The man who opened the door was about the same height as me, me being in high heels of course. I knew nothing about him other than his name, and from that I deduced that he was Italian. He stepped aside to allow me to enter the room, a hotel suite in fact. Large, comfortable, but not luxurious. I walked to where two sofas were arranged in an ‘L’ and put my bag down on one them, then turned to face him. He wore only a large bath towel, fastened around his waist. He was overweight, muscle gone to fat. He had black hair, greying at the temples and olive skin. At one time he had been a good looking man. He reached out a hand and hooked a finger into my neckline, “Off,” he said. I unzipped the dress and allowed it to fall, catching it with my toe and flicking it to join my bag. He had clocked that my bra was front fastening, what my husband always called; ‘ A muzzle-loader. He reached out a hand and popped the clip, allowing my tits to swing free and join the party. I shrugged out of it and put it on the pile. He indicated the tiny thong that I wore, this too was quick-release, a small hook at each side. It joined the pile. It had covered little anyway, just the triangle where my pubic bush used to be, a thin strip under my crutch, the rest was string. Not so much a garment as a drip-tray. He indicated that I should turn around, pirouette. I complied. When I turned back to face him, the towel was gone, he was naked. His body was hairless. From beneath his paunch curved a good sized, circumcised prick, semi-erect. He placed a hand on each of my shoulders and gently pressed down. The message was clear, I went down on my knees in front of him, took his appendage between finger and thumb and popped it into my mouth. As I began to suck, it grew to full size, accompanied by appreciative noises from him. I changed my grip so that my right hand was around the base of his shaft. This has two purposes; I can wank and suck at the same time, and I can control how much he thrusts in. Some men seem to think that it impresses a girl if he can touch her epiglottis with his knob. It does not. With my left hand, I cupped his balls. I wanked and sucked, he moaned and groaned. Assuming he was a one shot man, I could finish the job quickly and have an early night curled up in front of the TV. But he pulled away from me, raised me to my feet and led me to the bed. No News night for me tonight then. So, you're thinking, she's a prostitute. Well not quite. And anyway, we prefer the term 'sex worker’. No money would change hands, whatever he wanted, he would get. So what am I? A companion, an escort, a modern day geisha. I prefer courtesan, a lovely old-fashioned word. I wonder if, whoever invented the word, realised that it is an anagram of; ‘A sore cunt’? Sometimes it’s quite apt. Tonight was just sex in his room, but other times, the sex would be part of an evening's entertainment, perhaps an early dinner, a theatre, then bed. Sometimes there would be no sex, but usually there was. People usually have two questions; How many times a day do you get fucked? And; How did you get into the business? The answer to the former, well, how long is a piece of string? It depends on the client(s) and the circumstances, but my most was probably eleven men in a day, in two separate assignments. In the first, the man came twice. The second was at what could only be described as an orgy, ten virile, young(ish) men and two girls. As a matter of honour, all the men had to fuck both the girls. How many ejaculations this involved I will never know, as it was an all-condom affair. But the profits of London Rubber Industries had a boost that night. The answer to the latter is more complicated, but if you have a page or two to spare…