Why some Women need a Sugardaddy…

I really do think some women need a Sugardaddy and don’t know it.

Let me tell you what I mean….

After a long afternoon helping a client at a strategy meeting, he suggested our teams head out for a drink, to celebrate the project being pretty much done.

Another lovely day in London (it can’t last) and so we headed to a cool bar in Smithfield, just outside the City, with a large terrace.

As the evening wore on and people drifted away home, I was left chatting to a cool, intelligent 25 year old woman, who’s one of my client’s sales team.

She is quite attractive, sports some discrete but sexy tattoos and has a figure made for the short black dress she was wearing.

But there was something missing.

Something about her wasn’t captivating me, I tried to work it out, then it hit me, no grooming.

Her fingernails were shocking, no polish and no manicure. Then I noticed her shoes, she was wearing flats, ok, no great crime, but they were scruffy.

This is a woman who is complaining to me that she sees guys, a lot of them quite senior, all day in her job and she can’t work out why they’re not hitting on her.

I then noticed that her lipstick looked as if it had been put on by a blind women on a dark night.

I wanted to tell her that her appearance was lacking a certain finesse, but couldn’t work out a polite way to say it.

I just wondered for a moment if I should mention my Sugardaddy life and how I insist the ladies I see are beautifully groomed and how it makes such a difference to their confidence.

It’s not all about money, it’s about presentation and personal standards, it’s about creating the impression that you are a serious grown-up and that you are someone that’s serious in life as in business.

I left her, glad that I hadn’t let a couple of glasses of wine loosen my discretion, but also feeling a little sad that this woman’s potential success was being held back by want of a Sugarbabe style grooming makeover. 

 

 

 

Pretty Woman

Monday night was just such a fabulous date.

Cleo and I stayed at a chic hotel in Kensington;  she had decided that she deserved Daddy’s punishment for a list of misdemeanours that included playing with herself, without Daddy’s explicit permission.

Now, I can be a fair Daddy, but on this occasion I decided to be firm.

Cleo accepted this, with an obvious excitement in her voice and after blindfolding her, I proceeded to tie her over a convenient chair, telling her how cross daddy was that she had behaved like a slut.

I had my little green bag with me, that contains a number of fiendish implements, but on this occasion I decided she needed to feel my hand on her beautiful, round bottom.

Thwack – “Thank you Daddy”, Thwack – “Thank you Daddy” and on it went.

After a few minutes I touched her pussy, she was wet, very wet.

I then applied the amazing wand and she came very hard, her bound body straining against the rope like a tied-up animal.

Spanking repeated, then fingers, again she came, screaming “Oh Daddy”

The intensity was sending me crazy, the red mist descended and I continued alternating punishment with pleasure, I was totally gripped by the scene.

I had to seek relief and moving round the chair , grabbed her hair and forced myself into her mouth, she sucked furiously and within a couple of minutes I was spent, it was overwhelming.

After untying her, I lay her on the bed, held her tightly and eased her back.

“Cleo, it’s me – you back?”

She didn’t reply at first, just looked at me, smiled and nodded.

“I’ve got a treat for you on Saturday, we’re going to a Polo match – can you come?”

“Oh yes, I’d love to – it’ll be like Pretty Woman”

 

 

 

 

 

Monday, Monday

After the exciting news of yesterday, nothing was going to spoil my Monday, most of all as I had a night with Cleo to look forward to.

Unfortunately I hadn’t taken into account our most difficult client, Mr A.

Mr A is a charming gentleman from the north of England. He has an immense property portfolio, in addition to a reasonably successful clothing business that he is in the process of preparing for sale, which is where we come in.

Unfortunately he also has a penchant for erotic dancers and a very jealous wife.

How do I have this fascinating insight, you may ask, well, it’s what learn on one too many late nights out with your client in some of the north west’s “Gentlemens’ clubs” (that’s a polite name for lap dancing btw).

Now, I may be a long term Sugar addict, but lap dancing has never floated my boat.

Sadly it not only floats Mr A’s boat, but seems to put quite a bit of wind in his sails…

So much so, that it seems this rather energetic 70 year old has indulged his passion for 18/19 year old dancers once too often and has been caught out.

It appears that his ever watchful wife found an earring belonging to, I understand her stage name is Chantelle, in the back of his Range Rover…

So at 9.30 this morning my day took a sharp downward turn.

Mr A was on the phone for what seemed ages, trying to sound calm and rational and achieving neither.

Basically he needs to rush along the due diligence on his business sale PDQ, as a divorce may be upcoming and, reading between the lines, he wants to stash the proceeds somewhere safe.

All I could see was a full day of work madness ahead of me and my date with Cleo at 8 looking a bit shaky.

I marshalled all the skills of delegation and analysis that an MBA is supposed to possess and set to work.

It was 7.30 by the time I had a plan in place and summarised it in an email, thinking that I’d better text Cleo to tell her that as I had to get from Holborn to Kensington, it might be a bit tight for 8.

I arrived at our date, a small sushi restaurant, bang on time, fortunately moments before Cleo.

I really was exhausted, but the sight that greeted me elated my spirits immediately.

Cleo was wearing a tight black mini, heels and a fitted cream silk shirt, she looked amazing.

As soon as we kissed, Mr A, the lap dancers, the insane workload and the vengeful wife dropped away and I was back in Sugarland with my gorgeous Cleo.

We sat at the counter, in front of some highly skilled sushi chef, who was brandishing what looked like the sharpest knife in London, when she leant to whisper in my ear,

“Daddy, I’m not wearing any panties, as you instructed, but I think I’ve been a bad girl”

Thank God for my Sugarbabe 🙂

 

 

 

 

When the Sugar Gods are Smiling….

It’s a balmy Sunday here in North Oxford and Mrs LSD has amazingly good news.

Apparently Candida, Cressida or whoever, anyway one of her uni friends, has invited her and our two little ones for a short notice 10 days in Greece next week, obvs they have their own villa…

It’s a few miles from where we are staying in a couple of weeks time – would I mind if she went?

Trying not to appear too enthusiastic, I say “Of course darling, if you’re happy travelling with the children”

It’ll be a trial, she says, but her (childless) sister, Amanda, is going too, so she can help (sort of!).

The Sugar Gods are indeed smiling – 10 days on my own in London.

I spend the rest of the morning gleefully processing this information, wondering how I can make the most of it.

On a trip to the shops I get a chance to check my sugarphone’s email (readers with a good memory will remember it never enters my house).

To my utter amazement I’ve got an email from Aurelie, my last long term SB that went back to France last year, she’s on a French government secondment and is in London next week – could we meet up?

Trying to contain my excitement, I reply. She’s staying in a rather fab 5*in Mayfair (austerity has yet to hit the French civil service), I suggest that we visit our former favourite hangout for cocktails and dinner.

Within a few minutes I get the sort of email that would excite any man with a pulse.

“Yes, cherie, I am so looking forward to seeing you again, I hope it will be just like before”

I have to stop the car and take a few moments to compose myself, before continuing home.

As I turn in to the drive, I spot my sister-in-law’s car.

As I go in through the front door, she’s in front of me, “Oh xxxx, you really are so good to let Debs come to Greece, we’ll have a breeze”

“Really Amanda, it’s no problem, no problem at all”….

 

I love London

OK, I know from feedback I get that this may be controversial, but I have to get it out there.

I Love London.

I’ve been fortunate to live in and visit some of the World’s greatest cities, NYC, Paris, Chicago and Shanghai, but nothing beats London, especially in the summer.

london rooftop

Everyone’s happy, string 3 or more days of sun and heat together and otherwise grumpy Londoners start talking to complete strangers.

I have a team of mainly under 30’s who report to me, so I’m always hearing of the latest cool places, rooftop bars in Shoreditch, street food vans in the Borough, edgy clubs in Bermondsey.

So, weather being good on Mon, Cleo and I will be hitting a rooftop near me to get the evening started.

 

London in the sun

Slow day yesterday, it seems that the last week in July is when London officially goes into holiday mode.

It’s a good 28C and fortunately I’ve only one appointment out of the air conditioned haven that is my office.

Been thinking about Cleo a lot, although we’re not seeing each other until Monday, I’m already beginning to plan our next date, when out of the blue at about 1030, I get a call from her,

“Hi Daddy, what are you doing for lunch?”

I tell her I’ve got a short meeting in Mayfair and am free afters.

“Why don’t we have a picnic in Green Park?”

So, meeting over, I head to Fortnum’s on Piccadilly, Cleo is waiting.

She looks amazing, she is wearing a strappy, loose, red shift dress and sandals that just show the rather tasteful tattoo on the side of her foot.

We make our way through the deli and end up grabbing a bottle of champagne that’s helpfully in the chiller.

Popping our lunch into a tasteful ‘F&M’ basket, we head down Piccadilly to the park.

Lunch is amazing, poached salmon, some salad, champagne. We laugh, we giggle and we swap some ‘worst date you’ve ever had’ stories.

Lying in the sun with Cleo resting her head on my chest, I’m looking up at the blue sky thinking, I’m lucky enough to work in the best city in the world and I have this beautiful Sugarbabe who calls me Daddy.

How fucking lucky am I?

 

It had to Happen – Part 2

In response to a number of requests, I’ve been asked to finish the story of the incident I mentioned in my very first post, which gave me the idea for this blog in the first place…

Being a married Sugardaddy means the Domestic Struggle is always just round the corner.

Dates, overnights and even just a lunch or dinner, all require a degree of planning that the single Sugardaddy doesn’t have to bother with, such is life.

Three years ago, I’d been in the Sugarbowl for a couple of months and was a few weeks in to what turned out to be my first long-term relationship. It was with Aurelie, a 28 year old French student in London studying for her MBA.

Now, my trips to London and overseas are regular, which gave me the opportunity for Sugaring in the first place, my wife had our two young children to look after, so I was rarely having my travel arrangements messed up.

I would arrange to see Aurelie, usually on the night before I went overseas, so all v straightforward.

We had fallen into a comfortable pattern, I’d book us a chic hotel room and being a student (albeit from a wealthy family), I would allow her to charge her afternoon time in the spa to the room, I’d arrive for a cocktail around 7 and we’d be set up for the night, me freshly showered and changed and her buffed up from several hundred pounds worth of waxing, manicures and massages.

I was on the way from my midtown office to a lunchtime meeting in the West End, when my phone rang, it was my wife…

“Darling, think I’m going to come up to London this afternoon to do some shopping, will you be around this evening?”

Suddenly, my mind flashed across an exciting montage of Aurelie lying on our hotel bed, fresh from the spa in just stockings and a bra, waiting for me in the room. Cocktails at my favourite bar, then our expected cosy dinner at Nobu, to being back in the hotel and some intense lovemaking…all cruelly cut short by my darling wife demanding my presence at our flat.

My palms went very sweaty, very quickly at the thought of this planned opportunity for a night of hedonism going so pear-shaped.

“Well, don’t forget I’ve got that dinner tonight with Ed and his investors”

My capacity for short notice fibbing was improving,

“Oh honey, of course, well I don’t want to bother you, you’ve got work, so I’ll get some supper in the flat and see you in the morning”

OK, so this was salvageable. I could spend the night with my incredibly hot French Sugarbabe and roll in back to the flat in the early hours…

Now, being a naturally confident kind of guy, I sometimes have to give myself a reality check. Could I really get away with spending the evening fucking Aurelie and slide into bed later and pretend I’d been at a business dinner?

I thought it was worth a try!

I arrived at our hotel just after 7, Aurelie, as was my usual instruction, was in just her stockings and bra, she just glowed. It was worth the risk just to see that.

We had a fabulous dinner and when we arrived back at the hotel she was perfect. Aurelie had a huge capacity for being spanked, which sometimes left even me exhausted.

Tonight she had decided that she wanted her money’s worth and when we finally collapsed, totally spent, I held her and we both slipped into a deep sleep.

The next thing I remember was waking with that terrible “Oh my God, I’ve forgotten something important” feeling.

For what seemed like minutes I couldn’t remember what it was, then the thunderous reality hit me.

“Fuck, I’m meant to be sleeping with my wife in our flat”

I looked at my watch, 12.30am, ok, taxi would take 20 mins this time of night, time to go.

I smelt of sex, there really is no polite way to put it, so straight into the shower.

I left a note in French for Aurelie, kissed her and shot out of the hotel into a passing cab.

Creeping into the flat, I headed to the kitchen and poured myself a scotch, for a mouthwash, rather than to drink. I undressed and slipped into bed. My wife is usually a heavy sleeper, but she woke.

“Darling, glad you’re back, how was your night?”

“It was heavy, those guys know how to drink”

“You smell of scotch, guess you had a good time”

“Yes honey, it was a laugh”

Barely able to keep my eyes open, I slipped into sleep before I had the chance to even replay the evening’s amazing events in my mind.