Ciara

 

Whore. Hooker. Ho. Tramp.

Morning light is burnishing my bedroom ceiling and I lay on my back and watch it brighten from peach to golden. Nothing could have prepared me for how it felt to be in Misha’s arms last night. My hands all over his body. His all over mine. That carnal yet tender expression in his eyes that seemed to say, We’re made for each other. The moments we were able to be real with each other were perfection.

So I have to keep reminding myself what I am. A sex worker. This is purely a fantasy, and it’s his, not mine. I can’t afford to get caught up in it. I have my own life to lead, because in his I’m just a prop. I press my fingers to my lips, feeling their tenderness. I’m tender at my core, as well. Misha is big all over and he was ferocious as we had sex. I wanted him to be ferocious. I needed him to obliterate everything but him, and for a little while he did. I felt safe. Cared for. Protected. Adored. I got lost in the fantasy, and then…

“I’m going to double your allowance.”

I came back down to earth with a sickening thud. He’s not my lover, he’s my sugar daddy, and if he knew even a tiny part of the reason I need him then he’d dump me so fast my head would spin. If I keep crying all over him and being a downer he will dump me. I’ve got to stop being so weak.

My allowance came through about thirty minutes after I got home last night and I sat at my laptop and stared at the numbers in my bank account. Thirty thousand pounds. I know I did a very stupid sugar baby thing by sleeping with him before I got my allowance, but thankfully it turned out all right. Misha is the real deal.

One strange thing, though. The money came through from five different bank accounts, with no single transaction higher than eight thousand pounds. I presume that’s to get around our banks automatically flagging the transactions for investigation. I read about that on sugar baby blogs: big transactions can look like money laundering, and I’m pretty sure it’s tax evasion. My conscience twinges at that. I should by rights be paying tax on the money he’s giving me, but this is where things get messy, legally speaking. I don’t like it, but at the moment, what do I dislike more: possible tax evasion, or feeling the cold sting of Mr. Ravnikar’s blade at my throat?

No contest.

I go downstairs and make some toast and a cup of tea, and then I come back up and search for the address of the building that Misha and I had dinner in last night. I try searching the address plus “Misha” and “Misha Smith”, though I know that’s probably not his real last name. I try “John Smith” as well, but that unsurprisingly turns up nothing. I search everywhere for the name of the company that did the property development but don’t find it. I suppose he showed me that building and not any of his others because he knew his name wasn’t attached to it. Or maybe he was lying about having had anything to do with it. It doesn’t really matter. His thirty thousand pounds are real enough.

I sensibly write down all my expenses for the next three months and add on a little extra for my sugar baby budget, because I can’t keep borrowing clothes from Sloane. There’s a lot of money left and it’s tempting to withdraw it all and take it round to Mr. Ravnikar now. But that would be stupid. He might become suspicious about where I got this sort of money or demand that I deliver such a sum every few days.

No, it’s smarter if I drop around a few thousand pounds to him once or twice a week and pretend it’s all I have. That way my bank will be less likely to be suspicious about the transactions and Mr. Ravnikar will presume I’m working as a stripper or shoplifting or something.

One thing’s for certain: I’m not getting in another elevator at Ravnikar Enterprises. Even if he calls me up to the fiftieth floor, I’m taking the stairs.

When I’ve finished my breakfast I reach for my phone and think for a moment. I’m onto a good thing with Misha and all the crying and emotion I showed last night was probably off-putting for him, despite the sex that came after. I should try and clear the air between us.

I text him, Thank you for last night, and my allowance. Sorry that I got emotional a few times. I shouldn’t have put that on you.

His reply comes through a moment later. Don’t be sorry. You were beautiful. Go and buy yourself something nice and enjoy your day.

I remember how he ripped my G-string apart in his haste to get it off me and I draft a few flirty responses in my head, finally settling on, I guess I should buy myself some new underwear ;)

I should be sorry about that. I’m not.

I laugh to myself. I want to ask him when I’ll see him again but it’s ridiculous for me to be the needy one. I put my phone down firmly and congratulate myself on my sensible decisions this morning.

Ciara the sensible sugar baby. That’s me.

I shower and dress, take the Tube to Oxford Street and wander in and out of the stores. I haven’t been shopping in ages and I get so bewildered by all the choice that I end up buying nothing except a matte pink lipstick and a takeaway coffee. I’m about to get back on the Tube when I remember the underwear I didn’t buy and head back to the nearest department store. I make a bee-line for the basics, but then the high-end items catch my eye.

I’ve got some cash and someone in my life who would probably appreciate expensive French lace. Why the hell not? Thirty minutes later I’m the proud owner of two new bra and underwear sets, one in black lace and one in cream. I get both the briefs and the G-strings that go with them.

When I get home I notice I have a text from Misha. Lunch tomorrow?

Damn, I wish I’d known about this earlier when I was on Oxford Street. My ripped jeans and faded t-shirts won’t cut it at any restaurant he’ll choose. Sounds lovely, I reply, gnawing on my lip.

He sends me a pin drop and a code to use in my taxi app so the charges go to his account. This man thinks of everything. As I sort through my wardrobe I anticipate his lips against my cheek and his large, warm hands as he—

Stop it. Keep this professional.

I anticipate his large, warm hands as he pays with his credit card for our lunch. Better.

I consider texting Sloane but as lovely and helpful as she’s been I can also feel that she’s about to boil over with questions I can’t answer. I also don’t want to go out again. There are websites that do same-day online delivery so I go to my laptop.

Two hours later there’s a knock at the front door and I accept a large black box and take it up to my room. Even the packaging is luxurious and I sort through black ribbon and layers of white tissue paper to get to my purchases: two silk blouses, a pair of cropped trousers, a pair of artfully faded but smart skinny jeans, and some wedge espadrilles. Everything fits and looks neat and attractive. Problem solved. I’d forgotten how easy things are when you have money.

I spend the evening reading the biography of a human rights lawyer and eat a carton of supermarket soup, and then get into bed. I’ve kept intimate thoughts of Misha at bay all day, but as I close my eyes I remember the feel of his strong chest beneath my hands, his bold kisses, the firm thrusts of his cock. I’ve never felt so swept up by a man and the things he does, and I certainly wasn’t expecting that from Misha.

I moan softly into my pillow at the memory and heat ripples up my body. This is bad. Sleeping with Misha is just work, it’s not real, and I shouldn’t let him occupy my thoughts or indulge in fantasies about him. I have to keep a clear head while I’m around him and that means not becoming muddled by feelings or lust. I won’t touch myself while thinking about him. I won’t.

It takes hours, but exhaustion finally wins out and I fall asleep.

At midday the next day I arrive at the bistro in Mayfair, telling myself that I look calm and professional and I’m going to be calm and professional. No tears today. I took pains over my appearance, choosing the cropped trousers and the black silk blouse and putting my hair up into a sleek ponytail.

Misha is already at the table and he gets up to meet me, kissing my cheek. He’s frowning deeply but I’m learning that Misha’s default setting is serious and I can feel from the way he holds my waist that he’s pleased to see me. I feel my heart turn over, because I’m happy about this. Professionally happy.

While we eat we chat about current events and I tell him about the human rights biography I’m reading. To my surprise, he’s read it too.

“I read in bed at night. I can’t sleep otherwise,” he explains to his steak tartare. I cover a smile with my napkin. He seems so shy today, catching my eye briefly only to look away again. It’s rather endearing, seeing such a hard, powerful man made bashful by a broke twenty-two-year-old who usually lazes about in frayed jeans.

When we finish our meals I edge my hand forward and stroke my finger over his knuckles. It seems to be the lifeline he’s been waiting for as he takes my hand and holds on tightly.

“I’m sorry that it was in the car,” he says quietly, frowning at our linked hands. His thumb massages my palm and it makes my heart pound hard, as if he was touching more intimate places.

His eyes dart up to mine. “It wasn’t a statement on how much I value you. I got carried away.”

I thought I’d feel embarrassed, talking about sex in public, especially with a client, but I whisper, “We both got carried away, but I don’t regret it. Oh, except that I’m sorry for your driver.”

Misha’s mouth quirks on one side. “I apologized and gave the man a bonus. He told me he didn’t see or hear a thing because he got out to smoke a cigarette. Lots of cigarettes.”

I get the giggles, picturing the poor man standing on the quiet London street for forty-five minutes while Misha and I carry on like a couple of horny teenagers.

Misha smiles broadly, watching me laugh. Then he grows serious again. “Next time I would like it to be someplace better, where we can take our time.”

“I’d like that too,” I say, threading my fingers more tightly through his. I don’t even have to think about it before I do it. I hope this means my sugar baby instincts are excellent.

“There’s a Chanel store near here. I want to take you there.”

“Oh?” He doesn’t need to buy me anything else. He’s already been ridiculously generous.

He doesn’t meet my gaze as he says, “I would like to buy you something, in return for a favor.”

My body tenses. So, we’re coming to it at last, what all Misha’s money and thoughtfulness have been buttering me up for. He must want something totally bizarre or demanding if he’s willing to pay me thirty grand a month. What could it be? I’m not into it, but I could pee on him if he wanted that. I would happily go to town on him with a riding crop as long as he didn’t expect to do the same to me. In fact, I could probably consent to doing most kinky things to him, and doing them without laughing, but I draw the line at letting him do the same back to me. I’m not letting a man flog me for money.

How do I say no, though, when I’ve already taken his money? Shit. I’m not as clever as I thought I was.

I try and keep my voice steady and smile. “But you’re already supporting me generously. There’s no need for you to give me anything else. Unless what you’re asking for is particularly…unusual?”

What if it has something to do with those alien dildos that deposit eggs inside of you? I don’t think I could wield one with a straight face.

“I would like you to go to class tomorrow,” he says. “And the next day. And the day after that. Complete the semester. Complete the degree. Will you do that for me?”

I stare at Misha. I thought he would ask for something for himself. Is this because of our conversation last night, when we talked about the things we do and why we enjoy them? I’m touched that he realized how important it is to me to do well professionally.

The waiter appears with the bill and I reluctantly let go of Misha’s hand so he can pay. I remember reading social media posts about how sugar daddies like to feel as if they’re mentoring you as well as enjoying your company, but I thought that would come way down on their list of priorities.

When we’re alone again, I say, “Yes, I can do that. Thank you, Misha, for caring about my education.” I don’t have to make myself look or sound grateful, either, because I mean what I’m saying. With all my heart.

He tucks his wallet back into his jacket pocket. “It’s what you wanted before your life got too hectic for study, I assume. Now that your life is perhaps settling down a little it seems like a good time for you to go back.”

It does actually, and I did think last night after a day spent doing not much other than shopping that I was starting to feel unchallenged. “But how do you know I haven’t been going to classes?”

He gives me a faint smile. “I guessed. Am I right?”

“Yes. I went on the first day of class last week but then…life kind of took over.”

“That is understandable. But you should make time now. I would like to know my girl is getting her education.”

His girl. A warm feeling fizzes through me. I probably shouldn’t enjoy him saying that, but I do. I really enjoy it. “All right, Misha.”

He fixes me with stern eyes. “If I ask to see you and you have class or you need to study, I want you to tell me no, all right?”

I melt a little bit more under his fierce gaze. “Yes. All right.”

I see another hint of a smile as stands up and straightens his suit jacket. “Good girl. Now, Chanel.”

We walk through Berkeley Square together, lined with white Georgian townhouses, the garden in the middle of the square drenched in sunshine. I watch couples holding hands or sitting on the grass eating lunch, and they seem so carefree. Somehow I can’t picture Misha sitting on the ground. He could take my hand. But he doesn’t.

The store is on New Bond Street, large and triple-fronted, with sleek salespeople and an aggressively fashionable atmosphere.

“Please help the young lady to whatever she wants,” Misha says to the first person who greets us. Then he goes and sits on a sofa and takes out his phone, waving away offers of champagne and sparkling water.

When I’m offered champagne, I say yes. I may as well enjoy myself. I intend to choose a few heavily branded items that I can sell later, but then I see a pair of patent and suede leather high heels and I’m easily persuaded to try them on. The salesperson passes me the matching handbag, and then she’s helping me into a short boucle jacket that looks lovely with the black blouse I’m wearing. Everything looks lovely, actually.

I glance over to where Misha is reading emails on his phone. Should I ask his permission before saying yes to any of this? As I watch he takes a call, gazing out the window as he talks, his mind clearly on other things. I turn back to the mirror. I’d look ridiculous showing up to university like this but I do need things I can wear around Misha. If he’s going to go about in tailored suits then I have to look smart, too.

They’re not part of my life, they’re part of his. I’m going home to a box-room with faded wallpaper.

I turn to the salesperson. “All of them, please.”

She collects my chosen items and I realize I’m not needed anymore, so I go back to Misha and sit down on the sofa next to him.

“What did you get?” he murmurs, slipping an arm around my waist and hooking me against him. His proximity sends golden stars shooting through my body.

I nestle against his side and place a hand on his chest, feeling the strong thump of his heart beneath my fingers. He’s like a designer handbag, luxurious and unattainable for someone like me in ordinary circumstances.

“Oh, everything,” I say airily.

“Good girl.” Before he gets up to pay he kisses me behind the ear and I smile at him. But it’s not because of the presents he’s buying me.

Outside, Misha gets a car for me and helps me put my purchases in the trunk. Then I turned to him, uncertain, wondering what the etiquette is here. I don’t know how he feels about public displays of affection, or how much gratitude I should show. Is it cheap to say something flirty now, or would he expect that? In the end I can’t think of anything cute to say, so I just express my gratitude with a smile.

“Thank you for lunch and the shopping.”

“Of course, ljubica.”

Ljubica. That’s what he called me while we were having sex, and again when I was crying. It sounds Eastern European or Russian, and I guess that Misha must have been born elsewhere because every so often I hear something foreign in his accent. “What does that mean, “lyoo-bit-za”?”

He frowns and looks away. “Nothing. Just a Slovenian pet name. It’s not important.”

“Please tell me.”

He clears his throat. “It means ‘sweetheart.’”

I put my hand on his chest, stroking the silk of his tie, not sure what to say but wanting to show him that I like it, that I hope he will still call me by that endearment. It’s so pretty, ljubica, and it seems to come easily to his lips. “That’s lovely,” I whisper.

Misha slides his hands around my waist and pulls me against him. I love how possessive his hands feel, here in the street and in Chanel. I tilt my face up to his, waiting to see what he’ll do next. I like it when he takes charge.

His eyes flick to my lips and he kisses me, firm and demanding. The kiss brings a rush of heat to my face and my lips part in surprise and desire. I can feel every spot where my body is touching his. Misha kisses like he means it.

His tongue caresses mine briefly, a promise of more later, when we have more time. When we’re alone and have a bed and hours before us to explore each other thoroughly.

He breaks the kiss and his face is close to mine. “I have to go to Croatia for business this Thursday, to check progress on a development. I’ll be away for a few days.”

I feel a flash of disappointment. I suppose he’s telling me so I know he won’t be asking to see me.

“I would like you to come with me. That is, if you don’t have class or too much study to catch up on.”

I immediately brighten. Croatia. Thursday. Amid the surprise of his question and the distraction of his arms around me, I try to remember when my classes are.

“That works with my schedule. I have class until midday and Friday off.” I actually have class until eleven but getting ready to meet up with Misha takes a stupid amount of time and I need a buffer. “If I can bring some reading with me and study during the day when you have meetings…?”

Misha nods. “A very good idea. I’ll have my PA contact you with the arrangements.”

I haven’t had a holiday in two years and Croatia at this time of year will be beautiful. Sunshine. Azure sea. Wherever Misha will be staying is sure to be gorgeous. When I was researching being a sugar baby, going on business trips with your daddy seemed to be part of the deal. I find I quite like the idea, too.

His arms around me tighten and he closes his eyes briefly, his face very near mine. I look at the strong line of his nose, his furrowed brow, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

Maybe he’s not thinking at all. Maybe he’s just feeling, and showing me that he’s grateful that I’m coming with him. Maybe this is the only way he knows how, by holding me or giving me money.

He takes one breath, two, and then he releases me. He keeps one hand on my lower back as he helps me into the car, and as the car pulls away I wave out the window at my sugar daddy, and there’s a smile on his face. I think his difficulty on our first date was probably more than just being a sugar-beginner. He might not have been close to a woman in some time. Or maybe he’s just never been close to one.

He’s trying, though. And the fact that he’s trying, for me, makes my heart ache sweetly.