by Penny Wylder
“We have every Sunday off,” I point out.
She snorts. “That doesn’t count.”
I wag a finger at her. “Don’t let any of our religiously-inclined customers catch you saying that.”
Lara groans. “Carmine, you haven’t got a single sanctimonious bone in your body, so don’t pretend that you take Sunday off because it’s holy. You’d work every single day, 365 days a year if I’d let you.”
“And? I’ve got good work ethic,” I reply as I shrug on my apron and dust myself down, getting ready to head into the back and fire up the ovens.
“There’s good work ethic and then there’s excessive to the point of becoming detrimental work ethic,” she calls after me.
I ignore her. There’s too much to do to waste time debating this anyway.
By the time our two assistants, Carl and Jen, arrive, I’m already elbow-deep in a bowl of batter. I shout instructions at them over my shoulder, and together the three of us set about putting together a 3-tiered wedding cake for the Deutsch wedding tomorrow. Next up on the docket will be the 5-tier for the Hendricks wedding, and after that a simple 2-tier for the Barrows, which I’ll save until the end of the day, because their wedding isn’t until Sunday morning. But since we close on Sunday, and tomorrow we need to get moving on the anniversary cake and several birthday parties we’re catering for Monday, I’ve calculated that we need to get that cake in the oven by end of day at the latest.
Things are running smoothly until 10am. At 10am, Carl steps out back for a smoke break without warning Jen. Jen, busy with prepping the fondant for the Deutsch cake, misses the Hendricks’ first tier coming out of the oven, which we set on an automatic roller to save time and prevent over-baking. The cake falls out of the automatic dispenser with a clatter, and before I even turn around to witness the aftermath, I can already tell it’s bad from Jen’s shriek.
There’s cake everywhere. Cake, and the bowl of fondant mix that Jen upended in her rush to catch the falling cake.
I manage to reign in my freak-out. I instruct Jen to clean up, step out back and grab Carl to help, and then get down on hands and knees myself to assist. Together, the three of us manage to put the kitchen back in some semblance of working order. But by the time we’ll have another first tier ready to bake, we’ll already be a few hours behind schedule.
That’s when Lara pops her head into the back.
“Carmine? Can you come help me review the orders for next week?”
“That’s your jurisdiction,” I call back, my voice tight.
“I just want to make sure we’re only taking on the number of orders we can reasonably handle,” she replies. “I was reviewing the books and it seems like there might be more here than we can really finish in time.”
“There’s exactly as many orders as we can handle,” I snap. “No more, no less.”
“Carmine.”
My back stiffens. I recognize that tone. I’ve known Lara since college, and I can count on one hand the number of actual fights we’ve had. She doesn’t get pissed easily, and when she does, I’m almost always the one at fault. But that’s her borderline-annoyed tone. Which means a few more steps in the wrong direction, and we’re going to have a problem on our hands.
I take a deep breath and lock eyes with Carl, then Jen. Both of them have a deer-in-headlights expression on. They’re younger than Lara and me, just out of college, but they’ve been around the bakery long enough to know that my bestie and I never fight. Usually.
Then again, I usually don’t freak out on anyone for something like dropping a cake, either. Shit happens. Anyone that’s worked in the food industry long enough knows that.
So I take a second deep breath, yank off my apron, nod in what I hope is a reassuring manner to our two assistants, and then head out to the front of the shop.
“I’m sorry,” I say before Lara can start. “I’m just stressed—we dropped a cake, and now we’re behind schedule, and…” I stop when she holds up a hand.
“Did I not tell you that you were overbooking yourself this weekend?” she asks with an eyebrow raised.
I bite my lip. “Maybe.”
“And did I not warn you that mistakes happen and we need to build more free time into the schedule to accommodate for them?”
I clear my throat this time. “Also maybe.”
“So when I ask you to go over the schedule for next week and make sure it’s not too insane, your correct response should be…”
I groan. “Yes, okay, I’ll try to cut it down a little. But Lara, we’ve got so many orders pouring in—”
“Right, because we’re doing great. Carmine, we don’t have to squeeze in every single order we receive. People are clamoring for our cakes because they’re amazing, but we can’t meet every single demand we receive. And we don’t need to. People understand we’re busy, and they know they need to book us farther in advance. We can trim down the schedule a little bit without losing business, you know.”
I swallow hard. “I know, you’re right…”
“Are you okay?” Lara squints at me, a little more closely than I’d like. I remember the bags I spotted under my eyes last night, and how hard it was to drag myself out of bed this morning.
“I’m fine,” I mumble.
“You need to take care of yourself too, you know,” she replies. “Nobody’s getting any cakes if you go and work yourself into the ground.”
“I take care of myself,” I protest.
“Carmine, when was the last time you did anything but work?” Lara lifts an eyebrow and fixes me with a sardonic gaze. “Hell, when was the last time you got laid?”
“I…” I snap my mouth shut again, because I’m still counting.
She snorts again. “I bet you’d be a lot less snippy if you’d had sex anytime in the last two years, you know.”
“I’ve had sex!” I protest.
“Oh really? When?” she counters.
I bite my lip again. Shit. She’s right. Now that I think about it, I haven’t been with another person since… Well, since before we got the business loan approved for the store. Before Red Velvet’s official opening day. I’ve been with my collection of sex toys pretty regularly since then, but I’m guessing by Lara’s estimation that won’t count.
“It’s not that long,” I reply slowly.
“Carmine, you’re 28 years old. It’s not super normal to have not had sex with anyone for two whole years. Come on, get back out there, get laid! What have you got to lose besides some of this grumpy attitude?” She grins and slaps me on the shoulder.
I stomp away from her toward the cash register as a distraction. “What’s the point?” I call over my shoulder. “Remember the last guy I even came close to dating?” Derrick Weaver, the nerdiest guy in town. He was hot in a geeky kind of way, but in the bedroom, well…
“Derrick doesn’t count.” Lara leans against the counter and watches me double-check the schedule for next week, purse my lips, and then cross off a couple of the cakes, which we should be able to reschedule with the customers, since they’re for events that are still a few days in the future. “You told me the two of you had basically zero chemistry.”
“Because he wasn’t into anything I was into,” I protest.
“Ah yes, your mystery kink.” Lara rolls her eyes. I glare at her, but she widens her eyes and spreads her hands. “Serious question, Carmine. You won’t even tell me what you’re into. Are you sharing it with the guys you hook up with?”
“I’ve tried,” I protest. My friends all know that I’ve got some kinks in the closet.
It’s been a running joke since high school. But I’ve never felt like I needed to share with my nearest and dearest. The guys I’ve tried asking about exploring my fantasies have shut them down pretty fast—which makes me feel like my friends would do the same if they knew exactly what I like. Being stuffed so full I feel like I’ll explode. It’s not exactly a normal desire.
I lean back on the stool and sigh, coun
ting through my exes—not just the ones I’ve dated, but even the one-night stands. “I’ve talked to more than a few of them about it, Lara. And any guy I’ve ever talked to really openly about what I like has freaked out.”
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 décor 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.
3
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.