Page 2 of Sugar Baby
I survived.
I don’t need anyone’s fucking pity.
I made it out. I’m at college. Yeah, my bank account has only a single digit balance at the moment, but my scholarship perks kick in tomorrow. As do the student loans.
Fuck me, the student loans. They are going to take me half a lifetime to pay back, but I know they’ll be worth every cent when I’m working out of some office building, fifty-one stories up, looking out over all the people just trying to scrape through a day.
Glancing back at Oakley, I find her staring at me blatantly, and I just know this princess isn’t going to let it go. “Fine, give me some more details.”
She grins and unlocks her phone, tapping and swiping. “So, it’s called SugarLife.”
I keep my trap shut, even though a million questions fly through my head. If I learned anything growing up in the South Side of Chicago, it’s that it’s best to stay quiet. People tend to fill the void and you don’t get smacked around if they forget you’re there.
Oakley offers me her phone, open to some sort of app. I blink and then blink again at the image of some random chick, dressed in a see-through babydoll dress, nips on full display, hair pulled up in pigtails and sucking on a lollipop. There are words by her head, written in quotation marks.
Are you my next Mommy or Daddy?
“What the fuck?” I mutter, slowly scrolling down the screen. There are invitations for playdates, invitations to take a good girl shopping, requests for cuddle sessions. And constant opportunities toSign up now. “People are actually into this sh-stuff?”
I correct my word choice, since clearly, Oakley is into this shit.
When I look up at her, she’s smirking at me. “You mean that baby girl, daddy shit? Yeah. I’m not into, like, the age-play stuff. I just pick the invitations that want something like a dinner date, to sext with them, or to sit and watch me do my makeup or whatever. Here, let me show you.”
She takes her phone back and starts tapping at the screen, I’m assuming to log in. My assumption is correct when she offers me her phone again, scooting closer, so she can see as she points things out. “See, here. I have my search filtered for my preferences, and then I can apply for any of the invitations that interest me. I can also post my own. All you need to do is set up a profile. You can leave it on private, so only daddies—or mommies—you approach can see your profile.”
She scrolls through a bunch of the invitations, but what catches my eye are the little pink gift boxes at the bottom of each listing. Some have one gift box and others have a few.
“What are the boxes for?” I ask, pointing at an invitation that has five pink boxes.
Oakley clicks on the invitation, opening it up and then scrolling to the section that talks about the gift boxes. “It’s how much the daddy or mommy is willing to pay or gift. One pink gift box usually represents one hundred dollars or less.”
Intrigued, I touch the screen, scrolling up to the description of the invitation.
Daddy in search of a good girl to take out to dinner and movie on Friday night, then to spend the evening clothed,cuddling in a hotel room. Goodbyes in the morning after breakfast.
I raise my eyebrows as I eye the five pink boxes. “So, that’s what . . . five hundred bucks?”
“Yeah, basically, and the expenses for the date are covered by the daddy,” Oakley responds as she casually clicks on the “Pick me, Daddy” button.
Neither of us comments on her action.
“So, are there other colors?” I ask as I lean back into the corner of the couch, TV completely forgotten. She’s caught my interest. If these people are willing to pay for me to eat good food, dress in a skimpy outfit, and talk to them for a couple of hours, why the hell shouldn’t I at least ask some questions? Asking questions doesn’t mean I have to follow through on the actions. Even though this sounds like easy cash.
And besides, even if I did follow through, I’ve done way worse things than being paid to go on a date to keep myself and others safe.
“Yep. So, pink is the lowest, which is basically hundreds. Then there is purple, which is thousands. And red, those are tens.”
I frown, her counting system seeming to be a little off. “Tens? As in ten dollars?”
She laughs, a slight mocking edge. “No, sweetie, ten thousand.”
I let out a low whistle. “People spend that kind of money?”
Oakley gives me a look that makes me feel stupid and naive. “People will spend whatever kind of money they have to get their rocks off a certain way.”
“Fair enough,” I reply with a one-shoulder shrug. “Just seems like a crappy thing to waste your money on.”
Oakley bops her head from side to side. “I’d agree with you, but the majority of the daddies I have met up with so far are hella stacked in the wallet. That only want companionship forthe specifics of the invitation and then they want you gone. And they don’t want to haggle.”