Sugar Baby Novel – Four Daddy Doms. Three hours. Ten Thousand Dollars. Who wouldn’t say yes to that? Four daddies looking for a baby girl to share for the night. Their list of bedroom requirements has me squeezing my thighs together and my thumb hitting the accept button before my brain can catch up. I have no idea who is banging me right now; all I know is that it feels amazing. I shake my head and try to pull away. “No, no, stop.” Everything pauses, and I sob, the fire raging through me burning my veins. “Emmy? That’s not one of our safe words,” the voice behind me says, his shaft buried so deeply inside of me, I’m sure the shape of my stomach changes with each thrust. I shiver and try to get the words out through numb lips. “Was going to come.” Daddy smirks down at me. “Yes, baby, you’ll get your reward. We’ll tally them up, and at the end of the night, you’ll get everything our good girl deserves.” My lashes flutter. Good girl. That’s what I want to be. I haven’t ever been anyone’s good girl. I’ve been filthy.
Emery The old couch protests as my roommate, Oakley, plops down onto the seat next to me. I side-eye her, then go back to crunching on the cracker, since it and the six others left in the pack are all I have left to eat until tomorrow. A domestic situation is happening on the reality show I‘m watching, the sixteen-year-old teen mom throwing a hissy fit because her baby daddy spent that week’s rent on a new video game. Not for the first time, I wonder if I should have just let Tray knock me up when we were in foster care so that we could apply for a show like this. Between the two of us, our tragic backstories would have the target audience for this thing show all tied up in knots. Boo hoo and all that thing. “Hey, roomie.” “Hey,” I force out through gritted teeth.
This chick seriously needs to back off. Can’t she feel the annoy-me-and-die vibes I have going on? I can’t stand the sunshine and rainbows that pour off her in waves. And why wouldn’t she be that happy? Oakley wears designer everything. Even her workout clothes have expensive labels. I swear I saw some Gucci pajamas the other day too. Blonde hair, freshly blown and nails that wouldn’t dare to have a chip. And her sections of the fridge and pantry are always stocked with fresh produce, which half the time ends up spoiled and in the trash, because for the two weeks we’ve been living together, she’s barely ever been home. I force myself to breathe and remind myself that four days from now, I’ll be starting my future. Monday can’t come fast enough. Which doesn’t do me much good right now, because I can feel her staring at me.
Giving up on the show, I face her. “What?” She crosses her arms over her presumably surgically enhanced chest—otherwise, wow, that bra is doing amazing things for her—and leans back, fingernails pointing to the ceiling, all the while eyeing my shittastic dinner. “You need to make some money.” Using just my wrist, I wave my half-eaten cracker, shoving down the acidic bitterness her words drag up my spine. “My meal card activates tomorrow.” She tucks her chin. “And eat the dining hall food, ew, no. Gross. Let me help you.” I eye her warily. “I’m not doing your laundry.” Oakley barks out a laugh. “Ha, no. I only dry clean.” Huh, well, that explained that mystery. “And I’m not asking you to work for me. I’m offering to show you a way to make money,” she continues as she reaches up to run her bedazzled fingers through her hair. I narrow my eyes. I’ve heard that line before. I’ll give you a Hamilton, if you’ll stand on the corner and let me know if any pigs roll by.
Take this package to the lady in the car. Give me the fifty, and you can keep the rest. That kind of cash in my life as little as six weeks ago, right now too—would have made a huge difference in my day, but I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m a college student now. I got out. And I am going to stay out. Even if it kills me. “Pass,” I state in a flat voice and then turn back to the TV as I reach for my glass of water on the scarred coffee table. “Oh, come on, hear me out. You can’t tell me that you don’t need the cash. And I swear, it’s nothing illegal.” She squints her eyes for a moment, then shrugs. “I don’t think it is, anyway. Everyone involved is consenting, and if money or gifts exchange hands afterward, who’s to know?” I look at the cracker clutched between my fingers, which may as well be cardboard with how stale it is. Not illegal? And everyone is consenting. It doesn’t take an undergraduate degree to figure out what she’s implying. And if that is what she’s implying, then there’s no harm in hearing her out. Intercourse is the one commodity that I can trade without owing someone something.
Men see my long, wavy brown hair, heart-shaped face, big hazel eyes, and the dusting of freckles on my cheeks after they notice my bubble hip and D-cup cherry. Puberty changed my life. It took me out of one steaming pile of thing homelife and dumped me into a cesspool. But what ever. I survived. I don’t need anyone’s 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. 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?” 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 to Sign up now. “People are actually into this sh-stuff?” I correct my word choice, since clearly, Oakley is into this thing. When I look up at her, she’s smirking at me. “You mean that baby girl, daddy? 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 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 for the specifics of the invitation and then they want you gone. And they don’t want to haggle.” I nod. “Makes sense.” It totally didn’t. If the daddies are stacked, wouldn’t it make sense that girls would be throwing themselves at them? Glancing at the TV, I see that the baby daddy is sitting on the couch, playing his new video games while the newborn sleeps on his chest. Clearly, Mom has bailed or is sulking in the bedroom. “Where’s your phone?” “Hello, random question.”
I turn back to Oakley with a raised eyebrow. She rolls her eyes at me. “I’m going to set you up with your own profile, and then you can search through the app.” “I don’t remember saying I was going to sign up,” I snark back at her. But I can’t stop my gaze from taking in how . . . good she looks, objectively speaking. I’m not into private part, but I can totally check out a woman and determine if she is hot or not. And Oakley is hot. Oakley laughs. “We can set your profile to private so that only profiles you interact with can see yours. Then you can be a creepy lurker for as long as you like.” “I can remain anonymous?” I offer her my phone from where I had it tucked between my leg and the couch cushion.