Friday, 15 May 2015


Monday was D-day, I had three visitors to the Office each named David, surely that’s bigger odds than winning the Lottery?

My first visit of the day was from ‘D The Dress,’ who has bought me several gowns to wear for his pleasure over the years. It's a vicarious indulgence really, he tells me had he been younger it’s something he'd have loved to wear himself, that blousy and crinoline look.

And so I pull out the biggest, billowy frock from my wardrobe (with difficulty) that I have, applied siren red lipstick, matched with crimson red nail varnish and sparkling jewels; if you haven't guessed already, he loves the fashion of the 50's.

Now ‘D The Fur,’ asks nothing more than ‘fur coat no knickers,’ not even stockings, just me naked beneath either my full-length mink or white arctic fox fur. And whilst this might be my easiest dressing-up request, it can be a bit challenging at the height of summer, so it doesn't stay on a minute longer than it needs to…whoosh it goes as it flies across the room.

He also enjoys a bit of mild Tie & Tease; lying there on the bed, me straddled over him in furs, I'll place an eye mask on him and begin playing with his nipples. D's nipples are so sensitive, that one has to but touch them as delicately as a butterfly alighting a flower, otherwise he'll hit the roof.

As I shuffle up toward his mouth, he waits in blind expectation of my erect cock; firstly resting upon his loosely parted lips, before gently poking its way toward the back of his throat, whilst I hold his hands high above his head, sometimes bound with a pair of stockings.

Wiggling back down along his smooth tanned chest, one hand gently teases his right nipple, the other takes his cock in hand and primes the pump until he pleads, ‘Oh Frances please stop, please stop, or I'm going to come,’ but do I ever listen…D is a proper squealer upon orgasm.

'D No: 3,’ called late afternoon and from the tone of his voice, I wasn't sure this would happen, he sounded cautious, reserved, and a little aloof. Despite my doubts, within ten minutes of his arrival the ice was broken (with a G & T) and conversation was flowing freely and unabashed, by the end of the hour I'd gained another regular client, as upon leaving the Office he'd promised to be back before very long.

Friday, 10 April 2015


Damn it…Becky has retired. Well she did say she would this year and good for her, off to pastures new; however, where does this leave me now?

There goes my ‘Go To’ Transsexual playmate, the one I'd call upon for assistance in a threesome boudoir liaison. And to whom do I now refer my clients when I'm not available, or if they'd simply like to have some fun with another English gal?

Becky was a unique Escort, by which I mean she was polite, educated, mindful, genuine, delivered the goods, loved champagne as much as I and…was English.

I fondly remember one evening together, no one else involved just ourselves. We retired to her boudoir, the lighting and music was just so and we were on to our third or was it fourth bottle of champagne. Lying there I looked at her, she looked at me, in a 'Well you start,' we were both so sloshed, that we fell asleep.

We spent many a wonderful afternoon/evening entertaining, be it her client or mine and would often jump the Eurostar to Paris for a weekend shopping trip, to top up on our lingerie and stocking collection, or pop over to the annual lingerie trade show weekend, to which we were invited each year.

How many girls pop up in Google search these days when you type in ‘London Transsexual Escort,’ hundreds I imagine? But I doubt there's one of Becky's calibre, one whom I wouldn't hesitate referring one of my own client to and who's English…if you do know then please let me know too.

Sometimes, the feedback I hear from clients begins to sound like a broken record, ‘it wasn't them in the picture;’ ‘unsympathetic and impatient;’ ‘couldn't speak the language;’ ‘upon arrival reeled off a list of prices for various services.’

Now don't for a moment think all Escorts are like that, oh no, it's only about 40% of them, at least from what I'm told; it's a jungle out there.

So, good luck and bon voyage on your new adventures Becky, we certainly had a ball and what a pleasure it was too; thank you.

Thursday, 12 March 2015


M had just arrived in from NYC; ‘Hi Frances, I'm staying at the Corinthian hotel (Espa toiletries) but I have to pop out awhile first, can I see you at 10pm?’

The Corinthian is one of London’s newest hotels, it boasts itself as 5-star and indeed it is very nice, however, it’s the hotel equivalent of a ‘Euro car,’ smooth, conformist modern lines, built for practicality rather than quirky originality. It’s insipid, indistinguishable and lacks identity, no different from a hundred other high-end boutique hotels.

And those interiors they're always the same, muted grey or brown, with lots of chrome and glass, not at all cozy, or the kind of place you'd like to squirrel yourself away in for a long weekend; the toiletries are nice though and I love the ridiculously large fluffy towels they call bath sheets.

M must be in his late thirties, a tall handsome man, he ‘works-out,’ I know this because he told me so several times, just in case I’d forgotten the first three, or was it four times? ‘What do you think of my body, you like it,’ he asked, ‘Well, it looks like you workout,’ I said flatteringly, it was the polite thing to say. 

‘So, why don't you go lay down on your tummy, and I'll give you a nice back massage after that long flight.' I slipped out of my dress and down to stocking and suspenders (as requested), before popping into the bathroom for a towel, tissues and body lotion.

Flipping him over I straddled his thighs, grasping both erect cocks in one hand whilst squeezing body lotion over them with the other, like as when they pour you an ice-cream. 'Aha, two cocks divided by a common language,' well that went straight over his head. 

‘And can you fuck me in the mouth too,’ ‘Sure,’ I replied. It appeared we had about the same size cock, but he being American his was circumcised; it didn't escape my attention that no mention was made about his cock, mine being a tad bigger.

‘Might I suggest a 69,’ ‘Sure thing Frances, whatever suits you.’ I enjoyed that, as my mouth bobbed up and down the length of his shaft, having my cock in his mouth kept him somewhat quiet. 

‘Do you wanna see how far I can shoot my come,’ he asked, in for a penny I thought, ‘Yes OK.’

M stood on the thick deep-pile carpet at the foot of the bed, where he could get the best view of himself in the mirror and proceeded to wank himself off. I thought I'd spice the proceedings up a bit, so stood behind him wrapping my hand firmly around his cock, and wanked him off hard.

‘When I come I want you to keep jerking me off, I want to see it shoot over the carpet,’ oh well, it wasn't my bedroom carpet.

And yes, it was an impressive spurt, four long one’s all over the deeply piled 5-star grey carpet, the first spurt reaching furthest. M collapsed onto the bed whilst I went off to fetch a towel to clean up any sticky evidence, I'm practical like that; don't want the chambermaid getting stuck to the spot.

‘So hey, can I see you again tomorrow evening, and can you wear black suspenders and stocking this time,’ ‘Sure M, I can do that, I’ll talk to you then, oh and do you mind if I take an apple, I haven’t ate since breakfast.’

What I'm reading in bed...

Bevis: Richard Jefferies

Thursday, 19 February 2015


R arrived back in town from Hong Kong, we'll usually meet up 3-4 times a year, occasionally have dinner too. He doesn't look dissimilar to Hemingway though somewhat shorter, about my height (5ft 4inc).

And for a man with a full beard, it is certainly the softest I have ever nuzzled, what's his secret, does he moisturise it daily, I shall ask next time and pass it on to you wiry beardy types.

R was staying at The Dukes Hotel (SKN toiletries), quintessentially English and famed throughout the world for their Martini's, combining top-shelf ingredients with flare and ceremony. A brass and mahogany drinks trolley is wheeled over to your table, whereupon alchemy is performed before your very eyes; I imagine it all adds to the taste expectation in one's head, a grand party piece.

I wonder if one could tell the difference in a blind tasting, comparing it against one that has simply been shaken at the bar, never stirred at The Dukes (Ian Fleming drank here). For those interested enough in learning this sleight of hand, one can book a 'Martini Masterclass' for a mere £95.00 with bar manager maestro Alessandro Palazzi.

Suffice to say we ordered two (with a twist), it'd have been a crime not to, along with a champagne chaser, doubly criminal not to.

Having caught up on each other's gossip, R had a lightbulb moment, well...more of a trouser bulge moment really. 'Frances, do you know anyone who might like to join us?' It was now 11pm.

'Well it's too late for TS Becky, she's an early bird these days, switches off her phone at 7pm and puts her feet up for a G & T,' good for her I say. 'There's Sophie, I could try her,' 'Great, give her a call.' 'Hi Sophie, are you busy, if not would you like to come join us at The Dukes for some fun,' 'Actually Frances, I'm in bed reading The Times but give me half an hour.'

Thirty minutes later Sophie was sat with us sipping upon a chilled Martini. I announced, 'I think we should all retire to the boudoir, anyone disagree, all those in favour raise you glass, chink chink chink. Having arrived at the room R suggested we order up a bottle of fizz, I played mother and called down to the bar, 'Yes, three glasses please.'

Room service arrived promptly, so I shuffled the other two off to the bedroom while I showed the waiter into the sitting room, where he poured three glasses of bubbles. I tipped him as he left, leaving him to his thoughts, I'm sure he's seen it all before.

R and Sophie were already getting it on or rather, off, when I entered the room. Stripping down to my lingerie I sat on the bedroom chair, glass in hand and watched, before joining in a few minutes later. R was rather taken with his new plaything, so I acted a bit like a traffic cop, waving and suggesting what should be their next move.

If I'm completely honest, I can't quite remember what we got up to (sorry about that, I blame the martini's), but I do know we had an awful lot of fun. I took care of Sophie's gift before she left and stayed on a little longer chit chatting with R.

Rather than jump a cab straight away, I took a stroll down St James' and along 'The Mall' beside Green Park, it was a cold crisp night with a bright hazy moon, but the winter air felt refreshingly good for my rather muddled head.

What I'm reading in bed...

Meadowland: John Lewis-Stempel

Friday, 30 January 2015


The New Year brings self imposed challenges, I feel the need to strike a balance between my hedonism and Catholic guilt.

Oh how swiftly that last year seemed to fly by. Of course it doesn't really, it's still 365 days of 24 hours, unless of course it's a 'Leap Year,' in which case it's 366 and time goes by more slowly.

Here's one explanation of why time seemingly goes by quicker, Does time really fly?

Overall, I'm pleased with the accomplishments of 2014's resolutions. I became a better guitarist; performed more solo gigs;  swapped that car (goodbye Mini hello Land Rover), and religiously shipped myself off to Rye every 6-8 weeks for a weekend break.

Oh, and I became a more knowledgeable gardener. Yes you too can possess mystical, magical green fingers, it's mainly a science of do's and don’ts. However...the 'Talk less listen more' resolution continues to be a work in progress, perhaps never ending?

2015’s resolutions in no particular order are thus…

Learn to play the piano in the key of ‘G,’ it has one sharp i.e. a black note. I can competently play tunes in the key of ‘C,’ white notes only, but it’s limiting and even a monkey could do it, well one with a musical ear who can play triads and a melody at least.

Continue my sanity break weekends away in Rye, also start stomping about exploring the surrounding East Sussex countryside too, it's quite beautiful.

Cycle across England on the ‘Coast to Coast’ route, it's only 150 miles (Whitehaven-Tynemouth), with stop-offs for leg massages and cider tasting at the pubs en route; four days would be a doddle and I imagine quite wobbly?

I’ve already ticked off two resolutions, a dry/no booze January (leaving one feeling both virtuous and pious) and getting back to my hour long cycle/jog 4-5 mornings a week (bloomin freezing out there), which unfortunately fell by the wayside last year due to…’Come on now Frances, no excuses,’ ‘Oh OK then, I was lazy, sorry.’ 

This year also sees me involved with helping design the interiors of two London restaurants, I'm looking forward to the opportunity to vent my creative side, not quite full rein but close enough and at no expense to myself.

So I've now four irons in the fire, music gigs; gardening (employed as my neighbour's gardener); interior design and fret ye not...of course there's always the 'Office' that needs attending to.

What I'm reading in bed...

Freud On Food: Clement Freud.