Luxury Escort - What Really Happens Behind the Door
This article is part of a series. To read the first part, click on the following link: Who am I really?
I always begin with the arrival - not mine into the room, but his into my field of perception. There’s a moment, when I’m already in the suite and I hear the key card slide into the lock, when something settles inside me. A breath that deepens slightly. A different way of sitting. Not nervousness - its exact opposite. A concentration that resembles what I imagine elite athletes describe before a competition. I am ready. I am here. What is about to happen belongs to this space and to nothing else.
The evening I’m going to describe - let’s call him Adrien. Early fifties, in private equity, based in Geneva for ten years after a career in London and Singapore. Someone I was seeing for the third time - enough for familiarity, not enough for novelty to have died. That’s often the most interesting configuration.
The Arrival - The First Five Minutes
He entered without knocking - he had the card, it was agreed - and paused for a second when he saw me, as he does every time. That second, I know now. It’s the moment he transitions from what he was in the elevator to what he is in this room. I give him that time without saying anything, without moving from where I’m sitting - on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, evening light coming in through the lake-facing window.
"Have you been here long?" he asked.
"Long enough to order the champagne."
He smiled. That smile - the one that says the evening is starting well, that the tension from the drive from his office is dissolving - that’s something I look for in the first seconds. When it’s there, I know what follows will be fluid.
He placed his jacket on the armchair, loosened his tie without removing it - a gesture halfway between professional and something else - and came to sit beside me. Not opposite, not at a distance. Beside me, close enough that our shoulders were only a few centimeters apart. That choice of position always says something about what a man wants from the evening. Adrien wanted immediate proximity, not polite distance.
The First Hour - Building Something
We drank the champagne while talking. About his weekend - he was coming back from Zurich, a meeting that had gone badly, the details of which he didn’t want to share but whose energy he needed to release by saying just enough. I listened. Truly listened, not performatively - because what he was saying was interesting and because listening gave me information about where he was that night, what he needed, what I should adjust.
There’s something I’ve learned over time: the first twenty minutes of an evening are never wasted. What’s said over a drink - even if it has nothing to do with what follows - prepares everything else. It establishes a way of being together, a rhythm, a minimal trust that makes the rest possible.
At one point, he set his glass down and looked at me differently. No announced transition - just that shift in register in his gaze that I know well and always await with an impatience I don’t show. "You look good tonight," he said. It wasn’t an ordinary compliment. It was an observation - he was stating something, not trying to please me.
"I feel good," I replied. Which was true.
The Transition - The Moment That Changes Everything
There is a moment in every evening that I anticipate more than the others. Not what comes after - this precise suspended moment when both people know something is about to shift without it having shifted yet. It’s one of the most erotic things I know - that window between decision and action, where everything is still possible and tension carries the particular quality of imminence.
With Adrien that night, it came when he placed his hand at the back of my neck. Not to pull me toward him - just resting there lightly, like a question. I turned my head toward him slowly, and in his gaze there was something I like very much about him - that way of looking at me as if I were the only interesting thing within several kilometers.
I stood up. Not to move away - but so he could look at me standing. I know what I’m doing when I stand at that moment in an evening. It’s the beginning of a staging for which I am the sole director, and in which he only has to be present.
The Undressing - Everything Is in the Rhythm
The dress had buttons down the back - a choice I sometimes make precisely because it requires either that someone help me or that someone watch me. That night, I wanted to be watched. I had told him to stay seated.
Undressing in front of someone who watches intensely - without touching, without intervening, just with full attention - is something that took me time to truly master. Not the gestures, which are simple. But the rhythm. The way you create pauses, stillness, moments where you allow the other’s gaze to rest on what has just been revealed before continuing. A poorly done undressing is rushed. A well-done one is narration.
The dress fell. Underneath - a burgundy lace set, from my first drawer, chosen two hours earlier at home with him specifically in mind. He watched without speaking. That quality of silence, I appreciate more than any comment. Silence from someone who cannot find words says something words cannot.
I approached him slowly. When I reached him, I took his tie between my fingers and pulled very gently - not to draw him toward me, just to have something to undo. There is something erotic about undressing the other after undressing oneself. A rebalancing of exposure.
What I Do - and How I Take Control
There’s a misconception about this profession I want to undo: the idea that the client leads. In my way of working, that’s rarely true.
Not because I impose myself against the other’s will - that would be pointless and unlike me. But because I can read what the other wants often better than he can articulate it himself, and because I have a way of guiding things that leaves the man with the impression he is deciding while I am, in reality, structuring everything that happens.
That evening with Adrien, I took control very early - from the moment I stood up from the edge of the bed. That control wasn’t brutal or theatrical. It was in the rhythm I set, in the pauses I chose, in the way I steered things toward what I sensed he wanted without him having to say it.
I know what Adrien likes. Not because he told me explicitly - but because I observed him over two previous evenings with the attention I give all my clients. What he likes: slowness, hands on his face, being spoken to in a low voice without necessarily saying anything important - just the sound of a voice close to him. That information, I use. Not calculatingly. Attentively.
At one point, he tried to reverse it - to take control himself. I let him believe that was the case for a few minutes, then I took the reins back without him truly noticing. That play - who holds the reins, who yields, who resumes - is something I deeply enjoy in what I do. It’s choreography in real time, improvised but precise, requiring total presence on both sides.
What Really Happens
I won’t describe the two hours that followed with the precision of an inventory. Not because I couldn’t - but because it would reduce something that had texture and nuance to a list of positions and durations, which would be as inaccurate as it would be boring.
What I can say: that evening was good. Truly good, in the most direct sense of the term. There was a chemistry between Adrien and me that has existed from the beginning and sharpened over three encounters - a way of reading each other that makes everything more fluid, where adjustments happen without verbal negotiation.
There was a moment, toward the end, when something shifted in register. Not dramatically - but with a different intensity, more concentrated, that caught me by surprise because I hadn’t anticipated it. Those moments - when an evening exceeds expectations for no apparent reason - are the most precious. They cannot be commanded. They arrive when both people are present enough to let them.
After - What Resembles Nothing Else
We lay there for a while in the fading light. The lake-facing window let in the last colors of evening - orange, then mauve, then gray. We didn’t speak much. A few short sentences, comfortable silences, a hand resting on my arm without particular reason.
This after-moment, I love differently from what precedes it. It has a particular quality of decompression - bodies settling, breathing returning to its normal rhythm, a kind of physical peace that belongs only to those few minutes. It’s not tenderness in the sentimental sense. It’s something more animal - two organisms that have been intense together and now rest side by side, simply.
Adrien stood first. He ordered something to eat - cheese, bread, fruit. We picked at it while watching the lake turn black. He asked me a question about a book I had mentioned the previous time - he remembered, had even written it down. That detail touched me more than I would have expected.
I took the envelope as I put on my coat - a gesture so natural now I barely register it. He walked me to the door, which he doesn’t always do, and watched me leave with that expression I recognize on certain faces - not sadness, not regret, but a kind of quiet satisfaction mixed with something unnamed.
In the elevator, alone, I checked my reflection quickly. Hair slightly undone, lipstick long gone, something in my eyes that said the evening had taken place. I fixed my hair roughly. Not to erase anything - just to step back into the outside world with a version of me that belongs to that world.
Outside, Geneva smelled of March cold and wet cobblestones. I walked to the taxi holding my coat closed, and in that short distance between the hotel door and the car, I was both things at once - the woman who had just spent two hours in a suite at the Beau-Rivage with someone who wanted her, and the woman who was going home to Pâquis, to heat something up and sleep in her own sheets.
Those two women are not in contradiction. They are the same person.
And that person, that night as on almost every night, was exactly where she had chosen to be.
Sofia
Sofia, 27 — Based in Geneva, she fully embraces her life as a luxury escort and speaks about it openly.
Through her stories, she shares her beginnings, her experiences with an international clientele, the advantages of the job (luxury, freedom), but also the more complex realities. She writes in a simple, honest way about what truly happens behind the doors of Swiss hotels.
This text was originally written in French. It was then translated to be readable in your language.
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