There’s something about massage escorts in London that feels different. Maybe because it isn’t about speed or fireworks, but the slower build, the touch, the way atmosphere changes a room.
My day was a wreck. Slept in, hair stuck in every direction, had to gulp down bitter coffee because I’d forgotten the milk. And then I still had a new client to meet. I always get nervous with new ones, doesn’t matter how long I’ve done this. Not so much about the odd requests anymore—I’ve seen most of them—it’s more that fear I’ll slip up, or worse, they’ll decide I’m just not enough. Part of me hoped he’d only want a massage, something simple, so I could be home eating ice cream before too long.
The lobby was buzzing when he appeared. Tall, older, but not tired-looking, not at all. White hair slicked back, neat beard. I’ve always had a weakness for a man who looks after himself, and that hit me straight away. Then he leaned down and kissed my hand—yes, really—and I flushed like it was my first date in years. Didn’t even know what to say.
I’d planned to get it over with quickly, but he wasn’t in any rush. It almost felt like he wanted to slow me down, and maybe he did. I even thought again of the ice cream in my freezer and nearly laughed at myself.
He asked me to join him for dinner downstairs. Actually pulled out my chair for me, all old-fashioned charm, and my chest fluttered in a way I didn’t expect. When the waiter came over, my nerves betrayed me. Out slipped the word “Ice cream.” He laughed, not unkindly, and promised he’d make sure I got it. And somehow, just like that, the evening felt lighter.
We ended up talking music, and I hadn’t expected that either. Found out we liked the same symphonies, and he even said he’d take me next time. Imagine, a next time before the first had even finished.
When he finally asked if we should go up, I didn’t argue. The room was quiet, calm, almost too neat. I sat on the bed, waiting, when he asked—serious as anything—if I’d ever given a massage.
I laughed, said I could manage a decent back rub, and he seemed almost relieved. Took off his shirt, stretched out face-down, and I slipped into the role without thinking. I don’t often get to feel like a real massage escort, not in the simple sense, but when I do, I remember why I like it. It’s not about rush or performance. It’s about touch.
I traced a line down his spine with my fingertips, not pushing, just testing, and he shivered a little. That tiny reaction made me smile. His skin softer than I thought, his body giving way under my hands. I pressed, kneaded, changed rhythm when I felt him respond. Some movements serious, others playful, just to see.
Time blurred, until he finally checked his watch. “We’ve gone over,” he said, almost apologising.
I stood, shaking out my hands. “It’s fine,” I told him, and I meant it. “I enjoyed it.” And I had, maybe more than I should have.
If this moment lingered with you, you’ll probably want to read A Foot Fetish Fantasy in a London Hotel—a night that started ordinary and turned into something far more curious.