Finer Things Ch. 01

Welcome, lovelies! I'm planning for this to be a short series since I have a lot on my plate, and I want it to be more of a feel-good piece. Please leave any feedback/comments you think of! I hope you enjoy this story!

-Lamb

Chapter 1

Multiple glasses of wine have brought me to this point. The black and gold icon finally pops up on the screen of my phone, and I quickly press it. A cute welcome screen introduces the site, promising "ultimate satisfaction" and flashing a few photos of whatever models they paid to help promote their service. I'm prompted to create an account so I do, using a secondary email that tends to be inundated with promotions and other junk. Once it's verified, I'm allowed to the proceed to the next step. Profile creation.

Name: Myra Adler

Age: 34

Status: Divorced

Income: $700k+

Looking for:

My finger hovers over the keyboard. With another gulp of wine, I type "women" and scroll to the next section. Pictures. Not wanting to take a drunken selfie, I click over to my photo app, grimacing when I realize most of the pictures on my phone also feature my ex-husband. I pick a handful and carefully crop the bastard out of the ones he appears in.

From those, I choose the three that best show off my green eyes and fit body--my favorite features. The first is of me in a navy blue evening dress, my auburn hair cascading down my back in waves. Next up is a picture my best friend took of me at a café. I'm wearing my typical business attire and sitting in front of an untouched cup of coffee with a half-smile on my face.

The last is a bikini photo, of course. It was taken on the yacht. My yacht. I hadn't wanted it originally, but George convinced me that we needed a boat. I compromised by buying a small but nice one. And I got to keep it when he decided he liked his assistant more than me.

Tired of looking at myself, I finalize my profile, and I'm allowed to begin browsing sugar babies. I almost forget that I marked women as my preference until a photo of a blonde college girl appears on my screen. It's new to me. I'd never been with another woman. I've had a handful of boyfriends over the years and got married right after college, but obviously those relationships didn't work out. But it's not like this is a typical relationship. My buzz convinces me that the change of pace would be good for me. Try something new. Explore myself, or something like that.

I tap on the blonde and her photo flips, revealing her information. Heather, a 23-year-old senior in college studying computer engineering. George was a computer engineer. I quickly swipe away. I scroll through a handful of girls, but none of them catch my eye. Until Gracie.

In her main picture, she's smiling behind a bouquet of lavender, her brown eyes sparkling in the sunlight. Dark curls blow into her face. Her profile says she's a 22-year-old art student. One of her photos is of her at a pottery wheel, hands and apron covered in wet clay. In another photo she's wearing yellow pajamas and snuggling a white Scottish Fold. Her short bio identifies him as Mashed Potato. Tato for short. She's honest in her bio, detailing her fondness for expensive gifts and fancy dinners. But she's also eager to be a companion for someone like... well, me.

I take a breath--hold it--and tap the heart in the top right corner. Request sent. I set my phone on the coffee table. I'm not entirely sure of this process. I assume I wait until she either rejects me or accepts my request so we can start a conversation, but I don't feel like searching for someone else in the meantime. Truthfully, I'm nervous. I don't know if I could handle too much rejection right now. I should take my time. I shouldn't even be on this site. I should--

The screen lights up with a notification. Request accepted. I pick up my phone so fast I almost drop it. My first message is a simple hello with a considerate "how are you" tacked on. I can't seem too desperate. That's weird. And I don't risk a cheesy line. Slow and steady wins the race. She responds immediately, sparing my heart the ache of waiting.

We go back and forth for an hour. She asks me questions about my day, my job, my life--and I can't stop myself from telling her everything she wants to know. The attention is thrilling. In return, she tells me a bit about herself. But it's all a warm-up to the main question. What we're really here for.

Eventually, I muster up enough courage to ask her to dinner for a proper introduction, and she says yes. If I don't dive in now, I'm afraid that I'll chicken out, and I can imagine she's eager to be compensated for her time. So we agree to meet on Saturday night. My hands are shaking by the time I set down my phone. My heart pounds in my chest. What will people say? Do I care what they say? I've never been the type to care, but this isn't typical for me. They can call me bossy or bitchy, but how will this play out? Will Gracie like me?

Yet, despite my nerves, I smile.

The dim lighting of the hotel restaurant is soothing. Soft music comes over the speakers and fills the space with a calm energy. Most of the diners are couples, though there are a few business men in small groups and pairs. The little turquoise bag in my hand feels heavy, but it weighs no more than a small rock. If I'm going to do this sugar mom thing, I might as well lean into it. The hostess leads me to a table against the window. The restaurant--one of three in the hotel--is on the fourth floor and offers a beautiful view of the river. It glitters, reflecting the light of the lanterns strung over it.

I sit, placing the bag on the table in front of me, and gaze out the window. It's not completely dark out yet. A faint glow brushes over the lively city. My mind begins to wander, and I wonder if the restaurant will be easy for Gracie to find.

"Myra?" A soft voice brings me out of my thoughts. It's accompanied by an even softer hand setting itself on my shoulder.

I turn, and she's standing right in front of me. She looks even prettier than her pictures. Her hair is longer than I thought, falling to her waist in fluffy curls.

"Gracie," she introduces herself with a smile.

"Yes, of course. Please, sit." I stand and gesture to the seat across from me.

I watch as she gracefully steps over to the chair. Her baby pink cowl dress barely reaches halfway down her thighs. The velvet drapes over her form, showing off the curves beneath. When she bends to sit, her breasts push forward, threatening to slip out. Some men send glances over their shoulders at her, and I glare at them. She wears two gold bangles on each wrist. They clink against each other gently. I breathe an inward sigh of relief that the gift I brought her will match.

As soon as we're both settled in our chairs, the ever-ready waiter swoops in with the drinks list. I order their most expensive bottle of white wine just to make him go away faster. Finally, we're alone. Or as alone we can be in a room full of people.

"It's nice to finally meet you," I say.

She smiles and my stomach leaps, a sensation I haven't felt in years. She says, "It's nice to meet you too. This place is lovely."

"This is for you." I pass the turquoise bag to her, and her face lights up as she takes it.

She pulls out the box inside and opens it carefully. Inside is a delicate gold chain with a single diamond hanging from it. It's not big enough to be obnoxious, but the light shines off it beautifully. It's meant to be a hint, a taste of what she can expect going forward--if we move forward, of course.

"It's perfect," she breathes, holding the necklace up to admire the stone. "Thank you!"

Infected by her bright demeanor, I smile. "I'm glad you like it."

She unclasps it and skillfully puts it on herself. I always have to pull my necklace clasps to the front, and even then I still fumble with them for at least a minute. Her long, thin fingers are more capable than mine.

"Wow," I say. And I mean it. "It's beautiful on you."

She giggles. It's a sweet sound, and I have to remind myself that this isn't a normal date. This is supposed to be transactional. Sugar baby and sugar mom. Nothing more.

The waiter returns with the wine and pours two glasses before taking our order. Pasta for me. Lobster for her. Again, I'm relieved when he finally leaves.

"Am I your first?" Gracie asks suddenly as she watches him scurry off.

"My first...?" I hold my glass to my pursed lips. Finally, I realize she's talking about sugar babies. "Oh, yes. Is it that obvious?"

She smiles and shrugs.

"What about you?" I ask. She takes a sip of her wine.

"I've had daddies. Never more than one at a time, though. Men can be so demanding." She rolls her eyes in dramatized exasperation before giggling.

"I know what you mean," I mutter.

Gracie tilts her head adorably. "You were married to a man, right?"

I have to work to stop the grimace that threatens to take over my face. "Yeah. He was... something."

She nods thoughtfully, twirling a long curl around her finger. "I can't even imagine."

She leans forward and reaches across the table to place her hand over mine. Her skin is soft and warm, and I let her touch me. Like some kind of sweet, gorgeous witch, she has me under a spell. I tell her every complaint I've kept bottled inside me for the last three months--hell, the last ten years. And she listens, nodding sympathetically and asking questions.

"At least I have my money. I'd say I worked pretty hard for it," I mumble at the end of my tirade. My face grows hot with embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I totally just went off on you."

There's that giggle again. "It's ok. I think you needed it. And that's what I'm here for," she says.

"Well, then, I have to ask. If we end up long-term, what do you want in return?" It seems awkward to ask, but she's more than ready for it.

"Six thousand a month. Plus gifts. I'll be available to you whenever. Unless I have to study or something. So whenever you want to go to dinner or need a gala date... or a snuggle buddy." She winks at me.

"That's fair," I say. I honestly thought she'd ask for more. It's not like I know the going rate for these things.

"So you're new to sugar dating, but...have you ever been with a woman?" she asks.

I can feel my blush and try to hide behind my glass. "No."

"Well, we can fix that," she says. She turns my hand over and drags a finger up my palm. "If you'd like."

I shift in my seat with a nod. "I, uh, reserved a room."

She taps a finger against her gloss-pink lips and smiles. Again, I tell myself this is transactional. I'm allowed to admit she's cute, though. Really cute.

I nearly curse at the waiter when he interrupts us again. His only saving grace is the fact that he has our food. Our conversation switches to more mundane topics as we eat.

"I saw you're studying art," I say after swallowing a bite. "Why'd you choose it?"

"My mom was an artist. We would paint together when I was little. I was going to major in some science, but she died before I got into college. So I changed my mind. Wanted to follow in her footsteps for real, I guess." A faint sadness flows under her words as she pushes a scallop around her plate with her fork.

"I'm sorry to hear about your mom. I'm sure she'd be proud of you." I can only hope I've chosen the right response.

"Thanks. Maybe she would be, but she might also be mad I chose ceramics over painting," she says and covers her mouth as she laughs. Her cheeriness makes my heart feel light despite the topic.

Gracie takes a bite before speaking again. "Why'd you start a business?" she asks.

"Mostly to show my ex-husband I could do it. It was always my dream, but he always seemed to doubt me. So I killed a few birds with one stone," I say.

Her eyes glitter in the light. "That's so cool. I wish I could do that."

"You could," I tell her. "You could have a ceramics shop and ship orders."

She lets out a laugh. Not a mean-spirited laugh. A sweet laugh. One that falls into a soft smile and makes me smile, too. She looks at me and says, "Maybe if I get good enough."

We share a small chocolate cake for dessert. By the time it gets to us, the wine has gotten to me first. In my quest to calm my nerves, I might have had a glass or two more than I should have. I'm not drunk, but a warm buzz settles in my limbs. What's more, I'm not the only one affected. Gracie's cheeks have taken on a pink glow. Her foot finds mine under the table, and I nudge her back before I have time to think. My body just responds.

I don't even let the waiter speak when he shows up with the check. My card is already in my hand, and my eyes don't leave Gracie's. They can't. I'd never felt so turned on before. Not even with George. I thought I knew what horny was. I was a college kid before. But this is different. Maybe it's the novelty of it all. Or maybe it's the way she speaks to me so kindly, even if I'm technically paying her to do so. Or it's the way she presses her breasts together and forward every time she shifts in her seat. And how she bats her long eyelashes at me.

We stand to leave as soon as my card is returned. Gracie sidles up to me, linking her arm with mine, and looks up at me with wide eyes.

"I didn't notice how tall you are," she says.

Six feet. George always told me I was too tall for a woman.

I shrug and give her my famous half-smile. "Yeah, well, you're pretty short."

She giggles and presses closer to me, her breasts squishing against my arm. I can almost feel the jealous glares of the men closing in on me, but I don't have the ability to care as a subtle heat settles between my legs. I quickly lead her out of the restaurant and to the elevators. The heat only intensifies once I'm trapped in the tiny space with her. I didn't think this through. Thankfully, I can breathe a bit easier when she releases her hold on me to press herself against the outward-facing glass wall.

"You can see everything from here!" She points out a few buildings and marvels at all the pretty lights. She bounces on her toes, her dress swinging dangerously high from the motion.

I've seen the city a million times before. Instead, I focus on her. The way her hands and breasts press up against the glass. The way I want to recreate the scene in my shower. The ride up to the tenth floor is agonizingly slow, and it's followed by an equally agonizingly slow walk to my room.

The room is large. Small, unfamiliar spaces make me antsy, so I made sure the room would be big when I booked it. It's also more comfortable for two people this way. Gracie makes her way over to the king size bed and plops down on the plush comforter.

"Oh, this is nice," she purrs. She pats the spot next to her. "Come here."

I can't stop now. I do what she says, tossing my purse to a nearby chair before sitting beside her on the bed. She kicks off her heels and stretches her feet, kicking her legs out in front of her.

"Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are, Myra?" she asks. My name drips off her tongue like honey.

"Not really," I mumble.

She hums as she reaches up to push a red-brown strand of hair behind my ear. "Well, I think you're pretty."

I turn to thank her, but I'm silenced when her lips press against mine. The taste of strawberries. They move slowly at first, coaxing mine to respond. And they do. I kiss her back. Deeply. Her hand slides up my thigh, her tongue flicking across my lip. I grant it entrance, letting it wrestle with mine. The hand on my thigh moves up to find my breast and gives it a brief squeeze as she pulls back.

"You taste good," I say in my daze.

She giggles and tugs at the waistband of my slacks. Her deft fingers make quick work of the buttons. "So do you."

I gasp when her hand slips inside, under my panties, her fingers brushing against the part of me that hasn't been touch my anyone else in so long. Too long. She reaches further and presses a finger against my sensitive bead.

"Gracie...," I sigh.

"Hm?" She looks up at me from under her dark lashes and rubs slow circles around my clit. I don't stop her when she presses against my shoulder with her other hand, pushing me back until I fall onto the bed. She comes with me. She climbs over me--straddling me--with her hand still between us.

Leaning in close, her lips trail from my cheek to my neck and leave my skin tingling in their wake. Her fingers move faster now. Her kisses turn into small nips, and she gently sucks on the spots that pull soft moans from me. I bring my hands up, but they hover over her hips. I want to touch her right, to feel her. Gracie notices my hesitancy and sits up.

"You can touch me," she murmurs. She climbs off of me and stands at the foot of the bed. "But first, let's get these clothes off."

I nod. I'll do anything she says at this point. I get up and shove my slacks and panties down in one motion. Gracie closes the distance between us--not that there was much to begin with. Her fingers toy with the buttons of my white blouse, undoing them so slowly I think I might just rip the thing off. Soon, though, the garment is gone, and my bra quickly follows it. Gracie isn't wearing a bra. Her breasts come into view the moment she slips out of her dress. She hooks her thumbs under the edge of her lace panties and slowly shimmies out of them, her hips moving in a sensual dance.

I kiss her. My hands slide down her arms, and I can feel tiny goosebumps rise up under my fingertips. We both climb back onto the bed without breaking the kiss. She sucks gently on my bottom lip, and I pull her closer as we lie side by side. Her breasts brush against mine, eliciting a small gasp from me. She smiles at me and pushes herself up to her knees. I miss her lips on mine. But only for a moment, as I'm quickly distracted by her moving between my legs. I prop myself up on my elbows so I can watch her, my breath coming in short pants.

"Did your husband ever make you cum?" she asks. Her face hovers just above my unshaven mound. She looks up at me with those big brown eyes.

I have to think about it. Maybe once in the very beginning of our relationship. But I might have just dreamt it. I honestly can't remember the last time I had an orgasm by someone's else's hand. Something tells me Gracie will have no difficulty, though.

I bite my bottom lip and shake my head. She pouts, mumbling something about making me feel good, and leans forward, pressing her soft lips against my clit. One hand comes up to massage my hip while the other finds its place under her mouth. Her fingers slip against my wet slit, slowing moving from bottom to top. And again. All while her tongue flicks against my bud.

My head tilts back, moans falling from my open mouth. I tangle my fingers in her curls, and she hums against me. Her hand and mouth switch places, her warm tongue dipping into my folds as her thumb gently rubs my clit. My hips push forward, begging her for more. And she obliges. Her tongue reaches deeper, setting fire to every nerve in my body. I pull the sheets to my mouth and bite down in an attempt to muffle my cries of pleasure.

Gracie pulls back for only a moment before both her fingers and her tongue are pressing against my entrance. Two fingers slowly slip inside me, stretching me open, and I let out a long moan. Her tongue teases my sensitive lips as her hand slowly begins to pump in and out. Her fingers curl and uncurl, and my eyelids flutter when they find a sweet spot.

Her low giggle reaches my ears. "There?" she asks and repeats the motion.

"Yes," I blurt out. "Right there."

She strokes the spot in time with her lips sucking on my swollen clit. I moan louder as the heat building in my core becomes almost unbearable. Just when I think I can't take anymore--like it's too much--I shatter in her hands. My hips buck into her mouth with every wave that washes over me, and she laps at me hungrily. Her tongue only slows down as I begin to regain my senses. Every stroke of the small pink muscle sends tremors through my legs.