The value of a Sugar Baby

This is a really perceptive piece

Tales of a Sugar Daddy

As far as a lot of people are concerned, SB’s and SD’s both, the value in the Sugar Baby is sex, and the value of the Sugar Baby is whatever she’ll give it up for.

After that, it’s a matter of budget and availability. I read a lot of SB blogs and so many of them are high-lighted with “I scored a $1,500 pair of shoes,” or “I only had to blow him for this.”

And if that’s what you’re looking for, you can find it at a price that fits your budget, if you’re patient. You can have it until one or both of you are tired of it, and then most likely, a little older and a little wiser, you can find it again.

But are we cheating ourselves? Let’s look beyond the whole idea of May-December romance and look at the barter system inherent in the SD/SB…

View original post 362 more words

New Year, New Sugarbabe

So, at last, return to work and, thankfully, a return to London.

New Years was spent with Mrs LSD and the two little ones in a friend’s chalet in Verbier and with the skiing holiday over, I could relax at the thought of hunting for a new Sugarbabe, oh and going back to work, I mean let’s get our priorities right….

Unlike my colleagues in the States, we seem to have meekly accepted a 2 week shutdown over the Holidays, which usually leaves me feeling borderline suicidal by Jan 5th, or whenever the first Mon after New Year falls.

I had about 5 or 6 emails to follow up from before Christmas, well, I say 5 or 6, it was originally 30, but by the time I’d applied my in-built Sugardaddy spam filter and weeded out the a) Escorts, b) Slightly psychotic and c) Sadly desperate, I was left with these.

Some sounded promising, so I fired off my normal first email, something along the lines of “What are you looking for in an Arrangement, where are you based and when can you meet?”

I’m only ever really looking for London based SBs, no point having one who has to commute long distance, hopeless for a short notice afternoon of fun 😉

One of the replies caught my eye, she said how important is was to her to be thought a ‘Good Girl’

Now, one thing I never mention on my profile is my little kink, so it immediately catches my interest if I read a ‘tell’ like that.

Several emails exchanged and we agreed to meet for coffee at a place in the City on Monday.

Typing this on a howling, wet Thursday evening in London, it’s brought a feeling of happy anticipation in an otherwise glum January.

 

 

The Office Party

As mentioned before, the Christmas diary has begun closing in and my opportunities for fun before my family incarceration were disappearing fast.

So, the chance of a night out with May was a genuine bolt of good fortune, given that I’m between SBs.

Loyal readers may recall that May, a regular SB from times past, was now based in the North, but that we had a fabulous evening the last time she was in London.

So, Thursday was looming, I’d told May I was free, but then realised that, er, I wasn’t, well, totally.

Thursday was the one night of the year I dread the most, the office party.

As a partner, there was no way I could not go, the senior partner gives a speech, telling us what a good/bad/spectacular (delete as appropriate) year we’ve had etc, etc.

I then have to watch the various younger members of staff get truly shitfaced, some disappear off to the loos to fuck, some to get some charlie in, then they head off, like a herd, to some fucking awful club.

So, if I was to get quality time with May, some tactical fibbing would be needed.

I had arranged to meet her at 9pm, we were going to have a fishy supper at my favourite Mayfair restaurant (well, it is Christmas 😉 ), I planned for us to then head straight for a room I’d booked at a place on Park Lane. I was determined that if this was my last adventure before Christmas, it was going to be memorable.

The party was being held at one of those ‘venues’ in the West End, as always the senior partner’s PA books it and she’s a young woman of very little sophistication.

There were over 100 of us crammed into a function room, the champagne was being effortlessly dispensed and the atmosphere was pretty relaxed, it seemed that most of London was having an office party judging by the streets full of people heading out from work.

After an hour or so, the senior partner did his 5 min oration, telling us how well we’d done and how well 2015 was shaping up. I then took my chance, I got his ear with a story about how one of my little angels was poorly and Mrs LSD was at her wit’s end, would he mind if I headed home? ‘Of course not, do give X my love’.

With that I was flying out the door and in a cab within moments, heading to dinner.

I arrived in the nick of time, a couple of minutes before May.

We had a truly amazing evening, oysters, the most amazing fish and nothing but champagne. Since the summer she’s been promoted and has started seeing someone, but he’s not interested in fulfilling her kink, so, hey, could I?

The dinner flew by and before too long we were in a gorgeous room overlooking Park Lane

I enjoyed delivering her a very sore arse and darling May was in heaven, as was I, remembering what a sublime blowjob giver she is.

A memorable night.

Happy Christmas one and all…

 

 

All I Want for Christmas…

After a good few days deliberating over the Welsh virgin spanking fan, my sugar life was overtaken by a major new project at work that saw me in various European hotels, living out of a suitcase for most of November.

OK, they were all 5*, but living off a hotel diet is not good for either the figure (despite my daily 6am runs), or the sanity.

I exchanged a couple of more emails with Leanne, but I realised that taking it any further wasn’t exciting me, so let it go before I got in deeper.

So, been back for a week now and my thoughts are drifting back to finding a new Sugarbabe.

It’s got to be sorted soon, in another week it’s the usual round of end of term Christmas events at my childrens’ school and the interminable drinks parties that are the North Oxford social scene, leaving little time for overnights in London.

I’ve got quite a backlog of unanswered emails from prospective Sugarbabes clogging up my inbox and started to get in touch with a couple that sounded promising.

Just as I was writing a reply to one, I got a mail from May, a former SB I’ve written about before. She was planning to do some Christmas shopping in London on Thursday and did I fancy meeting for a drink?

The thought of cocktails and maybe more, with the gorgeous, redheaded siren suddenly brought a smile to my face as I remembered our last meeting a few months back.

Without sounding too bloody enthusiastic and slightly desperate, I coolly answered that it would be great to see her.

I may not find my SB for Christmas, but a night out with May would be the next best thing.

Searching Again

The end of the relationship with Cleo coincided with an exceptionally busy time at work, one of our partners has had an unfortunate cancer diagnosis and your blogger has had to cover his work.

He’s a lovely guy, late fifties, been married to a long suffering wife for 30 years that he met at Cambridge and his hobby is fucking black women.

Yes, whilst many management consultants are happy to sate themselves with golf, or watching rugby, my dear colleague has a penchant for ebony ladies, usually under the age of 25.

Like me, you may feel that knowing a secret like this on a work colleague is a tremendous burden, however, since I chanced upon it after a late night whisky session during a week in Tallinn a year ago, he’s actually gone up in my estimation and it will go with me to the grave.

So, dear Patrick’s, thankfully treatable, cancer shock, has prevented me from dipping into the sugar bowl for a couple of weeks.

Thursday saw my first post-Cleo date.

I had exchanged a few mails with a lady called Leanne, who’s been in London a few months after moving here from N Wales. She’s a trainee accountant with one of the big boys, straight after 3 years in a middle rank uni, which no doubt had some kind of positive discrimination programme going in favour of Welsh comprehensives with names that no Englishman can pronounce.

She caught my eye a few months ago as she advertised that she was looking for an older guy who enjoyed spanking.

My attention was captivated and we arranged to have a drink in the City.

I arrived around 7, and waited.

She arrived a few minutes later, not the thinnest woman, but witty and funny with a lovely deep Welsh accent.

Although we had only planned on a quick drink, we decided to have dinner and all seemed good. She went on at length at how she loved being tied up and had several relationships with both older men and women.

Then came the bombshell…

“I’m a virgin”

“Excuse me?”

She repeated it, she was a virgin.

“Hang on, you’ve just described all sorts of sexual adventures that are relatively advanced for a 23 year old and you’re a virgin?

The answer was again affirmative.

“Does it put you off?”

I couldn’t have been more shocked than if the attractive lady opposite me had confessed to gender re-assignment (she’d have still held my interest!)

Leanne went on to explain that her first few years sexual activity had been only with women and she’d only found herself attracted to guys in the last year or so. She’s been a bit apprehensive about letting them fuck her and always contrived to blow them.

My immediate answer was no, of course not.

We left the sushi place and I put her in a taxi home and paid the driver.

I walked along the Embankment to the tube, thinking that I’d heard it all.

 

 

 

Decision, Indecision

After last week’s news, I’ve not had the time to think about how to play things with Cleo, work’s just been too busy.

I’ve had three days in Europe; Prague and Budapest this time and have generally been feeling a little listless about what to do going forward.

Cleo is off to the north on Wednesday this coming week, I really can’t see how we could keep an arrangement going with her 200 miles away.

So, to add to my slightly downbeat mood, Mrs LSD breezily announced that my sister was going to visit this weekend. She and I get on well, though I think her husband, Ben, is a total arse.

Ben is one of those complete dreamers who’s always months away from his latest project making a mint, sadly, he’s been through about 6 since he married my sister only five years ago and we’re all still waiting. He was really not the company I wanted when my mind was continually drifting back to Cleo.

Sunday dragged past, whilst I had to entertain Ben’s latest crackpot wheeze, something involving classic cars. He even had the neck to ask me if I fancied investing…I politely declined.

I managed to have a good catch-up with sis, so the day wasn’t a complete write-off.

Eventually they headed off and after putting the children to bed, I collapsed on the sofa.

Finally my mind engaged into meaningful thought and I came to the sad conclusion, I had to let Cleo go.

 

Cleo gets the Call

I’m writing this on a Friday afternoon, I’m at 35,000 ft on a squeakily efficient Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt back to Heathrow, it’s been a busy morning of meetings, made slightly more wearing as I was up fucking Cleo to 2am this morning….

This flight’s busy, fortunately I’m sitting in Business and I’m making the most of a large gin & tonic as I tap out this account of last night.

Cleo and I arranged to meet at her favourite restaurant, Roka in Charlotte Street. I was positively looking forward to seeing her, the last few days had been a bit difficult and I found myself daydreaming about my Sugarbabe more often than usual.

We arrived virtually at the same moment, she was stunning in a short tight green dress and a gorgeous pair of beige Kurt Geiger heels, I had a positive thrill as I followed her past a table of pissed-up guys, who clocked her immediately.

Seated in a quiet corner, I ordered champagne and we immediately connected, just as we always do.

Then came the news, she’d got the part she’d been auditioning for and would be based in the North for a 12 week stint, performing in her first proper role. I was delighted for her.

We were having one of those serious conversations where the overly-attentive waiting staff just become simply irritating.

She wanted to continue to see me, but could I also come and visit her, though she understood if that wasn’t possible. She then told me that it was understandable if I wanted to end our arrangement.

I thought about this and told her that I would try to make it work, but that it might be tricky.

I really was pleased for her, but knew that this was going to be difficult. So, what to do?

I decided the best play was to enjoy the moment, so I made sure we did.

After a dinner that was charged with a certain amount of foreboding, I decided that the best way to deal with this was to give Cleo something to remember us by.

We were staying nearby at the recently refurbished Berners Street Hotel, a recent addition to London’s booming catalogue of chic locations.

After a cocktail in the fabulous bar, we headed for bed.

I had decided that Cleo needed something a bit edgy that night and after telling her to strip, I commenced to tie her up into a wonderfully complex arrangement of rather tidy ropework.

There then followed 2 hours of the horniest fucking in my life. I alternated candle and ice play on her that had her coming so loudly I had no option but to gag her 😉

By the end I was feeling completely drained and it was a relief, in all senses, to fuck her mouth as she lay bound to the bed.

As I untied her and we arranged ourselves in each other’s arms, I had this feeling that this was the last date I’d have with Cleo.