Today everything seemed to align. My hair fell into place without effort, the sun slipped kindly through the curtains, and I woke with that rare sense of being truly rested. Perhaps it was more than chance though — perhaps it was the knowledge that I’d be seeing Keith later.
He wasn’t just another client. He was one of those rare men who made this work feel like play, who carried an easy charm that disarmed me, even when he was coaxing me into new games. Our last time together had been electric in more ways than one, yet tonight he kept the plan secret. Normally I like to be prepared, but with Keith, I let myself enjoy the anticipation.
I stayed casual. Shorts, a loose top, no makeup. After so many meetings, he knew me better than the surface gloss. At six sharp, the doorbell rang.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said, smiling as if he’d been waiting all day for this. A pizza box dangled from his hand.
I raised a brow.
“Two days ago,” he reminded me, “you said what you really needed was pizza and a quiet night in.”
I laughed, startled by how much attention he paid to small throwaway lines. “Are you serious?”
“Completely. We can do whatever you want. Even nothing. I’ll still pay you.”
So we curled up together on the sofa, slices in hand, the television filling the silence we didn’t need to fill. His arm slipped around me, and I let myself lean against him. It wasn’t the food or the programme that mattered, but the warmth, the ease, the way I felt oddly safe.
The laughter on screen spilled into our own. Our banter softened into something playful, almost tender. Strange, how after so many encounters, the most intimate moment turned out to be this — the quiet domesticity of pizza grease and shared giggles.
At some point my head found its way to his chest. The closeness stirred something restless in me. My hand wandered, his shifted too. Permission was wordless. He hesitated though, whispering, “You don’t have to.”
I kissed him instead of answering. A long, slow kiss that deepened until breath gave way to need. Before long I was straddling him, laughter breaking between our mouths as we teased, resisted, surrendered in turns. Clothes disappeared without ceremony, and his careful preparation — a foil packet slipped from his pocket — made me grin. “Always ready,” I teased.
The rest unfolded in its own rhythm, not frantic, but layered with pauses, stolen looks, and moments where we both pulled back just to savour. At one point I stopped him with a hand on his chest, not ready to let it end too soon. He smiled as if he understood without words, and his hands found other ways to unravel me.
When I finally tipped into release, it was with a gasp that felt like it cracked something open inside me. He followed, collapsing beside me with a laugh that shook the last of the tension away.
“That,” I murmured, still catching my breath, “might be hard to top.”
He grinned at the ceiling. “Then I’ll have to think of something better for next week.”
Nights like this remind me why being an independent escort in London never quite feels routine. It isn’t always the polished suites or the carefully rehearsed roleplay. Sometimes it’s as ordinary as a pizza box on the coffee table, laughter that makes you forget yourself, and that slow heat that sneaks up until you suddenly realise you’re in deeper than you meant to be. I suppose that’s the part I never get used to.
And if this little confession leaves you wanting more, there’s another story where the mood shifts into something softer, almost romantic — An Aldgate Hotel GFE Filled with Kisses.