First Time Mayfair Escort Christina From Cheshunt Part 1

The drive from one of London's top restaurants in Mayfair to the apartment in Cheshunt into which I had recently moved can take anywhere from an hour during the day to around fifteen minutes in the early hours of the morning. We left the restaurant at just after one in the morning and were making the journey in my date's chauffeur driven Mercedes.

We had hardly got onto the back seat of the car when I was in his arms, we were only gliding along Piccadilly when he first kissed me, we had just reached Trafalgar Square when his hand was inside the top of my dress on my bare, unfettered breasts and we were on the Embankment when his hand went up my loose skirt.

"Karl," I whispered. "The driver."

Karl smiled. "Don't worry Christina he's blind and deaf."

"Don't be silly," I whispered as I felt his fingers trying to get between my legs that I kept tightly closed.

"And on top of that he has been my driver for ten years and is totally faithful."

"But wait we will be at my flat soon."

"I can't wait," he hissed. "And I don't want to so open your fucking legs a bit."

We were going past the Tower of London just a few minutes later when he made me cum with his mouth on my nipple and his fingers up my cunt.

The dinner that Brendan cooked me was delightful. A salad with grated parmesan and slithers of Parma ham to start, baby lamb chops with peas and new potatoes as a main and raspberries and cream for dessert. It was light and delicious with portions that were just the right size.

"Let me help," I said as he started to clear the table.

"No you stay right there, it can wait 'til later," he said.

"Well at least let me clear the plates," I said picking them both up. "You stay right there and pour the wine," I smiled.

Returning from the kitchen I had to walk past him. As I did he reached out and grabbed my arm. He pulled me onto his lap.

Brendan is in his early fifties and is a widower, we have been dating sporadically for a couple of months, but had not yet had sex. Tonight looks like being the night. He had invited me to his house for him to cook dinner; modern man's euphemism for come over and let me fuck you.

I like him a lot. He is a really generous and considerate man with great manners and an easy going way about him. He's affectionate, kind, thoughtful and not at all pushy. The kind of guy you want as a friend or brother not really as a lover though. Being a successful lawyer, he's also quite wealthy.

He put his arms round me and kissed me. He actually kisses quite well, but in a rather old fashioned way with heads on the side and little lip sucking or licking. I kissed him back and ran my hands through his hair. It went on for some time as he, presumably plucked up the courage to go further. He had caressed my breasts before, but only when sitting in his car outside my flat. At last he ran his hand up my back, round the side and onto my b cup boob. It felt nice and I pushed back. We kissed more and his hand went inside the thin sweater I was wearing. For some time, he played with my tits, which were still in my bra. He was arousing me and I became adventurous. Reaching down I took hold of the hem of the sweater and in one quick move pulled it up and over my head.

"Oh God Chrissy, they are gorgeous," he sighed seeing them in the delicate, diaphanous, pale blue bra.

"Take it off," I said probably rather croakily.

As he fiddled my bra off, I undid his shirt and ran my fingers over his chest. He sucked my nipple, ran his hand up and down my legs and over my bottom.

"I have wanted to do this since we met," he whispered.

"So have I Brendan," I said only half truthfully.

"I so want you Chrissy."

"Yes Brendan take me to bed, please take me to bed and fuck me."

"Kneel for me."


"I want to fuck you doggy fashion."

I knelt and he did.

Since my divorce I have become rather promiscuous. I was not like that before or during my marriage and I am not quite sure what has changed me. I now look on sex in a different way to how I have in the past. I see it as something to be enjoyed like a round of golf or a tennis match perhaps!

Since establishing the fact that I do not and probably never did love my husband I completely differentiate between the two. I do not need love to have sex with someone. A simple statement, but one with massive potential consequences.

Before I married I slept with six men. During my marriage it was three and since the split four years ago... I have lost count.

Going hand in hand with both my new found promiscuity and the divorce of love from sex is that fact that I have more and more realised how much I enjoy it. I do not mean just sexual excitement, although I get loads of that I mean, fun and enjoyment, pleasure, gratification, and stimulation. It has taken me some time to realise these changes and longer to accept them. But I have now done both of those.

Karl, the guy who had made me cum in the back of his car as we went past the Tower, is German. He lives in Munich, but travels to London every other week to review the two electronic businesses that he owns. We were in his Mayfair hotel and we had just had some wonderful sex. We were laying naked on the bed watching TV when he asked.

"Chrissy I have an important contact coming to London next week."

"Really?" I replied not listening that attentively as my attention was being diverted by his fingertips running across my modest, but pert tits.

"Yes he is very important to me."

"Ok, fine."

"Would you look after him for me?"

"How do you mean look after?"

"Take him to dinner, maybe a club or a casino?"

"Sure of course, why not?"

"No reason, but of course he is a man," he went on reaching further round me and cupping my breast.

"Er...yes and," I said hesitantly as what he was implying sank in and combined with the delicious feelings his finger and thumb were giving me by pinching my nipple.

"He is a very attractive man."

"Is he married?"

"Yes, but he does not see that as a limitation."

"What's that mean?" I asked sliding my hand down Karl's flat stomach and into the curls of his pubic hairs.

He kissed me and squeezed both of my breasts in turn.

"Well Christina if you were attracted to him and you both get on well, I would not object."

I saw what he was getting at and where this was going.

"Object to what me sleeping with him"? I asked sliding my hand onto his semi-erect circumcised cock.

Maybe I should have been insulted. Possibly I should have objected. Perhaps I should have told him to fuck off. But I didn't. It could be that his caresses and the fact that I was making his cock grow had something to do with it, but I found the idea appealing.

Paul, Karl's important contact was lovely. Urbane, sophisticated, charismatic and charming were terms that came into my mind as we had a lovely evening two weeks later.

He sent a car to collect me from my place in Cheshunt. We had drinks at Aqua thirty-one floors up the Shard, dinner at Hibiscus in Mayfair, we gambled at the Ritz casino, had more drinks at a club in Dover Street and then back to his hotel the Connaught for what had been on the cards all evening. His suite was lovely in an old style elegant way, the bed was big and fluffy and he fucked me quite beautifully in the middle of it.

I guess I had known that this would happen from when Paul telephoned me shortly after Karl had mentioned him. I guess also that he expected me to put out for him, after all you men do not go to the expense he had for just a goodnight kiss do you?

He was a good and imaginative lover, with strong recovery powers and great stamina. We got into his suite at just after one and by the time I was winging along the Embankment and, coincidentally past the Tower, at around five thirty he had fucked me three times and I had had four or five climaxes.

"You get used to it," Sue an old friend told me a few weeks later.

She works in a high class massage place where the clients expect and are provided with extras. She had told me some time ago that she was working there and had hinted at, but had not been explicit about, the amount of sex that went on. I had guessed that she was being paid very well for her favours as her standard of living had gone up enormously in the last couple of years that coincided with the new job.

We were having drinks at the flat she had just moved into in Primrose Hill. It had taken me some time to pluck up the courage to broach the topic with her, but after my second large glass of white wine I blurted out.

"Sue what's it like doing it for money?"

After telling me that you get used to it she explained that although it was a little scary to start with after a while it became easy.

"You just have to alter your thinking on sex."

"What's it like with boyfriends, do you get too hardened to enjoy it with them?"

"Funnily you say that Chris for I did at first, but after a few months you sort of adjust. Anyway why are you asking?"

"No reason," I lied.

"Come on Christina you can tell me, after all I have become accustomed to selling my body. Is that what you are planning to do?"

"Things are very tough financially," I began hesitantly not sure whether I should open up fully to her, but then I wanted someone to talk to about my idea.

"Yes they were for me before I started massaging."

"They are obviously better now."

"Immeasurably so and I wish I had started ages ago. So tell me more."

"Well the bastard Bill," I started referring to my ex by the name my friends and I called him. "Has gone bust so he's not paying the maintenance and getting a job that pays for a Dockland's flat and supports the life-style I have is impossible."

"So you want to come into the massage business?"

"Not exactly no."

"What then?"

"I am thinking of becoming an escort."

I explained that I had been cruising around the internet and came across an escort agency. I dug a bit deeper and found they wanted to recruit some girls. Digging further, I found that you can register with several and after a meeting or an interview I suppose, they put your details on the websites and then when a man requests you they get in touch. Simple, easy and no fuss or formalities really. I had registered with a couple and was pleasantly surprised to get prompt replies, I had of course used a false name and had set up a new yahoo account for the purpose. I used that email though to ask a few questions and then talked to the two agencies on the phone.

I was still uncertain as to whether I would go ahead or not, but the idea was gathering appeal. I had got used to the promiscuity thing. I had come to terms with the fact that morally sex meant little more to me than it being a pleasurable, enjoyable, exciting and satisfying pastime. I had overcome my sleeping around and the fact that often I had two, three or even four guys on the go at any one time. Partly by persuading myself, partly by talking to other divorcees in chat rooms and in person and partly by merely observing life I recognised that women were now equal to men in most things and that included sleeping around. No longer were sexually active women considered the sluts or tarts they would have been just a few years ago.

Perhaps the biggest change of view was the selling sex and my body angle. Both Karl and Paul had been important in that for I hardly knew Karl when I slept with him the first time and I did not know Paul at all. They had paid me to sleep with them by the money they spent on the dinners and the like. I felt it was almost my duty to repay them in the traditional way and that was by having sex with them. So in the end was that much different for the payment to be in cash rather than in kind?

"Well as it happens Christina you have contacted us at the perfect time," the woman who claimed to be the owner of the agency I had exchanged several emails with told me. She went on to explain that they were launching a new upmarket service where they wanted slightly older escorts who were used to the West End. I had completed an online questionnaire that gave her that information. Later that week I met with Anna and her husband Mike who explained the process, the charging and the split.

They would handle all the publicity and finding and vetting of clients. I would need to tell them the evenings I would be available both ahead of time they said. "For our international clients who tend to book ahead, and for those wanting an appointment that evening." That was not a problem for me.

He explained that they would expect to use me probably two to three times a week for usually three hours a time and there would be likely to be on average one all-nighter per week. He explained that there would be some one hour quickies but they tried keeping them to a minimum.

I have set up your first appointment with Mike, "Just be yourself with him and dress and play it as you would if you were on a date, ok?"

I was, of course very nervous waiting for Mike a couple of afternoons later. I was wearing a nice little black number of a dress, a cocktail dress as some call it. It was tight above the waist and across my breasts and was fairly, but not extremely low cut. When I was upright it showed just the swell of each boob and a little bit of cleavage and when I leaned forward it showed more of each orb nearly, but not quite to my nipples and a deeper cleavage. However, as I did not wear a bra with it normally and decided not to for Mike it was a rather gaping cleavage rather than one of those splendid ones with a deep crease between each breast.

I have been told and I think I agree that what I lack in breast size I more than make up for with the look and size of my areola and nipples. The former are coral pink and compared to the size of each breast are quite large, probably getting on for two inches in diameter and have pronounced and quite a lot of montgomery bumps or glands; I have no idea why, but men find them interesting! Also I have prominent nipples that do not grow much in size when I am aroused, or cold, but simply stiffen considerably. Whilst not glaringly obvious the thinnish wool of the dress meant that it continually hinted at a lack of bra, something I had worked out over the years that men like. Why the hell a flash of pink or a sign of a lump through an over garment is so sexy to them, heaven knows.

For obvious reasons I chose stockings over tights and I slipped into a pair of lacy top holdups. Checking myself in the mirror just wearing them and my killer heels I thought I looked good. My dirty blonde hair was nice and wavy, my make-up was minimal and I was not wearing perfume, Anna had told me never make the clients go home smelling of you.

Mike was dead on time at two pm. He was smartly, yet casually dressed.

Hi Christina isn't it?"

I was attentive and friendly rather flirty and a little, but not overly suggestive. We had a drink and chatted away about a number of topics including Europe and the situation with the Syrian refugees. He asked if I liked any sports and I said tennis and golf both of which I played. I told him that I been to several football matches, usually in a box of a company where I was the, I said smiling 'eye candy' for that company's clients.

We continued making general conversation where I assumed he was checking out my interests and social behaviour. It was actually quite interesting. What I was not sure of though was who should make the first move? Was that up to the escort? He partly solved that for me.

"Lovely place you have here Christina," he said standing up and going to the window that looked towards the Thames and the Dome.

"Yes I love it."

"It's on two floors isn't it?"


"So what's upstairs the bedrooms?"


"They must have an even better view than here."

"Yes they do, would you like to see?"

Bingo that was it.

We went upstairs, I took him into the bedroom, he stood behind me looking out of the window, he rested his hands on my shoulders, I leaned back and he reached round me and cupped my breasts. We kissed and he undressed me. It was strange being kissed and undressed by someone I hardly knew, but it was bearable and after all I had been involved in a few one-night stands so what was the difference?

I was soon down to my thong, holdups and heels.

"Oh yes Chrissy you look great," he enthused.

Again I was a little uncertain as to how to play this. Did I let him have the lead all the way or should I, for instance, rub his obvious erection through his trousers or perhaps undo them? We continued standing by the window kissing and I took the bull by the horns and slid my hand down between us.

"Mmmm nice," he sighed pushing his hard on against my hand.

I unzipped him and fiddled inside his trousers until I got his cock. It was plain sailing from then on. We were soon both on the bed with him naked before me. He took my panties off and we kissed and caressed each other more.

Lying side by side facing each other he murmured.

"I want you Chrissy."

"How Mike how do you want me?"

He fucked me missionary style the first time and it was good. We had another drink and chat and then half hour or so later we started to kiss again and then he went down on me. He had an active tongue and made me cum without any acting on my part. I licked and sucked his cock, but did not give him the option of cumming in my mouth and instead suggested he take me doggy style.

"Well done Christina, that was great," he said when he came out of the shower.

I had slipped on a thin dressing robe and replied. "So do I pass Mike?"

"Oh yes, I don't really like saying this as it can be taken the wrong way, but you are a natural."

Mike continued, “Are you ready for your first paying customer?”

“Yes.” I quickly replied.

It was, as scary as hell. What had seemed a good idea, meeting for a drink in the bar of his upscale London west end hotel, having lunch at a well-known, extraordinarily expensive and exclusive restaurant and then back to his hotel for the remainder of the afternoon, when Anna had briefed me, felt anything like it as I got ready.

I had mulled over what to wear a great deal. I wanted a blend of youthfulness, if that's possible at my age, but not 'mutton dressed up as lamb' with a smart casual look in keeping with lunch in Mayfair. Gone are the days of dressy lunches so I chose tight, smart but casual, , Versace blue jeans, a little silky, cerise coloured camisole top with spaghetti straps and a rumpled, black linen jacket with the sleeves rolled up, sort of Miami Vice, a look that has very much come back in London.

"Hello you must be Chrissy," a middle-aged, pleasant looking, slightly balding guy said in an American accent as I stood in the doorway to the bar of his hotel.

"Yes and you must be Derek."