Whew! Spring and summer charged onto the scene this year, gripping the back of my delicate neck in their teeth and giving me a wild ride. I’ve been on so many dates that it was hard to find time to pause and tell you about them. There were dinner-only dates and some formal events, but there were also enough overnights that my flatmate barely recognizes me.
The most unusual date was a day and a half that I spent with a fellow named Doug. He was a repeat client; we had been to dinner together last November. That date had been friendly and pleasant, but he said I was too thin for his purposes. “What purposes?” I asked in surprise. Doug explained that what he really wanted was a long, erotic photo session, but he preferred women with a little more flesh on their bones. I’m slim, though I have nicely padded curves in the right places, and just wasn’t his ideal.
Imagine my surprise when he called again. He explained that he kept thinking about my “lovely face” and the fact that I’m a limber dancer. “I keep envisioning you as a naughty Audrey Hepburn,” he explained. “You know, classy and delicate, but full of sexual mischief.” Doug begged forgiveness for not seeing that possibility earlier and asked if I would be willing to pose for him.
I thought back briefly to when I first became an escort, during college in the US. I was invited to pose for a men’s magazine and at the time, I declined. Photographs and videos have a way of turning up at inopportune times later in life, like when you’re about to marry a popular athlete or be elected to public office. It’s not that I’m ashamed to be seen and examined; I’m proud of my marble-smooth skin, nicely rounded rear, and perky tits the size of half-grapefruits, and I’m lucky to have a pretty face to match. I simply didn’t want to be defined forever by my role as an escort.
My opinion on that has changed somewhat. It excites me to think of men looking at my photos and imagining sexy scenarios. I’ve had professional nude photos taken and I share those with my dates, and sometimes I’ll agree to pose for others, but I do set some rules. I won’t appear in hardcore action shots or videos or fake any actions that I wouldn’t actually do. I prefer not to spread myself open as if I’m giving birth. But, if you want pictures to remember me by, most other options are negotiable.
So, Doug and I came to an agreement. I showed up at his building on the outskirts of London – in which he maintained a small shop and a catalogue/online ordering business that dealt in maritime collectibles – with a suitcase on a Friday evening. Inside were some outfits and lingerie that he had specifically requested. He was gracious in his greeting, exchanging my bag for a glass of red wine and offering me a seat on a supple leather couch inside. The plan was this: we would spend a couple of hours that night taking photographs in a back room of his building that he used as a studio for catalogue photos. In the morning, as light came through the windows, I’d pose for him amongst the curiosities in his shop.
We began in the studio, where Doug had positioned a handrail like a ballet barre. I dressed in a white thin-strapped top that fit like a second skin and slipped into a gauzy pink tutu and slippers that I used for dance class the year before. Nothing came between my hardened nipples and the thin fabric of the shirt, and I wore a white thong just large enough for a bumblebee’s handkerchief.
Doug put on some music for inspiration and directed me into a variety of positions. He was very serious in his work, having me practice each pose with attention paid to everything from the tilt of my jaw and the angle of my shoulders to the sheen of lotion on the taut muscles of my extended calf. He began to snap away. My clothes stayed on for the first few minutes and then I bent almost double, clasping the back of my legs with one soft hand while using the other to tug down my thong. I went through a basic stretching routine; revealing glimpses of my bare pussy through the gauze as if unaware that my most intimate areas were on display. Off came my shirt. Interspersed with ballet-based poses were a few where I draped over the barre as if it were nothing more than a horizontal stripper pole, lewdly pressing my body against it and allowing exhibitionistic arousal to replace the aloof composure that I previously had on my face.
The next set of poses played upon Doug’s impression of me as a modern Audrey Hepburn. I began in a black cocktail dress and sleek heels, with my hair piled atop my head and secured with a rhinestone clip. With black eyeliner winging up from the corners of my lids, I had to admit that I was Audrey-like. Doug began this shoot almost as fashion photography, having me pose with my wine glass or a handful of flowers, but then he let my cheeky, mischievous side shine through. I flashed my panties – bright red satin – and pushed my dress straps down until the entire garment threatened to slide to the floor. Doug didn’t have me strip any further, but guided me to reveal a nipple or my arse cheeks as if by accident.
I’ll confess: posing turned me on. Even though Doug was a bit of a cold fish while directing me, I kept imagining an appreciative audience with cocks hardening as they leafed through my pictures. So, consider my surprise when he said we were done for the night, led me toward the small apartment above the store, and bid me farewell until morning. Farewell? What? Leaving an aroused escort that you had paid for an overnight visit to sleep by herself?
I spent a long time in the bath, hoping that relaxation would quiet my horniness. No luck. I sprawled across the bed and drew ghost spirals with fingertips on my attentive skin, imagining myself naked again except for my tutu and slippers, performing in front of a live crowd of men. In my fantasy, I danced for them with sombre grace, concentrating on my craft yet always aware of their hungry eyes on my exposed flesh. My fingers slid between my thighs and I began massaging my clit. Back in the dream I danced. One enterprising man joined me and I twisted around him as if he were an experienced partner. His rough hands slid over my heated flesh and I shuddered.
Another man joined him and they trapped me in a cage of their arms, stopping my dance. Others approached. I twirled and twisted, but every move I made was countered by an aggressive man. They stroked my body and pinched my nipples. One by one, they stripped off their own clothing and the fantasy shifted into a hazy gangbang; no images were clear but there was a lot of thrusting and sucking and sweaty skin-on-skin. I rode a wave of ecstasy as I was used to sate the animal lust I had aroused. As each finished, he put on his clothing and left, and at the end I remained crumpled on the floor like an exhausted swan, cum splattered all over my skin and crusting my hair. My fingers reached a frenzied pace back in the real world and I bucked and panted as a fierce orgasm shot through me.
After a sound night’s sleep, I woke to a quiet knock on the door. It was Doug bearing breakfast and new costumes for the morning’s photo shoot. Though we had some exciting poses and I showed more skin (including in some kinkier scenes involving bondage with rough rope), my enthusiasm had drained. You see, I no longer thought of Doug as a potential playmate, but merely as an employer, and it was less exciting to expose myself to a man who hadn’t even tried to fuck me when he had the chance. Maybe I was too skinny for him, maybe he was trying to be a gentleman, but he missed out on a great night of sex.
This turned out to be the season for repeat clients with non-standard requests. My answering machine delivered the following message, conveyed in the digitized version of a husky female voice with a slight Irish lilt – “Hi, this is Meghan. You probably don’t remember me – I hired you for an evening with my boyfriend Richard about a year ago and the three of us had a good time. I was hoping you’d be able to fit in another similar event. Please give me a call back.”
I did remember Meghan – a very pretty girl with a round face and lush body, whose black curls made the perfect offset for her pale blue eyes. She had hired me as a birthday gift for her tall, lanky boyfriend, who I remembered as being shy and somewhat dumbstruck by the whole night. He seemed a bit of a milquetoast. The three of us wound up rolling around naked on a large hotel bed for hours, yet I don’t think he said more than a sentence or two. He moaned a lot, though.
When I rang Meghan and asked if it was her boyfriend’s birthday again, she declared gleefully, “You remember! Oh good. I wasn’t sure; you see so many men. Wait, that doesn’t sound nice! I meant, I didn’t think we were particularly memorable.”
I laughed. “I understand, I understand. So, what do you have in mind now?”
“Well, first of all, I don’t have the same boyfriend anymore. No, no, that’s a good thing! Rick was awfully boring, you know? I had hoped that the evening when we had you would spice things up, but he went right back to missionary position in-out-in-out and then snoring beside me. Ugh. My new man is named Andre and he’s a lot more fun. I’d like to hire you again for something similar.”
I encouraged her to continue, and she explained that she’d like something a little more complicated. Meghan asked if I would consider coming by her place, pretending to be a friend of hers from university, and helping to lead the situation into something very playful and sexy. It sounded amusing and we scheduled a date.
That night, I arrived early at Meghan’s flat and we worked out the details so that we would present a united front when her boyfriend appeared. Andre was expecting to take her out for a simple dinner and was probably aching for some action after a couple weeks in the north on business. She thought he might be a little annoyed to have his plans to get laid interrupted by the appearance of an old friend, but he’d be even more appreciative when the evening took a turn. We were both dressed for a casual night at home with guests – Meghan in tight jeans and a vintage ruffled blouse and I in a green silk t-shirt and khaki pants, both form-fitting – which concealed our nearly-matching lacy brassieres and g-strings.
Andre knocked at half past seven and Meghan dashed to the door. I could hear them talking in the hall. “Hello love! Look, there’s been a little change of plans; I hope you don’t mind. My friend Sheila from university – have I mentioned her? – is in town and staying here for the night, so I thought we’d just have dinner in. You’ll like her.” A hushed conversation ensued.
They entered the room and I got my first look at Andre. Like Meghan’s ex, he was tall and slim, but that’s where the similarity ended. The edges of his ears sparkled with numerous silver hoops and I could see tattoo ink swirling in designs like licks of flame above his collar. He was in a button-down shirt and jeans that conveyed an air of hip comfort. And his face? Gorgeous, especially as his lips parted in a smile. I could see why Meghan chose to upgrade to this model.
Andre closed the distance between us with long strides and gathered me into a hug. “Sheila! A pleasure to meet you.” I returned his embrace. Damn, he smelled good, too!
We sat down to a dinner of salad and pasta that Meghan had prepared and made small talk. As planned, Meghan and I exchanged little mysterious smiles when we talked about the past (or rather, when we made up stories about our imaginary shared past) and Andre wouldn’t have needed Stephen Hawking’s IQ to guess that we shared a secret. He was charming, though, revealing no signs of aggravation that his plans to bang his girlfriend were interrupted. When we finished, Meghan cleared the table and I went into the kitchen with her to get some wine.
It was time to step things up. We paused in the kitchen doorway and I began to nuzzle Meghan’s neck. We kissed. Her lips felt soft and full against mine and I explored them with pleasure. We stood there kissing for a couple of minutes, expecting Andre to poke his head around the corner and catch us, but there was no sign of him. Hmm. We peeked past the door and found that he had apparently left the dining room, so our little show was for naught. It wasn’t effective at arousing Andre, that is, but it certainly worked on me.
So, we joined Andre in the room Meghan called her “lounge” – a dreamy space with piles of cushions and extra yardage flowing from the curtain rods into pools of shimmering fabric on the floor. The music on the stereo was Everything But The Girl and the lights were low. Meg sprawled on cushions behind me and, as we chatted with her boyfriend about recent movies, she began to play with my hair.
That got his attention, so I took our next pre-arranged step. I excused myself to visit the bathroom, but as I got to my feet, I kissed Meghan lightly on the cheek. She curled her fingers around the back of my head and pulled me in for a deep, full-mouth kiss. After a few seconds I pulled back, threw Andre a big smile, and left the room.
The atmosphere when I returned made it clear that they had talked; Andre wore an amused, excited smirk and Meghan was glowing and giggling. I settled into the cushions between them and was immediately attacked from both sides. Woo!
We kissed and pawed each other, fully clothed. Andre suddenly burst out in laughter. “Here I thought I’d have to go home and stroke off alone, and you little minxes had something else planned. Well, Sheila – wait, if you’re not really a friend from university, is that even your real name? Of course it’s not. Anyway, mystery woman, haven’t I got the best girlfriend?” He slipped over me to rest atop Meghan. They kissed.
I nestled back into a pile of cushions to watch. They undressed each other, rarely parting their lips, and I slid out of my clothes to keep up. When Andre worked his way down Meghan’s body, kissing a trail from her chin to the dark curled hair of her pussy, I reached over to squeeze her firm, round tits. I rolled her hardened nipples between my fingertips and she moaned from our combined efforts.
We changed position after a time so that Meghan and I could shift our focus to Andre. We shared his cock like an ice cream treat, both licking and slurping it greedily. I moved lower to lick his balls as she took him deeply into her mouth; I loved feeling her body pressed against mine while his salty, musky taste was on my tongue. Andre gasped and moaned; he grabbed a handful of hair on each of us and gently led our movements. I moved my tongue with quick flicking motions alternated with long, soft swipes, timed to complement Meghan’s sucking.
Andre stepped back from us. “Give me a minute; I’m in no rush tonight.” He knelt and sucked one of my nipples into his mouth. Meghan nibbled the other and I took my turn as the centre of attention. Fingers parted the lips of my pussy and slid inside; I’m not sure who they belonged to. My eyelids fluttered shut and I enjoyed the sensations.
We rolled into a different position – Andre on his back as Meghan straddled his mouth. She gestured to the spike of his cock and I settled onto it, riding him as I kissed his girlfriend, whose pussy was grinding against his lips. A few minutes later and we shifted again. This time Andre speared her pussy from behind. I rubbed her clit while kissing him.
Spending the evening with a sexy, uninhibited couple gave us a wealth of opportunities. At one point, Andre stacked us one atop the other and took turns thrusting a few times in each of our pussies. “Oh yes! I’ve seen that in movies and always wanted to try.” Our smells and tastes mingled in the dimly lit room, leading mischievous Meghan to flip off the lights for a while, leaving us to explore in the dark.
Meghan lay on top of me and we kissed and groped like sex-crazed teenagers as Andre made his final thrusts, deep in her dripping pussy. He collapsed beside us and we were a sweaty heap of satisfied flesh.
It was with some reluctance that I left them there to take a quick shower and put my clothes back on. Andre and Meghan were still nude, entwined, and smiling broadly when I wished them goodnight. I hope to get another call from her next year, and that she’ll be planning a surprise for the same lucky guy.
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