I Was the Sugar Baby of Three Men and I Lied to Them All

I was born in Las Palomas, a neighborhood where misery is inherited like a last name. My mother had three daughters by three different men, and none of them stayed long enough to learn our names. I grew up understanding one thing with absolute clarity: nobody gives you anything for free, and whatever little you have, you have to know how to charge for.

When I turned eighteen I finished high school, and my mother started with the same old sermon—that I should study, get a degree, not end up like her scrubbing other people’s houses. I nodded my head while thinking about something else. A degree wasn’t going to get me out of the neighborhood in less than five years. I had something worth a lot more and that delivered immediate results: a tight pussy, firm tits that stood up on their own under my blouse, and a round ass that made old men turn their heads when I passed through the square.

The only reason a girl my age sleeps with an old man is money. It’s always money.

Those mature, well-heeled men love young skin, a voice that whispers that they’re the best, a tight little cunt squeezing their cock like it’s never been touched. I learned to give them exactly that. And not once in all those years did I feel anything even remotely like desire for any of them.

***

The first one was called Aníbal. I met him in the line for the transport that goes up to the village, a coffee grower in his forties, with broad hands and an expensive watch. He was with an employee in a cargo truck and, while the two men talked about crops, I was figuring out which of them could finance my life. The answer was obvious.

I didn’t go at him directly. I played shy, thanked him for the ride with that smile I’d been practicing in front of the mirror for years, and when I got out I left my number on a piece of paper.

—Just in case I ever need a ride again —I told him.

Aníbal called me three days later. Our first meeting was almost innocent: coffee in the square, a hand that stayed too long on mine, a short kiss when we said goodbye. But the two of us knew what that was from the beginning. That same week I enrolled in the technical institute with the money he left on the table, folded inside a napkin. My body was starting to generate income, and that made me happy in a way sex never had.

We met near the square. He’d show up with the truck, I’d get in without anyone seeing me, and we’d end up at a motel on the outskirts called Santa Lucía, a dump with rough sheets and a fan that barely turned. The first time he took me to the room, I didn’t even have time to get used to the smell of damp. He shut the door, shoved me against the wall, and slid his hand under my skirt, straight to my pussy, without asking anything. I was wearing a cheap thong that he pushed aside with his middle finger, and right there, standing up, he started working two fingers into me to the knuckle while he devoured my neck.

—So tight, damn it —he panted—. You’re soaking like a bitch.

I wasn’t wet from desire; I was wet because I’d smeared saliva on the lips of my pussy before he got there, a trick I learned early. I bit his shoulder and whispered that I wanted to feel him inside me, that I’d been imagining his cock for days. Aníbal pulled his pants down to his knees, turned me around against the wall, hoisted my skirt to my waist, and slammed his dick into me in one thrust.

He made me scream. I screamed loud, the way I knew he liked it, even though inside I was only thinking about not letting my cheek stick to the dirty textured wall. He fucked me hard from behind, gripping my hips, driving deep into me, while I pushed my ass back and told him more, don’t stop, you’re the only one who fills me like this. In five minutes he started grunting like a pig and I felt the hot gush rising inside me. He came inside me, always bare, always without asking, because he liked to imagine he was the only one.

He pulled away, gasping, with his cock still dripping, and watched the semen running down my thighs like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. I turned slowly, squatted in front of him, and ran my tongue over the tip of his cock just once, a calculated lick so he wouldn’t forget it. Aníbal let out a hoarse moan and called me his girl. That same afternoon he left two hundred dollars on the nightstand.

After that it became routine. He showed up twice a week, always hungry, and I had the scene ready. He liked finding me in the room wearing a skirt and nothing underneath, sitting on the edge of the bed with my legs pressed together. He’d arrive, lock the door, and stand there staring at me for a few seconds before touching me, as if he wanted to make sure it was his. I played along. I’d slowly open my legs, run a finger through my pussy and show him it glistening, tell him to come over, whisper that I’d spent the whole week waiting for him.

—Come fuck me, daddy. Come fill me up.

He believed it every time. He’d pounce on me, suck my tits with desperation, biting my nipples until they were red, and devour my pussy with a clumsy but relentless tongue. I’d grab his head, press it against my pubis, and moan at exactly the right level—not too loud so it wouldn’t sound fake, not too soft so he wouldn’t doubt it. When he couldn’t take it anymore, I’d get up on the bed, spread my legs to the ceiling, and he’d shove his cock in all at once. He liked fucking missionary, looking at my face, because he said that way he could see how I came apart for him.

Afterward I’d climb on top of him and make him ride me. I’d lift and drop my hips, my hands braced on his hairy chest, feeling how the thick cock opened me from the inside every time I let myself fall. He’d grope my tits, pinch my nipples, give me hard slaps on the ass that made me yelp, and I’d ride his cock with my mouth open, moaning the things he wanted to hear: that he was the biggest, that no young guy had ever filled me like that, that he’d be fucking me for life.

While he panted on top of me, or beneath me, or behind me on all fours, I looked at the damp stain on the ceiling and did the math. How much I still owed for the semester. How much to get out of the neighborhood. Sometimes I’d grab his head and press it against my neck so he couldn’t see my face, because no matter how much I practiced, boredom showed in my eyes. He always finished inside me, with those satisfied male grunts, and I’d lie there with my pussy dripping, silently counting the bills I could already consider mine.

***

For almost three years I was Aníbal’s girl. My mistake was starting to believe my own act. I thought that, with enough patience, I could convince him to leave his wife for me. I put out everything I had: long conversations until dawn, calculated tenderness, the promise of a child he fantasized about so much. I let him finish inside precisely for that reason, because a pregnancy would have tied him to my life forever. Every time I felt the hot load filling me, I closed my eyes and thought, “knock me up, knock me up, knock me up.”

But men like Aníbal aren’t stupid. He scented the hustler behind the sugar baby. One afternoon, in the same hotel as always, while he buckled his belt without looking at me, he let it out without anesthesia.

—There are too many like you in every town in this country —he said—. I’m not throwing away everything I built for one more.

My pride hurt, not my heart. His visits grew more spaced out, and with them my income. Soon the bills were suffocating me again and I understood I needed a new source.

***

I got a waitress job at a pizzeria downtown. That’s where the wildest and riskiest stage of my life began. The pizzeria was full of men who’d pay anything for a good-looking girl, and I let myself get fucked for whatever came my way: three dollars, five if the guy was feeling generous. I did it in the back room, against the flour sacks, quick and emotionless.

The customer would walk in behind me, I’d shut the door with the latch, and I’d already be pulling down my panties without saying a word. I’d brace my hands on a box, arch my back, and stick my ass out like a mare in heat. They’d pull their cock out from inside their pants, rub it over the lips of my pussy to get a little lubrication, and shove it in with one thrust. Some lasted twenty seconds, others a full minute if they were lucky. They fucked me the way you fuck a cheap whore: no kisses, no caresses, grabbing my hips or my hair, thrusting with the desperation of someone who knows they’re paying by the minute.

I tightened my pussy on purpose to make them come fast and get back to the counter. When I felt they were about to finish, I’d ask them to pull out, not out of scruples but because cleaning the cum out of me took time. Most of them ignored me and came inside anyway, growling against my back, and I’d have to go to the bathroom with other men’s semen running down my thighs, wipe myself with rough toilet paper, and return to the dining room smiling to serve the next beer. I kept the bills tucked in my bra, crumpled and damp with sweat.

The only thing I refused to do was oral sex. It always seemed too intimate to me, and a whore doesn’t hand out intimacy. A doctor once warned me that swallowing just anybody wasn’t healthy either, so I had my excuse ready. Even so, I did it once in a while, biting the bullet for a few more bills: I’d kneel on the dirty floor of the little room, close my eyes, and take the cock all the way to my throat, sucking it with just enough technique to make them finish quickly in my mouth. I’d spit the semen onto a rag as soon as they weren’t looking and wipe my teeth with disgust.

That cheap stage lasted three years. I left it when I fell in love with Darío.

***

Darío was the only truth in my whole story. I met him in my last year at the institute and, for the first time, I calculated nothing. He was possessive, jealous, and I loved that intensity. With him sex wasn’t work: it was hunger.

He fucked me four or five times a day when we could see each other, in my room, with my mother sleeping in the next room and pretending she couldn’t hear. He’d come in, lock the door, and rip my clothes off in jerks. He’d throw me on the bed on my back, spread my legs, and eat my pussy for half an hour straight, sucking my clit until I pulled his hair, sliding two fingers into me while he licked me. He was the only one I let do it without putting a price on it, the only tongue that didn’t disgust me.

Then he’d fuck me in every position he could think of. On my back with my legs over his shoulders, while he looked me in the eye and called me his bitch. On all fours, yanking my hair like it was reins, driving deep with every thrust. On my side, with one of my legs in the air, fucking me slowly and deeply while he nibbled the back of my neck. On top of him, riding him, feeling him watch my bouncing tits and dig his fingers into my hips to get deeper.

He always came inside, and the moment he finished, with his cock still hard, he’d put it back in me. He fucked me with his cum still dripping out of me, slippery, scandalous, until my pussy was swollen and burning. Sometimes he’d turn me over and lick his semen off my thighs, and that was the only time in my life it seemed exciting instead of dirty.

I have one oddity that always served me well: I almost never come when I’m being fucked. That let me endure the longest sessions without wearing out, take him again and again without asking for a break. With Darío, for the first time, I genuinely wanted to finish with him. I worked myself over, rubbing my clit with my fingers while he drove into me, squeezing his cock with my pussy, looking for the exact angle. Once in a while I managed it and came screaming against his mouth, dripping all over his dick, and he’d look at me with that satisfied-male smile that made me want to bite his face. I almost never managed it, but I didn’t care. It was enough to feel him inside me and believe, for a while, that this was love and not business.

To avoid losing him, I got a steadier job as an accountant at a food distributor. Twelve hours a day for a pittance, but it was a fixed salary. The problem was that on weekends I also started working in a restaurant, and those were exactly the days Darío came to town looking for me. The endless afternoons in my bed ended. He got tired of traveling for nothing, and one day he simply showed up with another woman. I think he already had her before he left me.

I broke up with Darío in March, and I cried for him like I never cried for anyone else. But the neighborhood doesn’t forgive mourning: you have to eat, you have to pay, you have to keep going.

***

Right then he appeared, my perfect prey. A mature foreigner I met through messages, one of those men whose voices melt at the sound of a whispered Latin girl. For him, my accent was a siren song.

I went at him without giving him a moment’s rest. For nine months I worked him over by phone, hours and hours every day, building the character of the young woman who only dreams of an experienced man. I swore that guys my age had only been an experiment, that I needed a grown man who would treat me like a real woman. I masturbated for him over video calls, legs spread in front of the camera, slipping two fingers into my pussy while I moaned that he should imagine his cock inside me. I sent him voice notes in the middle of the night whispering that I was wet thinking about him, that I wanted him to finish in my mouth, that I dreamed of kneeling down and sucking him to the last drop. All lies, all script.

I acted submissive, accommodating, faithful. I made him believe the money he sent me was secondary, that what I wanted was him.

Lie, again. I only wanted enough dollars to cross the border and start over, far from Las Palomas, without him in my plans. While I wrote him eternal promises, Wilmer and Édgar, two coworkers, were filling my body every week in the warehouse. With Wilmer it was quick and rough: he’d lift me onto the rice sacks, rip off my panties, and fuck me standing up, my legs wrapped around his waist, covering my mouth with his hand so I wouldn’t scream. Édgar was gentler, older, and he liked me to get on all fours over the office desk and stick my ass back. Both of them always came inside, and I’d wipe myself with printer paper before going back to accounting.

I swore to him that with my coworkers it was nothing. I swore I slept alone, that I didn’t even touch myself thinking about anyone else, that my pussy was his even if we were an ocean apart.

But the old man wasn’t stupid. Something in my contradictions didn’t add up. And one day, careless, I put up a status photo where I could be seen too close to Wilmer. I gave myself away.

At the beginning of September he sent me a long, cold message. He said he could see his whole world in danger, that he recognized in me the hustler so many people warn about in these countries, that he wasn’t going to pull me out of misery just because I demanded it more and more shamelessly. The same conclusion Aníbal had reached years before. On the exact day the nine months were up, he left me.

***

I didn’t collapse. By then I was twenty-four and had a seduction arsenal few could match. I quickly found my next victim, this time a guy my age, ugly and awkward, one of those who’ve barely touched a woman. He fell into my claws in a matter of days.

The first time I fucked him, I made him shake. He came inside me in less than a minute, with his cock barely in, and turned red with shame. I held him, stroked his hair, and whispered that he was the best lover I’d ever had in my life. I made him believe that nobody had ever filled me like he did, that his cock was the thickest I’d ever felt, that my panties fell off just from seeing him. Since then I’ve had him caught by the soul and the balls.

I’ve got him trapped between my legs, handling him with little spoiled-girl whispers. I ride him whenever I want, suck his cock when I need something expensive, let him finish on my tits and tell him I love feeling his semen on my skin. He cries for love after fucking me, and I stroke his face thinking about the bus fare I still need to buy.

I made him believe the baby I’m carrying is his, when in reality it’s Darío’s, the last gift he left me before disappearing. My poor boy is going to raise it as his own, a happy cuck who doesn’t suspect a thing.

He dreams of becoming a pilot one day. I’ll be the only one who makes him fly high, between my thighs, while I finish gathering what I need to leave.

This is my confession, no makeup. I’m not looking to be understood or forgiven. In Las Palomas, you’re not born to be loved: you’re born to survive. And on that, I learned more than anyone.