Confessions of an Escort

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The morning sunlight crept across Nastja’s sheets, tangling in her blonde hair as she scrolled through her phone. Dozens of new messages, some from regular clients, some from strangers promising wild sums if she’d meet them tonight. But her eyes paused on a single name:

Theo. Dinner again Thursday?

She smiled, her fingers hovering. She hadn’t smiled like that at a man’s message in years.

Theo was different. He treated her like a woman, not just a London escort. He lingered in conversation, remembered her favourite wines, and when he kissed her, he made her feel… precious.

And that was dangerous. Because Nastja wasn’t supposed to feel. She was supposed to play.

The Return to Velvet Rouge

That night, she returned to Velvet Rouge, the Mayfair club where her other life thrived. Under the violet lights, she became the fantasy again — heels clicking, large breasts pushed high in sequined lingerie, lips painted the colour of sin.

But something had shifted.

When she danced, she noticed the other girls watching her. Ruby, the one who’d first introduced her to escorting, leaned in as Nastja passed her at the bar.

“You’re getting too much attention,” Ruby whispered. “The clients ask for you first now. Management notices.”

Nastja smirked. “Not my fault they like me more.”

Ruby’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, darling. Jealousy can be a dangerous game here.”

Nastja laughed it off, but she felt the sting. She wasn’t just another dancer anymore. She was the girl men asked for by name. And that didn’t make her friends among the others.

Lord Harrington

Later that week, Divine Party Girls booked her with Lord Harrington, an aristocrat in his sixties who lived in a Belgravia mansion. The kind of man who’d been rich for so long he thought the world existed purely for his pleasure.

He greeted her in silk pyjamas and poured her vintage champagne.

“You’re far too beautiful to waste on silly boys,” he said, his hand lingering on her thigh.

The night was indulgent. He had her in every room — on the billiards table, anal sex bent over his library desk, against the cold marble of the bathroom sink.

When he finally came, she knelt and swallowed every drop of his cum, her eyes locked on his.

“Divine,” he groaned.

The next morning, his driver delivered her home with a velvet box. Inside: diamond earrings.

The other girls at the club noticed the next night. Ruby’s gaze lingered on the glitter at Nastja’s ears.

“Careful,” she said again. But this time, there was venom in her tone.

Theo’s World

On Thursday, Nastja met Theo at a private gallery showing in Fitzrovia. He wore a dark tailored suit, his hair perfectly slicked back.

“You take my breath away,” he whispered when he saw her in a floor-length black silk dress he’d sent over that morning.

He introduced her to art collectors and critics as his muse. They looked at her with curiosity, some with envy. Nastja basked in the glow.

Later, at his townhouse, he didn’t rush. He undressed her slowly, kissing every inch of her body as if memorising it. When he entered her, it was with reverence, not lust — though she came just as hard under his tender strokes as she did under rougher hands.

Afterwards, as they lay tangled, he brushed her hair back and whispered, “I don’t want to share you forever.”

Her heart skipped. That wasn’t something clients said.

But Nastja wasn’t ready to answer.

The Billionaire’s Birthday (Threesome)

Cassandra, the receptionist at the Bayswater escorts agency, called the next night. “Nastja, VIP request. Two billionaires. Private suite at The Dorchester. Discretion required. Triple fee."

She didn’t hesitate.

In the suite, champagne flowed. Two men, both in their forties, both watching her like starving wolves.

“You’re our present tonight,” one said, untying his tie.

She undressed slowly, teasing them with every movement. They devoured her. One behind, one in front, their hands all over her curves.

She moaned as one filled her pussy while the other pushed into her mouth, thrusting deep.

When they finally came, one after the other, she licked them both clean, swallowing cum greedily, mascara running down her cheeks.

“You were worth every penny,” they told her.

When she returned to the club the next night, Ruby hissed, “Word is you got five grand for that. Some of us have been here years and never touched that kind of money.”

Nastja only smiled. “Maybe they just wanted a girl who knows how to finish the job.”

Prince Khalid

Her most opulent booking came two weeks later: Prince Khalid, a Saudi royal visiting London. The request came directly from Cassandra, who insisted Nastja wear the emerald silk gown provided.

The prince’s suite at Claridge’s in Mayfair was a fantasy. Gold, marble, silk everywhere. He treated her like royalty, feeding her dates dipped in honey before carrying her to bed.

But once the doors closed, he wanted her raw.

He fucked her hard, sweat dripping down his chest, his groans filling the room. Nastja rode him until she came screaming, nails raking down his back.

When he finished in her mouth, she swallowed with a smile.

He gifted her a Cartier watch the next morning, along with £10,000 in cash.

At Velvet Rouge that night, the jealousy was palpable. One girl muttered as Nastja passed, “Whore thinks she’s a princess now.”

Ruby pulled her aside. “Be careful, Nastja. Men adore you. Women here? Not so much.”

Theo’s Confession

A week later, Theo invited her for dinner at his townhouse again.

“You glow lately,” he said, pouring her wine. “But I have to ask… when you’re with them… do you think of me?”

She hesitated, then leaned in. “Sometimes.”

He touched her cheek. “Then I’ll make sure it’s more than sometimes.”

They made love slowly that night. Not like client and escort. Like something else. Nastja felt it deep — the pull between lust and something dangerously close to love.

As she lay in his arms, she wondered if she could really choose him. Could she give up the thrill, the money, the endless cum-drenched nights, for something real?

Her phone buzzed. Another booking request. A Premier League footballer this time.

She ignored it. For now.

The Tension at Velvet Rouge

Back at the club the following weekend, the whispers grew louder.

“She thinks she’s special.”

“Clients used to ask for me until she showed up.”

“Bet she’s fucking management to get the best bookings.”

Even Ruby, once her mentor, had turned cold.

When Nastja walked onto the stage, she felt their stares — sharp as knives. But the men didn’t notice. They only saw her curves, her lips, the way she wrapped around the pole like sin made flesh.

Later, Cassandra called her into the back office.

“You’re our highest earner now,” Cassandra said. “That comes with risks. Don’t let jealousy trip you. Keep your head high.”

Nastja smirked. “Jealousy means I’m winning.”

But deep down, she knew the girls weren’t going to make it easy.

The Premier League Star

Despite ignoring his first message, Nastja couldn’t resist the footballer’s persistence. He booked her for an after-party in Paddington, promising discretion.

He was young, cocky, muscles for days. The suite was filled with champagne bottles and a few other women. But he wanted Nastja most.

She gave him a private show in the bedroom, stripping slowly, teasing him until he begged.

Then she rode him hard, her moans drowning out the music from the other room, the perfect GFE with CIM he loved fucking her.

When he came in her mouth, she swallowed with a grin.

“You’re dangerous,” he whispered.

She licked her lips. “And addictive.”

Torn Between Two Worlds

Nastja’s days grew heavier. She went through the motions at the dental clinic, barely hearing the patients. Her nights were split — the luxury and chaos of VIP escort clients, and the soft, tender love Theo offered.

At Velvet Rouge, the girls’ jealousy grew into icy silence. But the men kept asking for her. The escorts agency adored her. Cassandra whispered, “You could be our face, Nastja. The one they all want.”

But in Theo’s arms, she found something no booking could buy.

And for the first time, Nastja didn’t know if she could have both.

Epilogue

The next morning, Nastja sat at her vanity, brushing her long blonde hair. On one side of the table lay Theo’s diamond studs. On the other, a Cartier watch from Prince Khalid.

Her phone buzzed with two messages.

From Theo: “Dinner tonight. Just us.”

From Cassandra: “High class escorts request. £7,500. Hotel in Knightsbridge.”

She stared at the screen, lips curving in a smile.

The choice wasn’t easy. But for Nastja — the girl from Prague who had tasted the wildest nights London could offer — maybe she didn’t need to choose.

Maybe she could have it all.

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