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Fingers Stroked My Breasts

Rufus had a bit of a bad boy look about him. With charming, boy-band looks dark lashes and blue eyes, most girls and professional London escorts would sleep with him, or so I thought.


Rufus turned to me as his head hit the pillow. Sex had been good, but I always shut my eyes for fear of drowning in those big baby-blues. “The problem is, Elena, if I was ugly and poor, women wouldn’t look twice. Most girls in London are shallow and as soon as they get my lifestyle, they become limpets. I want a girl who will just love me for me; what’s on the inside and not on the outside. Then there are those who play too hard to get and when I lose interest, they start chasing me. What’s all that about?”


As I do, most of the time, I disputed his view. “Lots of girls would be keen to meet the real you. There isn’t a lot going wrong with you and you know that, apart from a lack of confidence at times. I’d suggest that you don’t do pick-ups in bars or clubs. Join one of those elite dating agencies, or something like that, instead. What do you think?”


Rufus was staring at my breasts. “I’d love to make a mould of these and keep them forever, along with one of your face, but I guess that would be out of the question” or are escorts allowed to cross that line with clients? I knew from his artistic skills that this would probably not be out of his area of talent. As a sculptor, he had worked many pieces of Portland stone, for Embassies, large country estates. “That’s the very stone that St. Paul’s Cathedral is made out of too.” Rufus exclaimed proudly, as he showed me a portfolio of his wares on his website. He was sculpting with no top on too, in one of his profile pictures, so no wonder he got a lot of clients!


I thought about it carefully, as his long fingers stroked my breasts and slowly made their way down my stomach towards my more private parts. “I guess you could do that, but how? I’d have to charge you for the modelling part, but then you can keep them as a gift. On the other hand, how would you explain these to the woman of your dreams?”


He looked shyly at me as he took my hand and kissed the back of it. “The thing is, Elena, you would be the girl of my dreams!” Then he smiled sweetly and ducked, just as I threw my pillow at him.