Category Archives: Companionship

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It is an extraordinary moment when you realise you’ve finally met ‘the one’. Indeed, that feeling you have when it becomes clear your special lady is the woman you’ve been searching for is something more gratifying and all-encompassing than words can describe.

A Boundless Future

To be sure, knowing you will be spending your life with a woman who is everything you ever wanted a partner to be can make the world seem much better. After all, you’ve got everything to look forward to: the wedding, the house, the 2.4 kids, the family Christmases – all of it.

Quite simply, it feels like all the jigsaw pieces have fallen into place, and your future looks as rosy and boundless as possible.

Until things start to go wrong, that is.

The Writing on the Wall

The thing with long-term relationships is that the two people in them inevitably move in different directions over time. Indeed, whilst a couple may have had everything in common in their early twenties, this may not be the case when they reach their mid-thirties.

This can often make both parties feel like they are reading from different scripts, and when this happens, things generally start to unravel. Indeed, the rosy future begins to look less confident, and the family Christmases seem less appealing than they once did.

More often than not, this is the writing on the wall, and therefore, it is a matter of time before those two painful words are uttered: “It’s over”.

Moving On

Coming out of a long-term relationship can feel like coming out of prison – everything seems to have moved on, yet you have remained the same. Whilst you may feel like celebrating your newfound freedom and enjoying all the things you liked doing when you were single, you inevitably find that most of your pals have long-term partners and aren’t the best company to be around.

Female Company

Of course, it is only natural to want female company, even after coming out of a long-term relationship. However, it can be hard to find women who will be happy to spend time with you without developing some emotional attachment (which is ideally something you could without at this moment in time).

Fortunately, our London escorts agency could be just what you need now.

Our beautiful escorts in London can provide you with an attractive, articulate and enjoyable female company which is entirely uncomplicated; therefore, you can enjoy all the benefits of being with a beautiful lady without having to worry about any of the emotional issues which inevitably come with dating.

So, if you’re looking for a gentle way to get over your failed long-term relationship, arrange a date with one of our London ladies here at 24-hour Companions.

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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.

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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…

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From a saucy French maid and a 50’s housewife working naked to a serving wench, I have been the most domesticated servant in some category. My clients seem to enjoy the sight of a scantily-clad sexy agency 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 sure how to proceed, given that I don’t have 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, I asked what my client meant for the first time in ages.

This client was Henry, a divorced father of two in his mid-fifties. As a 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 right away at noon on Saturday and was ushered to a high-walled garden with an immaculately cut lawn. In the blazing sunshine, in the centre of the patio, 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 that he wanted me to scrub the clothes in the tub and get soaking wet. “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 underwear went see-through, and Henry leaned forward. My top in his view 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!”

After changing clothes and getting a hair dryer, 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.

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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.

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