Honey Trap

Not many incidences occur when a woman calls me to book my services. However, sometimes it happens. In these cases, they want me to try and seduce our suspected philandering and or partner. Although I tend to turn down these sorts of jobs as I'm not much in for entrapment, there was one time when I took it on.

The lady in question was the long-suffering wife of self-made billionaire Marcus. She rang me on a snowy February day when I was a fledgling agency escort living in digs in Hampstead. I was struggling to make my rent as my client base was few. As you can imagine, I have come a long way since then to be able to afford my luxury apartment now. But I am straying off the point. This woman offered me three times my hourly rate and a bonus if I helped her. With more months than money left in my bank account, I agreed.

With a borrowed Donna Karan dress and hired Louboutins, I met her outside the Savoy Hotel. The lady was petite, match-stick thin, and wore sunglasses so big that her face was almost entirely disguised. She offered to take me to lunch in town and explain the details. With a trembling hand, she passed me a photograph of her husband.
"I need you to be photographed all over him. He is so vain he will be sucked in. But I can't file for my divorce unless I have proof of his adultery. I'm worth a lot, and he won't pay a penny unless my solicitor has something concrete."

With a smile, I agreed to help her. She told me where he would be at five o'clock that afternoon and even passed me a box with an outfit in it. "Trust me," she said, "this will work like a charm."

So dressed in the tiniest scraps of silk that modesty would allow, I arrived at the restaurant bar he had a booking for and perched on a stool to wait for him. As I nursed a Martini, I spotted him coming with a few colleagues - male and female. One of the females was batting her eyelashes at him, and the looks of chemistry between them were enough to set my adrenaline rushing. I realised, within twenty minutes, as she placed a hand on his thigh, that I might not be the one to have to seduce this man. He had given me the ammunition without even realising it.

The other colleagues left, and I ordered another Martini and waited. Her hand crept a little higher along his thigh as their champagne flowed, and their restraint fell away. And me? I whipped out my camera phone, took the winning pictures as his lips were on her throat, and was out the door as silently as I had arrived.

My client got her photos, and the following week, at work, he was surprised when the divorce papers were biked across from her. I kept my integrity and received a nice lump sum as a bonus. I am now a solicitor. And it was not a bad day's work for a young London escort.