could make her scream.

  Fuck.

  I have got to stop thinking about her.

  It's over.

  Done.

  She left.

  No way to find her.

  Except...that's not true. I fucking created The Sugar Bowl website. If she's a Sugar Baby, with a few keystrokes I can access the database and have her house pinpointed in moments.

  Drumming my fingers on my desk, I stare at my computer screen and ponder the merits of doing just such a thing. I mean, what would be the purpose? Just to fuck her again?

  That actually sounds like a fantastic reason.

  Lurching forward in my seat, I grab my keyboard and pull it toward me. I navigate my way into the internal database of Sugar Babies, as of this month totaling over 1.6 million registered from all over the world. That's nothing compared to the almost five million registered Sugar Daddies who pay a flat thousand dollars to join, autorenewed each year. Do the math...you can figure out what that means. While our money comes from the Daddies, our current marketing efforts are aimed at trying to build up with more Babies. The bigger our pool of Babies, the more Daddies will join.

  I type in Sela Halstead, and I'm surprised when actually three women come up by that name. I immediately rule out two of them, as they reside in Texas and Georgia. The third Sela Halstead has an Oakland address, so I choose that profile.

  I'm immediately rewarded when a picture of her appears on my screen. Yes, that's the gorgeous woman I fucked my dick raw with the other night, but the picture doesn't do her justice.

  My eyes scan her personal data, of which we don't require much.

  She's twenty-six and I don't find that surprising. Her face is definitely more youthful with the freckles and wide, innocent eyes, but there's a wisdom there within their depths that tells me she's got a few more years under her belt than your average Baby. Enrolled at Golden Gate University and rents a small apartment in Oakland. It appears she works part-time at a diner to help fund her tuition. No criminal record. Not even a speeding ticket. She's the classic Sugar Baby.

  I look at the Comm button and consider snooping further. The Comm button will lead me to the encrypted messages that Babies and Daddies use to communicate. I'm not doing anything illegal, as our terms of service include all members' agreement that we are allowed to monitor activity to ensure no fraudulent or criminal activities are being carried out.

  But do I really want to know just how far entrenched into a potential sugarship she's delved? Or should I just close out the screen and get the fuck back to work?

  Images of Sela's back arched off the bed and the muscles in her pussy clamping down hard on my fingers the first time she came flash through my brain and I click on the button without another moment's hesitation.

  Scanning through the messages, I can see several potential Daddies have reached out to her. She's responded to a few, but nothing more than a polite decline that she's not interested. And then I see a long history of exchanges dating almost two weeks back with a man in Santa Clara, California.

  Frank Webert.

  And fuck...lame-ass name aside, he's practically a perfect catch for her. He's on the younger side at age forty-two, reasonably fit and attractive, and made his money in robotics. That means he's super-fucking filthy rich.

  I read the messages and he comes on strong with Sela. While there is no overt solicitation or request for sex, there's enough innuendo in his messages to her that he expects it. Her responses are flirtatiously vague but promising, and she did agree to meet with him this upcoming weekend.

  My bet is that he'll have an agreement signed with her by Sunday.

  I think about how that makes me feel.

  I wonder if he can make her come the way I did.

  I wonder if she'll suck his cock like--

  Surging up out of my chair, I grab my keys and phone off my desk. I look at her home address one more time and commit it to memory before logging off my computer.

  I walk out of my office and tell Linda in passing, "I'm going to be out for the rest of the day. I'll return calls tomorrow."

  "No problem," she says with an affectionate smile. "Need me to do anything while you're gone?"

  I stop and look back at her, wondering if I've gone temporarily insane. "Yeah...as a matter of fact...print me out a blank sugar agreement."

  Linda blinks at me in surprise, momentarily stunned to inaction. I raise my eyebrows and lift my chin toward the printer that sits on the corner of her desk. She immediately jumps to it, taps her fingers on her keyboard a few times, and then the printer starts spitting out the document.

  She pulls it off, staples the two pages together, and hands it to me with wide eyes. "Are you going to sign that?"

  "I have no clue what I'm fucking doing," I mutter as I walk down the hall toward the main door.

  --

  I check my watch for about the twentieth time and glance down Nineteenth Street. No sign of Sela yet.

  I've been parked outside her Oakland apartment at the corner of Twelfth and Nineteenth, not sure what direction she'd be coming from. I'm taking a guess she's using BART to get to and from school, so I expect to see her walking down Nineteenth from the train station. It's all supposition, and for all I know she's got a car that gets her back and forth, but I doubt it. That's a chunk of change to pay for gas and parking over at Golden Gate, and if she's in the market for a Sugar Daddy I'm guessing she's a BART girl.

  It's nearing five p.m., starting to get dark, and I'm about ready to give up for the day. I've been sitting in my car nearly two hours and my ass is numb. I'm also starving, as I haven't eaten since breakfast. I can always try again tomorrow. Or hell, maybe I should just call her. I have her phone number from the database.

  Just as my hand reaches for the ignition, I see Sela heading straight toward me. The sidewalk isn't overly crowded, although there are several people walking in both directions, but regardless...I recognize her immediately. I spent so much time touching and licking that body, I'd recognize it anywhere.

  She's dressed a far cry from her sexy dress of last night. Today she's got on faded jeans that are ripped in one knee, black Converse tennis shoes, and a faded Raiders sweatshirt to ward off the chill. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and she has a heavy-looking backpack slung over her right shoulder as she trudges toward her apartment building.

  I hop out of my car and lock it, hoping it will remain safe enough in this neighborhood. While it's not the worst, it's certainly not the best, and I've heard Audis are popular cars to boost.

  Heading toward the front door of the building, I lengthen my stride and make it there about a second before she does. I grab the door, open it, and her head raises up as she says, "Thanks."

  Her eyes flare large with worried surprise and she takes a step back from me. "What are you doing here?"

  My hand shoots out and pulls the backpack from her shoulder, and fuck...that's heavy. "Came to see you. You left without saying goodbye."

  "Wasn't any need," she says smoothly. "It was a one-night stand, right?"

  "That's right," I say with an agreeable smile. "But I have to say, you had me worried when you left without even both
ering to get your shoes. That tells me you were running, and I want to know why."

  For a moment, I think she might tell me to go to hell, but her shoulders sag. With a small sigh, she steps past me into her building and says over her shoulder, "Might as well come up and we can talk about it."

  Now that surprises me. I figured I'd have a bit more of a fight on my hands, but I graciously take the offer and follow her inside.

  Chapter 9

  Sela

  Yes. Without a doubt...the red phoenix on the back of Beck's shoulder freaked me out when I first saw it. It was almost a slap in the face after what we'd shared just hours before.

  After what he commanded my body to do.

  So I ran without my panties or shoes, luckily caught a cab waiting right outside the hotel lobby, and didn't have a nosy cab driver asking me where my shoes were.

  I tossed and turned all night, but by the time the sun rose, I think I had reasoned out some acceptance in my head.

  First, I have no clue what that fucking tattoo means. As sinister as my rapists were, at first I thought it could be a cultlike symbol among sick fucks that like to rape together. I Googled it relentlessly six months ago when I first saw JT on the TV and realized that tattoo was very real and not just a nightmarish figment of my imagination. I researched it thoroughly and didn't come up with a damn thing. Whatever the reason behind that tattoo, it's not been publicized in any way.

  Second, I have to consider that the tattoo could be something as innocuous as a fraternity thing. In fact, that's the most obvious answer, and since Beck and JT went to the same college and were friends even prior to that, it stands to reason that perhaps they were in a fraternity together. Or shit...maybe they were on some type of coed sports team that had matching tattoos. Who knows why guys do stupid shit like that?

  Third, and probably most important, what I reasoned out was that just because Beck had a tattoo that matched my rapist didn't mean that he was by association a rapist. I have absolutely no recollection of him being there that night, although I'm the first to admit the Rohypnol I was given has fucked with my memories. I'm relying on nothing more than a deep, internal gut instinct about that. I just don't get that vibe from Beck. Sure, I could be very wrong about this. I could have piss-poor judgment, and perhaps I'm still riding high on the never-ending orgasms of last night, but I just don't think he has that in him. He seems like a decent guy, although I do question his choice of business partner who is evil incarnate.