Met Ian again today. One of my regulars. Strange thing, he told me ages ago I was his first escort, and it still sits in my head. Makes me feel… I don’t know, like I matter in some way. We fall into this pattern. Once a week. He leaves me little notes, sometimes clothes, like a director setting up a scene. This time? Police. I’m the officer. He’s the guilty man. I didn’t argue.
Hotel, same as usual. Long coat hiding the outfit underneath. Felt ridiculous walking through the lobby like that but also, kind of thrilling. Knocked, coat off, role sliding into place before I even spoke. He opened, already pretending to be nervous.
“How can I help you, officer?” Voice all shaky, fake but convincing enough.
“Don’t mess with me,” I said. Too sharp maybe, but it landed. He raised his hands. That quick, the mood shifted. Power sitting in my lap. I told him to move. Bedroom. He went without question.
That’s the bit I like. He doesn’t just play—he gives in. Protests sometimes, mutters no, but never the safe word. And that’s the difference. That’s where the tension builds. The half-resistance. The edge.
Cuffed him to the frame. Too high for him to be comfortable. I let him squirm. Walked slow circles. Said nothing. The silence louder than any words. I think he loves this part most, the waiting. Or maybe I do. Hard to tell.
I pulled his head back, sudden, rough, and he broke. Words tumbling out, too loud, almost begging. That was it, the crack in him I was looking for. Pride gone. Just the raw mess left.
When I finally stopped, he was done. Shaking, flushed, a ruin. And I thought—why bother with anyone else? Thirty minutes with me and he’s unravelled.
Funny thing, sometimes he hints at other cravings. Rimming pleasure comes up, quiet but there. I remind him there are rimming escorts in London who could give him exactly that, though he always circles back to me.
Anyway. If this kind of play stirs something in you, read A London surprise with DDLG. Another mask, another game, that went somewhere deeper than either of us expected.