The Origin of Stockings

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Historically, even though the word sock is at least as ancient in origin, what men typically wore were often referred to as tights, probably mainly when referring to the longer hose at times when they were the fashion for men. The word was used to refer to the bottom “stump” part of the body. By analogy, the term was used to refer to the one-piece covering of the lower trunk and limbs of the 15th century—essentially tights consisting of the upper stocks (later to be worn separately as knee breeches) and nether supplies (later to be worn independently as stockings).

Before the 1590s, stockings were made of woven cloth. The first knitting machines were for making stockings. The socks themselves were made of cotton, linen, wool or silk. Polished cotton called lisle was standard, as were those made in Balbriggan.

Before the 1920s, women’s stockings, if worn, were worn for warmth. In the 1920s, as women’s dresses’ hemlines rose, they wore socks to cover their exposed legs. These stockings were sheer, first made of silk or rayon (then known as “artificial silk”), and after 1940 of nylon. The first pantyhose appeared in the 1940s and 1950s, when film and theatre productions had stockings sewn to the briefs of actresses and dancers, according to actress-dancer Ann Miller and seen in popular films such as Daddy Long Legs. Today, socks are commonly made using knitted wool, silk, cotton or nylon. The introduction of pantyhose in 1959 provided a convenient alternative to stocks, and the use of socks declined dramatically. U.S. sales of stockings exceeded stockings for the first time and have remained this way ever since. BegIn87, sales of the hose with a suspender belt started slightly declining due to the newly invented hold-ups, but it remained a sold sock.

So, if you have a fetish for stockings, look no further than 24-hour Companions, where all our fine young ladies will honour your wishes by wearing only the finest socks for your eyes.

Our ladies can travel…

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My idea of saving is defined as: ‘squirrelling cash away so I can’t reach it’. I have a reserve account attached to my main current account and an off-shore bank account that only you, me and the gatepost know about. I keep that money for a rainy day, but there have been so many rainy days lately that I can’t decide which of them will inherit my money! Some weeks, I can deposit a few hundred in at the bank, especially when dates have paid for my delectable services at a time and a half – or an in-call becomes overnight.

It goes against all my principles to accept cash presents. Of course, there are my regular clients who treat me like a princess and who believe that I am their only and do not take them for granted. We set the ground rules before the date begins and never speak of money again after that… it makes me feel awkward. I am a very independent woman, like it or lump it.

Now I need a hole. I could make it a working holiday, and my London escort agency can arrange this for me as specific clients would love to see me. But I’d like to switch my phone off and read a book. I wish for a large swimming pool, a sun lounger and a dialect I must concentrate on to understand – and somewhere non-touristy. A desert island, perhaps!! I’m feeling a trip to the travel agent happening soon …

But for now, I must close my laptop and concentrate on an evening with Paul, who wants to try out the Cinnamon Club in Westminster. Note to self not to wear white where curry is concerned.

If you’ve ever wanted a travel companion, we will have the perfect lady just for you. Our ladies are well-travelled and love the thrill of seeing new places with exciting clients like you. To book one of our lovely girls, you only need to go to our gallery and choose which takes your fancy. You can discuss your needs with one of our friendly English receptionists, who will guide you on which escort would be ideal for you.

Like Father like Son…

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Once upon a time, there was a man named James. James was 27 and an heir to a fortune from his daddy. James’ daddy, Bill, was a successful businessman who, at 52, was taking a very early retirement and passing on his business and knowledge to his only son.

Bill was a regular client of mine, and though being married to James’ mother and living with her in their spectacular home in Hampstead Heath, he wooed and wowed me in his secret apartment in Kensington and took me on business trips worldwide. We visited Sydney, New York and Dubai on many occasions, and his business associates were the epitome of discretion. Mum was the word regarding his escort companion because they had their international companions to worry about.

One day, one of Bill’s business acquaintances (Paul) approached me and told me he knew someone who would like to impress a new set of colleagues with a proper woman by his side. I told him to go through the correct channels to book and thought no more of it. A few days later, while lounging in Bill’s fabulous pad in Kensington. I overheard him on a conference call discussing Paul and how he had betrayed the company. Shame, I always got on with him, but, again, I thought no more of it.

So, let me bring you to the present. I had a date lined up with a man who wanted to take me to a farewell party for his company’s founder, and he wanted to make a grand impression. He asked me to dress like a lady! I could immediately tell that the man I would be accompanying would be young and inexperienced and, without doubt, would be losing his escort plates to me. I dressed in a fabulous Pucci gown and wore my hair loose and curly, immensely grown up and elegant. I met my date, James, and though he was handsome and polite, he was very nervous as we entered the Crystal Room at the Mayfair Hotel. As I held onto his arm to make him feel more at ease, I stiffened in nervous fright as I saw the stage set up with a slideshow of the man whose farewell party it was. Bill, James’ daddy himself – clever Paul.
I have never been in a situation so close with a client… more so, a client who is my client’s father! Thankfully, I recovered myself quickly, and when James introduced me to his mother and father, I smiled politely, and my eyes told Bill (who was frozen with fear) that everything was okay. We didn’t stay too long anyway, which I thought was strange, but James wanted to take advantage of his suite.

And I can safely say, as weird as it sounds, it was a case of like father-like son…

Wet and Wild…

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From a saucy French maid, a 50’s housewife working naked, to a serving wench, I have been most domesticated servants in some category or other. My clients seem to enjoy the sight of a scantily-clad sexy London escort working in their home. I can’t think why…

However, the polite request to be a ‘washer-woman’ left me slightly dumbfounded. I wasn’t quite sure how I was supposed to pertain to that, given that I don’t do muscly arms and a belly over my waistband. I had visions of some cartoon-esque dame a la Tom & Jerry, and I can’t say it did much for my libido or self-image. So, for the first time in ages, I asked what my client meant.

This client was Henry, a divorced father of two in his mid-fifties. Resident in the affluent area of Bayswater, Henry described himself as having a natural thing for water, especially water splashed all over the place on a willing participant. He asked me to wear white, tie my hair up and not to wear a scrap of makeup. With these instructions, I arrived promptly at noon on Saturday and was ushered through to a high-walled garden with an immaculately cut lawn. In the centre of the patio, in the blazing sunshine, was a wooden tub full of suds and, next to it, a scrubbing brush and board.

Henry was reclining on a sun lounger, sunglasses on, regarding me as I stood in the patio doorway. He waved me over and stretched out a hand. As he passed me a glass of Pimms, he explained simply that he wanted me to scrub the clothes in the tub and get soaking wet in the process. “Plenty of splash, my dear! Give those old flagstones a soaking! And make sure you get it all down your front…”

Well, thank God for the small mercies of a brilliant sunny day. I hauled the sheets out of the suds and gave them a good going over, slopping water everywhere and mostly over myself. My top and underwear went see-through, and Henry leaned forward on his chair to get a better look. I used my arm to brush my hair out of my eyes, soaking my face and letting it run down my neck. I figured I resembled a drowned rat, but Henry was delighted.

“Peg them on the line when you’re done, will you?” he called gleefully as I stood up to wring out my long white skirt. I was drenched and longing to lie in the sun to dry off. He chucked me a towel and invited me to do just that. Thankfully, his sun-trap garden had me drying off within twenty minutes, and I was able to chat a little about the job I’d done. “Splendid effort…” he said, beaming.”I will have to call you again!”

A change of clothes and a hair dryer later, I went home to Mayfair to glam up for my evening date with Oscar. It just wouldn’t do to let too many people see me in that state; I have an image to uphold.

This could be magic…

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Have you ever seen a live magician at a party or show? I have often been entertained by would-be Derren Browns at weddings and occasion-birthday parties – even at the pub on a Tuesday night. I always say “oooh” and “ahhh”, and no matter how closely I look, I can never work out how they do it. In short, I love being impressed by someone who can do something I can’t.

I was introduced to Jerry at a friend’s anniversary gathering. He was sitting on the sofa in their Hampstead home, drinking coffee, shuffling a deck of cards with one hand. Jerry cut and flicked the cards over and under as I stood mesmerised. I didn’t even realise how rude I was being by staring, but I was entranced. He must have felt my eyes on his because he lifted his head and gave me a wide grin—something clenched in the pit of my stomach.

By the end of the evening, I had begged him to show me a few tricks and slightly fallen in love. His long, tapered fingers caressed the coins he vanished; the red foam ball that tripled in my clenched palms was sweaty with lust, and I fantasised about him making my underwear disappear with a wave of his hand. Brazen or not, I handed him my business card as he left and hoped to hear from him again.

I asked my friends about him, as you do, as soon as the door closed. They told me he worked the Kensington circuit and had been performing quietly for friends and family before being taken on by an agent in 2009. Although he wasn’t entirely up to David Copperfield’s standard, he could make things vanish before your eyes.

Well, I don’t want to be big-headed. I knew I would hear from him by today, and he rang me at 09.30m, wondering what I was up to. Was this a typical escort and client date or something purely personal? I didn’t want to throw my hourly rate into the mix, so I hoped he wanted to spend some time with me because I impressed him. We arranged to meet at the South Bank for lunch at 1.00 p.m. I wanted to wear something flowery and floaty, but that weather seems to have other ideas.

I feel nervous as I type this as I haven’t been on a date for myself in a long time. I don’t want a boyfriend, but I would like a new playmate who can teach me something to wow my social circle. It’s never too late to find him.