Dirty Sexy Daddy by S.E. Law
1
James
It’s after 9 p.m. on a Friday, which marks the end of my first week back in New York City. I’ve been abroad for a year on a self-imposed exile, seeing the sights of the world and trying to forget my past while also re-inventing myself. Now, my bones are weary as I recover from jet lag. Damn, I must be getting old because this shit didn’t hit me so hard in the past.
But that’s why I’m at D-Luxe, a quiet, upscale bar in Midtown East instead of hitting the clubs like I normally would on a Friday night. It’s peaceful here, and I enjoy the mellow ambience. Of course, the setting is luxurious per my tastes, but still, the music is subtle, the drinks strong, and most importantly, the women are beautiful.
I feel someone come up to my elbow, and then is it my imagination, or does a plump breast bump my arm? Sure enough, when I turn, there’s an attractive middle-aged woman winking at me. She’s appealing enough with a slender figure, dark hair, and a perfectly made-up face, but unfortunately, not my type. The woman literally purrs a bit before cocking her hip to the side and sashaying away, casting a coy glance over one shoulder in a “come hither” manner.
But I don’t budge from my seat. A year ago, I would be slavering after the woman like a dog in heat. But I’ve changed so much over the course of my travels that I can only muster a polite nod in return. After all, I left New York in search of change, and it’s turned me into a different man.
Shoulders slumping, I look around. At least the bar is nice even if my mood is spiraling downwards fast. The floors are a mottled mix of various hues of brown stone, and the walls are painted a cozy burnt umber. I’m sitting on a brown leather barstool with brass accents, and it’s comfortable, to my surprise. I hate those stiff wooden high chairs they have at dives because all they result in is a sore ass at the end of the night.
But still, it’s strange to be back in NYC after a year away. After the pulsing thrum of foreign cities and the exotic flavors and aromas of different cuisines, being here, in Midtown, is almost like culture shock. It should feel like coming home, but instead, it just feels uncomfortable.
So what’s changed? I’m a New Yorker, born and bred, so this is my natural milieu. Yet everything about this place seems off. I can’t put my finger on it and it drives me crazy. As a result, I take another morose sip of my gin and tonic, letting the alcohol numb me.
Fuck, at around this time last week, I was lying in a hotel room in Morocco with a nude, lush woman at my side. It was pure hedonism, and in a way, I wish it never had to end. But I have responsibilities. As a scion of the Montgomery family, I work at our family business. Extended leaves are okay, but it’s not fine to take off forever. Someone has to drive the truck, and in this case, it’s me and my older brother Luke.
Fuck. Luke. I’m surprised my older brother even talks to me now, after what I did to him and his wife. My actions were inexcusable, and I absolutely regret exposing Luke’s wife, Patty, as an escort. I recognize now that that was reprehensible, and that my actions impinged on Patty’s privacy, not to mention hurting her deeply as a person. What a huge clusterfuck that was, and I wish I could take it all back.
But what happened, happened. After the worst had passed, I apologized profusely and then took off, booking a ticket to Bangkok that very night. Some self-reflection was much-needed, and now, after a year, I’m a changed man.
Yet how do I fit in again? How do I readjust and make myself into a respectable, business-oriented Montgomery when I’ve spent the last year indulging in utter hedonism? After all, I experienced some of the most beautiful, adventurous women in the world, who did anything for the right price. I visited brothels in Amsterdam, the Red Light district in Bangkok, and the secret courtesans of Paris. I sampled the Kama Sutra front to back, and then back to front again. I had women proposition me from balconies in little towns you’ve never heard of, and even worse, I took them up on their offers. Yeah, I’m that kind of guy. The kind who enjoys the filthiest fun, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I got my fill and then some.
But now, I’m supposed to come back and be “respectable” once more. I’m supposed to wear a suit and play the part of a prosperous businessman while sitting through endless boring meetings. It’s fine because that’s what the job entails, but I need more. I still remember the sting of sensual wax dripping over my back followed by the slickness of a woman’s tongue soothing my skin. I still remember the cool touch of an ice cube curving down my spine as three women massaged me with their tits in the confines of my luxury suite.
It’s quite the change because before I left New York City, my lovers were “vanilla” as they say. I didn’t know better, to be honest. My three go-to positions were missionary, doggy and cowgirl. Maybe some reverse cowgirl, if things were getting wild. But now, it’s not enough. I’ve had my sexual appetite whetted and it’s impossible to put the beast back in the cage. I need filth, and I need it now.
Growling, I down the rest of my drink and motion for the server to refill my glass. The older gentleman does so wordlessly, and then continues wiping down the bar, knowing better than to intrude on my fucktastic mood. What do I do? The animal within has been awakened, and it’s not exactly going to be satisfied with some boring-ass socialite who thinks the Kama Sutra is the newest diet fad.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes. My sister-in-law worked for an escort agency called City Girls, and maybe they can help. Why not give it a go? It’s just money. Of course, Patty was the classy type of escort before she met my brother, and I’m not exactly looking for classy at the moment, but you never know.
As a result, I whip out my cell phone and look up City Girls online. Sure enough, there’s a toll-free number and I step outside the bar to dial.
“This is City Girls,” a woman answers. “How can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m interested in booking your service,” I growl, looking around to make sure no one’s listening. Fortunately, the street’s deserted except for a doorman on the far corner, and he’s glancing off in the distance.
“Of course,” the woman’s dulcet voice replies. “Your name, sir?”
I hesitate.
“James Montlake,” I say finally. Spur of the moment, I decide to use a fake last name because my real last name, Montgomery, would be too obvious.
The woman clucks her tongue. “Thank you, Mr. Montlake. Now what can I help you with?”
I pause for a moment.
“I’m looking for someone beautiful. Young. Full-figured. Sassy and full of spice. And oh yeah, dirty too and I mean fucking filthy when it comes to pleasing a man. Can City Girls provide that?”
The woman laughs throatily. To be honest, she doesn’t even sound surprised at how this conversation is going.
“Of course, sir. Our aim is to provide a broad selection of options in order to fulfill our clients’ fantasies and needs. Now, if you’ll just hold on a second, I’ll pull up a few profiles to send your way. May I get your contact info?”
I give her my number, and then of course, most importantly, my credit card information. We hang up, and within ten minutes, my cell’s beeping. I open the message, and sure enough, there are links to the profiles of three young women. They’re certainly full-figured, which I appreciate. They wear body-hugging cocktail dresses while smiling prettily for the cameras, and their make-up and hair are flawless. But I want more. I need filth, and this cocktail dress thing isn’t going to do it.
But then I begin reading the descriptions, and one girl catches my eye immediately. In her profile, she writes that she enjoys “pleasing men” and “being used like Daddy’s toy.” Is this woman serious? I thought City Girls was too classy for shit like this, but evidently not. Immediately, I select “Simona” and forward my request to City Girls. Within minutes, a date is booked.
With that, I snap my phone shut and look around a bit. The street’s still deserted and it’s a chilly night in New York. But now, I have something to look forward to because the beautiful and bodacious Simona is on my schedule, and I’m looking forward to trying her out. Hopefully, she’ll shake me out of this fucking funk.
With that, I stuff my hands in my pockets and walk home, shoulders hunched against the bite in the air. My life may be cold and lonely now, but with a wanton, willing, and utterly filthy woman in my bed, it’s about to heat up to an extreme.
