Babysitting a Sex Addict
Close protection is never easy, especially when it’s my cock I have to guard
“Thank you for coming at such short notice. I’m afraid our usual woman has let us down, and I don’t like to leave Candace unguarded on a Sunday. I did ask the agency for another female, but they said you were all that was available. So, here you are.”
Mrs de Vere is dripping with pearls, but not as much as her voice drips with disdain. I don’t think she appreciates my size seventeen boots on the polished teak floor of her vestibule.
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am. I’ll do my best to stand in for Marla. Are there any particular threats I should be aware of? Why is Sunday difficult, for example?”
Mrs de Vere sighs. “Weren’t you briefed? My daughter has nothing to do on a Sunday evening, so she gets bored. Mondays and Thursdays she has cheerleading practice, which usually goes on well into the night and ends with half the football team inside her. Tuesdays and Fridays she films her OnlyFans content with Carlos, or Gerry, or both. Wednesdays she sleeps over with a boyfriend, and on Saturday there’s always a party somewhere, and some rich old man who needs a beautiful escort. But Sundays? Nothing. Her therapist insisted on that. We’re trying to cure her addiction, you see, and the sabbath rest is meant to help wean her off it by giving her one night a week without any rumpy-pumpy. As you might imagine, she is not happy with the arrangement. She can get quite desperate when she’s deprived. It’s why I insist on a female bodyguard, you see? To remove temptation. But you’ll do, I suppose, as you’re gay.”
Of all the things the agency didn’t tell me before they rushed me out here, that’s the one I least needed to know.
“But I’m not — Erm, that is, I’m not, um… familiar with your protocols! Yeah, that’s it. I need to know how your usual protection officer works. What am I protecting Candace from, for instance?”
“From herself, you foolish man! And any of her boyfriends. Don’t let her leave, or them enter. I’ve checked her rooms, and she has no men squirreled away, so it’s just a question of keeping her entertained until I return tomorrow morning. Help yourself to anything on the bottom shelf of either fridge, please do not use our wifi to look at pandas or bears or whatever it is you people enjoy, and of course the wine cellar is off-limits, otherwise, make free use of anything you find in the house. Shall I introduce you to my daughter?”
Candace seems to have an entire wing of the de Vere mansion, and I trek along behind Mrs de Vere through several rooms and hallways before we find her daughter in a solarium, sitting on the window ledge, gazing out at the rain.
I can’t see the girl’s face at first, but she’s only wearing a t-shirt, with no skirt or trousers, so what I can see is plenty: long hair and even longer legs, both in shades of golden-brown. The way her t-shirt is sitting, it’s clear that if she has any underwear on, it’s very high cut. Her knees are drawn up, and her thighs — assuming Mrs de Vere is a reliable source — are unusually close together: touching, in fact, until she leaps up at the sound of our entry.
Mrs de Vere introduces me, after a fashion.
“Candace, this is…” she handwaves my forgotten name away, “…from the bodyguard agency. He’ll be looking after you tonight. And don’t be fooled by his rough appearance: he likes boys, so he won’t have any interest in your…” her eyes dart down, to just above the perilously high hem of Candace’s t-shirt, behind which Candace’s vulva is hopefully hidden by a second layer of cotton, “…nonsense. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted, then, and I’ll see you both tomorrow morning.”
Mrs de Vere turns on her Louboutin heel, and marches out.
Candace looks me up and down, and licks her lips; I resist returning the compliment. She sees a six-foot-six, three hundred pound slab of solid beef; I see a ten in her early twenties who could probably afford to buy her own mansion if she spends a year or two more on OnlyFans.
She stretches, in an exaggerated yawn. As she raises her arms, her t-shirt rises with them. There is no second layer of cotton: she has nothing on under her thin top.
“God, I am so bored! But at least you’re not bloody Marla again. What’s the name which Mummy forgot?”
“Frank.”
“Hello, Frank. You can call me Candy, until you bend me over this ledge and pound my little pussy: I prefer being called a filthy slut while I’m getting fucked.”
“I’m gay, Candy.”
She stares pointedly at my crotch. “No, you’re not.”
Sadly, my penis is even less good at lying than I am. “Okay, I’m not. But I am professional, and my job tonight is to prevent anyone calling you a slut.”
“So fuck me silently. Or call me a dirty bitch? Or a whore, or whatever. I’m quite flexible, really, as long as you take out what appears to be a very impressive cock and fuck me like I’m a cheap slut.”
My rock-hard penis and I have a brief, silent argument, which I win, to everyone’s disappointment.
“Not. Going. To. Happen. I’m a professional, and I work to a code of ethics. But hey, if you like what you see, maybe I could take you out to dinner next Saturday?”
“You couldn’t afford me. I’m a very expensive slut on a Saturday. But tonight I’m free, unless you decide to tie me up.”
“You’d charge for bondage?”
She rolls her pretty blue eyes. “It was a joke, Frank. A play on words, free being the opposite of both expensive and restrained. Do you see?”
Candace clearly learned disdain from her mother, and she’s quite the apprentice. I imagine her attitude is one which encourages many men to treat her the way she wants, ramming her contempt back into her before depositing their own on her face. I won’t be provoked in that way, although if she keeps it up, I may have to put her over my knee.
No! I’d better quash that thought. Much as I’d enjoy spanking some respect into her, it would position her dangerously close to my cock, which might win our argument if her taut body is pressed against it.
“I do see, Candace, yes. Very amusing. I’m going now, to watch one of the televisions I passed on the way here. Call me if you need anything that doesn’t involve my penis.”
“Cool, I guess. Ask Alexa for channel nine-eighty if you want to get in the mood to change your mind.”
“I’ll stick to the news, thank you.”
Candace managed to amuse herself for a couple of hours while I switched between BBC 24 and Sky News, equally bored by both. But just as I was settling in to watch a re-run of Mia Khalifa getting probed on HARDTalk, she shouted for me.
She was still in the solarium when I found her. She wasn’t on the ledge, though; her t-shirt was, but she was on her back on the floor, with her knees up. When I came in, she parted her legs, wide, so I couldn’t avoid seeing her meticulously waxed tourist attraction.
“I’m practicing my yoga, Francis, and I need your super gay help.”
“Naked yoga? Really?”
“Yes!”
“And what is this pose called?”
“They’re called asanas, yeah? And this one will be the Flower Press, if I can get it right. It’s supposed to open up my root chakra, although I think you might even be able to reach my sacral. Anyway, I’m meant to have my ankles behind my ears, and I’m just not flexible enough yet. You’ll need to kneel between my feet, then, when my legs are in the air, push down slowly on my calves until my toes touch the floor. Can you manage that?”
I can picture it. It’s a position I’d call ‘the mating press’. I’ve seen it in plenty of videos, although the actors weren’t doing yoga.
But what would I know? I’ve never even watched a yoga video. Flower Press could be a real ‘asana’ I suppose.
The thing is, most of our clients are rarely under any real threat, so an important part of close protection work is simply keeping the customer satisfied and securing repeat business. If I don’t help Candace, she could complain to her mother, Mrs de Vere might turn to a different agency, and Marla would lose a regular gig. I can’t do that to a colleague.
So I’ll help Candy. I have to. It’ll be fine. She might be naked, but I’m fully clothed and an ethical professional. Even if I do end up folding her like a pretzel, pinning her naked body down with my raging hard-on close enough to feel the heat of her pretty, pink, glistening, inviting… ah, bollocks to it!
So, yeah, that’s how I lost my job. Mrs de Vere returned to find me balls deep in her daughter for the fifth time since that yoga session. I did try to claim it was our first fuck, and as it was Monday morning, Candy was allowed some cock, but Mummy dearest didn’t buy it.
For the record, I can confirm it wasn’t possible to spank respect into Candy — not for me or for herself — but the cheap slut did enjoy my contempt dripping down her chin.
If I’m honest, I’m better off with the change of career: I only work Tuesday and Friday evenings now. And Candy gives a generous fifteen per cent to her co-stars, so while I do sometimes have to split that with Carlos, or Gerry, or both, my share still pays the rent.
