Page 35 of Sugar Daddies

It starts with a trail of hot fingers and easy breaths, but it ends with a perfect curl of steaming hotness pouring from the sides of my shoulders.

From an outside perspective, it would seem that I have a fever and I’m stewing in grossness. From what I remember, it’s a type of soreness that brings contentment to my heart as the bruises on my body dully throb.

I whine softly, distracted by the stroking of a gentle hand through my hair.

“It’s okay, little princess,” a voice calms my rising heart.

I crank my head to the side and open one tired eye. It’s like peeling an uncooperative orange from its skin. My mouth is dry. The burning sensation in my throat burns the more I attempt to use my voice. The scarce moisture in my mouth grows steadily, and I refuse to make a face when I swallow it. It’s the only option I have since it’s virtually impossible to get a glass of water.

Mr. Stephan looks amazing, and it’s not fair that he can look this beautiful in the unholy hours of the morning.

He smells like fresh shampoo and cool mint. I shamelessly turn my face more to stuff my nose into the collar of his shirt.

A dress shirt that has no crease or wrinkles in it. It’s an ironed shirt that only a professional can make that pristine. The chilled fabric hits my face, and I sigh as it contrasts with my heated body. The sense of déjà vu gnaws at me when I try to fall back asleep.

Another hand runs down my hand with one finger curving to the shape of my spine. My shivers heighten as my eyes water with roughness grating the patches of my inner thighs.

It’s when I know that there is something between my legs and it’s putting pressure on my tender pussy. My brows furrow involuntarily as I observe the scene with my body. Every part of my body gets an orderly trace with my consciousness to pinpoint the slight shift of position that manages to scrape my sensitive folds with the coarseness of a piece of fabric.

I reach a hand down on the protruding knee that’s wedged between my thighs from behind me. I open my eyes and grumpily pouts at the lack of sleep that I’m getting from the long-suffering night.

The oxygen sweeps across my lips, tears collecting in the lines of my lashes as I nudge the knee away. It comes back with twice the vigor, and it put pressure that lunges my lungs into my ribs as I shakily inhale.

Wiggling and mewling quietly to Mr. Stephan, I hope he understands what I need and gets the leg away from my aching pussy. It has to be Daddy behind me. Only he would be this inconsiderate of the soreness he and Mr. Stephan inflicted for the sole purpose of punishing me.

He’s so mean to me, and the drag of Mr. Stephan’s hand in my hair helps the grumpy, little girl in me. The acceptance of two men vying for my attention through different strokes of their hand helps the unsettling feeling in my tummy; whether it is from last night or the uncertainty about today’s event. I’m feeling queasy, and I don’t like the feeling of it.

It’s as if I have no control over my body; though Mr. Stephan and Daddy will always have definite control over me, this is different. It’s divided in half by two men that would ruin me if one of them leaves.

Maybe I’m overreacting a bit.

Daddy did say I have an overactive imagination.

If I don’t bring it up, then they probably won’t mind the giant elephant in the room.

“Time…” I murmur into the shirt.

Daddy’s hand that was running up my spine curls a prevalence of something dangerous in the back of my neck. The unspoken gesture screams his role in my life, and I’m brought back to the potential outcomes when I leave the bed.

This is too much stress in the morning.

“Eight,” Mr. Stephan rasps huskily.

Yes, it’s too early for me to be sulking because of my future. I shouldn’t even be awake right now, let alone making life decisions that will affect me through the possibility of my judgment.

Or lack thereof.

Any choice I make is a bad one. It’s foolish of me to try to shoulder this problem by myself when I have two colossal men with shoulders wider than the Great Wall of China.

“I think I’m sick,” I drawl and the cough enhances the discomfort in my body.

“Do you make a habit of letting her lie?” Mr. Stephan’s light accusation goes over my head.

Daddy’s hand rips a whine from my throat when he fists my hair at the base of my skull. “She’s never this rebellious before. You’rethe bad influence here.”

“He’s not, Daddy,” I say, albeit muffled and unintelligible in the crook of Mr. Stephan’s neck.

Daddy raps his knuckle into my skull. The hollow noise bounces off of my ears as I pout deeper into the crisp shirt of Mr. Stephan.

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