Being His London Whore

  • 4 months ago
  • 30 min read
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Slut-red, that’s the only way to describe the shocking colour of my new lipstick; sticky, shiny, slutty red.
Perfect.
My working dress is also slut-red, a daring halterneck that leaves my slim, golden shoulders bare and the cleavage open to an inch below my rather modest breasts.
Clicking my patent slut-red heels through the grand lobby of the hotel, I especially like the way the soft material moves around my legs. It swishes just above my knees, not in a tight clinging way, but in a gentle flowing way that gives just a hint of the toned thighs and hips beneath.
I’m wearing fishnet stockings, a tight mesh that suits my small frame. Hold-ups as opposed to a suspender belt—can’t have lumps and bumps ruining the sleek lines of my figure.
The overall look is just as I intended, it befits a high-class whore and suits the exclusive Grosvenor House Hotel on Park Lane, the venue I’ve picked for tonight’s sales pitch.
I glance at the display of exotic flowers flooding an antique mahogany table and sense the concierge looking my way. I strut a little more confidently, as if I belong, as if I am entitled to be here. I am—why shouldn’t I be? I’m performing a service the same way he is.
Before me heavy double doors are propped open and a gold sign overhead reads “Champagne Bar” in black writing. I walk in and the atmosphere mellows from the stiffly formal lobby to a distinguished but relaxed lounge. A huge fire blazes through subdued lighting and an excess of contemporary leather seating is dotted about.
There is a sleek bar side onto me and three middle-aged men in suits lean casually against it, drinks half-drunk, chatting in a familiar way. One of them looks at me, turns back, comments, then they all scan me up and down. I give just the barest tilt of my lips and step around them. The floor here is thickly carpeted and my trip-trapping heels fall silent.
“Good evening,” one of the men says as I draw parallel.
“Hi,” I reply, quicken my pace and choose a stool around the far end of the bar. Behind me is a window, a huge expanse of black glass which glistens as the lights of Park Lane traffic fractures through the millions of raindrops streaking its surface.
The barman is attentive and I’ve barely seated myself and placed my slut-red purse on the bar when he’s over.
“Champagne, madam.” He stands a tall flute of golden bubbles in front of me. “Compliments of the three gentlemen.”
I raise the glass, smile and mouth cheers to the three men who are staring at me with hopeful expression. But I don’t linger my attention, they’re not my type, a bit old, a bit samey, not at all hunky.
I’m fussy—really fussy.
I can afford to be. I have a roof over my head, money in the bank and two kids doing rather well at private school. Being discerning about customers is a luxury I allow myself.
The bar is half full and as I savour the deliciously dry bubbles popping on the roof of my mouth, I check out the clientele. Several couples sit cosy on over-stuffed sofas, a few groups laugh with reserved mirth so as not to disturb the gentle ambiance and a pianist tinkles away near the fire; something lazily jazzy, un-intrusive and mellow.
There are two single men, one reads a broadsheet in a bucket chair by a table lamp and the other has a laptop on his knee and a glass of red wine in his hand. Neither look my type, but it’s okay, I know I’ll get lucky if I bide my time.
I take another sip of champagne and my attention is caught by a shadow looming in the double doorway. A big bulk of a man is briefly silhouetted before he strides onto the carpeted area. He wears a charcoal grey suit which fits his wide, six feet-plus frame to perfection and my heart does a happy flip of hope. He’s so my type.
I’ve always had a thing for men with that overdosed-on-testosterone look. Big, burly chunks of muscle do seriously funny things to my stomach, my knees and somewhere else in-between. I find myself hoping his wallet is deep enough for me to have a good time as well as him. Not just a request for a quick blow job—that’s not my style. My rate is for the night, not individual acts, unless it gets kinky, then it’s an open court for discussion and depends on my mood.
He stands at the bar beside the men who sent me champagne, dwarfing them as he catches the barman’s attention. I lip read his order of bottled beer, exactly what I’d have predicted, then I pout and run a hand through my long dark hair as his brooding gaze scans my way.
But his glance hits me so briefly and with such disinterest I wonder if he’s even noticed me summing him up. I try not to crease my forehead into a frown, reach into my purse and pull out a gold compact and my slut-red lipstick.
I keep my eye on the hunk.
He signs the drink to his room and the sight of his big-man hands tip me over the edge. That’s it. He’s my target for tonight. No one else will do. It’s him or nothing.
He moves to take a seat nearer me, but not at the bar, a creased brown leather armchair next to a Tiffany lamp and with a view of Park Lane. I settle into re-applying my lipstick and peer at his face over the compact. He has a strong, square jaw that protrudes slightly giving him an air of proudness, his nose looks like that of a rugby player, or a boxer, squint but tough and his mouth is wide and soft. I watch fascinated as he licks a drip of beer from his bottom lip and then leans his meaty shoulders back into the chair.
“Another champagne?”
A quiet voice jolts me from my study. I re-focus and see the shorter of the three men from the bar standing at my side.
“No, I’m fine thank-you,” I say, watching his thin weasel moustache twitch.
“Perhaps a night-cap, a brandy perhaps, the hour is getting late.” He nods at the over-sized clock behind the bar that shows eleven.
“No, really, I’m fine.” I tuck away my compact and lipstick. “Thank you so much for this one though.” I hold up my nearly empty glass.
“Well,” he says, and leans in so close I can smell his musty

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Written by Lily Harlem
Hochgeladen June 2, 2021
Notes I'm wet, hot and ready for him. But will he pay for my services? And can he afford my tight pussy?
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