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.

Adorable Anya

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September has sprung upon us, and it is time to introduce our autumn beauties, starting with Anya. This lovely brunette escort in Kensington is 23 years old and beautiful!

With long chestnut hair to her waist and mouth-watering 34C-22-34 statistics, our young elite is a real head-turner. Look into her sparkling brown eyes, but do not be misled that you see innocence there – Anya is undoubtedly not backwards about putting herself forward. She knows her mind and is not afraid to show it. Naughty, adventurous and open-minded are three hot credentials on her CV. She loves to have new fantasies explained to her in great detail and is never shocked by what she hears. Anya lives by her motto: “Never regret what you have done; only what you haven’t done”. Indeed, that is a tempting prospect for any man.

Anya is available for international bookings and can be booked with 24 hours’ notice. Imagine how exciting it would be to have such a young, gorgeous woman on your arm or lying by your side as you relax with a drink in the sun. You will be envied for miles around as you step out together, and she devotes her full attention to every word you say.

Book Anya now by calling 07811 160 160. we are happy to pre-book her as she does get booked up pretty quickly, but we will endeavour to make an appointment so you won’t be disappointed.

Saucy texts…

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I so love my mobile phone. There’s an App for everything these days, just as the adverts tell us, and I have yet to find one that doesn’t. I’m addicted to everything electronic and sleeping as it is, so my Smartphone is just the icing on the cake. As I’ve previously said, I can’t live without my trusty Filofax, but you can’t send someone something racy from the A5 pages of a notebook.

When I get a new client (or tending to the needs of a regular), I always take their phone number down so we can smooth out the finer points of our date. Whether it is by voice or text, I’m available. This also means that I can wind them up throughout the hours preceding the date if they so wish – which is precisely what Rob asked me to do before our date on Sunday.

I was instructed to whip him into a frenzy with some truly saucy text and MMS messaging. So I flexed my digits, limbered up my right wrist and got to work. The camera quality on my phone is pretty good for what it is. isSomeme mobile phones boast 12 megapixels and a flash, but mine works in HD. I’m not bragging; I’m just saying. This works even more to my advantage when I need to send video over the airwaves… I thought I’d sneak a few pictures in of me in my most revealing cream satin lingerie (Rob stipulates he likes lace rather than leather) with some smooth skin visible. It’s. Titled “Guess the body part?”

I also thought I’d spice things up a little by taking a walk through Knightsbridge, snapping a few landmarks for authenticity – and then casually throw in that I was sitting in a quiet cafe daring to take pictures down my tp while sipping a latte. It’s all about titillation rather than seeing it all at once – there would be plenty of time for that in the evening on our date. Rob said he wanted to spoil me by booking us a table at Marco in Chelsea. This is one of the few London restaurants I haven’t been to regularly, and I was looking forward to sampling their delights again. I was especially looking forward to sending him a text while demurely looking at the menu, reading: I’ve dropped my fork; you’d best get under the table and look for it.

I deliberately use words and phrases that reek of double innuendos. I think the best way to man’s heart is to make him laugh at my brazen cheekiness and cause him to feel twitchy in the trouser area, but not enough to be noticeable. I want him to grab me and tell me, close to my ear, that I’ve been driving him mad all day. That’s passion. Couple that with a tight pencil skirt that shows off my bottom and a neckline just low enough to make him wonder… I know how to work the system.

London’s Soho

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I love the whole Gay scene around the Capital. Although I don’t see a lot of gay men in my line of work, I wander through Soho, inhaling the vibe and the atmosphere with a smile.

And it was at G-A-Y that I met Lucas. Just for once, I had Saturday night free to sashay with my girlfriends among the queens of London. Tight tops, designer sunglasses and skinny jeans abound (and that was the men!). The crowd spilled out onto the pavement.

Soho is recognised more for its pubs, bars, nightspots and the fabulous West End than the seedy sex trade. We danced through the lanes to all the tunes carried along with the evening breeze, slightly intoxicated. And there in the shadows, I saw him.

Average height but better than average build, he was standing, looking bored with a cigarette burning at his fingertips. As we passed him, he took a drag from it, and something in me tingled. I persuaded the girls to stop ‘for a drink’, which worked because nobody spotted him but me. And quite a good job, too as I was, with many of my fellow delicious 24-hour escorts. What he was doing at one of the campest gay haunts in Soho, I do not know, but my Gaydar didn’t start beeping, so I thought I was OK. I looked at him over my shoulder as we stood in the queue, and he winked at me.

“What’s your name?” I mouthed. He responded with Lucas. I like to get straight to the point; maybe it’s my profession. There is no point skipping around the obvious for hours. I fancied him; I let him know it.

I liked the fact we were an ordinary boy and girl meeting by chance on a Saturday night. I also liked I hadn’t set this date up in advance and wanted to be me for a little while. Lucas had no expectations of me, and it was worth a kiss in a dark corner if nothing else!

Worth every penny…

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So, it hasn’t escaped my attention that my apartment building in Mayfair has its fair share of resident Arabs. This has proved a bit tricky in the past with client-on-client run-ins in my building, but it has also meant an abundance of new clients right at my doorstep.

Though I am a very discrete London escort, I have been approached while locking my front door to ask what services I provide. It has been more luck than them working on the fact. I leave and enter my home looking more than perfectly coiffed and manicured. The expensive clothes I adorn are not to be mistaken for anything other than lining the body of a model who knows her labels.

Some chance encounters have been a very wealthy businessman’s hired help handing me their gold embossed business cards showing me their master’s work address boasting a skyscraper view from Canary Wharf or private offices in Chelsea, with a number to call for personal appointments. My reply to most of these slip-of-the-hand meets is to slip them my 24-hour London escort card right back. They can work for my hand rather than me chasing a new client.

After going through the correct channels to book my time, I was satisfied when the final details were agreed upon and always sat. I have always described my work ethic as being a chameleon, and behind closed doors with specific nationality clients, I can be whatever they want me to be, and when accompanying them to Dubai or not even out of London,

I can be demure and discrete and worth every penny!