There’s something strangely thrilling about being a foot fetish escort in London. It pulls you into a side of intimacy most people never even think about. What begins as curiosity — a bit of “let’s see what happens” — sometimes lingers with you in ways you don’t expect.
When this happened, I was still pretty new to the London escort scene. Honestly, I’d taken the work out of both need and curiosity, telling myself it was temporary. My first two clients had been surprisingly kind, almost gentle, and I started to think maybe I’d imagined all the risks. Then came Martin. I’d been told he had a request, something he was shy about, though the agency assured me it was nothing unsafe. That secrecy made me more curious than afraid, if I’m honest.
At the hotel, I realised within minutes there was no reason to panic. Martin wasn’t crude, not pushy, just… different. He had a foot fetish fantasy, though he never said the words. He asked me to sit on the bed. I did, trying not to show how unsure I was, and then he dropped to his knees like someone about to worship.
The first brush of his lips on my calves made me jolt. It felt odd, almost too intimate in a place I wasn’t used to being touched. But then something stirred — a kind of spark before I even knew what was happening. His fingertip travelled slowly from my knee to my toes and I caught my breath without meaning to. I let my eyes close, trying to stop myself from overthinking.
I’d never really thought of feet as sensual before. But the way he lingered changed something in me. Each kiss, each pause, carried weight. When his mouth pressed at my ankle, I nearly whimpered, clamping it down in case I ruined the moment.
He looked up then, caught me holding back, and smiled. “You don’t have to be quiet,” he murmured. The permission was oddly freeing. I laughed at myself, nervous, but it loosened something in me.
What struck me most was his devotion. The way he held my foot in both hands, the heat of his breath, the care in every touch. It melted me, made me give in far more than I expected. At one point I nudged the sole of my other foot against his leg, half-testing. He adjusted, gave me that quiet nod, and I felt the air shift. It was like we’d agreed on something without saying a word.
The room thickened with atmosphere. Heavy, but I didn’t want it to end. I lost myself in the rhythm — his hands, his stillness, then sudden intensity. It pulled me out of myself, left me flushed and dazed when it slowed. The quiet afterwards almost startled me.
That night stayed with me What began as nerves turned into something richer. Martin showed me being a foot fetish escort in London made me see surrender in a new light. He’s still one of my favourites not because of extravagance but because of how he made me feel.
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