He’d promised me last time that things would be different. That he’d hand me the reins, play the submissive for once. Yet the moment I walked back into that gleaming Piccadilly penthouse, I saw it in his eyes. He had no intention of letting go.
It wasn’t that I disliked it — but surrender has never come naturally to me. I like to decide the pace, the rhythm, the moment. Still, he paid well and carried a presence that made it difficult to argue. So I slipped into the game again.
He insisted we begin in the lounge, glasses of champagne in hand, easing into character.
“May I buy you a drink, beautiful?” he said with that crooked grin, as though the penthouse bar was any other.
I let my gaze drift over him, taking my time before smiling. “Mmmm… why not.”
We played our parts. His flirting was clumsy, mine polished. Eventually, with a glance towards the stairs, I suggested we head up. He followed, victorious, though we both knew who had really chosen.
Once the door closed, his mask dropped. He stepped close, lips brushing my neck, voice rough with control. “You’re irresistible,” he murmured. My pulse betrayed me before my mind had a chance to intervene.
He pushed, always testing how far I’d go. “Excited?”
I couldn’t form an answer. He pressed harder, repeating the question until I whispered a shaky yes.
The truth embarrassed me — how easily he made me lose footing, how quickly the lines blurred between escort and woman undone. He toyed with me, keeping me just out of reach, making me whisper please until the word lost its dignity.
Then suddenly, nothing. He withdrew, leaving me gasping, my body arching towards him without consent. His laughter filled the space, low and merciless.
“Look at yourself,” he said, eyes narrowing, “so desperate you’d beg for more.”
Shame warmed my skin, but so did something else. The twisted pleasure of being seen, of being broken down just enough.
“How badly do you want it?” he asked.
“I’ll do anything,” I admitted, the words quiet but true.
“Anything?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Anything,” I repeated, this time steady.
His command was simple. “On your knees.”
I dropped fast, the marble floor biting at me, but I didn’t care. In that penthouse, under his gaze, I wasn’t leading. I was yielding — and wishing, shamefully, that the play would never end.
If this has you curious about how far the game can really go, have a look at our submissive escorts in London. And if you want another glimpse into how adventurous these nights can get, read an Adventurous Night in Baker Street — it still lingers in my head, that one.