Our Top Italians

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Italian women are fiery and passionate and can entice a man until he is under their spell. Sounds thrilling. Our Italian escort, Kim, is no exception. At 23 years old, Kim has learned enough about life and London to know what makes her clients tick.

At a modest 5 feet 7 inches, Kim is a stunning London call girl who turns the heads of men and women as she wanders. They are often heard to ask each other if she just flew in from Milan for a catwalk shoot. And well, she might have done! Her slim curves of 34C-23-33 proportions make her the perfect example of Italian chic. Not to mention the way they fill the sexy lingerie that hides beneath! Kim tells us her passion for satin and lace makes her a regular visitor to La Perla, which seems to keep the men in her life VERY interested!

Kim is sweet, sassy and sexy and available as one of our escorts in Marylebone. She loves to laugh and dance, and a night out in Leicester Square always makes her smile. Available for outcalls only, Kim adores travelling all over London with her clients and internationally if and when they are called for. Her passport is full of stamps of recent travels abroad, and she loves matching a face to the destination.

To book Kim, look in our elite gallery of lovely Italian ladies and then call us to check her availability. Our friendly receptionists are here to take your call 24 hours a day.

A well deserved day off…

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What does a London agency escort do on her day off? Well, you could argue that every day is a potential day off considering she might spend her time being wined and dined in a fabulous 5-star restaurant or entertained in the suites of some of the plushest hotels in London. But I mean an actual day off.

By definition, a day off means starting and ending the day doing nothing or entirely as you please. When was my last day out? Oh my word, now there’s a question. It might have been when I was ill and convalescing at home last month, but I don’t call that a day off as I was booked to see a client. I couldn’t make it. So, I might have to go back a little further.

Maybe it was my last haircut day? No, not that either, as I think I saw someone that evening go to a show at the Bloomsbury Theatre. So when was it?

OK, I can’t remember, so that should tell you something about me. I’m a) a workaholic, b) utterly spoilt for work, and c) knackered.

I should probably book myself in for a day off soon. With the summer holidays nearly ending, I need to have a day to myself and book a lovely week away and maybe see some friends I haven’t caught up with for a while. But is that an actual day of rest, considering I will be beating the pavements as usual, just under another guise? Does that mean I have to stay indoors in my apartment all day? Alone? That could get seriously boring. Well, I suppose I could rent a few DVDs or download some music while lobbying for something comfortable. It would also mean I could actually (horror!) switch my phone off until 8 a.m. the following day…

Do you know what? I think I am going to do it. Quick! Before I change my mind.

Like Father like Son…

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Once upon a time, there was a man named James. James was 27 and an heir to a fortune from his daddy. James’ daddy, Bill, was a successful businessman who, at 52, was taking a very early retirement and passing on his business and knowledge to his only son.

Bill was a regular client of mine, and though being married to James’ mother and living with her in their spectacular home in Hampstead Heath, he wooed and wowed me in his secret apartment in Kensington and took me on business trips worldwide. We visited Sydney, New York and Dubai on many occasions, and his business associates were the epitome of discretion. Mum was the word regarding his escort companion because they had their international companions to worry about.

One day, one of Bill’s business acquaintances (Paul) approached me and told me he knew someone who would like to impress a new set of colleagues with a proper woman by his side. I told him to go through the correct channels to book and thought no more of it. A few days later, while lounging in Bill’s fabulous pad in Kensington. I overheard him on a conference call discussing Paul and how he had betrayed the company. Shame, I always got on with him, but, again, I thought no more of it.

So, let me bring you to the present. I had a date lined up with a man who wanted to take me to a farewell party for his company’s founder, and he wanted to make a grand impression. He asked me to dress like a lady! I could immediately tell that the man I would be accompanying would be young and inexperienced and, without doubt, would be losing his escort plates to me. I dressed in a fabulous Pucci gown and wore my hair loose and curly, immensely grown up and elegant. I met my date, James, and though he was handsome and polite, he was very nervous as we entered the Crystal Room at the Mayfair Hotel. As I held onto his arm to make him feel more at ease, I stiffened in nervous fright as I saw the stage set up with a slideshow of the man whose farewell party it was. Bill, James’ daddy himself – clever Paul.
I have never been in a situation so close with a client… more so, a client who is my client’s father! Thankfully, I recovered myself quickly, and when James introduced me to his mother and father, I smiled politely, and my eyes told Bill (who was frozen with fear) that everything was okay. We didn’t stay too long anyway, which I thought was strange, but James wanted to take advantage of his suite.

And I can safely say, as weird as it sounds, it was a case of like father-like son…

A Cocktail hour (or two)

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Apart from my ardour for champagne and sparkling expensive vintage, I do love Happy Hour at cocktail bars. With my 24hr London escort friends or with a client, there’s something immeasurably sexy about smooth cocktails blended in a clear glass.

So imagine my delight at being given the opportunity to sample free drinks at the Rib Room Bar on Sloane Street. With anything from a “Sloane Street Vesper” (with pink vodka and Gin) to a non-alcoholic “Cricket Tea” amid the luxury of long bars, high stools and a cigar bar for the discerning smoker. And all this with Kieran – my newest client, with bags of Sloane Square attitude.

Kieran speaks as though he has plums in his mouth and well he might seeing as he went to Eton and then to Oxford. Yet despite his impressive education (and inheritance!) he likes the playboy lifestyle and has no intention of making his mother proud and marrying a like-minded Sloane-Ranger. He likes his playboy lifestyle, to dress in fine Italian suits and his 24hr Companions. I am the third since New Year.

Kieran and I were greeted at the cordoned off area for the private party by Alexa, the PR executive organising the event. She handed us our first cocktail of the evening – something orange and smelling intoxicatingly of peach. As I sipped it, I took in my surroundings and became mesmerised by the barman shaking, pouring and mixing his way through the customers leaning on the bar. I was so impressed by his ability to recall recipes at will and charm the clientele that I almost forgot I was there for Kieran and not myself.

Once I had recovered my awe and admiration, I turned my attention to stroking Kieran’s bicep and his ego. I flattered him; made sure I got tipsy enough to giggle like a school-girl and then coquettishly suggested we ‘go back to his place for a night cap.’ We had been there a reasonable two and a half hours; enough to be photographed by the local press covering the event, get his name in column inches (not mine) and be seen by the right people.

And then we were off to Belgravia, chauffeur-driven with a bottle of Prosecco to drink on the way…

Secrets

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Rule number one of being a top escort is discretion. Conduct yourself professionally while maintaining closeness with the client to make him feel he is your number one. In other words, please don’t make him think he has paid for your time; instead, allowing him to do so is an honour. It also helps if you enjoy your job, which I do.

Sometimes, I tie myself in knots, being secretive about my job, especially regarding my family. Being vague is tiring because I can never quite remember what lies I’ve told. My mum and dad still believe I’m in PR, although my brother is suspicious. He doesn’t know any London PR executive with a wardrobe as vast or expensive as mine. I tell him I have some high-profile customers who regularly send samples to our offices. He has been to my apartment but never strayed further than my front room – I don’t want him stumbling across the boudoir any time soon!

There are also the concierge and Maître D’s that keep secrets. Bear in mind I have been to plenty (if not most) of the celebrity restaurants, five-star casinos and high-class hotels across the capital. Those who take their job seriously (and have been doing it twice as long as I have been alive) merely nod or pretend they’ve never seen me before. This usually applies to Claridges or The Ritz, where reputation is everything. These men know what goes on, but they never say anything; they keep their cards played close to their chests. The younger ones who don’t care too much give me a cheeky wink or pass me a note with their mobile number in case I need anything. I have taken them up on the offer a few times when I’ve been in dire straits or encountered something unexpected. It’s never what you know, but who?

Being a top escort, I have hundreds of secrets in my head that belong to dozens of men who trust me. They tell me things they wouldn’t say to their wives, girlfriends, mothers or friends. I tell myself it makes me privy to a world, not many women get to see. They long to buy them wisps of French lace and other satin in any other than white to wear anywhere besides the bedroom. As they pour this lingerie into my lap and I parade it around for them, I can’t help but feel sorry for the women missing out. When we act out a fantasy together or meet on the steps of The Andaz for a 5-star experience, I feel like the princess they wish they were treating.

To feel feminine and desired is the biggest secret of all.