Men don’t always come looking for conversation. Sometimes it’s the quiet, the rhythm of touch, the sense that someone’s actually paying attention to them. That’s what they want when they book erotic massage escorts in London—not just release, but a slow teasing build that makes the moment feel… more. I didn’t know all this back then. This was my very first massage booking, and honestly, I was more nervous than he probably was.
I can still picture it—though it’s been years now. One of the other professional escorts in London had cancelled on her regular, she was unwell. Normally he’d wait, but this time he was flying the next morning and refused to miss his appointment. Somehow I ended up saying yes. I wasn’t sure if I was brave or just foolish, but I agreed.
She briefed me beforehand, like I was about to sit an exam. “He likes a gentle erotic massage. It’s not just therapy, it’s theatre—sometimes it turns sensual, sometimes not.” I remember frowning and thinking, why doesn’t he just book a spa like everyone else? She just smiled: “Because it’s not really about knots in his shoulders, darling.”
So I spent the whole afternoon prepping my escort flat in Marylebone. Candles I’d bought but never lit, lavender oil warming on the radiator, sheets folded within an inch of their lives. I even borrowed a massage table and kept checking the legs weren’t about to collapse on me. Honestly, I was running around like a headless chicken until the doorbell finally rang.
He wasn’t what I expected—nervous, polite, almost shy. That calmed me down a notch, knowing I wasn’t the only one fumbling inside. “I’m Amelia,” I said, putting on my best smile. “Shall I focus on your shoulders tonight?” His relief was almost comical as he nodded.
The first stroke was the hardest. My palms pressed gently against his back, and I swear I was shaking more than he was. But soon enough I found a rhythm—slow circles, long sweeps. Muscles started to loosen under my hands, and strangely, so did I. Lavender in the air, shadows on the wall, the sound of his breathing deepening. It felt… different.
What caught me off guard was how much I enjoyed it. The intimacy of silence, the trust of someone surrendering their body to your care. It wasn’t just him unwinding—it was me too.
At some point he shifted, a subtle invitation, and suddenly I was standing in that grey space between simple massage and something else. I hesitated—should I? shouldn’t I?—but instinct carried me forward. Not crude, not rushed. Just teasing, holding back, letting the anticipation stretch. The pauses became their own language And to my own surprise I started smiling as I worked.
By the end he looked lighter almost glowing as if I’d unburdened him in more ways than one I handed him a glass of water wiped down my hands, and for a second we just looked at each other. No words, but something passed between us. For me it was a moment of clarity: I’d stumbled into something that fit me, something that would become a passion.
If you enjoy stories that blur the line between play and intimacy, you may like another evening I wrote about: A Blonde Escort’s Power Play