How I Didn't Become a Sugar Daddy
From the author. The story was written for the "Mésalliance" contest, so let my faithful readers not be surprised by some inconsistencies and discrepancies. They were done intentionally to conceal authorship.
If I am a bald, fat programmer over 40, and she is a young and beautiful philology student around 20, is that a mésalliance or what?
If you dilute a whole heap of strange and lost souls from a notebook with a confident and somewhat arrogant persona, and with the enticing nickname "Parisienne" on the favorite website of mama's boys, is that good enough for a contest?
If she declares that there's no need to take her to restaurants and theaters during the wooing process,
but to give her share of the expenses in cash, is she a prostitute or a kept woman?It's interesting to be an oligarch for a bit, damn it! Where are my yellow shoes? I agreed.
We agreed on a place and time. Met her. Put her in the car. Took the Parisienne to the "rooms." On the Champs-Élysées, yeah. Of the provincial town of Emsk in the Zatuluzhsky department. A funny girl, red-haired, freckled, in jeans and a jacket, with a green scarf tied around her neck matching her eye color. Talkative and unshy, by the way. It's still a question of who is wooing whom and for the umpteenth time.
In the room, we chatted a bit. Well, as usual, you understand, her peers are dumb and clumsy, but she adores older professors. They are smart and experienced. Thank you, darling, I love you too!
She climbed onto my lap. Offered her lips. Offered her neck. Prompted me to unbutton her blouse. She took off her bra herself. For a skinny, mischievous girl's build — huge tits. Third size, at least. Big, white, firm, enticing. I suck, kiss, nibble. The Parisienne moans and melts. Or is she acting? Who cares? I like it, period!
She gets off my lap, stands in front of me, starts slowly, slowly unbuttoning her jeans. Come on faster, this isn't a strip show! Couldn't wait, unbuttoned and pulled them down myself! WOW!!! No panties under the jeans. A surprise, though!
— Fuck me! — whispers the Parisienne, leading me towards the bed.
— I will! — I confirm, hastily undressing from my clothes. And I put my dick under her nose, — but first a blowjob, s'il vous plaît!
Strangely enough, the Parisienne is not thrilled with French-style sex. She sucks, of course, where else would she go? But with her whole appearance and behavior, she makes it known that this is just fooling around, not fucking. Several times she tries to end the overture and move to the main course, but I'm in no hurry, and I insert it into her pussy only when the thoroughly swollen and moistened dick itself asks to change holes.
Fucking missionary. Fucking cowgirl. Fucking doggy style. erotic stories The Parisienne genuinely enjoys it, but in her verbal expressions, she sometimes overacts. If a "pale youth with a burning gaze" were in my place, he'd probably think she'd already come under him and would consider himself the pinnacle of creation. Although, I think that under him, she would have acted like a resident of London during Queen Victoria's time. But here, it's clear that she's as far from orgasm as the moon is by doggy style. For me, it's closer. About as far as Berlin.
We rest. Chat about this and that. Drink water, snack on sweets. "The poet's soul could not bear" going to an intimate date completely empty-handed. I smoke, she criticizes me for bad habits and an unhealthy lifestyle. Hints indirectly that she'll take me seriously, just give her time! Good youth we have at Emsk University, credit to the rector!
The Parisienne climbs onto my lap again, snuggles like a kitten, almost purring. Kissing deeply, playing with tongues, with one arm hugging her shoulders so she doesn't fall on the floor, with the other hand I caress her between her legs. Vagina wet, clitoris large, the girl is clearly turned on. I don't understand why the noble lady doesn't come? But how? "Where is her button, Urri?" Maybe in her ass by chance? No, not in the ass. She wiggles her butt disapprovingly, removing my finger, and manages, without breaking the kiss, to mutter "don't, not there."
Oh, youth-youth! The Parisienne got completely lazy after orgasm. Titty fucking, blowjob, fucking her pussy, she lies there calmly, eyes closed, you go ahead and work, and I'll rest a bit. Only objected to anal sex. And closer to the end, she perked up:
— You can come inside me if you want. I'm on birth control.
— No, I'd rather in the mouth. Come on, open up!
And it feels good for the dick to come in the little mouth, and it's more peaceful for the soul — who knows how reliable her protection is.
Here again, I had to mentally lament the inexperience of the younger generation. No sucking and savoring of sperm, beloved by decrepit old men. Barely waiting for the end of the spurts, the Parisienne, having regained agility, ran to the bathroom to spit and (mentally, mentally) be indignant at the perversions of daddies.
— Thank you! — she said politely, accepting a 500-ruble bill without any embarrassment. — See you next week?
— Can't say for sure. I'll call if anything.
The next day, it turned out she forgot her gloves in the car, and meeting for 5 minutes in the center to hand them over, the Parisienne casually asked to "borrow" another 500 rubles.
She wheedled another 500 rubles for Valentine's Day. And before March 8th, I threw out the SIM card and deleted my profile from Mamba. Heavy is the lot of an oligarch!