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Dear Diary
My Sugar Daddy Nightmare.- By Celine

Celine’s Diary – April 26

Dear Diary, I know it’s been a week since my last entry, but I have been trying to forget the events of April 20.  I guess I need to write it down, though, to put my thoughts in order.  Journaling can help you work through emotional issues, right?  So they say.  As I wrote on March 23, Dad lost his job and since he still hasn’t found one, it’s looking like I won’t be able to scrape up enough tuition to stay in school this fall.  How the hell is a nobody like me supposed to get a decent fucking job without a degree?  I don’t want to flip goddamn burgers or wait tables for the rest of my life.  Okay, rant over.  See February 4 page for more ranting on that subject.  I blame Dr. Phil for my current problem.  If only I had not watched that show where he talked about women finding sugar daddies online!  I thought, hell, I’ll put out if someone is willing to give me enough money to get through good old San Diego City College and maybe, just maybe, USC.  I placed that stupid ad (as described on April 12) and was contacted by Tom, who seemed like a decent guy in his emails.  He said only that he wanted to spend time with a “hot, young thing” once a week.  Once a week!  I thought that was awesome.  Tom promised to shower me with gifts and money.  I felt like joking that I would do anything if he would shower me with next semester’s tuition.  Tom asked if I minded being spanked.  Big red flag!  Was I stupid?  Yes!  I said I was willing to try that.  Fuck, I need a drink.  There.  I’m back with some medication—a nice stiff glass of Jack.  Who cares if I’m underage?  I’m in my own damn apartment and I’ll be twenty-one in eight months, so shut up, diary.  Enough stalling.  Back to my tale of woe.  

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Tom watched while I lay down and touched myself.  He started asking me how I lost my virginity.

Tom asked me to meet him at somefancy restaurant called Baleen, where the fricking appetizers are, like, twenty bucks each!  I was giddy.  Maybe this sugar daddy thing would work out, after all.  Tom was waiting when I got there and… God, how can I say this?  He turned out to be ugly as sin!  No wonder he has to pay for women!  He was this huge, overweight guy with massive hands and these big lips.  He was starting to go bald and the rest was turning grey.  He said he was 45 and he looked 55.  I nearly ran out of there, thinking I don’t care how much money this guy gives me, I can’t do this!  Go instincts!  But he stood up and held out my chair all gentlemanlike and acted sort of shy and I sat down, thinking hard about my Biotech degree and how much I wanted to break free of my barrio roots and make something of myself.  Apparently they don’t card rabidly in places like that, because Tom poured me a glass of wine from the bottle on the table and told me to order the lobster and some ridiculous appetizer with caviar (fuck, the food was good!) and he told me a sob story about his boring sex life with his wife.  Yawn.  We even had dessert and I was thinking I shouldn’t have eaten so much because I was really full and then Tom asked if I would go to a motel with him.  I totally felt like ralphing.  I felt sort of guilty, knowing he had dropped a couple hundred bucks on dinner and he seemed sweet the way he kept telling me how much he loved my long, dark hair (I didn’t say I’m Latina, dude, we all have long, dark hair, but I thought it) and tan skin and chocolate brown eyes.  He seemed harmless and I figured if I just kept my eyes shut and pretended he was Antonio Banderas, it wouldn’t be so bad.  I agreed and he seemed excited as a boy at Christmas.  Stupid me!  He could have been a fucking serial killer!  It was bad enough, what he was, but I’m getting ahead of myself.  Hang on, my drink needs a refill if I’m gonna get through this.  It is helping to write it down, I guess.  I’m back.  Maybe I should down a bottle of Jack before I see Tom again.  IF I see Tom again.  God, I can’t believe I’m even considering it.  So, we go to this motel and it’s pretty seedy, but not gross.  Clean, at least.  I sort of expected my sugar daddy to take me to the Hyatt, but maybe he dropped too much on dinner and his wife would notice.  At the motel he said he would really like to watch me masturbate.  It was weird, but frankly, I felt relieved!  He wouldn’t be touching me, then.  I took off my dress and panties—no bra, since I’d worn a sexy strapless number with a built-in.  Tom pulled up a chair and sat down like a spectator at a football game.  All he needed was a beer hat and some peanuts.  Oh man, that’s cracking me up.

Jack Daniels must be working overtime if I can laugh about it.  Anyway, Tom watched while I lay down and touched myself.  He started asking me how I lost my virginity. God, what a fucking memory!  I was fifteen and the first time always sucks for women, no matter what they tell you.  And I later found out that Raymond was a lousy, cheating bastard, so why would I want to remember that?  Tom was persistent, so I tried to remember what it was like.  I was crushing so hard on Raymond Montoya—he was like a god in high school.  He was seventeen when I ran into him at that party.  He was with Suzy Jackson, that whore.   He asked me out when Suzy was in the can and I was so flattered.  Fuck, read the details of the damned party in the diary, if you can stand the teen angst enough to read it again.  Back to now—I told Tom about how Raymond’s parents were out of town and I went to his house.  We sat in his room watching some stupid movie—I can’t even remember what it was—and then Raymond was kissing me and that part I do remember (and yeah, it still turns me on) because Ray was such a great kisser.  Best I ever knew, even though he was only seventeen, and isn’t it pathetic that most guys just don’t know how to kiss?  Of course, I didn’t tell Tom that because men are so fucking insecure about shit like that.  Raymond started feeling me up and I was scared, but excited, too, because I was in love and I knew if I was going to lose my virginity I wanted it to be with him.  Raymond took my clothes off slowly and we made love on his bed.  It hurt like a sonofabitch (I didn’t tell Tom that!) but it was sweet, too, and goddamn it you can read about this in diary number 3, November 20.  I remember that date because I must have read it 400 times when I was fifteen, stupid idiot that I was!  

Moving on, I told Tom the story and tried to keep it sort of… you know, clinical and not erotic, except that the memory of Raymond’s hot, young body got me pretty turned on and I ended up having a huge, wet orgasm, which is what I figured Tom wanted.  I actually thanked God for that memory because it meant I didn’t have to lay on that bed all night trying to get off with Mr. Spectator Sport watching me.  I hoped we were done, but Tom started talking.  Okay, wait.  One more drink because this is the hard part.  Fuck, I hope I don’t cry again, because I’m sick of that.  Here we are.  Third glass of good old Jack Daniels.  Third time’s a charm, right?  Maybe I can drown this memory.  Okay, here goes.  Where was I?  Oh yeah.  Tom started talking.  He said I was a fucking slut.  He said I was a wicked, slutty bitch and I needed to be punished.  I was getting freaked, let me tell you.  I started to get off the bed and he threw my panties at me and told me to wipe myself like the fucking slutty whore I was.  I did it, shaking, wiping my pussy as well as I could with the tiny silk panties.  Tom got up and sat on the edge of the bed and I tried to get off, quick, but he grabbed me.  He was really strong and he wrestled me around until I was on his legs, face down, struggling and fighting.  He was still dressed, which I thought was weird, but I was thankful—God, like that mattered.  I thought as long as he was dressed he couldn’t rape me, right?  But that wasn’t Tom’s plan.  He held me down with one meaty paw on my back—I could barely breathe—and then he started spanking me.  

I don’t mean little love smacks on the behind—I mean the fucker was wailing on me with those huge, hard hands of his.  I started screaming, thinking someone in the goddamn motel would hear and call the cops or something, but Tom must have paid them off, or else it was normal for girls to scream for mercy at that place because no one came.  He spanked and spanked and spanked and my screams turned into sobbing and begging as my ass felt like it had been dipped in molten lava and still fucking Tom wouldn’t stop.  He was breathing hard like he was getting off on torturing me, which he probably was.  Pretty soon I was so tired and mindless all I could do was squirm and cry and I was sure my ass was bleeding.  Finally, Tom jerked like he was coming and the torment stopped—God I was never so glad to see something end in my whole life.  Tom dumped me on the floor like I was garbage and said, “See you next week.”  Then he left.  When I could finally move again, I put my dress on and even that light fabric against my ass hurt and I wondered how the hell I was going to sit down and drive home.  It was then that I noticed the two $100 bills thrown on the bed and discovered that fucking Tom had taken my panties.  I ran to the bathroom and threw up at that point.  All that expensive food, wasted.  Now I’m supposed to meet fucking Tom tomorrow and my ass is still black and blue from his little “spanking” and I can only recently sit down without hella pain.   Was it really worth $200?  Do I dare go meet fucking Tom tomorrow?  God, I need the money so bad.  What should I do, diary?  What the hell should I do?


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My Sugar Daddy Nightmare

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