Her Dirty Professor Series (21+)

I can still remember the last time I tried to honestly explain what I wanted. It was with Derrick, after he said he was interested in trying some kinky stuff. I asked him to lube up one of my really thick dildos and use his hands to push that into my pussy while he fucked me in the ass. He turned a shade of red I’ve never seen outside of our signature Red Velvet cakes, and told me he couldn’t imagine doing that to a nice girl like me.

We broke up a couple weeks later.

But it wasn’t just Derrick. Even the kinkier guys I’ve dated, ones who claimed when we first met that it’s hot that I’m open to weirder sex, have balked at my desires. One guy, Patrick, really tried to fulfill my wishes. He went as far as putting anal beads in my ass while he fucked me. But he wasn’t aggressive about it, he wouldn’t use the bigger beads that I wanted, and his cock, to be honest, wasn’t thick enough to really make me feel completely full.

I’ve just come to terms with the fact that what I actually want-to feel like I’m being fucked by two guys, double-penetration at its finest, but without actually having a threesome-is impossible. Not to mention, it makes most guys uncomfortable and feel kind of inadequate.

“I’m sure there’s some guy somewhere who’s into the same stuff,” Lara protests.

I shake my head. She has no idea. Guys get intimidated when I tell them I need to feel full like never before. No guy has ever managed to come close to doing it, either. “I don’t have time to date anyway,” I say by way of excuse. “When would I go out with someone? Besides, I’ve tried the one-night-stand thing, you know that. Random hookups aren’t really my thing either.” They turn out just as uncomfortable as long-term hookups, if not more so. And the couple times I’ve tried it, the guys have had the same reactions to learning about my kinks as guys I’ve known for way longer anyway.

Lara purses her mouth and watches me work on the schedule for a few moments. “What about an escort?” Lara asks.

She says it so nonchalantly, so casually, that for a second I do a double-take. I look up from the register and stare at her for a solid minute before I realize that I heard that correctly.

“What, like a prostitute?” I hiss, voice lowered just in case Carl or Jen pop out from the back of the shop, or a customer walks in the front.

Lara laughs and shakes her head. “They’re not the same-”

“Pretty sure paying someone for sex is the same thing,” I mutter.

“Still! If you know what you want, and if it’s sooo specific that you can’t even admit it to me, or find it out in the wider world…”

“Oh my god, I cannot believe you are suggesting I hire a prostitute just to get fucked so that I’ll be less stressed-out and won’t snap at you.”

Lara laughs again, louder this time. “That’s not why. I’m concerned about you, Carmine. You need to get laid! Girls have needs.”

“And I am perfectly capable of fulfilling my own needs, thank you very much,” I reply with a toss of my head.

Lara shrugs. “Suit yourself. I just meant, if you don’t want to spend the time meeting someone at a bar, and you know what you want, seems like hiring someone online makes total sense. Saves time, gets you the necessary… Maybe you’d actually find someone into the same kinks as you.”

My cheeks flush bright red-especially when the doorbell tinkles and a customer steps inside, coat clutched against the fall breeze outdoors.

I shoot Lara a pointed we’ll talk about this later look and she scurries to help our customer.

As for me, I finish polishing off the schedule-there are a couple things we can shuffle around if I’m honest, and buy ourselves a little more breathing room to play with next week. Just in case we have another cake collapsing fiasco.

Then I pull my apron back on, smile wide for our new customer, who’s currently looking over the cake decor books in Lara’s capable hands, and head back into the kitchen to get this show back on the road.

Escort, I think with a laugh, shaking my head. Lara doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

…

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…Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

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.