Not every meeting is wild. I’ve learnt that. Some nights it’s not about theatre or tricks but the stillness, the way a man looks at me like I’m more than I am, or maybe exactly what I am. Desire feels different when it comes out as worship, not frenzy. And me being a curvy London escort… well, I found early on that curves pull men in, but what keeps them is how you make them feel once they’re already hooked.
I wasn’t short on admirers, if I’m honest. Never have been. But it wasn’t just the obvious. Some confessed they booked me at first for my body, then admitted later it was the laugh, or how I could tease and pull away in the same breath. Escorting did something to me… gave me a backbone I didn’t know I had. A certain boldness. Funny how that happens.
So, yes, Kensington. A quiet hotel. A new client. He’d mentioned submission in his messages, and that was enough to make my pulse quicken. I like that territory. Not whips or theatrics, just little commands, the soft kind that still carry weight.
I got there early. I always do — I can’t help fussing with a room until it feels right. He arrived, nervous but trying not to show it. I asked him to shower first, and he went without a word. That kind of obedience is… well, it does something to me.
When he came back, I’d set a chair in the centre of the room. He sat immediately. No hesitation. I crossed one leg, smoothed my hand down my thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. The dress clung to me, skin-tight, and I pretended not to notice his eyes tracing every movement.
“Do you like what you see?” I asked at last, tugging the zip open, slow enough to make him twitch. He stumbled over his answer, “Yes, my lady,” and that little flush on his cheeks — I liked that more than I should admit.
I didn’t rush stepping out of the dress. I let the silence do most of the work. When I finally stood there, bare and unhurried, I lifted my breasts in my hands, watching him swallow, hard.
“What is it you want?” I whispered. Not a question really, more of a dare.
He shifted, shy, eyes down. “To worship you.”
That word. Worship. It hit exactly the way I wanted. I tipped his chin up with a finger so he had no chance to hide. “Good boy,” I told him, voice low. “You may.”
The night stretched out from there. Tension, release, repeat. Sometimes I made him sit and only watch, my hands lazy, dragging it out just to test him. Sometimes I let him closer, lips tentative at first, then deeper, almost reverent when I encouraged him.
And it wasn’t the details that stayed with me — not really. It was the way he looked at me, as though every curve was sacred. As though my breasts weren’t just flesh but something holy. I guided him, praised when I felt like it, held back when he grew too eager. It became a ritual in its own right. Power and surrender, circling each other.
By the time it was over, I felt warm all over, not from effort, but from knowing he’d remember me. Not just my body, but the spell I wrapped around him in that quiet Kensington room. That’s the part I carry home with me.
And if you’re still curious, you can read My First Erotic Massage Experience — slower, softer, but just as dangerous in its own way.