Met Ian again today. One of my regulars who likes meeting Roleplay escorts in London. 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.