Watersports, omorashi

I have listed on my website that I provide watersports as one of my offered services.

For anyone unaware, watersports include urinated on someone, or being urinated upon.

‘Omorashi’ however, refers to the act of pissing ones pants/panties.

Which happens to be (personally) the only sub-genre of watersports that interests me. My profile clearly states the whilst I do offer watersports as one my services it is omorashi that is my only interest.

I am neither turned off or turned on by what would be considered the ‘norm’ when it comes to watersports, I just don’t especially want to partake in it with clients.

However, as most sex workers will be aware of, potential clients will see that you’ve selected watersports as one of your services yet don’t bother reading beyond that, and assume that you are happy to piss all over them or have them piss in your mouth (or let them piss on you, it varies).

But my specific fetish is… unusual? For reasons unknown to me (and pretty obvious from the title ‘omorashi’ it’s a bigger and much more common practice in Japan than it is in the UK.

In my private intimate life there’s nothing more sexual to me than watching my partner (whoever they may be at that current moment in time) holding their bladder until they can’t possible contain the amount of urine that’s been filling up in side them. Watching their stomach expand with the amount of piss begging to be released.

Of course grey underwear is the colour of choice, watching them slowly release the stream of piss they’ve been longing to expel. It usually starts off slowly, I love watching the piss stain get bigger and bigger until they’re lying in a puddle of their own piss, like the piss slut that they are. Sometimes I can’t help myself but straddle their piss-stained underwear, letting it seep into my cunt, and fuck them in a pool of their own piss.

Unfortunately when it comes to sex work I don’t get any clients wanting omorashi (unless I’m the sub). I’ve made a fair few omorashi solo videos in my time, but it’s just not especially something that turns me on.

Oh piss sluts, where are you hiding.




Outing sex works: Don’t

I’m out to both of my parents. Through choice. To my close friends, and to (of course) the sex workers I have met through support groups such as SAAFE. Ie. People I trust.

It’s saddening that I even have to make a point of this but please, please, if someone confides in you about their line of sex work (whether it be full-service, pro Dom(me), stripper, porn etc.) do not, ever, assume that they are out to the general public and happy for you to openly expose their job to other people.

Unfortunately I’ve been outed enough times (both as an online amateur porn star, to a FSSW) that I don’t have to be too careful these days. I’m a whore. Old news.

But I remember being called into student services at the university I was studying at at the time, and being told that multiple, yes, multiple people had approached him saying they were ‘concerned’ about my line of work. Aka they were a bunch of whorephobes. I never found out who they were. I was sent to counselling in which said ‘counsellor’ decided it was appropriate to ask me whether I’m a FSSW because I was raped by my boyfriend.

I’ve been sex working since I was 18. I met him when I was 21.

I even once dated someone (briefly) who outed me to pretty much the entire college. I had one of my best friends report that 1st years who I didn’t even know were asking her ‘is it true that she’s a whore?’.

Just as you should never out someone as gay, or queer, or trans etc. don’t fucking out people as sex workers.

If they want you to know, they will fucking tell you.


Kitten play (the different kind)

Generally used to describe a Dom(me)/sub dynamic involving a collar and leash (the sub quite literally behaving/roleplaying as a kitten), when I received an email from Harry he had envisioned something quite the opposite.

I turned up at his house this evening wearing a floral pink and purple dress, and a pair of low, worn-out, practical heels. My civilian clothes. I introduced myself and asked to use his bathroom (where he had left £300 on the side for me). Prior to us meeting we had discussed the role-play scenario and I was to change once I’d counted and collected my payment.

Although instead of changing into my usual trash-bag/high class hooker hybrid ensemble (tacky lace over the top of triple figure expensive lingerie), all I did was remove my tights and comfy cotton panties.

I went back out into his kitchen and, as agreed, played the part of a young woman coming over to collect keys and go through how to literally care for his kitten as he would be away next week. A real kitten.

As I then bent over to greet the cat, he caught a flash of my shaven cunt, and proceeded to ask me about the tattoos on my thighs. I pulled my skirt up, just slightly too high. And watched as his pupils dilated when I exposed my gold clit piercing.

Harry pulled the skirt of my dress a little higher and gently touched the metal bar. I let out a little breathy moan (just a little one for now), then he asked whether I had any other piercings. I didn’t bore him with, ‘well I clearly have my septum and philtrum pierced’, but instead exposed my small pale breasts with their matching gold bars.

Moving to the bedroom we had, ya know, mission sex for 10 minutes before he ejaculated as I tensed the walls of my cunt. Being naturally incredibly tight, it may surprise you that, even though I’m a whore, my body can’t take too much penetration. So I was fairly pleased that he came so promptly.

Having around 40 minutes of our session left, I suggested we take a break and go for round 2 later on if he felt up to. He felt up to it. Which, in my experience, is usually not the case once my client has cum once already.

Another 10 minutes of mission sex, with a… larger man (my internal organs still ache a little) and he came again.

We finished the session with a chat and a drink.

Now i’m home and it’s time for vodka and a bath.



Pay me before you touch me

I’ve been a full service sex worker (FSSW) for just over a year now, and my red flag-dectecting skills have improved a lot since I first entered into this line of work.

As I am an indépendant escort, I don’t have an agency that screens clients for me (or takes a cut of my earnings), so I am always relying on my gut instinct when it comes to who I allow to book sessions with me, and who I don’t.

So here are my typical red flags when reading emails:

  • 0 reviews from other escorts
  • Price negotiation
  • Asking for services I clearly state I do not offer (BB, anal, CIM, OWO)
  • Impolite or sexually repulsive messages

One day, I decided to take a chance.

He had zero reviews but spoke to me politely. Everyone begins with zero reviews, right? He seemed safe and respectful. I didn’t have any other prospective clients that day and was in the mood for an adventure. But not this kind of adventure.

I got a cab to the outcall location and gave him a call when I was outside. He approached me from down the road as opposed to the outcall address he had given me. First red flag.

He was young, early 20’s, fairly attractive, but seemed somewhat on edge. I interpreted this as nerves (after all, he didn’t have any reviews so I assumed he hadn’t seen an escort before). Strangely he started leading me away from the outcall address, second red flag.

He started leading me down a narrow alleyway and then stopped.

He says, “is here okay?”. I guess by ‘outcall’ he really meant outcall.

But hey, I’m a whore for money and agreed to give him a blow job in an alleyway, but no, I would not fuck him in public, in broad day light. Not my thing and not what I had agreed to.

He started to unzip his jeans and as I pulled a condom out of my bag I almost forgot the first rule of escorting: pay. me. first.

Thankfully I stopped him in his tracks and reminded him, politely of course (lets not forget that I’m in a narrow alleyway with a total stranger, now is not the time to be coarse). He pretended to rummage through his pockets until he tells me he needs to ‘run home quick to grab some cash’. And by ‘run’, boy did he run.

This isn’t a red flag but the fucking factory in which they manufacture red flags.

Of course he turned his phone off immediately and legged it.

Red flags, ladies. Red flags.



Charlie (and whoring that provides more therapy than fucking)

Charlie is a 50 year old, ex-alcoholic, married man with kids. And he is my favourite client.

Since our first meet, around 2 months ago, I have been seeing him on a weekly basis.

The first time we met, in what I admit was a pretty seedy hotel room (the kinda hotel room  you’d imagine such a transaction to take place), he greeted me kindly and handed me a wad of £20 notes before taking a shower. The perfect client etiquette.

After a small amount of chit chat, he leaned forward and asked if he could remove my lace robe. Keeping my Nine West black patent mary janes on, he gently leant me backwards onto the bed, where he would’ve removed my underwear (if I was wearing any).

He relished going down on me, complimenting me on the smell and taste of my cunt, it’s tightness and wetness. Chet Baker plays in the background and as usual I dissociate as I listen to ‘It’s Always You’, making the odd high pitched breathy moan. I picture the thick wads of cash in my Vivienne Westwood purse as I let Chet solo over my fake sexual enthusiasm for what was, quite simply, average oral sex.

After he declined a blow job, I swiftly put on a condom and placed a leg either side of him. We fucked. Gory details? None to speak of. Sorry to disappoint.

He pulled out, took off the condom and watched me masturbate as he stroked his still hard cock, faster and faster. After a few minutes, I faked orgasm, which sent huge spurts of his thick cum across my leg and the hotel bed sheets. Every whore has perfected the porn star-esque orgasm, panting ‘i’m gonna cum, oh fuck’ before letting out breathy high pitched moans followed by deep exhausted breaths.

We still had 20 minutes left, in which he disclosed to me that he was married with kids (as I had imagined). But more than that. He spoke to me about his alcoholism, how he still loves his wife but is missing excitement in his life, how his high profile job and incredibly healthy income doesn’t necessarily make him happy. How he cannot talk to anyone about these things.

As whore, I’m anonymous, discreet, someone you can say anything and everything to in a more intimate environment that you could do with a real psychotherapist.

After he left he sent me an email saying he left that hotel room feeling elated.







I met Daniel* when I was living outside of London. I had only been escorting for a few months and he was to become my first regular client.

Opening the door to him I was surprised at how young and typically attractive he was. A university student, perhaps only a year older than I was.

He was shy and sensitive. Overwhelmed perhaps by the idea that someone his age, and also a university student at the time, was working in such an industry. I assumed he had not paid for sex before.

His penis, the perfect size for my small, tight cunt, he used gently and softly, unlike many of the clients I had previously seen. On many occasion he found it difficult to become erect, which I put down to nerves. He adored me, and I adored the money.

For months he would see multiple times a week, we had nothing in common but of course I played the agreeable, interested whore. He studied business, or economics or something boring that I didn’t give a shit about. But of course I indulged him in interest, and mediocre fucking.

Any whore will come across multiple Daniels. After a run of maybe 4 months, seeing each other 2 or 3 times a week, he began wanting to save me. He used to pick me up in his car when I was too drunk to walk home at 4am. He used to want to ‘hang out’ free of charge. He wanted to save me from what he ultimately considered not a job, but a trap.

I moved back to London and I blocked his number.




An Introduction

I fuck men for money.

I started stripping on camera when I was 18. Making low-quality solo porn for anonymous men in their 40’s.

There are long lost videos of me removing my cheap black underwear and constantly adjusting my inbuilt laptop camera with my feet so you could get clear view of my teenage cunt. I’d say I’d fucked around 50 men by that point.

I was outed as a sex worker long before I started fucking for cash and so the risk of my real identity being exposed was never something I was anxious about. In fact, I think about high school and the person I was when I was 16 and I don’t think anyone would be surprised at my current occupation.

There are friends who’ll claim they’re accepting of my work. They justify it as ’empowering’ or ‘feminist’ but, just like you, at the end of the day, my job is a job. And a lot of the time it’s boring. You just don’t have herpes or UTIs as occupational hazards.

Whilst I talk to friends who lap up the gory details of my day at work (unfortunately, missionary position and cum on my chest isn’t quite disgusting enough), the ones who secretly think I’m scum, I think about how I’m the only 22 year old I know that makes £200 an hour. I don’t fuck men for money to make a statement, or because I have to, or because I was raped. And I think that’s what makes people most uncomfortable.