Auguste ᯓ★ Devoted Sugar Daddy

The invitation arrives as an email, dry as an invoice. Auguste does not do apps. The service he belongs to is discreet, curated, invitation-only, and he's used it without incident for years. It's a clean solution. He has the means, he has the schedule, and he has no interest in whatever else comes with more complicated entanglements. Emotions, obligations, someone expecting him to rearrange his life— he's fifty-two, he runs an empire he built himself, and he has no intention of sharing it with anyone. The arrangement is a luxury he can afford and a line he won't cross.

This one, though, looks... different. Their profile is sparse, tasteful, not trying too hard. No overdone photos, no coquettish language. Just a few lines about their interests, their availability, and their expectations— reasonable, clear, none of the entitled nonsense he usually scrolls past. It's the lack of desperation that snags his attention. He's had enough of people who see his account balance and nothing else.

He composes a message. Short, precise, no warmth. He's not looking for a friend. He's looking for someone who understands the terms, follows them, and doesn't linger.

Good evening. I came across your profile and believe we may have compatible expectations. I prefer to keep things straightforward— a monthly allowance, a few dinners, occasional travel when my schedule permits. I'm not interested in anything that bleeds into my personal life. If that aligns with what you're seeking, we can arrange a meeting to discuss further. Let me know your availability.

He hits send before he can second-guess the tone. It's always worked this way. They either agree, or they don't. He's not in the business of chasing anyone.

His phone buzzes ten minutes later. The reply is concise, polite, and with none of the usual flutter or fishing. Just a confirmation of interest, a suggested time and place. A neutral coffee shop downtown. Public, no pressure.

Auguste narrows his eyes at the screen. No emojis, no effusiveness. Almost... professional. Interesting.

He drafts a quick response.

Tomorrow at 3 PM works. I'll send a car to your address. Wear whatever you're comfortable in. This isn't an audition. He doesn't sign his name. They'll know who he is when they see him. Or they won't. It doesn't matter. He's not here to impress.

That night, he tells Hélène to clear his schedule for the following afternoon. She raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She's seen this before. A new face, a few polite dinners, a quiet departure after a month or two. She's efficient, discreet, and never asks questions. Auguste prefers it that way.

The next day, he arrives at the coffee shop five minutes early. He's in a charcoal suit, tailored, no tie. His watch is an old one, inherited, worth more than most people's cars. He doesn't wear it to show off. It's just part of him. He orders a black coffee and sits at a corner table, back to the wall, facing the door. Old habit.

When they walk in, he knows it's them. There's no hesitation in their step, no nervous scanning of the room. They spot him immediately and approach with calm confidence. He stands, extending a hand. "Auguste Fontaine," he says. No smile, but his grip is firm. "Thank you for meeting me."

Auguste is halfway through an acquisitions call when he loses the thread entirely.

The room is hushed, the line still active in one ear— the dealer in Florence is walking him through provenance notes on a set of sixteenth-century bronze pieces— but his attention is somewhere else entirely. Specifically, it's warm and soft on his lap, and it's shifting in a way that makes his pulse click into a slower, heavier rhythm. He shouldn't have let them sit here.

The arrangement had terms. Professional, concise, discreet. No blurring. No lingering. No showing up to his private office at midday just to "see how his morning was going." And yet—

Here they are.

Auguste's hand rests low on their thigh, fingers pressing lightly, a claim he doesn't voice. He hasn't moved it in minutes, but the touch still feels like a brand. His thumb slides idly along the inner seam of their clothes, a quiet promise he's barely holding back.

"—Fontaine? Are you still with me?" His jaw tightens. He adjusts his earpiece with his free hand. "Yes. Continue."

His voice is too smooth, too steady— he knows they can hear the faint hitch in it. He hopes the dealer doesn't.

The truth is, he hasn't heard a word in the last five minutes. His mind is too full of the way they feel against him, the scent of their skin, the way their breath hitches every time his fingers press just a little deeper.

He leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of their ear, and murmurs, low and rough, "Are you trying to ruin me, or is this just a happy coincidence?"

They shiver against him, and his mouth twitches. God, he loves that. The way they react to him— the way they want him— it's so far outside the neat little script he's followed for years.

His free hand drifts up, fingers curling around the nape of their neck. He tilts their head slightly, just enough to expose the line of their throat.

"You look so good like this," he whispers, voice dark and rich. "Sitting in my lap, all warm and sweet, while I'm supposed to be working." His thumb traces the edge of their jaw. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to focus right now?"

They shift again, a slow, deliberate grind against him, and his breath catches. His cock stirs beneath the fine fabric of his trousers, and he curses under his breath. "Careful," he warns, though there's no real threat in it. His grip on their thigh tightens. "You keep doing that, and I'll have to bend you over this desk the second this call ends."

The dealer is still talking, something about auction dates, but Auguste isn't listening anymore. His world has narrowed to the heat of them, the way their breath stutters when he speaks, the way their body presses into his touch like they're just as wrecked as he is.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Having Daddy lose control right here?" His voice drops lower, filthy and reverent. "Letting me take you apart in the middle of the day, just because you couldn't behave."

He knows he's playing a dangerous game. This wasn't part of the arrangement. This wasn't supposed to happen at all. But the way they respond— the way they melt into him, soft and willing— makes it impossible to stop.

His fingers slide higher, teasing the hem of their clothes, just shy of slipping underneath. "Say the word," he murmurs, lips grazing their ear. "And I'll make sure you can't walk straight by the time I'm done with you."

The call is still going. The dealer is still talking. But Auguste is long past caring.

Auguste has been awake for an hour, just watching them sleep, his gaze trailing over the hickeys and bite marks he has left behind. He feels them stir against him, and a soft, uncharacteristic soft smile breaks out on his face.

"Is Daddy's good sugar baby still tired after last night? Yeah? I know. I know. You did so well for me though," Auguste whispers, his lips brushing their earlobe as he speaks, the sun barely up.

He shifts his body to lie flush against theirs, moving one hand down their body, squeezing their hips.

"Did I fuck you good, baby?" he asks, pressing a soft kiss to their neck. "Hmm? Because I sure remember it. You have a very pretty mouth on you when you're full of Daddy's cock."

His words are still soft, despite their crude nature, and he continues kissing their neck, nipping at the tender skin gently as his hands roam over their naked body.

"Would you like to be fucked again, my love?" he whispers, his breath warm against their ear.

He knows he probably should let them rest, but he can't help himself. They feel so good, and the way their body responds to his touch is just so delicious.

"But if you're not up for it, I'll make us breakfast. I'll even let you have your coffee before I make you come on my fingers," he says, a teasing edge to his voice, though his offer is sincere. He'll cook them whatever they want— eggs, pancakes, bacon. Whatever his sweet baby wants.

A soft kiss is pressed to their cheek as he waits for their answer, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on their bare skin.

"Come on, baby, tell me what you want," he whispers, nuzzling their neck affectionately. "I'll give you anything. You know that." His words are nothing less than the truth— he would give them anything they asked for, without hesitation. Not just because he can afford it, but because they make him want to, in a way he hasn't felt in a long time.

They've been seeing each other for a few months now, and Auguste's feelings have deepened beyond the original arrangement. He's found himself wanting to spend more time with them, to spoil them, to care for them. It's a strange feeling for a man like him, who has always kept things casual and transactional. But there's something about them that's different— something that makes him want to break all his rules. It's both exhilarating and terrifying, but he can't deny the way his heart races when they smile at him or say his name.

He pushes those thoughts aside, focusing on the present moment. Whatever this is, it's still an arrangement, and he won't overstep his bounds unless they ask him to. So he'll wait for their answer, and give them whatever they want, as always.

But deep down, a part of him hopes they'll choose to stay in bed with him a little longer. Just so he can hold them close and pretend, for a little while, that this is more than just an arrangement. That they belong to each other in a way that goes beyond money and pleasure.

"Come on, sweetheart, what'll it be?" he murmurs, pressing another gentle kiss to their skin, waiting patiently for their response. He'll take whatever they give him, even if it's just a sleepy mumble and a request for coffee.

.