When you work as a London escort girl, evenings rarely go to plan. One moment I was curled up in pyjamas watching Netflix, the next I was wandering through Shoreditch for an impromptu date night. He was a regular, someone who didn’t need me polished to perfection. No makeup, no heels, just me as I was. Sometimes I think that’s why men book a mature escort—because the confidence isn’t in the gloss, but in the ease of knowing how to make a moment feel alive.
One summer evening I was curled on the sofa in my pyjamas, half-watching Netflix, half-drifting, when my phone buzzed. Alex. One of my regulars. His day had been brutal, and he was desperate for company. I hesitated, chewing my lip. I told him I wasn’t dressing up, no makeup, nothing. He laughed it off.
So I found myself wandering through the streets of Shoreditch, the air thick with jasmine and late-summer warmth. And then, there he was. Blond hair catching the glow of streetlamps, shirt slightly undone, looking like trouble disguised as confidence.
We fell into our usual banter, teasing each other as if the city belonged to us. He bought me ice cream—ridiculous and perfect—and I let him, because really, who says no to sweetness on a night like that?
We walked on, weaving through narrow alleyways until he steered us toward a small, discreet hotel. Inside, the hush wrapped around us, a different kind of invitation.
In his room the air changed. Our eyes locked, and the silence between us turned electric. The kiss came fast, almost clumsy, like we’d been holding it in for weeks. We stumbled against the walls, laughing breathlessly, half-apology, half-dare. At one point he tugged too hard on my dress and muttered an apology, promising to replace it. I only laughed harder.
Clothes gave way to skin, and skin gave way to the kind of closeness that left no space for words. The night folded us in, our movements a mix of tenderness and urgency. There was laughter threaded through the heat—him whispering promises he’d never keep, me pretending to believe them.
Afterwards, we collapsed side by side, still catching our breath, sweat cooling on our skin. I traced a fingertip along his arm, amused at the chaos we’d made of the bed.
“Ready for round two?” I teased, voice low, playful.
He brushed my cheek with his hand, that mischievous glint in his eye. “Only if you are.”
I bit my lip, shook my head, and laughed softly. “Not tonight. Maybe next week.”
The room was quiet again, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full, heavy with something that lingered long after the city outside had gone still.
Discover more stories that mix intimacy with playful twists. Read Strapon Fun with a Fulham Escort or enjoy breast worship in a Kensington Hotel.