High End Hooker - Sex Stories

High End Hooker

I've been around the block a few times, I don't mind admitting. The name 'escort' has got pretty besmirched of late, thanks to all the new East European teenage 'scrubbers'; and 'courtesan' is a word that most punters can't get their heads around, let alone pronounce (I'm thinking here of the Russian oligarchs). So I regard myself simply as a high class lady for hire. And that's what it says on the gilt-edged visiting cards I carry around in my Prada clutch bag, distributing them to the head porters and doormen of five star hotels in most major cities. I reckon I must have shelled out over $5000 in commission to those pimps last year. Rome, Monaco, Biarritz, St Moritz. I follow the money. International bankers, super-rich hedge funders, Lebanese ex-pats, former Egyptian army colonels. They all need skirt and they're all willing to pay well for it. So long as the skirt performs. I'm certainly not one of those casino molls who stays draped on some miserable Chinese gambler's arm all night, slurping Pina Coladas and whispering sweet nothings in his ear, while he blows a small fortune at the roulette table. I like action. Hard-humping, relentless, all-night sex action. Last year, returning to Britain from an IMF conference in Paris, I was so sore I could hardly get up the aeroplane's steps! Sex is my forte. And the dirtier the better for yours truly! In my Clients' Manual, the page marked 'No-No's' is blank! I was in Geneva. The latest G7 Summit had broken up with its usual ...

... disunity and animosty, masked by the carefully-choreographed group photo at the end. I was standing at the back of a crowd of onlookers, on the arm of a minor UK civil servant, who I'd only discovered at two o'clock in the morning was gay and into Golden Rain. Don't gt me wrong - I've no objection to piss-play. It's just that, as I hitched up my Dior dress to squat on Tristran's face, I wondered just how ethical it was for a civil servant to get British taxpayers to finance his watersporting habit. Still, they got their moneysworth. On the end of the second row of the collected Global Great-and-the-Good, was a big swarthy bastard; probably North African I guess. I nudged Tristran. "Who's the big guy on the right? Second row?" He put his hand in front of his mouth and whispered: "Tariz al-Majarif, Gaddafi's Number 3 in Libya's hated security service. Got out two days before Tripoli fell. Said to be worth $6-billion!" "Nice. Where's he keep it? Under the matress?" "All over the place. Rumour has it that he's got most of it stashed away in an armoured vault underneath his London house in Regent's Park. In gold bullion." "You don't say?" I conjured up the idea of owning a couple of gold ingots, to have as a nice pension policy for my old age. I squeezed Tristran's arm tightly. "Couldn't fix me an introduction could you, darling?" He stared straight ahead and smirked. "Are you free tonight, Tina?" "For you, darling? All night long! What's more, I'll make sure I drink plenty of water ...