Erotic Fiction: The Secret Life of a High Society Escort

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They call me Adam, but that's not the name I was born with. In my line of work, names are disposable. They're just tools—pieces of a persona that I slip into when the time is right, when the world demands it. I cater to the elite, to those who pay for silence, discretion, and, of course, something more. Something far more intimate.

Tonight is no different. I’ve been summoned to a penthouse in the heart of the city—a place where the lights blur like stars and the air smells like money and power. The driver barely speaks to me; his eyes focused only on the road. I slide my fingers across the leather interior of the backseat, the subtle hum of the engine vibrating beneath my skin.

When the car pulls to a stop, I step out into the chilled night air. The building before me is sleek, modern, towering over the city like a giant. It’s cold, but the heat of anticipation presses close, a warmth that can’t be ignored. The elevator ride up to the top floor is silent, save for the faint hum of the machine.

As the doors open, I step into an expansive living room, the lights dimmed low, with the night sky sprawling beyond the glass walls. The penthouse is pristine—minimalist and yet filled with opulence. The soft murmur of jazz drifts from the speakers, setting a tone of quiet seduction.

And then I see him, the man whose face is plastered on every movie poster in every cinema. The one who always has a beautiful woman on his arm.

He stands by the windows, his back to me, staring out at the twinkling lights below. He is everything I imagined, and yet nothing like I expected. Broad shoulders, a tall frame that commands the room. His dark hair is swept back in effortless disarray, his jawline sharp, but there’s something beneath it—something guarded. Something I’m intrigued by.

I don’t know his name, and that's fine. Names don’t matter in this game. But the way his presence fills the space tells me he’s someone important, someone whose every move is scrutinized.

“Adam,” he says, his voice low and smooth, almost velvety. He turns slowly, his gaze locking with mine, as though he’s just now acknowledging my presence. “I’m glad you could make it.”

I smile, keeping my composure, but inside, a flicker of surprise rises. His voice is familiar, deeper than I expected, but it’s his eyes that catch me—dark, hungry, and almost vulnerable. He’s staring at me, his gaze unflinching, as if trying to decipher me.

“I don’t miss an appointment,” I reply, my voice smooth, practiced. But there’s a subtle tension in the air, something thick and palpable. The way he looks at me—it’s more than curiosity. It’s something else.

He steps closer, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. “I hope you’re ready for something different tonight, Adam.”

I take a step back, intrigued. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

He smirks, a quiet confidence in his posture, before taking my hand and guiding me toward the plush, velvet sofa. “No cameras. No pretense. Just you and me. Tonight, I don’t want the escort—I want the man.”

I swallow, suddenly aware of the space between us, the electricity building. My pulse quickens in anticipation. “I can do that,” I murmur, my fingers itching to reach for him. The familiar distance, the boundaries I usually keep, start to fade. There’s something in his eyes that makes me want to surrender.

He sits, pulling me onto his lap with a single, fluid motion. I feel his warmth, his solid presence beneath me, his hands lightly resting on my waist. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The only sound is our breathing, slightly ragged. His lips hover near my ear.

“I want you, Adam. I want to feel you...all of you.”

I don’t respond right away. Instead, I tilt my head back, allowing him to kiss my throat, his lips hot and searching. His hands slip beneath my jacket, warm palms sliding over the smooth skin of my back. The contact sends a ripple of heat straight to my core.

When his lips finally claim mine, they’re soft at first—tentative, as though testing the waters—but then he deepens the kiss, pulling me closer. His mouth is demanding now, searching, tasting, and I answer him with equal hunger, meeting him stroke for stroke. I feel the weight of his body beneath me, his hands gripping me possessively as though I’m the last thing he’ll ever hold.

My hands roam, unable to stay still. They slide over his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the fabric. I want more of him. I want to peel back every layer, reveal the man hidden beneath the walls he’s built. But there’s time for that later. Tonight, I’m going to give him everything.

With a single motion, I pull off my jacket, the fabric falling to the floor, and I straddle him, my body flush against his. He groans, a sound that vibrates through my chest. His hands slide down to my waist, guiding me, coaxing me closer.

“Adam,” he breathes, his voice thick with need. “You’re beautiful. God, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

I smile, leaning down to kiss him again, this time slower, teasing him. I want to savour this—savour him. My hands reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head, exposing the hard, defined muscles of his chest. He’s all power and strength, yet there’s a gentleness in the way he touches me, in the way his hands glide over my skin as if he’s trying to memorize every inch.

I kiss him deeper, my lips trailing lower, across his chest, down his stomach, until I’m kneeling before him. My fingers work the buttons of his trousers, unfastening them with practiced ease. I can feel the heat radiating from him, hear his breath hitch as I slide his pants down, revealing him fully.

He’s everything I expected and more—hard, long, waiting for me.

I look up at him, my eyes locking with his, as I wrap my fingers around him, feeling the pulse of life in my hand. He gasps, his hips bucking instinctively, and I can’t help but smile. I lean forward, licking a slow stripe along the length of him, tasting him. He groans, the sound low and guttural, his fingers threading through my hair, urging me on.

The room is filled with nothing but the sound of our bodies, the scent of him, the taste of him. I take him deeper, my mouth moving with slow, measured strokes, enjoying every second of it. His hands tighten in my hair, but there’s no urgency—only the shared need to be consumed by each other.

When I finally pull away, breathless, his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded with desire. “Fuck, Adam. You’re perfect.”

I smile up at him, wiping my mouth slowly, letting the tension build. “You wanted me,” I murmur, my voice dripping with want, “and now you have me.”

He grins, his hands lifting me back up to kiss him again, this time slower, deeper. I’m lost in him—completely, utterly lost. Tonight, I am his.

I can tell, without a doubt, that he will never forget me.