Lunch break, AKA, just enough time to stuff my mouth full of the sub-par sandwiches we sourced from a shop nearby, then get back to work.

But part of my brain has been mulling over Lara’s comment since she made it just a couple hours ago.

What about an escort?

I’d never even thought about that possibility, let alone considered it. Escorts aren’t something you think about. Especially not when you’re a nice suburban girl who owns a cute bakery in town and works her ass off to make her business successful.

Then again, don’t nice guys hire escorts all the time? And what’s the difference between a one-night stand you find in a random bar versus one you contract, anyway?

Especially if the latter might actually be open to the kinks you’ve always dreamed about pursuing, but never found the right partner to chase them with…

I shiver and shake my head. No. Lara’s right. I’m just going stir-crazy because I haven’t had sex with a real live human in years. I just need to go out on the town and find someone to hook up with, that’s all.

Except that that’s never really been my style. The couple one-night stands I’ve tried have all sucked ass. And the time and commitment it would take—getting all dolled up, trying to flirt with dudes in bars all over again…?

Versus just ordering the sex I want online. From someone I could be completely upfront with about what I want, when I want it.

There’s something kind of empowering about that idea. The idea that I can just be totally upfront right from the get-go about what I want a guy to do to me…

It might be nice to recharge with another person for once, instead of just my drawer full of tricks.

So I find myself setting aside my crappy lunch sandwich and opening a tab on the computer. I do a search for male escorts with our town name, and despite the furious blush I feel rising to my face at just typing in those words, I hit the search bar.

A few websites pop up right away. The first few look sleazy as hell, all weird fonts and a million popups. I close them and scroll back to the search results, disheartened.

But then I notice the website beneath them. This one looks a lot more professional—between the header, “Sex the way you want it,” the neat layout, the easy-to-follow page setup, it looks like an actual, legit company. Not some scam site that’s about to dupe you out of your credit card details at the first chance it gets.

I click it open. Here to Serve, is the name of the website itself. And damn, just from the taste on the first page, if any of those men came to serve me, I know I’d leap at the chance.

I stare at the guys on here. From the handsome, hunky slim-jawed guys to the bigger dudes, more my type—the 6’5” broad-shouldered bearded Viking types who look like they could sling me over their shoulders and carry me off for a good hard fuck—there’s not a bad option in sight.

But one guy in particular catches my attention. Not least because there’s a scrolling banner attached to his profile picture that says FetLife Approved.

I’m kinky enough to recognize that moniker at least. I tap on his photo and scroll through his profile.

He’s 6’6”, with a broad, smooth chest in the photo and messy black hair that falls into his eyes and down over his ears in scraggly waves. His dark beard is thick and full, though not any longer than his chin, so he doesn’t have the scary Santa-beard thing going on that some of these guys do. But it’s his eyes that get me, at least at first. They’re a light gray, somewhere between blue and slate, that seem like they’re gazing right at me through the computer screen.

His topless photo nearly makes me lock the office door and spend way longer on my lunch break than I can afford to. His bare chest is perfectly chiseled, from his pecs all the way down to his washboard abs, complete with that V-line muscle that drives me insane, pointed like an arrow straight to his crotch.

He’s about a million percent my type. Like, if I could dream up a guy from my latest wet dream and force him out into the real world, here he’d be.

Caleb British, reads the obviously fake name at the header of his profile.

I’m into sexy, kinky ladies who know what they want and aren’t afraid to ask for it, his profile reads, just that single line of print below his other stats, like his weight, the amount he can bench press (far more than I weigh, which is good to know for potential upright fucking positions, I guess), and other essentials.

Then, lit up right beside that profile line, is a big red button: CONTACT.

What’s the harm? I think as I let the mouse hover over that button. I mean, it’s not like I’m actually going to hire an escort. But it could be fun to message him, see how easy this could be…

It’s like practice, I tell myself. Practice at being completely upfront with guys and telling them exactly what I want and how I want it before I go for it.

Besides, it’s taking my sex life into my own hands. Isn’t that what women are supposed to be doing nowadays? This is my idea, my choice… My ridiculous foray into escort-dom. It’ll be fine.

I hit the contact button and eye the form that pops up. The top half is normal—name, age, contact details, form of payment—I select cash for that one, because as legitimate as this site may look, there’s no way in hell I’m giving them my credit card details yet. It also says it needs my real name and an address so they can perform a background check to keep their escorts safe, which I think is actually pretty cool of them. It specifies that it won’t give your address to any of its clients ever, and won’t give it to any escorts except ones you pre-agree to book, which seems secure. I fill that part in without a second thought.

The second half of the form, on the other hand, is a little bit less normal.

Describe your desires, it says. A little bubble beneath it clarifies. Please be as explicit and detailed as possible so that we can ensure the escort you’ve selected matches the style of interaction you would like. In parenthesis, it adds, Include any sex acts you do or do not wish to participate in.

I swallow hard. But then again, this is what I wanted. Practice being upfront. And besides, it’s behind a computer screen, completely anonymous. I don’t need to worry about anyone judging me or taking this the wrong way.

So I check the door of the office one last time, then lean over the screen and start to fill in the second half of the form. I write it all down. Everything I’ve been too scared to share with the world. Everything guys have been turned off by in the past. Everything I want.

I’m looking for a guy to fill me up in a way no man has ever managed. I want you to use anal beads, plugs, dildos, anything you’d like on me—don’t worry, I can provide any toy you want to experiment with, I write. My cheeks light up bright red even typing that, but I keep going. But I want you to make me feel like I’m being fucked by two men at once, without a second man being there. Double penetration is my game, but I’m not big on sharing beds with more than one partner… I’m a size queen—I want it in every hole at once, as thick as possible, and I want you to make me feel full in a way I never have before. Deep-throat and anal both better than okay—I want it.

I swallow hard. It feels so strange to see it all written out like that. Exactly what I want, how I want it. But this is just practice, I tell myself. I’m not going to actually hire this guy.

I hit send and close the screen as fast as possible. Then I wipe the browser history and clean up the computer. I don’t want to get our work computer infected with anything.

That done, I shake off the feeling that I’ve made a really strange decision. I finish eating my sandwich and head back into the kitchen without looking back. The website was probably a scam anyway. Or if it was legit, they’ll take one look at my profile and that message and delete it for being too weird anyway.

I distract myself by working on the cakes. We managed to get one order of the three finished, but we’re still hard at work on the second one for today. I doubt we’ll finish the third order, which means I’ll need to come in early tomorrow morning.

I try to ignore that as I roll up my sleeves and jump back in.

But within half an hour, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I rinse my hands off for long enough to check it.

New email.

From that website.

My heart leaps into my throat. Already?

I click it open on my phone. It takes me to the same site, to a log-in page. Once I log in, it shows a new message from Caleb British. My heart pounds, feeling like it’s lodged in my neck, as I click open the message.

Hey Hot Stuffed ;) reads the subject line. My cheeks flush, if possible, even brighter red than they usually are back here in the kitchen with the ovens fired up hot.

“Be right back,” I call over my shoulder to Carl and Jen as I duck into the bathroom. Only once the door is safely closed behind me do I let myself scroll through the rest of his response.

I’m getting hard already just thinking about stuffing you full. I can fill you like no other man has, believe me. You bring the toys; I’ll bring my thick cock, and let’s see if we can plug all your holes in one night. Tonight, specifically. My schedule is wide open—let me know if your legs could be too. Size queen, you’ve finally met your match.

He signs off with that promise alone. No name, nothing else. But I can’t deny the deep throb of desire I feel at that pledge.

Not only is this guy not freaked out by my request, but also he seems turned on by it. Can he really deliver on this promise? Fuck me enough for two guys combined?

There’s one way to find out.

My finger hovers over the reply button. There’s a little side note with his rates—honestly, not as much money as I would have expected—and then a dropdown option:

8PM Booking

10PM Booking

No Thanks

I stare at that for a minute and start to laugh under my breath. Then I shake my head and snap out of it. What on earth am I thinking?

I unlock the bathroom and slip outside, all the while scrolling through those options with one hand. I tap on the last one, No Thanks. This has been a fun experiment, but I’m obviously not going to go through with it.

Then I open the door wider and walk straight into Lara.

“Hey, how’s it going back here?” she asks, right as I’ve got this incriminating as hell website open on my phone, in plain view of her.

“Great!” I cry as I quickly tap the Reply option as fast as possible and try to close the window before she sees the message.

Unfortunately, the screen is tricky to work, and the website’s auto response buttons are a little finicky. I hit enter just as I realize that I tapped on the scroll selection again. This time, as I watch it hit send, my mouth drops open. I accidentally selected 8PM Booking instead of the No Thanks option.

“Shit,” I gasp.

“What?” Lara leans over my shoulder to squint.

An automatic popup appears.

Thank you for booking with Here to Serve. Your appointment has been set for 8PM. <Caleb British> will meet you at the address in your profile section unless otherwise specified.

I’m too busy staring open-mouthed at that response to register Lara reading over my shoulder until I hear her faint intake of breath.

“Is this… what I think it is?”

“Um… Depends if you think it’s what you suggested earlier or not?” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Dammit, I didn’t mean to select that option. How do I cancel it?” I tap on the screen frantically, searching for other options. There’s not even an option to reply to the message, let alone change my preferences. “Oh my god, I can’t go through with this, I put in way too much detail.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Lara starts. She pats my shoulder to get my attention.

I’m too busy freaking out at the phone to notice. “Crap, I have to cancel this—”

Lara snatches the phone from my hands before I go too far over the deep end. “Relax,” she tells me, and then she takes over searching for me.

I stand hovering over her shoulder, lips pressed into a thin hard line, as I watch my friend hunt for a way to cancel the appointment I just made with an escort for tonight.

We find a contact button at the bottom of the page, but their hours are listed as 9am-5pm, and it’s already past 5.

We reply within 48-72 hours, guaranteed! It proclaims cheerily.

“Shit,” I swear again.

“Hey, don’t worry.” Lara rests a hand on my arm. “It’s a simple fix. He’s coming to you, right? So you just meet him and say it was a mistake, and ask to cancel. Worst comes to worst, you might have to pay him some kind of cancellation fee or something, but that’s all. It’s not worth panicking over.”

I can feel myself nodding. “You’re right, yeah. I’ll just tell him it’s a mistake.”

Lara searches my face for a moment to make sure I’m not still secretly freaking. Then she breaks into stifled laughter.

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

“I can’t believe you did it, that’s all,” she chuckles.

“You told me to!” I protest, elbowing her.

“I was joking.” She rolls her eyes and passes the phone back. “Though hey, maybe this will help after all. I mean you do need to get laid, so… And who knows? Maybe he’s into your same secretive desires.”

My cheeks flare bright red yet again. I elbow her once more for good measure and tuck my phone into my pocket. “So not funny.”

“This coming from the girl who just hired an escort for the evening.”

If I could melt into the floor right now and disappear, I would. “If you tell anyone about this, I swear to god—”

“Oh come on.” Lara hooks her arm through mine and squeezes me to her side, trying and failing to placate me. “Who the hell would I tell? You’re the only person I talk to these days anyway. You’re turning me into just as bad a workaholic as you are.”

I snort, but fall into step beside her, headed back toward the kitchen. Just a few more hours here. And then I have to head home and…

Well…

I shake my head. No. I’m not getting dressed up or anything to meet this guy. I’m just going to open the door, tell him it’s all a big misunderstanding but no thank you, and then go to bed early.

Clearly I am sleep deprived. It’s the only explanation for the insane decisions I’ve made so far today.

Hopefully after a long shower and time to consider my life choices, I’ll make better ones tomorrow, I think.