princkly

When girls change.

It is an interesting thing when a girl changes. Like an artist deciding to scrape back the canvas and start again.
She will have this coloured hair.
She will dress like this.
She will stand like this.
She will wear shoes like this. (At this point this entry grinds to a halt whilst I privately enjoy reflecting upon the shoes that Coco, I mean Samantha, wore today and how they talked me into booking her. Ultimate come-fuck-me shoes.)

Where is Coco?
She has gone. Don't be sad; she never actually existed.

I would imagine, for Working Ladies, this flamboyant and deliberate act of creating a new persona would be one of the most exciting and fun parts of their profession.
No one can tell her to do otherwise.
She can cut or change the colour of her hair.
Change her name.
Change her style of clothing.
Change every damn thing about herself if she wants. And if the parlour doesn't like it she can change that too.

I can really relate to it.
I thought it through myself once: this building of an image. If I were a prostitute, who would I be, and how would I present myself? One thing's for sure, like a lot of these girls; I reckon I'd have fun doing it.

When a girl changes her name and appearance you have to be careful. The change could be for a private or a safety reason.
Fortunately, Samantha tells me that this not a concern.
It's simply a change of image that she wants to enjoy.

Some Working Ladies speak about themselves in the third person. It's a role she has developed for herself. It's also a reminder to us punters that she is a performer to a degree.

Samantha stands between my legs as I sit on the bed. "Hey! what happened to those fuck-me shoes? I really wanted to see you naked in them" I tell her.
"Ooops sorry!" She laughs apologetically. "I kicked them off downstairs. It's kinda hard walking up the stairs wearing them".

Rickety staircases and creaky floorboards. Antique furniture. Smell of lunch drifting from the kitchen. All part of the charm of 112 Dryburgh. You just can't beat an old terrace for a brothel, if you ask me. And this one is particularly homely. Everyone is always so friendly here too. (No crap radio music being pumped into the rooms either).

The shoes - Mmmmm. I really should ask to her to be a good sport and run back downstairs and get them.
But already I am distracted.
I run my hands up her legs, under her black dress, and smooth her lovely full buttocks as we talk. I marvel at how silky and soft her skin is.
Coco had short brunette hair and her skin was white.
Samantha has blonde hair that is longer, and her skin is tanned.
Coco was curvy.
Samantha is slimmer (and will be even slimmer I am told).

Ah yes. When girls change.
It's the celebrity part of the job I suppose. Like an entertainer doing a makeover before their next album release. A new image. Some would say it is a reminder that this is all fantasy.
Nothing is real.

But this warm body pressed against me is real.
The breath I feel upon my skin as she kisses down my body is real.
The encouraging groans as I go down on her are real.
Then, the way she takes me in her mouth as I lay beside her and watch in the ceiling mirror, feels, and looks, very damn real!
The touch of her hand.
The wisps of hair that fall down as she fucks me - all are real.
The unforgettable kisses - which I could barely write about last time I saw her - seem real: Real deep, real tender, real moist and giving.
The encouragement to suck her pierced nipple.
"Now get back to that clit please" She says
"Yes Samantha"
The timing that she orchestrated so that we could climax together. (God! She is clever and experienced).

The beautiful eyes of Coco look out from the persona of Samantha.
Or maybe they were never the eyes of Coco either. Maybe they were just the eyes of a lovely girl.
I like her.

She tells me that Samantha is going to have a large tattoo put on her back. She designed it herself and described it to me in detail.
Needless to say I will be returning to see that.
To ensure the shoes are present for this event I will carry them up the rickety stairs for her, whilst she tiptoes before me, safe in her pretty naked feet.
I can already imagine how she will look posed for me. It will be a couple of months from now, in this warm and cosy parlour on a winter's afternoon.
Her raised arms lifting her hair, as she poses next to the antique standard lamp near the crimson curtains, wearing nothing but her new tattoo and her killer shoes. And I will look upon her womanly form and my eyes will probably moisten with gratitude as I murmur "Thank you".
And then Samantha (if that should be her name then) will make love to me - again.

Coco was lovely. Samantha is even better.
Well done that girl who was Coco, and is now Samantha.
I love your work girl!