A Fashion Designer from Milan Wanted a Private Dubai Escort Companion at Four Seasons Jumeirah

Italian men are a different species when it comes to appreciating the female body. I do not say this to generalize. I say it because in ten years as a Dubai escort, the bookings I remember most vividly are the ones where a man touched me like he was studying a sculpture. Luca was that kind of man. He was a fashion designer from Milan, in Dubai for a private showing of his new menswear collection at a gallery in Dubai Design District. He emailed me through my website after reading my About page, and his opening line was: I would like to spend an evening with a woman whose body I can worship properly. Not massage. Not sex. Worship. He wanted to know if I understood the difference. I told him I did, and that the difference would cost him my overnight rate. He laughed in his reply and said Italians never negotiate with beauty.

He was staying at Four Seasons Resort Dubai at Jumeirah Beach, which is one of the most beautiful properties on the Jumeirah coastline. Low rise, lush gardens, the kind of hotel that feels like a private estate rather than a resort. He had booked one of the beachfront suites with a private terrace and a plunge pool overlooking the Arabian Gulf. When a client chooses a hotel like this, it tells me everything about how the evening will unfold. This would not be rushed. This would not be mechanical. This would be slow, deliberate, and intensely physical.

I arrived at seven thirty. He had asked me to meet him at the pool terrace for champagne before we went upstairs. I wore a green silk slip dress that I save for clients who I know will appreciate fabric against skin. No underwear. When a man tells you he wants to worship your body, the least you can do is make the unwrapping effortless. He was already seated when I arrived. Mid forties, dark hair slicked back, the kind of jawline that belongs on the cover of his own magazine. He was wearing white linen trousers and an unbuttoned shirt and he stood the moment he saw me. He did not shake my hand. He took it, raised it to his lips, and kissed my knuckles while looking directly into my eyes. I felt the heat of his mouth on my skin and my stomach tightened. This was going to be a good night.

We drank Veuve Clicquot on the terrace while the sun dropped into the Gulf. He spoke about fashion the way I speak about massage in Dubai, with obsessive precision. He told me how fabric drapes differently on different bodies, how the curve of a woman's hip changes the fall of silk, how the space between a collarbone and a shoulder blade is the most beautiful architectural detail on the human body. He traced that exact space on me while he said it, his fingertip moving along my bare collarbone from left to right, slowly, like he was drawing a pattern he would later cut into cloth. The touch was so light it raised every hair on my arm. Nobody was watching us. The terrace was nearly empty and the staff at Four Seasons Jumeirah are trained in discretion. But even if someone had been watching, all they would have seen was a man touching a woman's collarbone over champagne. They would not have felt what I felt, which was the beginning of something that would consume both of us for the next eight hours.

We went upstairs at nine. No dinner. He said he did not want food to interrupt what was about to happen. Inside his suite, the curtains were open, the lights were dimmed, and he had placed candles on every surface. Not hotel candles. His own, shipped from Milan. The scent was amber and fig leaf and the room smelled like a Florentine bedroom in August. He poured two more glasses of champagne and handed me one. Then he sat on the sofa and looked at me standing in the middle of the room with an expression I can only describe as reverent hunger.

He asked me to undress slowly. Not a striptease. Slower than that. He wanted to watch each piece of fabric leave my body the way a sculptor watches clay fall away from stone. I set down my champagne and reached for the straps of my dress. I pulled the left one off my shoulder first, letting the silk slide halfway down my breast but catch on my nipple before falling further. I paused. He leaned forward. I pulled the right strap and the dress fell to my waist, exposing both breasts to the warm candlelight. His eyes moved from my face to my chest with the focused attention of a man who designs clothes for a living and knows exactly what the female form looks like from every angle. I pushed the dress past my hips and let it pool at my feet. I stood there completely naked in front of him, my skin golden in the candlelight, and I let him look for as long as he wanted. He did not move for a full minute. Then he whispered, in Italian, something I did not understand but felt in every nerve of my body.

What happened next was unlike any session I have had in my career as a Dubai escort. He stood, walked to me, and dropped to his knees. Not to go down on me. Not yet. He pressed his face against my stomach and breathed in. His hands were on the backs of my thighs, holding me still while his mouth moved across my abdomen. He kissed the dip of my navel. He ran his tongue along the crease where my hip meets my thigh. He kissed the underside of each breast while his hands moved up to cup my backside and pull me closer. This was body worship in its purest form. He was not trying to arouse me. He was cataloguing me. Memorizing me with his mouth the way his hands memorized fabric.

But arousal is not something you can prevent when a man is kissing every inch of your body with that kind of precision. I was wet before he ever touched me between my legs. When his mouth finally moved there, my hand went to the back of his head involuntarily. He kissed my inner thighs first, one side then the other, his breath warm against my skin, his lips brushing the most sensitive parts of me without quite making contact. The tease was agonizing. When his tongue finally found me, I gasped loud enough for it to echo off the marble floor. He held my hips and worked slowly, his tongue flat and wide, covering every part of me before narrowing to circle the spot that made my knees buckle. I gripped his hair and pulled his face harder against me. He responded by sliding two fingers inside while his tongue kept its rhythm. The orgasm built slowly, like a wave gathering force, and when it broke, it was so intense that my legs gave out completely. He caught me. Lowered me to the floor. Held me while I trembled against him.

He carried me to the bed. Literally carried me, one arm under my knees and one behind my back, which is something no client has done before or since. He laid me down and undressed himself. His body was lean, toned, the body of a man who runs every morning and eats like a European. He climbed onto the bed and started again at my feet. He kissed my ankles. The arches of my feet. My calves. The backs of my knees, which is a spot most men do not know about and he lingered there long enough to make me moan. He kissed up my thighs, bypassed my centre entirely, and continued up my stomach, my ribs, the underside of my breasts, my neck. By the time his mouth reached mine, I was desperate for him. I pulled him down and kissed him deeply, tasting myself on his lips, my hands fumbling with urgency across his chest and stomach and lower.

I took him in my mouth because I wanted to. Not because it was expected. I wanted to give him the same slow, worshipful attention he had given me. I used my tongue on the tip first, circling slowly while my hand worked the shaft. He propped himself on his elbows and watched me with dark, heavy eyes. I took him deeper, relaxing my throat, using the flat of my tongue to create pressure on the underside that I know makes men lose their composure. He lasted longer than I expected. Five minutes. Ten minutes. His breathing grew ragged and his stomach muscles tightened and released with each stroke of my mouth. When I looked up at him with his full length in my mouth, he said something in Italian that sounded like a prayer and I felt his hand tighten in my hair.

He pulled me up before he finished. He wanted to be inside me and I wanted the same thing. He entered me slowly from the front, missionary, which most Dubai escorts consider basic but which can be the most intimate position if the man knows what he is doing. And Luca knew. He kept his weight on his forearms, his face inches from mine, his eyes open. Every thrust was slow and deliberate, filling me completely before withdrawing almost entirely and then filling me again. The pace was maddening. I wrapped my legs around him and tried to pull him faster but he resisted. He wanted control. He wanted to watch my face change with every stroke. He wanted to hear the specific sound I made when he angled his hips upward and hit the front wall of me with perfect precision. That sound was loud and it was real and it made him smile without changing his rhythm.

After twenty minutes in that position, I pushed him onto his back and climbed on top. I needed to control the depth and speed because I was close again and I wanted to come with him inside me this time. I rode him with my hands on his chest, my hips rolling in deep figure eights that let me grind my clit against him with every rotation. He reached up and cupped both my breasts, squeezing them firmly, rolling my nipples between his fingers with exactly the right amount of pressure. The dual sensation of him inside me and his hands on my breasts tipped me over the edge. I came hard, my body clenching around him, my nails digging into his chest, a sound coming from deep in my throat that I could not have controlled if I tried. He felt me tighten around him and that triggered his own release. He drove up into me from below, his hands gripping my hips, holding me down against him as deep as possible while he pulsed inside me. We stayed locked together like that for a long time, both of us breathing hard, neither willing to break the connection.

We showered together afterwards. He washed my body with the same attention he had given it in bed. His soapy hands moved over my breasts, my stomach, between my legs, along my spine, down to my feet. It felt less like cleaning and more like another act of worship. I washed him too, slowly, learning the shape of his shoulders and the narrow line of hair that ran from his navel downward. We stood under the rain shower with our foreheads touching, warm water running between us, and I remember thinking this is why I do what I do. Moments like this.

The second round happened at one in the morning. He woke me by running his hand from my shoulder to my hip in one long, slow stroke. I turned toward him in the darkness and felt him already hard against my thigh. This time there was no worship. This time was raw. He pulled my leg over his hip and entered me from the side, spooning me, his mouth on my neck, his hand between my legs working me while he moved inside me. I reached back and gripped his hip, pulling him deeper with every thrust. The position was tight and the angle let him reach parts of me that made my entire body shudder. I came first, biting the pillow to keep from screaming. He came minutes later, his arm locked around my waist, his body pressed flat against my back, his groan muffled against my shoulder.

He left Dubai the next morning. At the door he held my face in both hands, kissed me softly, and said in English this time: you are the most beautiful thing I have ever undressed. He has not been back to Dubai since, but he emails me every time his brand shows in the region. One day he will return. And when he does, I will wear silk and nothing underneath it, and we will pick up exactly where we left off.

To the designer from Milan, you showed me that the distance between fashion and desire is thinner than the silk you made me take off. Read more of my Dubai escorts experiences or learn about Audrey Segal.