Being a Central London escort has never been just putting on a smile and showing up. Every man wants something different, sometimes something I never expect. David’s tastes always leaned darker. With him I was more domina than date, though if I’m honest, I never set out to be that. We’d been meeting nearly eight months, slipping into our secret ritual over and over, and it still felt charged. Maybe it was the hiding that made it burn — like we were teenagers sneaking out, or lovers who should never be seen.
The café meeting
He never wasted words. Just a line: “Saturday, 7pm. Our café.” That was enough to send the butterflies into a frenzy.
When I walked in he was already there, finishing tea. No greeting, no smile. He brushed past me on his way out.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said like I was a stranger.
“It’s alright,” I murmured, pretending to scroll my phone, though my skin was tingling.
That tiny brush, that ridiculous theatre — it worked every time.
From café to Mayfair hotel
The folded tissue he left me carried the number. Room 714. Mayfair, not far. I drained my cup and hurried into the cold, my coat swinging open, breath sharp in my throat. Running in heels is never elegant, but I was too wired to care.
At the reception desk I asked softly for the key. The girl winked, like she knew exactly what I was there for. I laughed under my breath, embarrassed. Strange how, even after years in this business, I could still blush.
By the time the lift slid open I had schooled my face again. A domina doesn’t arrive flustered.
Setting the scene
The room was dim, warm with shadow. I slipped out of everything but lace and heels. He’d told me countless times — heels were non-negotiable.
“Hello, handsome,” I tried to say evenly, but there was already a smile tugging at me.
“Good evening, dear,” he replied, standing to meet me.
We kissed, and the pretence melted. Just us again, and the pull between us.
Domina and submissive in action
“I missed you,” he murmured.
“Me too. Were you good?”
“Always.”
“Then tell me what you want.”
His lips traced my neck. “Please… sit on my face.”
I didn’t answer. Just pressed him down, hovered above. His mouth reaching, his eyes pleading. I lingered, touching myself slowly, holding the tension tight.
When he faltered I tugged his hair. “Don’t stop.” My voice sharper than I meant, but it thrilled me.
The room turned to pulse and sound and shudder. I took what I wanted, no apology, until the world narrowed to nothing but that release.
A satisfying climax
Afterwards I collapsed beside him, still catching my breath. “What do we say?” I asked, letting the domina slip back into my tone.
“Thank you,” he whispered, soft as anything.
I looked down, teasing. “Are you hard?”
He nodded, suddenly shy.
“Then take care of it. I want to watch.”
And he did, obedient as ever, eyes locked on mine. It wasn’t the act that undid me, it was that unwavering gaze — full of surrender, full of want. When he finally let go, it felt like the ritual closing, the circle complete. Another secret sealed in Mayfair, never spoken of again.
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