Escorts ads are hidden
Show classifieds now

A New York Escorts Confessions

Seriously, it’s like a sixth sense. No matter where you plunk me I will manage to find a cool new store to die for. This may not seem remarkable in New York where groovy boutiques pop up like so many Korean delis. But you should have seen me in action in places like Prague (where I found two of the best vintage stores I’ve ever seen in the midst of unremarkable chain stores) and Montgomery (where I found handmade candles that sell in LA for $50 for $8.)

Yeah. I’m that good.

Anyway, I was walking downtown the other day when all of a sudden I felt pulled. There before my eyes on a quiet side street was a temple to upscale and cutting-edged accessories. I walked in and my eyes feasted on oh so classic and cute umbrellas, of all things. Maybe I should splurge, I thought. Then I’ll never lose another pathetic mass-produced black one. There were sparkly bags, gorgeous and intricate fabric flowers for your hair, necklaces made to look like coiled snakes. I was in heaven.

“Let me know if you’d like to see anything.”

“Anything? Hello! I want to see EVERYTHING.”

She was petite and dark with luxurious wavy hair that she had piled into a haphazard swirl of an updo. Stray curls whisped their way down her elongated neck. She wore an elegant designer sundress that showed just a tiny hint of toffee-colored cleavage. A fashionista. A style maven. A very very beautiful and arresting style maven. The kind of woman I could either hate. Or want to touch.

“You have to be the owner.” I squeaked out.

“I am.” And she smiled a big warm smile that lit her whole face up. She came over, shook my hand and introduced herself.

I didn’t catch her name. Instead I found myself fixated on her lips. They were incredible. Plump, pillow soft and shining with a light peachy glaze. Angelina Jolie lips. Lips that looked moist and wet and inviting.

“I just opened actually,” she continued. “Don’t tell anyone. But it’s my first store.”

“Well this must be your calling.”

For the next forty minutes she let me try on all of the bags, three of the necklaces and a couple of the bracelets. Everything was gorgeous, beautifully designed, striking. My delight grew and grew and grew. She eventually retreated back to her desk to let me “think about things”, i.e justify by how much that I was about to kill my savings account. It was then that I saw the box.

“Um…What’s in there?” I asked.

“Oh! I just got this new shipment of belts. Handmade in London. You want to see?” One by one we unwrapped the delicate tissue paper surrounding —treasures, not belts. Intricate designs were punched in all the whispery thin and buttery leathers. Everything had a human touch to it. They were without a doubt lovingly made.

“Wait until you see this,” she said. “It’s the designer’s signature.”

It was six inches wide of a rich mocha that was dotted with tiny Swarovski crystals. The largest part was laced with a thin pale silk ribbon that crisscrossed like the corset it was. I exhaled with a whistle.

“I know. And as beautiful as it is here…” She raised her eyebrows, then swiftly knelt at my feet. I hesitated, then stepped into the circle of the belt. Slowly she drew it up my body. Past my ankles, my calves, my pressed thighs. I felt a slight breeze at my center. I realized my skirt was caught in the belt and was lightly skimming its way up my netted panties, which were now fully exposed.

“Oops,” she cried. “I’m so sorry.” She quickly brought the belt down and ran her hand over the skirt to smooth it. I gasped at her touch. My skin felt prickly.

Finally she had it resting around my waist. I began to pull the ribbons taut in the front. “No no. Sorry,” she said lightly touching my wrist. “The tie goes in the back. May I?”

I nodded and raised up my arms. I felt the hot of her breath on my neck as she turned the belt around. “Now stop me if I hurt you. It’s going to be a bit like Gone with the Wind. Ready?” I nodded again.

She began to pull, pull me tight. With each tug I could feel the soft curve of her breast against my back. Closer and tighter and firmer. One hand reached to steady my hip. “How’s this?”

“More” I said.

Tighter and tighter. I felt short of breath. And thin and tiny and bursting and pricklier and warm. Finally she stopped. “Look at you,” she said, turning me towards the mirror. She nipped her hands around my waist and rested her chin lightly on my shoulder.

I opened my mouth in awe. My waist now sucked in like a V. My breasts were high and full. They heaved with each breath. “What do you think?” she whispered. I noticed there was a tiny line of moisture just above her lip.

I was just about to respond—or something—when the doorbell buzzed. She rushed away to press the button. A tall striking Italian man entered. “Mauricio ciao!”

“Ciao ciao,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks.

Ten minutes and $876.29 later, I left with the corset belt in hand. Although I was happy with my purchase, my thoughts were all a muddle. What would have happened if he hadn’t entered at that exact moment? Would she have kissed me? Would she have walked away? Was it my imagination or had something passed between us? Either way one thing was for sure.

Sex definitely sells.