8: Tristan.
I pace the floor of the hotel suite, stopping at the window and looking out over the bright lights of the city skyline. I’ve always
been an honorable man. As decent as one can possibly be while
maintaining his success in the world of finance. I don’t gamble,
drink heavily or womanize and I keep my word. Yet here I am,
waiting for an eighteen–year–old girl to arrive so I can pay her for
sex.
Looking at my reflection in the window, I know damn well that
paying Lia is the only way I’d ever get the privilege of having her
beneath me. We’re old and young. Big and small. Coarse and
smooth. Because of that, there is something comforting about
the fact that I’ll be compensating her. When she arrives, I plan to
outline our agreement in a clear, concise manner and that will
help, too. Having a detailed understanding. A mutually beneficial
venture is something I understand. Maybe after we’ve met
privately a few times, I’ll stop feeling this sweaty, horny shame
for wanting to ride a girl twenty–seven years my junior. Wanting to get my dick into her so bad, my briefs are twisted around the
turgid flesh, my balls like two tight knots.
I’ve booked the presidential suite at the Fairbourne and the bed
waits silently in the other room, taunting me. Am I really doing
this? Am I really a sugar daddy now?
Ever since Lia came to my office and I came in my pants like a
school boy, I’ve done some research and these arrangements are not unusual. In fact, they’re common for men of my ilk. That doesn’t make me feel any better. If anything, I feel worse.
Lia is the furthest thing from common. She’s bright and sharp
and warm. Her laughter has always been a source of joy in my home. Her wit can match anyone. She’s always fussing over me, telling me I work too much. Bringing glasses of warm milk or herbal tea to my office when I’m working late and she’s hanging
out with Eric
Eric.
Jesus, how would I explain this to my son?
That I’m out of my mind with lust for his best friend since
middle school. He would think I’m a sick motherfucker–and
maybe I am. I barely made it twenty minutes after Lia sailed out
of my office before I started making arrangements for the
following night. I’ve been watching the clock, waiting for this. Aching. Jesus, the things she said to me. The way she tugged me off through my pants, her perky tits on unabashed display. I‘
ve never been so hard in my life, throat closing, palms sweating,
spine in a vise. She owned me.
And afterward…
I’ve never wanted to hold someone so badly.
Lia has always been the breezy one. She has a quip and a wink for everyone. But she was vulnerable sitting there on my desk.
She needed…
Christ, I can’t believe I’m even thinking this.
She needed her Big Daddy.
She needed me to rock her against my chest and kiss her
forehead. I’ve never had this kind of relationship with anyone,
nor have I wanted one. Where I’m the father figure and the lover.
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