My First Date with an Escort

One of the clients of Lilyfields London escort agency expressed his wish to share a story of his first date with an escort. He was so impressed that decided to put all his feelings on paper. Here is what he is writing…

There she sat with her legs crossed drinking her chilled, almost finished glass of Chianti, the ‘mysteriously unpredictable’ drink as it is known. My mind resumed to the task at hand, refilling her glass, just as she asked me to. I reached out and gestured, ‘More?’ She nodded. I refilled her glass, tilting it to the side for it to breathe as the rich, liquid texture spilled into her cup. As soon as she finished her drink, she stood up, removing her fur vest. I thought she would be completely topless in an instant, but she removed her beige vest slowly revealing a low cut classy lace brazier.

She whispered in my ear to unhook it for her and I could feel my hands trembling at the thought of it. Not because I was nervous, though, but because I was excited. I had been looking forward to this day for a really long time. As my trembling hands made way to her heaving chest, I could tell they were going to ruin the moment, but she gently stroked my hands relaxing me and motioned them toward her. Once that maneuver had been dealt with, I was feeling a little more confident. She loosely removed her hair clip that was holding her wavy, luscious, dark brown locks in a bun. They ran down her smooth skin slowly coming down to her bust.

“You have beautiful hair,” I mentioned.

“Thank you,” she replied. Her voice was tender and coaxing, I fell in love with it. Her hand slipped down the inside back of my shirt, massaging the lower neck part. Her eyes stared at mine, but I couldn’t hold the gaze for much longer – the massage was too carressing. My eyes rolled back in my head and I heard myself give a little moan. She chuckled and continued rubbing my neck.

“What’s next?” I asked anxiously.

“Well, do not be so hasty.”

With her free right hand she began unbuttoning my shirt. Not in the usual sense of course. She gave the right aggression to each loop without tearing off my clothes altogether. Out the buttons came, one by one. As she made way to the last button she brought my face to hers and whispered, “Is this shirt expensive?”

“No, it’s a piece,” I heaved in and out fast, aroused by her sultriness, “a piece of junk.” I could not think about my shirt at that moment even if it costed me a coin. All my thoughts were about begging: “Please, keep on!”

She ripped off the last button. It flung across the room and landed on the carpet. She removed her left hand from behind my head and told me to take the shirt off. She made her way to the bed and ever so slightly lifted each leg to remove her five inch heels followed by her crisscross stockings. Lastly came her mini skirt. She lied down on the bed and asked me ‘assist her’ as she put it. I came toward her and leaned forward. I yanked that damned skirt off her thighs. Needless to say, it was one hell of a night!