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My Friday evening was spent with friends doing a bi-monthly catch-up, the kind of ritual we all pretended was casual but secretly treated like a social event of the season. We chose Amuse Bouche’s champagne bar in Soho, a place where the lighting is always low enough to flatter and the staff never look surprised when a table orders its third bottle of vintage before nine.

We made an effort, of course. We always do. We glamorised ourselves as if we were preparing for opening night: hair blown out and lacquered into submission, eyeliner flicked into sharp wings, lipstick in deep, expensive shades of red and berry. Our dresses were fitted and deliberate, skimming curves instead of hiding them. I wore a tiny black dress that rode up an inch higher every time I crossed my legs, just enough to reveal the faint suggestion of hold-ups hugging my thighs beneath the hemline.

We claimed a row of high stools at the bar, a little island of perfume and laughter, and sat there with our legs crossed, heels dangling casually from our toes. The clean clink of glassware and the soft pop of champagne corks formed a soundtrack to the evening. We ordered cocktails with names that sounded like flirtations—French 75s, Kir Royales, and espresso martinis when the night needed a second wind—and sipped them slowly until 1 am, letting the hours blur into a pleasant haze.

Every now and then, one of us would feel the shy weight of a gaze from across the room. A man would send over a drink with a polite nod or a hopeful half-smile, emboldened by alcohol and the fact that we were clearly having more fun than anyone else. We accepted the occasional glass—never too eager, always gracious—but we were mostly too busy with each other to pay the admirers much attention. Our conversation was loud and overlapping, full of old stories and new gossip, the kind you can only share with people who have known you long enough to understand the things you don’t say out loud.

In this particular social circle, there was one woman who understood me more than most: another escort, Paula. She was a beautiful woman in her own right, with that kind of beauty that doesn’t apologise for being looked at. Like me, she worked at the higher end of the escort world—one of London’s top companions, well-reviewed, well-paid, and in constant demand. None of the other girls that evening had the faintest idea what either of us did for a living. To them, we were simply well-groomed professionals with flexible schedules and an uncanny knack for picking up the bill without flinching.

Paula and I kept any work-related talk to a bare minimum in public. A quick raised eyebrow, a passing mention of a “client” or a “booking” buried inside some vague anecdote—that was as far as we allowed it to go. The rest we saved for later. When the night finally wound down, and the group started to drift towards cabs and night buses, Paula and I peeled off together. She came back to my flat, a small but stylish place that always smelled faintly of expensive candles and shower gel, and we tumbled in just before 2 am, laughing at something half-forgotten by the time we kicked off our heels in the hallway.

She slept over in my spare room—though, as usual, we ended up sitting on my bed for another hour, bare-faced and makeup-free, comparing notes about clients, agencies, and upcoming bookings. We both knew we had a long day ahead of us, so eventually the giggles died down, the lights went out, and the flat settled into a soft, contented silence.

Slow Saturday Morning

The next morning, I rose at 10 am, which counts as decadent in my line of work. Saturday light filtered pale and soft through the bedroom curtains, and there was that rare, lovely moment of stillness before the day’s performance began. I padded into the kitchen in an oversized T-shirt, put the kettle on, and laid out a casual breakfast: coffee, orange juice, toast, and a stack of newspapers already folded open to the lifestyle and property sections.

A leisurely breakfast over the papers is one of my smallest luxuries. While the city throbbed outside with weekend shoppers and early brunchers, Paula and I sat at my little kitchen table like any two women sharing a flat—bare feet on the cold tiles, hair scraped back, faces scrubbed clean. We read headlines aloud to each other, made snide remarks about politicians, and critiqued the fashion spreads as if we were on the editorial staff.

After breakfast, I ran a long, almost ceremonial bath. Bubbles, naturally, and water just shy of too hot. A soundtrack of low jazz and the muted murmur of the radio in the other room. This is how I prepare for work: not with rushed showers and coffee on the go, but with a slow, deliberate soak that feels like pressing a reset button on my body. Shaving, exfoliating, smoothing lotion into every inch of skin—each small act is part of the transformation, turning me from the woman who lounges in an old T-shirt into the polished escort who makes a living out of fantasy.

Preparing for Tony

By midday, Paula and I were in full preparation mode. We had been booked for a ménage à trois with Tony, a regular client, from 2 pm in Belgravia. Tony has a very specific type: brunettes with curves he can put his hands on and hold onto. He likes softness, a sense of abundance. He’s not interested in wafer-thin models—he wants women who look and feel like women, with hips and breasts and a body that pushes back against his.

In our duo, Paula provides the busty element, without question. She has an hourglass figure that looks custom-made for corsetry, and an F-cup chest that defies gravity and logic. I’m not flat-chested by any means, but I once held one of her bras up to my own body and laughed that I could easily fit my entire head into a single cup. She fills her corsets to overflowing, creamy-white skin pressed against boning and lace like something out of a 1940s film still. Dita Von Teese would have approved: all glamour, poise, and that perfect balance between polished and provocative.

We both knew Tony well enough by then to understand what pleased him. Details matter in this world—the smallest touch of coordination can send a client into raptures—so we planned matching underwear in advance. Paula chose a set of black lace over deep red satin, while I selected the same in reverse: red with black accents. That way, we looked like mirror images, complementary rather than identical, a visual echo that Tony would definitely notice.

We styled our hair and makeup with the same intention: sultry eyes, dark lashes, lipstick that wouldn’t disappear at the first kiss. Our dresses were chosen for the tease, not the reveal—modest enough to wear through Belgravia’s immaculate streets, yet cut just right to make it obvious there was more to unwrap underneath.

Arrival in Belgravia

We arrived at Tony’s flat separately, about fifteen minutes apart. Discretion is a habit with us; neighbours are always watching, and Belgravia is a place where appearances matter. His building was one of those immaculate white stucco townhouses with iron railings and polished brass fixtures that catch the light. Paula went in first. By the time I rang the bell, she was already inside, her coat neatly hung on the stand in his hallway, her laugh floating faintly from the sitting room.

Tony greeted me with his usual combination of warmth and barely hidden anticipation. He led me into what he insisted on calling his “parlour”—a well-appointed sitting room with soft sofas, heavy curtains, and art that bordered just on the edge of tastelessly expensive. Paula was there, perched comfortably with a glass of Italian red wine in her hand, one leg tucked under the other, looking entirely at home.

We spent the first part of the afternoon in conversation, smoothing the edges of the encounter with familiar small talk and easy banter. The three of us sat there sipping our wine, talking about his latest business trip, some new restaurant opening in Mayfair, and a discreet joke about an overzealous colleague he’d taken a particular dislike to. These are the moments that most people don’t see—the gentle social cushion before anything more intimate happens.

Setting the Scene

When I felt that Tony had relaxed enough, when his shoulders had dropped, and his eyes began darting a little more frequently between us, I gave Paula the subtle nod we’d agreed on earlier. Just a tiny tilt of my head, nothing more. She knew instantly what it meant.

She set down her glass on the low table with deliberate grace, then reached for his, curling her fingers lightly around the stem and easing it out of his hand. The room seemed to tighten around us for a second. She stood up slowly, smoothing her dress down over her thighs, and then extended her empty hand back towards him.

I followed her lead. I slid my own glass onto the table, rose to my feet, and stepped into his line of sight. His gaze flicked from Paula to me and back again, and in that instant his whole face lit up, as a child seeing the tree on Christmas morning piled high with presents. That look—that mixture of wonder, desire, and smug disbelief that this was really happening to him—is one of the reasons clients like Tony keep our numbers on speed dial.

Nine Hours of Work

What followed was nine solid hours of work, though of course we’d never call it that to his face. We catered to his every desire, every little preference he’d hinted at in past bookings. There was an easy rhythm to it now; we knew the things he liked almost before he asked for them. The afternoon blurred into evening in a swirl of touch, whispered encouragement, lingering glances, massaging sore muscles, feeding him small bites of food between rounds of indulgence, and keeping the atmosphere light and playful whenever he grew too serious.

We moved through his flat like we’d lived there for years: slipping into the kitchen to check on dinner, topping up his glass, straightening cushions, lighting a fresh candle when the last one burned too low. There is far more to these bookings than what people assume. It’s not just sex; it’s hosting, caretaking, reading the mood and sliding the energy up or down as needed. It’s being a fantasy girlfriend, a confidante, and a performer all at once.

By the time the clock crept towards 11 pm, Tony was thoroughly, almost blissfully spent. He’d drifted into that mellow, loose-limbed state that comes from having every possible physical and emotional need vigorously attended to. We made sure he had water within reach, tucked a light throw over him where he lay stretched on the sofa, and exchanged the quiet, efficient glances of people who know a job has been well executed.

That is an awful lot of massaging, cooking, titillation, and layered sensuality to pack into nine hours, I can tell you. By the time we collected our things and slipped our coats back on, my body buzzed with a mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline. We stepped out into the Belgravia night, the streets quieter now, our heels clicking softly on the pavement as we headed towards a waiting cab.

Why I Like Duos

Although I work mostly solo, I genuinely enjoy sharing bookings with other escorts. Shared arrangements can be smoother, lighter, and in some ways easier. There’s no undercurrent of jealousy—not in the circles I move in, anyway. We understand that the client’s fantasy is the priority, not our egos. When you’re paired with someone you trust, you can pass the focus back and forth between you like a practised dance, playing off each other’s strengths.

For the client, it’s the ultimate indulgence: the undivided attention of two women who are there purely to make him feel desired, seen, and satisfied. For us, it can be a rare chance to enjoy the company of a colleague who understands the peculiarities of the job. There’s always someone to swap a knowing glance with, someone who can share a post-date debrief in the cab ride home, laughing at the small absurdities and relishing the parts that went particularly well.

If you’ve ever indulged in a fantasy about being the focus of two women’s attention at the same time—truly the centre of the room, with every touch and look directed towards you—it’s not as unattainable as you might think. Call your favourite escort agency, be honest about what you’re seeking, and see what they can suggest. You might be surprised at how willingly your fantasies can be choreographed, right down to the colour of our matching lingerie.