Honey Trap

Not many incidences occur when a woman calls me to book my services. However, sometimes it happens. In these cases, they want me to try and seduce our suspected philandering and or partner. Although I tend to turn down these sorts of jobs as I'm not much in for entrapment, there was one time when I took it on.

The lady in question was the long-suffering wife of self-made billionaire Marcus. She rang me on a snowy February day when I was a fledgling agency escort living in digs in Hampstead. I was struggling to make my rent as my client base was small. As you can imagine, I have come a long way since then to be able to afford my luxury apartment now. But I am straying off the point. This woman offered me three times my hourly rate and a bonus if I helped her. With more months than money left in my bank account, I agreed.

With a borrowed Donna Karan dress and hired Louboutins, I met her outside the Savoy Hotel. The lady was petite, matchstick thin, and wore sunglasses so big that her face was almost entirely disguised. She offered to take me to lunch in town and explain the details. With a trembling hand, she passed me a photograph of her husband.
"I need you to be photographed all over him. He is so vain he will be sucked in. But I can't file for my divorce unless I have proof of his adultery. I'm worth a lot, and he won't pay a penny unless my solicitor has something concrete."

With a smile, I agreed to help her. She told me where he would be at five o'clock that afternoon and even passed me a box with an outfit. "Trust me," she said, "this will work like a charm."

So dressed in the tiniest scraps of silk that modesty would allow, I arrived at the restaurant bar he had a booking for and perched on a stool to wait for him. As I nursed a Martini, I spotted him coming with a few colleagues - male and female. One of the females was batting her eyelashes at him, and the looks of chemistry between them were enough to set my adrenaline rushing. I realised, within twenty minutes, as she placed a hand on his thigh, that I might not be the one to have to seduce this man. He had given me the ammunition without even realising it.

The other colleagues left, and I ordered another Martini and waited. Her hand crept a little higher along his thigh as their champagne flowed, and their restraint fell away. And me? I whipped out my camera phone, took the winning pictures as his lips were on her throat, and was out the door as silently as I had arrived.

My client got her photos, and the following week, at work, he was surprised when the divorce papers were biked across from her. I kept my integrity and received a nice lump sum as a bonus. I am now a solicitor. And it was not a bad day's work for a young London escort.