Special Delivery Service

Many parcels are delivered to me via Her Majesty’s Royal Mail’s exceptional service. Most often, they arrive because of a somewhat trigger-happy finger purchasing items online, but sometimes, things are delivered entirely out of the blue—no tracking number, no warning, just a knock at the door and a box in the postie’s hands. I like those surprises the most.

There’s something delicious about the small ritual of it: the sound of the letterbox snapping, the muffled thud on the mat, or the cheerful ring of the bell if a signature is required. I slip to the door, sometimes still in a silk robe, sometimes in nothing but knickers and a smile, and accept the package with the kind of gratitude that makes even the grumpiest postman soften. The cardboard is cool under my fingertips, the label smudged, my name written in hurried ink or neat block capitals, and for a moment I can feel the sender’s presence, as if the distance between us is folded up inside the bubble wrap.

Gifts from Afar

I have international clients who buy me gifts after they visit me for an in-call escort service. They are still thinking of me as they wheel their suitcases through security and into the airport’s departure lounge, my perfume still clinging to their shirts, my lipstick ghosting the edge of their collar. Sometimes, they spend fifty quid on perfume at duty free, grabbing the first expensive-looking bottle that reminds them of my scent or the way I made them feel. Other times, they land back in their home country, sweep through a glossy shopping district, and buy me something chic and exquisite from a boutique where the sales assistants speak in hushed tones.

The parcels from Paris always feel the most decadent. Parisienne fashions are second to none, and they know I love exceptional delivery service almost as much as I love silk against bare skin. A slim box lined with tissue, a flash of deep navy or lipstick red, perhaps a little note in looping handwriting: “For you, because you made my trip unforgettable.” My drawers are a chaotic archive of their generosity: lace bras that fit like a second skin, stockings with seams sharp as pencil lines, tiny thongs that seem far too insubstantial to justify the price tag.

However, enough of being spoiled. This time, I’d like to discuss a new client’s fantasy that only an open-minded escort like myself is willing to indulge in. Gifts are sweet, of course, but fantasies—those are the true luxuries my clients pay for. They arrive not in cardboard boxes, but in half-finished sentences, nervous laughs, and that particular silence where someone is deciding whether to trust you with the most secret part of themselves.

Enter Roger (RJ)

Roger is one of my youngest clients, saddled with an old-ish, almost comically serious name. He is Roger X Junior, although I’d imagine his friends call him Rog or something similarly trendy and careless, the sort of nickname tossed across a bar table with a pint in hand. When he sent the initial enquiry, I pictured a middle-aged banker with a receding hairline; instead, the man who walked through my door looked barely out of his early twenties, all smooth skin, eager eyes, and an expensively casual wardrobe that tried very hard not to look expensive at all.

Roger Junior lives in Chelsea and is heir to a family fortune. The money is new, bright and eager, not the sort that sits in dusty trust funds and country estates. His father stumbled into his millions by sheer good luck—one of those “you wouldn’t believe it” stories involving a small investment in the 1980s that quietly ballooned in the 1990s, just as Roger Junior was born. I did say he was young. His life has been padded since day one: private school, summer language courses in Switzerland, Christmas skiing in Courchevel, Instagram-perfect holidays that blur into one gleaming, sunlit memory.

Now, with a private school education behind him and a degree from a reputable university framed on some minimalist wall, my client finds himself with the kind of money that makes indulgence feel less like a treat and more like a birthright. He wants to taste everything he’s been promised by films, music videos, and whispered locker-room boasts. For example, he wants to treat himself to me—not just to my body, but to my ability to turn the scripts in his head into something he can actually touch.

Five-Star Setting

So there we were, in five-star luxury on the outskirts of Surrey, discussing what turns us on. The hotel was the sort of place that specialised in discreet decadence: thick carpets that swallowed the sound of high heels, corridors scented with lilies, and a lobby bar where couples pretended not to notice each other. Our suite had floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the manicured grounds, a bed you could lose yourself in, and a bathroom the size of a London studio flat.

We sat facing each other on the edge of the enormous bed, a bottle of champagne already open between us, beads of condensation sliding lazily down the glass. His jacket was folded neatly over a chair; his tie lay discarded across the duvet like a surrendered flag. I could see the nervous excitement in the way his fingers worried the stem of his flute, in the way his gaze kept dropping to my legs crossed in sheer stockings.

“RJ,” he corrected me with a shy smile when I called him Roger. RJ said he had always wanted to deliver a package to a bored housewife. The words tumbled out of him in a rush, as if they’d been rehearsed a hundred times in his head: he wanted to be the courier in regulation shorts, an anonymous polo shirt, and a box in hand, turning up at a neat suburban door.

The Delivery Fantasy

She opens the door in her nightgown—a little sheer, maybe, something not quite appropriate for daytime deliveries—and after a few tense, charged moments, he ravishes her on the kitchen table like Jack Nicholson and Jessica Lange in that infamous scene.

As he spoke, I watched the fantasy flicker across his face: the doorbell, the uncertain smile, the envelope to sign, the moment when politeness cracks and hunger takes over. It crossed my mind that it was quite a stereotypical, memorable delivery-service fantasy, the sort that has been recycled in countless films and porn clips. But clichés persist for a reason, and I could see exactly how much this one meant to him. For RJ, it wasn’t just about sex on the table; it was about power, anonymity, and stepping into a role he would never otherwise inhabit.

He described the details in endearing, meticulous bursts: the weight of the parcel in his hands, the smell of coffee lingering in the hallway, the way her dressing gown would slip from one shoulder, revealing the curve of a collarbone. He wanted her to hesitate, to protest that her husband was at work, that this was wrong, all while her body betrayed her with every stolen glance. His cheeks flushed as he spoke; his voice dipped and rose like a boy telling ghost stories around a campfire.

Putting It in the Diary

So, I picked up my Filofax—yes, a real leather-bound one, bristling with colour-coded tabs and little notes, my old-fashioned weapon of choice in a world of digital calendars—and asked him to name his date and place. His eyes widened as if I’d just handed him the keys to his own private film studio. You’d have thought all his birthdays had come at once. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, carefully spelling out the address of a quiet, leafy road and suggesting a weekday afternoon, when the neighbourhood men would be safely tucked away in offices.

As I jotted everything down, I was already planning: the cut of the nightgown, the pattern of the tiles in the “kitchen,” whether I’d answer the door barefoot or in kitten heels.

I will forever be reverent of the trust it takes for someone like RJ to hand me the reins to his fantasy. He may sign the bank transfer, but I write the script. And if he plays his part well, I hope he tells his friends—not the details, of course, but that somewhere not too far, there is an escort who understands that the most exquisite deliveries are sometimes the ones you arrange yourself.