Sashas Game Obey or Be Left Wanting

Sasha was ice and fire rolled into one impossibly stunning package — 25 years old, 5ft 9", legs that never seemed to end, and a body sculpted by ballet and sin. With icy blonde hair, grey-blue eyes, and a resting expression that made men feel both terrified and desperate to please, she wasn’t just another dancer at Velvet Nights she is also one of the most in demand London escorts in the capital.

Unlike Katya, who danced with seductive sweetness, Sasha didn’t perform. She commanded. Every movement was deliberate. She didn’t just remove her lingerie — she made you thank her for letting you watch. And when her eyes locked with yours, it was never by accident. It was an invitation.

Or a warning.

One Thursday night, just past midnight, she spotted him.

Young, maybe 30. Designer suit, perfectly undone tie, arrogant smirk — the kind of man who thought he had control of all escorts just because he had money. Sasha liked breaking men like that. He’d been watching her all evening from the bar, sipping a dirty martini like he owned the room.

She walked straight up, straddled him without asking, and whispered, “You’re staring like you want to be punished.”

He blinked, surprised. “Maybe I do.”

Her lips curved. “Good. Because I don’t do polite fucks.”

She led him through the club, ignoring the stares, into one of the private rooms behind the velvet curtain — dimly lit, mirrored ceiling, and a single red-leather chaise lounge in the centre.

“Strip,” she ordered, arms crossed.

He laughed, nervous. “You’re serious?”

Sasha’s hand shot out, gripping his throat. Not tight, just firm enough to make him shut up and listen.

“I don’t ask twice.”

In seconds, he was naked, erection hard and pulsing, standing in front of her like an obedient schoolboy. She circled him like a lioness, her heels clicking slowly against the wooden floor. With one swift motion, she shoved him back onto the chaise and climbed on top.

She didn’t even bother to undress — just pushed her panties to the side, spat in her hand, and slid down onto his cock in one hard, punishing thrust.

He moaned.

She didn’t.

Sasha rode him like she had a point to prove — hips grinding, nails dragging down his chest, her breath hot against his face as she growled, “You wanted to fuck one of the best escorts in London? Congratulations. You’re inside one. Now shut up and make it count.”

She came first — of course she did. Loud, fierce, back arched and riding hard until her orgasm ripped through her like a wave. Then she dismounted, knelt between his legs, and took his cock in her mouth.

He barely lasted a minute.

As he gasped, shaking, she looked up at him with cum dripping from her lip and smirked, “Next time, you ask me for permission to come.”

He came back three nights in a row.

And by the fourth, he was on a leash.

Sasha didn’t believe in love. She believed in power. In surrender. In raw, mutual satisfaction. And she always got what she wanted — from men, from women, from both.

One night, Katya brought her a gift: an English rose named Emily, 22, with soft curves, shy eyes, and lips made for worship. “She’s curious,” Katya whispered, “but needs someone to show her how to beg.”

Sasha’s eyes lit up.

Emily arrived in the VIP lounge that evening wearing a tight black dress and trembling nerves. Sasha didn’t speak. She just leaned forward and kissed her — slow, sensual, dominating. When she pulled away, Emily’s pupils were blown wide.

“On your knees,” Sasha whispered.

Emily obeyed.

That night was a slow burn. Sasha was in no rush. She took her time undressing her, kissing every inch, praising her softness and innocence while teasing her mercilessly. She tied silk scarves around Emily’s wrists and ankles, laid her on the bed like a gift, and used only her tongue and fingers until the girl was shaking, soaked, and begging for release.

“You don’t come until I say,” the experienced London escort warned, pinching her clit.

Emily whimpered. “Please…”

But Sasha wasn’t done.

She rode Emily’s face while fingering her, her thighs tight around the younger woman’s head, her moans loud and unapologetic. She came hard, grinding down on Emily’s mouth, smothering her in slick, intoxicating bliss.

Only then did she let Emily climax — with Sasha’s tongue inside her and her hand gripping her throat just enough to blur the line between fear and ecstasy.

Afterward, Emily curled into Sasha’s arms, naked and glowing. “No one’s ever… done that to me before.”

Sasha kissed her forehead. “Good girls get ruined once. Exceptional ones come back begging for more.”

Emily came back. Again and again.

But Sasha’s story wasn’t just about domination. It was about control — and the rare moments she surrendered it.

That came with a woman named Chiara.

Italian. Tall. Leather boots and cruel lips. She visited the club twice a month, and Sasha — for all her fire — was powerless in her presence. Chiara didn’t ask for private rooms. She just crooked a finger, and Sasha followed.

The first time Chiara tied her down, Sasha fought it.

The second time, she begged for it.

By the third, Chiara had her crying from overstimulation, her legs trembling from orgasm after orgasm, her mascara smeared across her flushed cheeks. She’d slap Sasha’s thighs and whisper, “You think you’re in charge, little girl? You’re mine now.”

And Sasha was.

She loved being broken — and used like but only by someone worthy.

Back in the dressing room, between sets, Katya asked her, “Do you ever fall in love with them?”

Sasha laughed, reapplying her red lipstick. “I fall in lust. I fall in control. I fall into their mouths, their cocks, their pussies. But love?”

She looked in the mirror and licked her lips.

“I am love, darling. A London escort who they’ll never forget me.”

OUR EXCLUSIVE SELECTION OF BISEXUAL ESCORTS in LONDON

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