Victoria

Victoria arrives with the bearing of an announcement, tall, fair, briefly formal, and the formality unbends like a bow being drawn. Twenty-eight, Oud-Zuid.

First impressions of Victoria are architectural: a hundred and seventy-two centimetres, upright posture, a courteous reserve that suits the grand hotels she most often works. The hour dismantles the reserve by degrees. Somewhere past the twenty-minute mark the formality has melted entirely, and what remains is warm, wry and rather more mischievous than the entrance advertised. She is twenty-eight, blonde, based in the museum quarter with the park hotels in short reach. Whichever of Ukrainian, Russian or English a guest opens with, she answers in it with the same practised finish. Her sensual and tantra hours use her reach beautifully, the longest strokes on the roster, shoulder to heel in one unbroken line. The arc from formal to familiar is the booking's quiet pleasure.

Victoria decides which bookings she takes and may decline any of them; she sets the limits for what a session includes, says what they are, and may end a visit at any point, as the terms set out.