At only five feet two and twenty-one years young, with silky dirty-blonde hair down to her waist, bushy eyebrows that showcased her enchantingly playful green eyes, feisty thin lips that feared not to spoke her truth, and a literary cliché button nose—Arabella was that nerdy, merrily perky, and busty-petite blonde you couldn’t help but to undress with your eyes because of her squisably plumb, bruisably pale, and helplessly fertile hourglass silhouette.

If you pictured short flexible legs, a thigh gap, no bush, succulent thighs, broader hips than a seizable derrière, back-dimples, a soft abdomen and a compact waistline, heavily ripe yet unreasonably firm breasts of wide and puffy areolas that not so much rest but protrude from fairly thin crossed arms, and unexplainably narrow ankles that somehow supported all of above—then you need to stop so thirstily objectifying women, but you’d be right.

Even in her part-time job uniform—a black baseball cap with the Dairy King logo, a red polo blouse, and dark skinny jeans—she reckoned she looked, like those misogynistic internet forums say, too-busty-to-hide. The tip jar seemed to agree with her. As an aspiring psychology major and cursed with not being able of dressing sexy without looking slutty, she preferred to attend classes in skater skirts, dark stockings, booties, any short sleeve button down blouse, and a cardigan on top.

That day in class, she—more so announced rather than—confess that three months ago she had been notified that the late Aunt Agatha had stated in her will that her youngest female relative—in this case obviously her, Arabella—were to inherit an absurdly large amount of money is she were to conceive and deliver offspring of her own before her twenty-third birthday. That she still didn’t even know how to feel about it or if she had decided to go through with it, but that now eighteen months seemed like a dauntingly short amount of time. And that she wanted to discuss the ethics of either speed-dating looking for a suitable partner or, giving the lack of time, having intercourse with multiple consenting donors while dating all of them to increase the chances of, both, securing a pregnancy and the right partner to join her in this crazy journey at the risk of not being the biological father.

If successful, financially, she wouldn’t need a partner, but she very much prefer to at least attempt to venture at finding some kind of connection—if not even love—than not.

She finished by saying, “Being this a safe, I just want to respectfully let you guys know that if you’re interested in either dating or simply donating—and by donating enthusiastically consensual intercourse— or both, this is your chance to shoot your shot. Pun intended! After all, I have a huge breeding kink.”

If interested, send me a lovely orange envelope with your character's description (who are you: an acquaintance, friend, classmate, coworker, professor?) and an opener that includes: what your character originally wanted to do (pursue a relationship or just fuck), where did you take me for a date, what are we doing at the moment, and a genuinely curious yet sexually charged question you'd ask in this situation as an ice opener.

Kinks: figuring out if we are good match by openly talking about kinks, sex, and habits in casual conversation during our first date slash donation interview. If I like you, then we’ll get down to business. Handjobs, blowjobs, titjobs, cum, realistic descriptions of penises and erections, masturbation, boob play, praise, being both courted and objectified in casual conversation and during sex, multiple sex positions, answering questions, curiosity, creativity and wit.

Limits: gagging, sloppy blowjobs, face abuse, non-con, power play, humiliation, anal.