Deep in You(7)

By: Penny Wylder


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.

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