I’d been working as a London escort for only three months when I convinced myself nothing could really surprise me anymore. That smug little thought didn’t last long. A new client, Harry, called with a request that came out haltingly, like he wasn’t sure if I’d laugh at him. At first, he mumbled something about wanting me to act like his girlfriend. Nothing unusual there—I’ve had plenty of men looking for GFE escorts in London. But then he explained. He didn’t mean candles and whispered affection in a hotel room. He meant affection in public. At a wedding.
His fiancée had broken up with him a few weeks before, and now they were both invited to the same ceremony. She already had someone new. He refused to walk in alone. I said yes, perhaps too quickly, because honestly I loved the idea.
When the day came, he met me at a hotel in Queensway with nerves written all over his face. He apologised again for the “strange” request, but I shook my head. “Strange? Harry, this is practically a romance film,” I teased. He wasn’t entirely convinced, so he produced the dress. A mahogany red gown with tiny gems stitched into the bodice, paired with velvet heels to match. I changed and suddenly felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s life. We rehearsed our little script—how long we’d supposedly been together, where we first met—before stepping into the taxi.
I could feel his hand trembling. So I took it, threading my fingers through his. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine,” I murmured. He swallowed, confessed he wasn’t ready to see her. “Then don’t see her,” I said softly. “Just see me.”
At the wedding, he played his part well. Introduced me to his friends, who seemed amused, even approving. I noticed many of them with younger dates, so we blended in easily. I stayed close to him, smiling, even when one of his friends tried his luck flirting. Harry didn’t bat an eyelid, just let me cling to his arm as though I belonged there.
Then it happened. She appeared. Stunning, model-like, the kind of woman who makes you instinctively check your reflection. Harry froze. I leaned closer and whispered, “Hand on my waist. Now.” He obeyed, still shaking.
Her voice was honeyed, almost too sweet. “Harry! It’s been ages.” She moved as though she might hug him. We took a deliberate step back. He introduced me as his girlfriend, pushing me slightly forward. I extended a hand, but she ignored it, eyes sliding over me like I was an obstacle rather than a person. Harry’s hand pressed lower against my back—too low, really, but it sold the illusion.
I smiled, the kind of smile only a professional escort can perfect, the smile that says I’m untouchable and I know it. Together we drifted away, leaving her standing slack-jawed.
The second we were out of earshot we burst into laughter. He mimicked her posh accent, I teased her expression, and we both lost ourselves in the ridiculous relief of it all. For the rest of the night, the role play felt less like a job and more like a shared joke between us.
By the time the wedding ended, Harry asked if I’d see him again. I didn’t hesitate. I actually liked him. Sometimes pretending gives you a glimpse of something real.
If you enjoyed this story, you may also want to read Candles, Roleplay and a Massage Escort for another evening where make-believe blurred beautifully with reality.