4. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Emery

As soon as I'm alone in my bedroom, I pull SugarLife back up on my phone and go straight to the invitations, quickly adding in all the filters I didn't want Oakley to see.

The chick doesn't appear to be judgy, but with her only doing the non-sexual dates, I'm hesitant to let her see me assessing my true options.

When I get to Date Type , I unselect meet-cute , kiss and don't tell , and stay the night , leaving the three other options. While pretending to watch the end of the show with Oakley, I'd had plenty of time to contemplate what each of the options might mean, and this is what I came up with.

Meet-cute: completely platonic.

Kiss and don't tell: kissing only.

Getting handsy: hand jobs.

Just a taste: blow jobs.

A quickie: a fuck and run.

Stay the night: sex and spend the night.

My personal favorite is a quickie, in and out—pun intended. I won't have to spend the night pretending to enjoy having them wrapped around me, possibly asking for a round two or three. Potentially insisting.

Shudder.

I set the location to within fifteen miles and filter it for men only. I scan all the other options, happy with my basic selections, then hit Find Me A Date .

Cringe.

This app is four layers of cheese, and I am borderline lactose intolerant.

A little pink and blue ball rolls over and over as the app does its thing, then I'm presented with over fifty options. I purse my lips and raise my eyebrows. Seriously, so many kinky assholes out there.

I narrow my eyes at the profile picture on the first date request. No way is that dude under forty. I almost scroll straight past him, but then catch sight of the gift boxes.

Four purple boxes.

Four Gs? What the hell is he asking for, because there isn't a lot that I wouldn't do for that kind of money.

I've done plenty for a lot less.

I click on the date and scroll through the information.

An evening out with a special baby girl, dinner and dessert. Back to his place for a little fun. No age play, but yes to a little role-play. I glance at the date type; just a taste.

Pursing my lips again, I honestly contemplate it as an option. Besides not looking forty, the guy's body shot looks pretty good. Like he was an athlete in a previous life and has since relaxed his workout plan.

I notice a little push pin icon at the top right. Clicking on it, I get a pop up, asking me if I want to pin this date for later with a little sentence in italics, stating that the poster won't know I've pinned their date. I tip my head from side to side as I decide and figure that the description didn't give me the ick, so there is no harm in pinning. I can always unpin later.

I continue scrolling and pinning, nothing really grabbing my attention beyond vague interest. I'm about halfway through the list when I see an invitation that has one red box.

Ten thousand dollars.

My stomach quivers, excitement thrumming through my veins. Literally, nothing so far has pushed a boundary for me. I don't think I really have any. They were all stripped away years ago. And now I'm wondering what could possibly be in this invitation that they would need to pay someone five figures to make it happen.

Swallowing, I click. My focus immediately latches on to the date type.

Just a quickie.

Okay, cool. No sleepover. A one and done.

So far, so good.

The next thing I check out is the profile. There are several pictures, and when I scroll through, I'm confused at first. Four pictures of different shirtless, headless torsos. I can see a nipple piercing on one, two have tattoos that run across their pecs and ribs, and the fourth is clean skinned.

All of them are ripped.

Twenty-four abs in total, paired with that V disappearing into low-hanging pants.

And the forearm porn is amazing.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I back out of the images and go check the username for insights.

Brat4Us

It takes me a moment, but the connection between the name and the images finally clicks into place. My eyebrows zoom up into my hair so fast that I feel the wrinkling of my skin.

Four daddies.

Well, I guess that explains why the date is 10K.

Holy fuck.

Questions launch themselves through my mind.

How would that even work?

Would it be one after the other? Like a train?

Or would they all use me at the same time?

Would I get to pick which holes they used? Because I'm not the biggest fan of anal, but with that much dick in the room, surely they would expect it?

I take a deep breath. The only way to find out is to keep reading. The rest of their profile is pretty blank, so I click back to the invitation for the description.

Four daddies want to pleasure a special baby girl. One night only. Play time only. No age play required, but role-play is a must. Real life age is just a number; if you have the soul of a baby girl, please contact us. And if you have a bit of a brat inside of you, even better. Your interests do not need to align perfectly with ours. We have not listed everything.

We want to spoil our girl.

If this sounds like the perfect evening, be a good girl and hit the Pick Me, Daddy button. Your daddies can't wait to play with their new toy.

Activities we are interested in: Hand jobs, fingering, oral (him), oral (her), anal (her), MF, MFM, role-play, vaginal penetration, double-vaginal penetration, triple penetration, stretching, fisting, sex toys, voyeurism, exhibitionism, light bondage, dom-sub, edging, and spanking.

My pulse flutters.

Be a good girl.

I reread the words, more than I probably should, but with every pass, the itchy feeling under my skin gets more persistent.

I know I've already checked most of the sex activities boxes, but there are a few on that list I haven't. Group sex being one of those.

More than a few, actually.

Double-vaginal penetration?

Stretching?

Fisting?

Not to mention, every single one after that?

And anal is on there.

My chest is tight. For ten thousand dollars, could I actually let someone do those things to me? And not just some one. Four someones. It would only be for a few hours. All of the times I've had to help Tray out of a bind, when he's gotten in too deep, were over in a few thrusts. Very few have lasted more than ten or so minutes.

But Tray was there. In another room, sure, because the guys obviously didn't want him watching us. But I'd known that, if I needed to tap out, he would put a stop to it. Or at least, I'd always assumed so. I'd never needed it. I lay there, and they did their thing. Yeah, a few times it had been uncomfortable and kind of gross, but it was for Tray. He would do the same for me.

But I don't have him now.

And that list . . .

Would they want to do everything on the list for this particular date, or is that like a copy and paste or some shit? Or a long-ass checklist, where they just selected whatever looked good when they were posting their invitation? I bite the side of my thumb as I mull over my options.

And, really, there are only two.

Message or move on.

I mean, yeah, I could pin it, but that option isn't vibing right inside of me. It's either message or move on.

But ten thousand dollars.

That would set me up for the entire year. And if I ever chose to take on a few non-sex dates or got a part-time job, then I could put a chunk of the money toward my student loans.

I look down at my cut off shorts, which are literally that—a pair of thrift store jeans that I had cut into shorts. Maybe I could actually go to a department store and buy some new clothes, rather than relying on thrift shops.

I can't even remember the last time I owned something that wasn't a hand-me-down.

It's like I'm playing a weird game of "what would you do for ten thousand dollars?"

Would I let four old guys fuck me while I acted like a brat the entire time?

It's just sex.

I've been paid for it, in a roundabout way, in the past.

For food.

A place to sleep.

Tray.

How is this any different? I'll be using the money to keep me fed and clothed. Yeah, it's with more guys than I'm used to, but it's still just sex.

I hover my thumb over the Pick Me, Daddy button.

It's just sex.

One night and I'm set for the rest of the year.

I press the button and go back to scrolling through the options, none of which interest me right now. My heart jerks around in my chest as I swipe past dozens of invitations.

It's just sex.

I don't get a response from them before I fall asleep.