Some nights, being a GFE escort in Kensington feels like a gift. You slip into the dress, step into the role, and the whole evening hums with energy. But not that night. I’d slumped on the sofa for hours, crumbs on my lap, remote in hand, convincing myself I wouldn’t even leave the house. I wasn’t in the mood, not really.
Then came the call. The office almost begging, and me saying no—twice. By the third attempt the price had crept high enough that I sighed, rolled my eyes at myself, and said yes. Weakness or practicality, I’m still not sure.
He’d asked for me specifically. Usually that makes me wary, but when we finally met, his explanation was… different. He said I reminded him of his ex. Not exactly the compliment you dream of, but I could see he’d had a hard day. What he wanted wasn’t just company, it was comfort.
I kissed him first, throwing myself into it more than I expected. He held back, stubborn, as if giving up control would cost him something. But eventually he softened, breath shaky, and for a moment the balance tipped my way. That tug of war between us threaded through the whole night. I usually like to lead—habit of mine—but there was something grounding in letting him take over now and then.
At one point he paused, right when things were heated, and blurted out, “Would you choose me?” Honestly, I almost laughed in his face. Not cruelly, just… the timing. My voice was hoarse from moaning and here he was asking for reassurance like a boy at a school dance. I told him plainly to stop doubting himself. The smile that followed made the whole thing worth it.
The rest blurred—me on top, him tugging me back down, half play, half earnest. He even asked me to rate him at one stage, biting his lip like he half-expected me to say “terrible.” I threatened to give him minus one if he stopped again, which broke the tension. That clumsy insecurity made him strangely more attractive, if I’m honest.
By the end we were tangled together, the room heavy with sweat and silence. Nothing neat about it. No storybook ending. Just two people who had both dragged themselves through the day, finding a flicker of warmth in each other.
And as I left, hair messy, my blouse hanging open, I couldn’t help thinking—sometimes High Street Kensington takes everything out of you. But sometimes, just sometimes, it gives something back.
If this side of me intrigues you, you might enjoy reading Late-Night Domination in Hammersmith—a very different night, darker and more demanding.