men who get turned on from being your sugar daddy
He’s always watching you when you shop. Not in a controlling way, no hovering, no hovering over your shoulder with a credit card limit lecture. Just… quiet, intense observation from across the boutique or from the car outside, dark eyes tracking every swipe of the black card he gave you last month. The one with no visible limit. The one he handed over with a low, amused “Go wild, baby. I want to see what you do with it.”
Tonight you’re in the dressing room of a high-end department store, trying on a silk slip dress that costs more than most people’s rent. The fabric clings like liquid, deep emerald against your skin. You step out to show him, barefoot on the plush carpet, twirling once. He’s leaning against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The moment you step into view, his jaw tightens, filled with hunger.
“Turn around again,” he says, voice rougher than usual. You do, slow and deliberate, letting the hem flutter against your thighs. When you face him again, his pupils are blown, breathing visibly shallower. He shifts his weight, adjusts himself in his tailored pants without bothering to be subtle.
“You like it?” you ask, innocent, knowing damn well what you’re doing.
He doesn’t answer right away. He steps closer, fingers brushing the silk at your hip like he’s testing its weight. “I like what it does to you,” he murmurs. “The way you light up when you spend my money. The way you walk out of here knowing every piece you’re wearing was bought with my card.” His thumb drags along the strap, voice dropping. “It’s fucking intoxicating.”
You tilt your head, smiling slowly. “So… should I get it?”
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “Get it. Get the black one too. And the heels you were eyeing earlier. And whatever else catches your eye on the way to the register.” He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a new card, matte black, your name embossed in gold foil, and presses it into your palm. His fingers linger, curling yours around it.
“This one’s fresher,” he says quietly, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist. “No limit. No questions. I want you to burn through it. Buy things you don’t even need. Wear them once and donate them. I don’t care. Just—” His voice cracks the tiniest bit, raw. “—keep spending. Keep looking at me like that when you hand the card over. It gets me harder than anything else.”
You step closer, chest brushing his, lips hovering near his ear. “Then watch me,” you whisper. “Watch me max this one out too.”
His hand flexes on your waist, hard, possessive. A low groan slips out, muffled against your hair. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Go. Buy everything. I’ll be right here… waiting for you.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, then turn toward the register, new card already warm in your hand. Behind you, he adjusts himself again, exhales shakily, and smiles. He's already ruined and loving every second of it.
yousharknotpass
gummygunk
