Paris, Bermondsey

Last year I came across Ace Massage, which is a site for escorts and escort agencies to advertise on. I think it's just one guy who'll take some photos and put up a website from a template for a monthly fee. From the main site you can browse by area, see what's new and so on. Some of the agency sites there look like glossy, professionally run fronts for ruthless people-trafficking gangs. Others are more like cottage industries run by a small group of women, and others again are independents. (OK, so I haven't researched the economics of this stuff: maybe there is a pimp in the background with gold teeth and a purple Cadillac. Maybe I should ask next time.)

Anyway I digress. I was going to write about Bermondsey Babes. This was a flat situated conveniently a couple of tube stops from Canary Wharf, and I came across it on the Net via Ace Massage. (It isn't there any more, since they got served with an ASBO.) I was nervous when I called the number, and I'd had to walk around a while to find a spot where I could have the conversation without being overheard. A friendly sounding woman gave me directions and made sure I was clear about the flat number and the orange sticker by the bell. She was a bit cagey about the exact services on offer but confirmed that prices started at £40.

I went there in my lunch break the next day, found the place easily enough, and rang the orange-tagged doorbell, conspicuous in my suit in an ex-local authority housing estate, and frankly terrified about what I was doing. The maid let me in (hey, that's what they call them - no she wasn't dressed up as a maid), showed me upstairs to a small bedroom and offered me a glass of fruit juice. Soon an attractive young woman came in wearing glamour underwear and high heels, introduced herself, and left. Then another. I started to relax a little. This is nice, I thought. Everyone is so friendly, and they are dressed for the warm weather we're having.

After four girls had introduced themselves, the maid came back in with my fruit juice and asked which girl I wanted. I wished I'd been paying more attention to their names. "Or would you like all of them?" Umm, the last one, I said, pathetically. Actually the last one, whose name (I was reminded) was Paris, was particularly gorgeous: tall, part Caribbean if I had to guess, with a golden all year tan and a cheeky grin. So my first Babe was Paris. I wonder if it was like this for Toulouse Lautrec.

She cheerfully asked what I'd like to do, and of course I didn't know what to ask for, so the poor girl had to list some services and I had the feeling she would have preferred not to. I settled for hand relief (still nervous about the whole brothel experience, or whatever we're calling them). It turned out to be a great choice and I'd recommend it to anybody. It's cheap and it's safe, skin on skin without a condom, intensely intimate and pleasurable. It's quick, if you're worried about the time, and you always cum, if you're suffering from performance anxiety or anxious that you might. My advice to anyone is to go to a prostitute and get yourself professionally wanked.

Paris kissed me, undid my belt and trousers, and slipped her hand down my pants. I've been to other places where they just tell you to take off your clothes and lie on the bed, like some kind of medical examination without the nurse fantasy. Paris kissed me and felt down my pants and it was beautiful. Then she helped me out of the rest of my clothes, reached for the lube and sat on the bed in front of me. She worked my now hard cock like a milkmaid, grinning as if at the naughtiness of it all (or at what a loser I was, but it was a nice grin either way), and playing along by gasping in sympathy with me. As I looked down at her sweet face, her parted lips, her fingers working my erection, at her cleavage and her knickers, soon I felt that delicious moment of letting go approaching, and I came hard through her fingers, cum dripping over her tits. She handled the final moments well too - a lot of girls seem to think you just keep up the same rhythm, when for me at least I want it to slow down so I can savour it, cum slowly if that's possible, have the last drop squeezed out of me. Also there is a sudden sensitive feeling that appears just as you've cum, and having your cock yanked about goes from feeling great to intensely uncomfortable in an instant. Wanking is an art.

The other great thing about a handjob is that it leaves a little mystery, something for next time, a tantalising glimpse of a cleavage and a pantie-covered crotch, so you leave with a kiss on the cheek and a spring in your step and a new fantasy about getting into Paris' pants, getting her naked, spreading her legs and fucking her properly maybe one day next week, possibly Wednesday. Something to look forward to. I still have that fantasy, because Paris was one of the nicest and sexiest escorts I've been with.

Unfortunately I managed to mess that one up by missing her (turned out she was only there on Tuesdays), and as it happened I never saw her again. Damn.