Friday, 15 August 2014

205.

Free slippers; it’s one of life's simple pleasures and a perk of the job, you may think it silly but a new pair of hotel slippers every month is a delightful treat.

The best I've come across to date are from The Dorchester hotel (Floris toiletries), thick padding, generously cut and embroidered with a little fancy gold coat of arms.

Of course I'd never take them without first asking, and there's usually two pair, sometimes four if it's a very posh hotel.

Mini bars seems to have fallen out of favour with a lot of  business clients, either the hotel no longer stocks it unless specifically requested, or, a guest will request to have it emptied upon arrive. At the prices they change for their drinks, it’s hardly surprising.

Sewing-kits, well I've got more of those things than God himself, certainly enough to see me through a lifetime, perhaps two; flannels; come on, how many hundred flannels does one person need; toiletries, oh yes always, but again not without asking first.

I arrived at a hotel on Park Lane recently, having forgot to bring along some lube, so I thought I'd make use of the hotels divinely scented Peppermint & Lemon body moisturiser (the clue was in the wording but blondie here missed it), to help our motion. 

Having applied it to the nether regions, whilst I didn't quite dance about the room like I'd been waking on hot coals, I certainly skipped out of that room pretty sharpish after the event…wow! Silly me.


Saturday, 12 July 2014

204. Pt 4.

I returned the following evening with professional playmate, Sophie. I'd parked up discreetly outside the gated estate where she pulled up in her car, hopped into mine and drove in together.

It was rather late when we arrived, 11pm, A had obviously been burning it at both ends, he looked tired and lacked the spark the previous few days. And no, this wasn't due to me wearing him out but rather, his own over indulgences.

A, had called me whilst enroute, suggesting I may prefer to meet him the following evening, but I was already on the road and nor was I about to blow Sophie out at this late hour in the proceedings; very unprofessional. 

S, his manservant, had been given the night off, so it was just the three of us and I guess his chef somewhere downstairs in the kitchen? So, I wasn't at all surprised that after a brief but polite introduction, we all toddled off to the bedroom rather pronto.

I returned from the bathroom with tissues, towel and lotion, to find proceedings had already begun without me and were now in full swing; I like a girl with initiative. Stripping down to my lingerie, it seemed I was to play the role of assistant to Sophie, providing her with lube and condoms, I felt a tad redundant but she obviously had the situation in hand, so enjoyed myself as the voyeur.

With A on his back, Sophie straddled him and after what can’t have been more than five or six minutes, it was all over and A was spent. Sophie went off to freshen up whilst I tucked him up into bed, fetched a glass of water, switched out the bedroom light and quietly closed the door behind us.

We'd only been there some forty minutes, and were now back in our cars heading homeward. I can't say I left with my usual sense of job satisfaction, however, we did leave A satisfied and I did get to crawl into my own welcoming bed earlier than expected; so everyone's a winner.

What I'm reading in bed...

The VW Camper Van: Mike Harding

Friday, 20 June 2014

204. Pt 3.

It was midnight when I crawled into bed, A, rang to ask if I'd come over now, 'I really need to get some rest, call me in the morning and lets arrange for tomorrow afternoon.'

At 2pm I arrived back at the riverside apartment, the Porter recognized me and raised the barrier waving me through, 'Good afternoon Mam.'

A, was wearing a silk dressing-gown and asked his assistant to go fetch me one too; off I went to the bedroom, undressed and slipped into the cool technicolor robe.

'What would you like Frances, some wine, a beer, are you hungry?' 'Actually I am hungry, is it possible to have something simple?' His personal Chef was summoned, 'Perhaps a salad and a few lamb-chops,' he suggested, that sounded fine. I had a glass of water, as I like to avoid drinking alcohol before 6pm, otherwise I get all sleepy and my day's done by 8pm.

After a zingy fresh lunch, we resumed our position on the sofa to administer more mutual foot massages. Whilst in mid foot rub and conversation, an elderly Arab man entered the room holding a guitar (roll with it Frances I thought), he walked up to A, took his hand and gave a gentle bow 'Hello my Prince,' turning to me he offered the same courtesy. 

'Frances, this is a very old friend of my father, a wise and beautiful man, I have asked him to sing for you, as I know you love music.' The man proceeded to play, with much encouragement from A, and quite beautiful it was too. When he'd finished I asked if he wouldn't mind playing a little more, he bowed humbly and obliged.   

The guitar was then handed over to me, but not before A brought up my own 'Youtube' performances on the gargantuan TV screen upon the wall. This was all done via his mobile phone; I'm obviously not keeping up with technology, it's all getting beyond me. I sat watching myself, it wasn't comfortable nor is it for most performers, but it's the only way to hone one's stagecraft and it does work.

After the second or third video I insisted he turn it off; I felt much more comfortable just sat there on the sofa, singing and playing the guitar. 

Michael Jackson was renowned for finishing his gig, doing the obligatory meet and greet afterwards, before rushing back to his hotel room to watch and observe the raw recorded footage of the evening's performance. And that ladies and gentlemen, is how one hones their stagecraft.

After the delightful musician left, S, the manservant came up and cut a gram of coke on the glass topped table, when he left A, turned to me, 'Frances, he's not very well today so I've called for a Transsexual escort to come give him a massage, he doesn't she a Transsexual though.'

She duly arrived an hour later and was shown up to the room. A young pretty Thai girl, nicely dressed, ridiculously large designer handbag and sunglasses, loaded down with all that ostentatious stuff one believes at that age, commands respect and gravities, causing traffic to go 'WOW' as you strut along. 

I could sense she felt a little out of her depth with all the goings on, people coming in and out. A, didn't help any by being a little too challenging with her, until I told him to behave. I made as much friendly conversation as I could, though this was limited as she didn't seem engaged, fiddling with her hair and bling accessories, and reminded us that she would have to check into the agency regarding times.

A, didn't much care for this, he'd have been happy to pay her whatever, but wasn't seeking a 'Time and Motion' clipboard exercise; it seems she has some learning to do in the diplomacy department. 

S was summoned, told of his gift, acknowledged his appreciation and meekly left with the girl to a room downstairs. I caught up with her before she left, to check if everything had been taken care of and saw her out. A and I agreed that if we were to get another girl in, it might be better if it were someone I knew, rather than a clock watching agency girl.

And with that, we retired to the boudoir.







Wednesday, 21 May 2014

204. Pt 2.

In the middle of the room were four large sofas, arranged like a wagon-train, between them an enormous glass coffee table, upon which stood a neat arrangement of various soft drinks, whisky's, vodkas, bottled water, sweets and fruit.

The art hanging on the walls was flash (vulgar), lots of gold and silver noise, expensive but tasteless nonetheless. 'Please, have a drink Frances, what would you like, wine, vodka?' 'I'll have a lemonade please; if I drink in the afternoon I'll be asleep by five-o'clock. 

He asked what I liked to do, 'Eh...music, reading, walking, gardening and cooking,' 'But don't you like to go to nightclubs dancing,' said A. 'I used to, but I've done my time, I don't much care for noisy clubs and bars where I can't hear myself talk.'  

He called his manservant on the ever present walkie-talkie, 'S, can you came upstairs,' and whoosh there he was. 'Please, can you do this for me,' pointing to a little plastic pouch of coke on the table. His manservant tipped out the contents onto an oblong black slate, took out a card and cut it into six lines, before being waved away. 

'Frances for you,' 'No thanks, I don't care for it but you go ahead.' he snorted two lines in quick succession. 'Massage my feet,' 'I will if you ask politely,' I replied. 'I'm sorry, Frances, will you please massage my feet and I'll massage yours.'

We sat for half an hour engaged in mutual foot massage, whilst he told me about himself (young Arab prince) and his dissatisfied life. He'd been up two days partying and it sure looked like it; the coke was the only thing still keeping him awake. 

'Shall we take a bath together,' 'We could do that,' I replied. Walking to the bathroom we passed a table neatly laid out with fifty or more beautiful scarves, I commented how nice they looked. 'You must choose one to take, please,' and so I did, a gorgeous multicoloured silk one. 

The huge bathroom was tiled from floor to ceiling in marble, a Jacuzzi sized bath with gold fish taps, no surprise there then. I opened a large bottle of bubble bath and emptied the lot in, froth rose over the sides of the bath.

We further engaged in frothier footsie. 'I've an idea, why don't you stand up and spunk over me while I lay back here,' I said. 'I'd like that,' he replied. As he wanked off I played with myself, splashing and chopping the waters with gentle hand strokes.  

It didn't take long before he came, the first spurt hitting the mirrored wall behind my head, the next splashing onto my neck, the rest dribbled down through the bubbles and onto my cock. Stepping out, he walked over to the shower enclosure whilst I hosed myself down and dried off.

After fetching him a towel and a bottle of water (water bottles to hand on every available space), I proposed, A, you really need to go to sleep until you wake, no alarms,' 'You're right Frances, will you sleep with me?' 'I'm sorry, but I have a gig this evening, I could come again tomorrow?' 'I'd like that,' he replied. Tucking him into bed, I closed the door quietly behind me.

At the bottom of the staircase stood S, his manservant, 'Is everything OK?' 'Yes, but I wouldn't wake him until tomorrow (it was 6 pm), he really does need some rest.' 'OK Frances thank you, oh and this is for you,' as he handed me my gift. 'Will we see you again tomorrow,' said S, 'Sure, I'll see you then, bye bye.'

What I'm reading in bed...

Street Haunting: Virginia Woolf


Wednesday, 12 March 2014

204. Pt 1.

Having walked the towpath from Putney to Hammersmith bridge many times, I'd often wondered what that iconic Thames-side building might look like inside, and what a wonderful view of the Oxford/Cambridge Boat-Race it must have; I was about to find out.

A, a young Arab man, called at 8am Friday morning to ask if I could be there in an hour. ‘I'm sorry, but I've a few things that I need to get done this morning, I could see you early afternoon,’ after much pleading he reluctantly agreed.

I did however, suggest a website where he might find someone sooner, but it was myself he particularly wanted to see, he'd just have to wait a little longer then. People demand instant gratification, but what ever happened to patience as a virtue, it's simply not fashionable these days.

I told the man sitting in the booth at the main gate, which apartment I was visiting, whereupon he waved me on through without hesitation. 

Having parking the car, I walked round to the front of the building and climbed the large ornate staircase to the main door and buzzed X, 'Hello, Frances here,' the door lock clicked open. As I was about to enter the building, an older lady came up behind me, 'Excuse me, do you live here,' she asked in a snooty manner, 'Yes I do actually, the top floor, do you live here?' That shut her up.

I was greeted by S, a Philippine gentleman, he shook my hand whilst in the other he held a walkie-talkie, there was a muffled crackle, 'Yes boss, she's here now, I'll bring her in,' this could be fun I thought.

I was lead into a vast sitting room; ahead on the wall was a massive TV showing 'Al Jerez.' On the huge horseshoe shaped sofa sat A and another man, who turned out to be chief of Police in a particular Middle Eastern country.

Both rose to greet me, I shook their hands and introduced myself. S, A's manservant, was asked to pour us all a drink, a thick green yogurt looking mixture, into a shot glass, out of courtesy I knocked it back like everyone else, I passed on the second one.

A, pointed the remote-control he was holding at the TV screen, and up popped me on YouTube, performing with my band, he was firm that the other two sit down and watch it, they obliged, I felt odd. After much praise, I turned the tables and began asking them questions. 

'Frances, you must eat, please, have some of this; a plate laden with freshly prepared fruit, vegetables, rice and cous cous was pushed toward me; I wasn't hungry but obliged out of politeness, making up a small plate. 

'We're going to go upstairs said A to his two friends. I followed close behind, up a wide and winding staircase to the upper floor; the sitting room was enormous, as large as the room downstairs, but with spectacular floor to ceiling  and wall to wall views over the Thames, to the north and west.