Page 2 of Big Daddy

My cock pulses, and I wait for them to pull away before stepping out and getting into my car. Brielle told me all men adore Winnie, and I suppose I’m not immune. The only difference? My dick may say hello at a delicious glimpse of tits and thighs, but I have more self-control.

Cracking my neck, I steer into evening city traffic, the flood of lights and noises permeating the privacy in my SUV. With both hands on the wheel, I head home, mentally organizing the upcoming day, running down the list of meetings and briefs I need to go over.

The urge to shove my pants down and stroke myself to orgasm the moment I’m home hits me, but I refuse to indulge. Because thinking about your daughter’s best friend while you jerk off is deplorable.

And I have more self-control than that.

chapter one

winnie

“Oh yeah,come to Mama, you red-bottomed little beauty.” Carefully, I lift the lid off the Louboutin box, plucking the black patent leather pump from the tissue paper prison. I slip the high heel onto my foot and outstretch my leg, admiring the elegance it brings to every outfit. Even sweatpants, which is what I’m currently wearing. “Damn, baby girl,” I tell the shoe because at this point in my life, talking to a shoe is completely reasonable. “You’resosexy.”

I take it off and turn it over, analyzing the wear scuffed into the grooved bottom. They’ve hardly been worn, but that’s no surprise. Brielle has so many pairs of shoes, some never even make it into her work rotation.

I know that sounds like my bestie is a spoiled snob, but she’s not. I swear. Well, actually shekind ofis a spoiled snob, but in a lovable, down to earth way, if that makes sense. I love Brielle, and I accept that she’s lived a privileged life thanks to her rich father. It’s hard to give her grief for being spoiled, especially when I benefit directly from her spoils. I’m at her apartment more than my own, I think I eat more of her groceries than shedoes—heck, she stocks Diet Coke just for me. And, as you can tell, Ialsoborrow her shoes.

Oh, and Idefinitelyuse her Netflix account.

Returning the shoe to its box, I replace the lid and slide it back, in favor of another. This next box is also a Louboutin, but of course. “See, if you were poor,” I say aloud to Brielle, who has already left for work for the day. Because again, that’s where I’m at. “I’d be wearing some discount rack pumps or some second-hand kitten heels. And that just won’t do.”

After sliding the lid off the box, my eyes land on the most unbelievable pair of leather sandals. Louboutin loves leather, doesn’t he? Well, I’m glad he does, because so does Harold.

I slip my foot into the demure black sandal, my freshly painted blue toenails a stark contrast against the delicate straps . I wiggle my toes and outstretch my leg, surveying the fit. “Oh yeah, Harold,” I say,againtalking to someone who isn’t there as I get to my feet. Peeking at the profile view of the sandal that costs more than all thethingsI own, I sigh, “You’re gonna like my dogs in these babies.”

After putting the other sandal on, I pop and plug my phone into the light ring, tilt it toward my feet, and open my laptop. Double-clicking my calendar, I find mine and Harold’s weekly appointment and open it up. While my computer calls him, I turn the light ring on, illuminating my toes in the gorgeous French designer sandals.

“Winnie?” Harold’s voice calls out, snapping my attention to the screen. His camera is off, which is abnormal. In fact, now that I think about it, I don’t think he’s ever joined one of our “meetings” with his camera off.

“Hi Harold. Is everything okay?” I greet softly, in my most soft, feminine, erotic voice. “You forgot your camera, sweetie.” Yeah, I know,sweetieis a bit corny but he chose it. He wants it. And Harold gets what he wants. “Sweetie?” I call for him again.

Unease gnaws at me as a moment of silence spills into two, then three, and before I know it, six Mississippis have passed.

“Winnie,” he finally starts, soft and apologetic in tone.

“You like my sandals? Christian Louboutin.” I glance at the box. “85 mm heels. Patent leather. Red bottoms.”

He groans. “I—Yes, they’re beautiful. But I’m gonna turn your side off,” he says, causing my brows to pull together in utter confusion. Heneverturns the viewing off. I mean, that’s why we’re here. For him to scratch his foot-lovin’ itch. And the first thing he usually does once my camera is on?Unzip.

“Turn viewing off?” I question. “Howard, these are—” I glance back at the box. “These are $895 sandals and this is a $500 session. Why would you?—”

He interrupts me with words I am not prepared to hear. Like,at all. Words that thoroughly bitch slap me and knock the wind from my chest with a baseball bat without a single movement.

“I can’t do this anymore, Winnie.” He clears his throat, awkwardly working his way through what sounds like a very rehearsed speech. “I met someone. And she’s willing to oblige my needs. It no longer feels appropriate to pay you for… this.”

I look down at my feet in the expensive sandals that I myself could never even dream of owning, and then I look at the towel laid out next to me, with all of my supplies.

A stick of butter. A can of whipped cream. A jar of jam. His favoritesmearitems. My stomach drops. “What?” I heard him just fine, but my mind is reeling. “Howard, I?—”

“I’m sorry, Winnie.” A loud groan erupts from his end of the line. “Those are beautiful sandals. And I thank you for everything. But… I’m sorry.”

At that precise moment, the payment bubble pops up on my screen, alerting me that Howard has paid me my $500, along with a note that simply reads “Farewell my beautiful-footed female friend.”

“Wait—Howard,” I call, panic zipping up my spine as I click his name over and over. “Howie, honey bunny,” I try, acid nearly curdling the already disgusting words. But they’re words he likes. Words he usually loves. Paired with my feetsies? He’s normally all in. It’s how I got my laptop. But today, not so fucking much.

I turn off the ring light, close my laptop, and carefully replace the sandals in the box, returning them to the many rows of boxes in Brielle’s closet.

Howard is done with this. He doesn’t want me. Or my feet.

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