Chapter 1

I thought, ‘Get a good degree, a couple of challenging interviews, then a well-paid job to pay off the debts and save the deposit for a nice flat in West London’. Ha bloody Ha!

I sweated for three years at University, didn’t waste time with social activities or sport or anything, and finished up with a First Class Honours degree in Fine Arts. That was followed by 96 applications for jobs, three of which led to interviews, none of which led to a job.

So, here I was, working in a coffee bar, ten hours a day in the City of London, just by St Paul’s Cathedral. Not quite the master plan I had envisaged. I lived in West London, sharing a dilapidated old house with five others, two blokes and three girls. By working hard, I just about managed to pay the rent, my fares and some food. The only treat I gave myself was to go, twice a week, to a yoga club near where I lived. It stopped me feeling so gloomy and at least kept my body in reasonable shape.

I am Kathryn, 5’10” tall, blonde and a good figure with large (36DD) natural boobs. One of the few relationships I had had, with Thomas, had resulted in him buying me nipple piercings with barbells fitted as a birthday present. Thomas had long gone, but I rather liked the individuality of having the piercings, and the few subsequent lovers had found them a ‘turn on’, so they stayed. I enjoyed sex and had even experimented with anal which, to my surprise, I found rather enjoyable provided the bloke didn’t rush things and gave my anus time to stretch – one rather talented older man eased his thick cock up my arse and then put a vibrator in my cunt. When he turned the vibrator on and started to bugger me, I had the greatest orgasm I had had up to that point in my life, and I just kept cuming and cuming – the genuine continuous orgasm.

And so life carried on, until one Friday evening, at yoga, my life changed.

For several sessions I had smiled in a friendly way at a very cool elegant woman in our group, about mid 30s, dressed in chic outfits and with her red hair cut as could only be done by a very expensive salon. She was a genuine redhead with porcelain white skin and glimmering blue eyes, I would definitely have had a crush on her if I was still a schoolgirl. Now and again she smiled back, but increasingly I caught her studying me seriously when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Anyhow, this Friday, after class, she came up to me and just said, “I’m Charlotte, would you like to come for a drink?”

I was so surprised that I just said, “Yes, sure, lovely.”

More surprising was us getting into her Alfa Romeo sports car and whizzing through the West End to finish up seated in a swanky private club in Mayfair – all leather, red velvet and subdued lighting. Two glasses of expensive white wine were delivered by a cool and beautiful young Eastern European waitress without being ordered, and after ‘Cheers!’, we talked in rather a stilted way, mainly about me, until finally I decided that I needed to know what was happening.

“Charlotte,” I said, “I hardly know you and yet you suddenly invite me here and quiz me about my background. I would like to know what this is all about, otherwise I think I will go.”

For the first time since I had met her, she grinned. “Of course, Kathryn, and as I already know all I need to know about you, I am very happy to tell you why we are here.

I work for a rich Frenchman, called Pierre Solange. He is unmarried, but likes to have attractive friends in all the cities he does business in, mainly London, Paris and San Francisco. These friends undertake to remain exclusive ‘friends’ of his – in other words, no other lovers than him. When the relationship is a success, he is extremely generous and ensures that his ‘friends’ are extremely well provided for – in other words, he is their sugar daddy.”

I gasped. “Are you recruiting whores for this man?” I picked up my handbag and was preparing to go.

Charlotte put her hand on my arm tenderly, and said, “No, no, not at all. Quite the opposite. You would be only his friend, and he would have no other ‘friends’ in London.”

“And who exactly are you in all of this?” I said challenging her.

“I am his scout, I identify and interview suitable young women who will enjoy his company, and I already know that you are such a person.”

I cautiously eased back in my chair, and looked at her smiling at me. “So,” I said, “give me some idea of what this role would involve?”

Mr Solange, Pierre, is normally in London for 4 or 5 days each month – you would be expected to be available all the time he is in London. All the rest of the time is your own, but as I said, you will not associate with any other men in his absence. Of course, you may have female lovers if you wish.”

“Of course! How kind. And how am I supposed to hold down a job with this Mr Pierre popping up unannounced all the time?”

“You’re not. You will get a monthly allowance of £10,000 a month free of tax, a monthly clothing allowance of £3,000 and a monthly general expenses allowance of £2,000. All paid direct to your bank account on the first day of each month.”

I just sat there, stunned. Eventually I asked, “And what perversions do I have to agree to for that sort of money?”

“None at all, you are to be excellent company for him, have amazing sex with him, be his companion at social functions, look beautiful – which you are.” She smiled at me.

I was broke, no meaningful job, had debts and student loans that I could not pay off for years and no savings. What did I have to lose?

“And what services do YOU provide? I asked.

“As I said, I am his scout, I have worked for Pierre for eight years and never made a mistake – and I know I haven’t made one with you. I realise you have made up your mind to accept my offer, so let us proceed. A car will pick you up from your home at 6pm next Wednesday to take you there, please be ready. In this envelope is £3,000, your dress allowance for the first month, please email me your bank details and the first month’s salary will be credited on Tuesday morning. If the initial interview does not turn out to be satisfactory for Mr Pierre or for you, you will, of course, keep the initial salary payment. Make sure to buy expensive underwear and a couple of provocative dresses and some Jimmy Choos, not less than four inch heels.

Now I must be going, see you next Wednesday.” She handed me a gold business card – it just said ‘Charlotte’ and had an email address, and she was gone.

I spent all that night wondering what to do, but by Saturday morning, my mind was made up, and at 7am I opened my laptop and sent her my bank details, and at 10 o’clock, headed out to the West End to spend my new-found wealth.

I found all the things Charlotte had told me to buy, although I had to spend a couple of days learning to walk on 4” heels. On Tuesday morning, my bank account magically changed from overdrawn to substantially in credit – the first time since I had left home four years ago.

And as promised, a gleaming Rolls-Royce was outside my door on Wednesday evening with a smart chauffeur, and I was driven in silence to a large mansion in Belgravia, and teetered carefully up the steps. The door opened before I got there, opened by a young Philippine girl who took my coat and led me to a huge lounge, where Charlotte was seated on a chaise longue. I had eventually chosen a silk party dress, low cut so my boobs virtually fell out of the top and so short that my arse was barely covered – no point in being coy, I was obviously going to fuck Mr Pierre, may as well show him the goods. No bra, just very slim thong pants. I was relieved to find that Charlotte was wearing a similar dress, showing off a gorgeous pair of breasts, equal in size to mine.

We sat and chatted for a few minutes, then Charlotte asked, “Are you ready to meet Mr Pierre? Any further questions?”

“Just one really,” I said. “I never asked if Mr Pierre expects to have kinky sex with me?”

Charlotte smiled. “As I told you last week, just keep an open mind. I know from my enquiries that several of your boyfriends have sodomised you, and you certainly enjoyed it with them. As for the rest, just go with the flow – I know you will enjoy yourself. You will never be expected to do anything you don’t want to do.” Charlotte stood up, unzipped the back of her dress and it dropped to the floor – she was naked except for her high heels - Wow! She was absolutely stunning. I knew I was already falling in love with her, but now she was standing naked in front of me, I knew I wanted her as my lover.

“Please undress,” she said calmly, “Mr Pierre likes me to join in when he interviews new friends.”

This was the moment of commitment – and all I could think of was my nice new bank balance! I stood up and took my dress off – I still had the thong on, but I looked at Charlotte and she indicated that I should remove it.

I was expecting to go and meet Mr Pierre, but instead Charlotte put her hand behind my head and drew me towards her, then slipped her tongue gently into my mouth. When I was about 14, a girl I knew and I had experimented with kissing each other, but decided it was not for us. Since then, I had not kissed another woman, but now this was really sensational, her lips were soft and her tongue gently explored my mouth. Then her hands were on my breasts which she squeezed and stroked, playing with the piercings, which was seriously arousing. She moved around me, her breasts pressed against my back, fondling my breast with one hand and two fingers pleasuring my clitoris. She whispered, “Mr Pierre is absolutely going to love these breasts. Come, let us go and meet him.”

My heart was racing as Charlotte took my hand and led us out of the lounge and across the hallway to a grand staircase which we climbed. In the hallway was the maid, but she took no notice of two naked women, hand in hand.

We crossed the landing and Charlotte knocked on a bedroom door. “Come!” the voice inside called, and we entered the room and stood, hand in hand, facing my Sugar Daddy, Mr Pierre. He is gorgeous! I have known him and fucked him now for over eight years, but every time I meet him again, my clit is damp with excitement.

He was seated in an armchair, wearing just a paisley robe which hung open, revealing a gorgeously long and thick cock.