You might recognise my name if you hear it. I am a relatively famous author of crime novels with a historical twist and my books have a large following across the world. I am choosing to remain anonymous as I spin you my tales and you will no doubt understand why as they unfold.
My success has meant I am a wealthy man. I work for half the year and the rest I spend at my houses around the world following the sun and enjoying the single lifestyle.
What you don't know about me, and it is a closely guarded secret, is that my houses are all cared for by my hand-picked local 'housekeepers' who tend my every desire when I am in residence. I intend, if you will indulge me, to tell you the stories of how I met each of them in turn, continuing with my London whore.
London has never been a favourite City of mine. Perhaps its because I spent too much time there when I was a student or maybe its because I associate it with a period in my life when I was a struggling writer. I don't know the real reason but I try to avoid the place as much as possible.
However, it remains one of the world's great publishing capitals which means that I have to go there on business, 3-4 times a year. Because of this, I choose to keep an apartment at the Butlers Wharf Building near Tower Bridge as a crash pad.
On this occasion, I was there for a little longer than usual, as I had agreed to do some readings of my new book at a specialist book store in Covent Garden.
The format of these evenings is always the same. I read the opening chapter of my book and then describe my thought processes during the writing and finish off with a Q&A session.
I never normally hang around afterwards but on this night I got talking to my editor and the bookstore owner over a glass of wine while the guests mingled.
We were in deep conversation when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned round to see a strikingly beautiful woman in her mid to late 40s, with medium length auburn hair and a fine shapely figure.
"May I have a private word?" she whispered.
"Certainly" I replied and ushered her over to a quiet corner.
"I don't know how long you are in town for but if you would like to get together this is my number." I looked down and saw a name, Sable, and a mobile number on a small piece of paper.
With that she turned on her high heels and made her way to the door without a backward glance. I put the piece of paper in my wallet and returned to the conversation with my editor, but I admit my curiosity was piqued.
I was in meetings most of the next day and didn't get a chance to call her until early afternoon. When I did call I got her message service.
"Hi there, it's your writer friend. We met last night and you gave me your number. I was wondering if you were available to get together tonight? I'm in meetings most of the day but if you text me I'll get your message and can come out to call to you. Look forward to hearing from you."
I turned my mobile to silent and re-entered the meeting. About an hour later I noticed a message on my phone.
"Would luv 2 get together tonight. What do u have in mind?"
I wasn't interested in an evening of polite conversation. I wanted to tease out her intentions and see if they matched mine. Before replying I took a few moments to compose my thoughts and then sent the following: "I thought we could stay in. Have apartment near Tower Bridge. Well stocked with champagne and oysters. I could send send a car 2 pick you up about 7pm."
She replied almost immediately. "Sounds perfect. Send car to apartment 4B Stapeley Gardens, Chelsea Harbour. C U later."
I left the meeting and got a number of a private hire car firm from the receptionist and called them from a spare meeting room.
"Hello sir, how can I help?"
"I need a high class vehicle to pick up a lady friend at 7pm this evening and deliver her to my apartment. A BMW or Mercedes please." I gave her my address and the address of my new friend and then rang off.
The rest of the day was spent in meetings, planning the promotion of my new book in the States. I didn't get home myself until nearly 6.30pm. My apartment is a large studio with a slightly raised bedroom level near the windows overlooking the Thames. I showered and changed into something more comfortable and then sipped a glass of wine while waiting for my guest.
At just before 7.30pm my intercom rang and I picked up the receiver near the door.
"Hello."
"Hi there it's me" said the voice I remembered from the night before.
"Come on up."
I opened my front door and waited, listening to the sound of stiletto heels on the stone staircase. As she came around the corner before the final flight of six steps I saw she was wearing a long overcoat with a fur collar to keep her warm against the autumn chill.
We kissed politely on the cheek at the door and I said: "Come on in. Let me take your coat."
I slipped the coat off her shoulders. Underneath she was wearing a calf length figure hugging black dress with a split up the skirt to show the top of her stockings and a glimpse of thigh. Her arms were bare but there was a strategically placed round hole in the middle of the upper half of her dress which gave a fascinating glimpse of her more than ample cleavage. The whole thing was wonderfully positioned somewhere between classy and slutty.
We moved to the kitchen area and she brought me up to date with her life story as we sipped wine.
She was of Middle Eastern origin, the daughter of an Egyptian doctor and a Russian mother. Brought up in the UK, she had married a stockbroker in her early 20s. Motherhood and the slip into middle age had accentuated her curves, turning her from a lithe young girl into a voluptuous woman. Her husband hadn't liked the change and started spending more and more time at the office until, one day, she found out he was screwing his young, skinny blonde secretary. The news hadn't bothered her too much. By that stage boredom had driven her to having a string of affairs, including a landscape gardener, a local magistrate and the husband of a neighbour she never liked very much.
As soon as her son had gone to University she demanded a divorce and, with her half of the six bedroom Surrey house, she bought an apartment in Chelsea.
She enjoyed the single lifestyle, but the real change began after an evening spent at a party in South London with a not very close friend. At first she thought it was a singles party, but the penny dropped that she had been invited to a sex party when her friend disappeared upstairs with a young blonde adonis. She considered leaving, but realised that nobody knew her and she could do anything she wanted with no comebacks. By the end of the evening she was being fucked up both holes by two young black studs in the back bedroom.
Her young lovers handed out cards at the end of the evening hoping to arrange private repeat performances. But Sable had other ideas and called them the next morning with a business proposition. They needed to go upmarket she said, classier venues would attract wealthier women and she knew dozens who would be interested in their services. Within two years she was organising two dozen parties around the country, acting as a madam to a group of young studs and taking 25% of the profits. A cool £60,000 a year tax free.
I waited for a pause in her story before asking the obvious question. "Do you still participate yourself?"
"Not anymore darling. I like to keep a professional distance."
"I pick my companions carefully" she continued. "Sometimes its someone I meet at a party, or read about in a magazine and think it might be nice to meet them. I've had MPs, judges, actors, even some stockbrokers. I find the offer of sex with no strings attached is too powerful for most men to resist."
I realised it was no accident we had met last night. I am regularly interviewed in newspapers and magazines to promote my books. She must have seen one of articles and decided to make me her next conquest.
We moved over to the window to take in the views of the Thames and she caught me looking at her curves and the outline of her breasts.
"What do you like to call them darling?"
"How do you mean?"
"All men have a favourite word for breasts, what's yours? Is it tits?"
"Yes I like tits, but its not my favourite word for them" I replied.
"Is it hooters or jugs?"
"No too American sounding."
"I agree. What then?"
"I've always liked knockers. Very British."
