Bang To Writes

PROLOGUE

I stared at my nude image in the full-length mirror, readying myself for the client. As I examined my figure, doubts began to flood my mind; I was about to sleep with a man for money for the very first time. I was about to let a complete stranger use my body as a playground of delights. Could I really do this? If anyone found out, I would be hated. My friends would disown me. My parents would be heartbroken. I would be labelled a prostitute forever. I had all these thoughts of guilt racing around my mind, but it was too late to back out now, I had to shut off my mind from the real world.

Reaching for the black Ann Summers lingerie I had bought specially, I put on a tight corset and fastened it up carefully, my hands shaking furiously. I'd opted for a matching lace top and thong because it had been knocked down to 50 percent in the shop. I couldn't afford the barely-there red set I really fancied; I never seemed to have enough money, which is how I ended up here in the first place. No one becomes an escort because it seems like a wise career choice or because they're addicted to sex. We're driven by money, greed and need.

I slid my long fake-tanned legs into the thigh-high stockings and slipped on a pair of patent stiletto heels. Yes, I thought, looking in the mirror again, I can do this; I'm worth every fucking penny of the £200 fee.

Then, as I spritzed my favourite Issey Miyake perfume on my neck and breasts, there was a knock at the door. It was the Madam coming to inspect my look before she introduced me to the client. She scrutinised me from head to toe like a coroner would with a dead body. She looked over every inch of flesh making sure I was preened, plucked and shaved - after all, I was representing her brand.

The Madam was a brazen woman, who had been an escort for years before she decided she was too old to compete with the new crop of call girls and set up her own agency. I could sense she was a sincere lady with a no-nonsense attitude. I felt like I could trust her because she had been doing this for years herself.

She told me my client had arrived and was taking a shower in the bedroom downstairs. Apparently, the guy was a regular but he was shy, so I was to smile, be friendly and put him at ease. I was to offer him a massage and then take it from there. There really weren't any more detailed instructions. I had to go with the flow and make sure he had a good time.

I walked down a spiral staircase. My legs were buckling from the nerves, my stomach somersaulting uncontrollably and my heart thumping so hard in my chest, you could almost see it. Understandably, I was on edge, but wouldn't you be if you were about to have sex with a stranger for the first time? Still, I had to suck it up and get on with it. I couldn't let him see my insecurities; I was supposed to be a professional pro, a worldly-wise wench, a savvy sexpert.

Smoothing down the corset, I pulled up my stockings and confidently opened the bedroom door. As I did so, my attitude changed instantly. I changed into someone else. It was like I was in another zone - an exciting place where I became this character; a wanton woman with no history or problems. A woman who was light-years away from Jennifer Thompson, the sister, the daughter, the public school girl who had her whole future ahead of her. In this world I was Katherine, the kinky call girl who fucked for money.

Location: The Apartment

Time: 2:00pm

Client: Unknown

I smiled at the client. He was in the bathroom, with a towel wrapped around his waist and beads of water still streaming down his body. I was thrown. I was expecting some hideous dirty old man with halitosis and greasy hair. But this guy was young and quite good-looking. I kept thinking, 'He could easily get laid, so why is he paying for it?'

But the Madam was right. He was shy and didn't know where to look. I introduced myself to him as Katherine but he never told me his name. He just told me I looked beautiful. I smiled, instantly feeling sexy whenever I received compliments, no matter who they were from.

Sashaying over to him, I made sure my chest bounced as I walked. We locked eyes and I unwrapped the white fluffy towel, leaving it to drop to the floor. I made him stand there naked and vulnerable for a few seconds. I wanted him to know that even though he was paying for me, I was the one in control.

Pushing him back on to the leather bed, I told him to turn over so I could start by giving him a relaxing massage. As I poured the sweet smelling lavender oil in my hands, I began to get turned on. Sitting on his rear, I rubbed the oil into his back and began to gently grind myself on top of him in small circles stimulating my clit at the same time. He began to moan with pleasure and quickly turned over until we were in the 'girl on top' position. His hands moved between my thighs and he started to touch me until my thong became damp. Even though I had never met this guy in my life and I didn't even know his name, he was still managing to get me excited. I was wet.

I reached over to a bowl at the side of the bed and picked out a featherlite Durex. Stroking him until he was hard; I unrolled the condom being careful not to split it with my long acrylic nails. He was gagging for it. Pulling my sodden knickers to the side, I sat astride him ready to give him the best fuck of his life. My switch had been flicked and I was ready for action.

Thinking about dominating this shy geek turned me on even more and I ferociously rode the fuck out of him, digging my nails into his puny chest. I gripped him round his throat and told him to bang me even harder. He did as he was told. I loved this rough approach. I liked to be handled like that. I liked to be hammered.

'Come. Come, will you?' I kept thinking in my head. I wanted to make sure he was satisfied, so I told him to get behind me and do me doggy style. He looked like he was used to being bossed around and quickly moved into position.

Pushing himself inside me, he grabbed my hips and started to take me from behind. I moaned and groaned with excitement. I was beginning to enjoy myself.

A little over twenty minutes after we had begun, I felt his body tighten and contort as he came inside me. Exhausted, he rolled on to the bed, panting like a dog in the summer heat. He smiled timidly at me and told me it had been amazing. I beamed at him, flashing a naughty grin and hoped he would give me a good review when he spoke to the Madam. He told me he wanted to see me again and I was happy; it meant I had done my job well. I got him a fresh towel from the bathroom and turned on the shower, testing the temperature with my hand.

'I enjoyed that. I hope you'll come back and see me again,' I said. 'By the way have you got the money?'

I'd forgotten to get the cash up front, I was thinking so much about being polite and friendly that the money had totally slipped my mind. Any pro will tell you that the number one rule is to always get the cash before you start, but this was my first time, I was still a rookie learning the ropes.

He handed me a wad of crisp twenty-pound notes. I thought it would be rude to count it in front of him - and since he was a regular at the apartment, I trusted him.

Kissing me gently on the neck, he got up from the bed and headed for the bathroom. I left the room too and went back upstairs to shower myself.

As I discarded the cheap lingerie on the floor, I stood there staring at myself naked in the full-length mirror again, thinking about what had just happened. Some escorts will tell you they felt dirty or degraded after their first time but I didn't. I didn't feel used, victimised or exploited. I was still exactly the same girl, except I was slightly richer now and that made me feel exhilarated.

The way I was able to control that punter had turned me on. I became addicted to that feeling of power and sexual prowess. And of course, the money.

Outside, my taxi was waiting; I was dressed in jeans, a casual jumper and my pink Converse. I was Jenny again. The sister, the daughter, the girl with the bright future ahead of her. Cockily I thought no one would ever find out about Katherine.

Peering into my handbag, I looked at the bunch of purple notes I'd earned. This job was easy. I liked both sides of myself. Liked them a lot. I gazed out of the window, a smirk appearing across my face and I started to think about how my double-life as an escort had just begun.

ONE

If you're reading this book now, you've probably got a good idea of who I am. Or should I say, who I've been portrayed to be. You may have read the tabloid stories and already made a snap judgment on what you think I'm like. If you haven't, then look back through some newspaper archives and you'll see my name there in print, involved in some kind of seedy sex scandal.

People hurl abuse at me on an almost daily basis. They call me a home wrecker, a slut, a nasty hooker, a manipulative money-grabbing bitch. I probably deserve it too. I'm not proud of some of the things I've done. I've hurt people, caused heartache, almost broken up families and shattered a million illusions about some very famous men.

Let's be clear from the off, I am sorry for what has happened but I'm not asking for your sympathy here. What's done is done and I can't change it. I'm not going to depict myself as a misunderstood tart with a heart. It's far too late for all that. I don't have a golden halo and I won't find one later. If you think I'm just bitter, opportunistic and that at the end of the day all I need is love, you're in over your heads.

I've written this book because once and for all I want people to hear my side of the story, all of it, even the parts I'm embarrassed to admit.

You might think you know who I am and what I've done from the kiss and tell stories, but what I'm about to share with you is not some journalistic twist of the facts designed to impress the audience.

Most of the identities in this book have been changed for legal reasons and to protect their right to anonymity, but the main events are true, incredible as they may seem.

This book, based on my diary and actual events, charts my journey from an unknown party girl to the most famous escort in Britain. You may not like it if you're prudish; it's not a story about sex, yet some of the tales involve lurid and extreme detail.

But if you possess a curious mind and want a unique insight into the world of escorts, footballers, millionaires and the subsequent media attention, keep reading! And hear my version of events, because this is my story, the way it actually happened, straight from the whore's mouth.

TWO

OCTOBER, 2008

I suppose you're wondering how this all came about, how an upper-middle class girl like me, Jennifer Thompson, from a rural part of Lancashire, turned into Katherine the kinky call girl or Juicy Jenny, the most famous escort in Britain. It's the question the Daily Mail love to lament over - just what on earth drove her to enter the oldest profession known to man?

Well, let's start at the beginning.

Many men had my number. 'Call Jenny, she'll show you a good time,' was a well-known catchphrase in Premiership circles. I was the girl who would provide guys with opportunities to fulfil their needs and desires. I was the girl they called to make their fantasies come true.

You see, I've always been a very sexual person, but I always kept my slutty desires to myself growing up. When I hit my late teens, it was a different story. If you saw the way I behaved and dressed, your first impression would be, 'Wow! That girl is up for a good time. A really fucking good time!'

And you would have been right. I was looking for a good time. I'm a girl with the morals of a man, that's all. If you think that makes me a slut, then so be it. As far as I'm concerned I'm just a girl who likes to have sex and I don't care what you think. I am who I am and you'll just have to accept that fact.

I was born on 13th March 1989 in Aberdeen. My Scottish dad, Hamish, is an oil company executive and moved us to the Gulf state of Qatar when I was just a baby - I had a happy childhood and loved the country but nine years later Dad took a new job which meant the family had to up sticks and move to Bolton. I grew up in a loving but firm household where I was taught not to do anything considered tawdry and sleazy. But I still had these urges and cravings to rebel against everything that had ever been expected of me. I'm sure psychologists would love to pore over it, but I never looked that deep. I just kind of admired those classy ladies who just had sex for fun. Although, I could never express this to anyone because it would be considered unladylike. My three brothers, Alex, Charlie and Max, wouldn't allow it either, they were protective and really did think the sun shone out of my rear.

My glamorous blonde mum, Danuta, was born in England and is the youngest daughter of Polish immigrants who fled their country after the Second World War in search of a better life. And that's all she ever wanted for me, the best for me in life.

When I turned eighteen, she nagged me for months to get a job; I'd just left college and was now a fully qualified beautician. I had only bothered with the course to please her; I never had much interest in actually working in the beauty industry. Both my parents were getting fed up with me and who could blame them? Truth is, I never knew what I wanted to do but they would shout at me if I were hanging round the house all day and partying all night. And if they weren't shouting at me, they would shout at each other about me. I had to feign interest in something - how hard could waxing and tinting a few eyebrows be anyway?

I started work at a salon after Mum practically begged the owner to take me on. She dragged me down to this small, chic shop just outside Manchester and insisted they gave me a job. I don't think the owner was too thrilled at the prospect, but Mother could be very persuading when she wanted to be. Working there for a few hours a day, answering the phones and booking appointments was soul destroying. It bored me to death. The only way I could pass the time was by reading the glossy magazines, but I found myself wishing that it were me they were writing about. I wanted to be photographed everywhere I went. I wanted to be chased by paparazzi. I wanted the limelight. The attention. I was just as pretty as any of those Z-list reality stars. Why couldn't I be famous? Their flashy lives looked exciting, glamorous and downright fucking fascinating compared to mine.

Don't you ever feel like that? Long for something different to happen? Something so exciting that it carries you along without a moment to stop and realise what's happening? Partying with the rich and famous, rubbing shoulders with the cool crowd, a purse full of money and a worn out passport - that was a life I wanted. It's a life I craved.

Instead, I was sat in a dead end nine-to-five job which I hated, breathing in acetone all day for a fiver an hour. This job wasn't for me. I had to get out. I just didn't know how.

At this time I was also working as a promotions girl. I would don the smallest arse-skimming outfit I could find and run the guest-list at club night Candypants in Manchester once a month.

The night attracted all the city's glitterati: the high rollers, the footballers, the soap stars, the WAGs, the wannabe WAGs, a few well-off students and a whole host of other cool cats.

My uniform was tacky. A cotton crop top that barely covered my chest and a pair of French knickers with the club night name emblazoned on the bum in pink lettering. I would team my outfit with fishnet stockings and heels so high they could cause a nosebleed. It wasn't the most flattering ensemble but it did the trick - I was never short of male attention.

The job was a piece of piss. It was just like being out on the razz. I would put names down on the guest-list and got paid for every clubber who turned up. It was as easy at that. For the rest of the night I was free to flirt my way around the club, accepting drinks off anyone who was willing to offer and get so slaughtered I was incapable of standing. I lost count of how many times I got carried home, that's on the nights I could remember how I got home.

This was where I encountered my first working girl. A few escorts would come down to the nights. I'd see them dripping in designer jewellery, the latest Louis Vuitton bag, their fake tits squashed into an expensive figure hugging dress, all tottering around on their Louboutin-clad feet. Glamazons - the lot of them.

I'd always thought of prostitutes as being rough and ropey like the Band of Gold streetwalkers you'd see on TV. Not like these stunners. That was the first thing I learned. The call girls that work for escort agencies, especially the expensive ones, don't look any different from any other young glamour-puss. They were beauties that looked like they had leapt off the page of a Loaded cover shoot; gorgeous, preened to perfection, with bodies to die for. Those girls worked on their looks, not their minds, because they know boys are stupid, not blind.

Over the years I learned of a few very well known models, actresses and singers that were on the game, too. They were just looking for a way to make some extra cash in between jobs and guys would pay extra to fuck a face from TV.

One night while I was working, I began eyeing up this crowd of off-the-job call girls and an unexpected rush of excitement came over me. I suddenly desired to be like them. I wanted to have their glitzy expensive clothes and jewellery. I wanted to have their confidence and contacts. They got invited to the best parties, in the best places, with the best people. I knew they slept with men for money but since most girls I knew were fucking for free, what's the big deal if they did it and got handsomely paid for it? The more I thought about escorting, the more it seemed like a good idea.

These chicks were earning more in one night than I could in a month shaping a few eyebrows. I wanted to join them right then and there and be part of their private provocative world where they got paid for their pussy.

I'm no slouch when it comes to getting what I want. And as soon as I decide I want something, I'll make sure I get it, by any means possible. I craved cash and escorting was the only way I could think to make it. I'd been caught up in the club and party scene for years. It was a lifestyle that satisfied me for a while, until the night when I got chatting to Adele - a high-class escort who worked for a private agency and had her own regulars.

Originally from London, Adele was slender and beautiful in an Angelina Jolie kind of way. Straight-talking and stunning, she had long dark hair, azure blue eyes and sharp angular features.

That night in the club, she beckoned me over to her booth. I'd met Adele a few times; she was a cool girl and was always up for a good time. I liked her and I didn't like many girls.

'Come and sit with us, you need to give your feet a rest from those heels,' she said earnestly as I wobbled towards her. She stretched out her hand and offered me a glass of Verve Clicquot. 'Cheers,' she said as she clinked my glass and flashed her pearly white veneers.

'Thanks,' I replied sheepishly. I was intimidated by her good looks and boldness. Adele was five years older than me and oozed a maturity that none of my other friends had. I was in awe of her.

Adele knew she was striking. She told me enough money had been spent along the way to make sure of it. A hefty boob job on the day she turned eighteen paid for by her much older boyfriend at the time. A nose job when she was twenty to disguise her Jewish roots. A new set of dazzling teeth. And later, another boob job, Botox, collagen, frequent facials and laser hair removal treatments to keep her feeling smooth. She wanted to be perfect and she almost was.

We chatted all night about everything and nothing. Men would circle around our table, trying to speak to us by offering drinks and drugs, but Adele always declined on my behalf which I liked.

One guy, a young overweight Arab wearing baggy rappers clobber, awful wrap-around sunglasses and mountains of bling, came over to our table. He plonked down a bottle of Cristal champagne and two glasses because, as he so eloquently put it, 'You are the hottest bitches in da club,' and walked away.

I couldn't believe it. That bottle cost nearly three thousand pounds and he'd just given it to us for no reason. Adele didn't decline it. And after we had quaffed the Cristal, I finally plucked up the courage to ask about Adele's unusual line of work.

THREE

OCTOBER, 2008

When I confessed to Adele I was thinking about escorting, she didn't try to persuade me or put me off. She just told me the facts about the job and asked me to think long and hard about it before I jumped to any decisions. But my mind was already made up. She was earning a shit load of untaxable cash that she didn't share with anybody. How could I not be tempted?

I couldn't think of another job where the hourly rate would be so rewarding, apart from maybe a doctor or lawyer - but I didn't have the patience for that kind of career. The way I saw it, I would be using my unique experience and expertise in a different kind of career, but I would still be a skilled professional with 'satisfied' clients.

Adele said she would introduce me to the Madam who ran her agency and instructed me to meet her outside a swanky apartment block in Manchester one afternoon.

The rain was lashing down and I was huddled in a bus stop. I felt anxious peering through the glass looking for her as I waited, and then I spotted her hurrying towards me in the latest YSL boots with a Balenciaga bag in the crook of her arm.

She greeted me with air kisses and linked me until we got to the door. It was a huge modern, glass building and one of the most sought-after addresses in the city. Certainly not the grubby back-street digs I was expecting.

'Are you sure you want to do this, Jen?' Adele asked with genuine concern as we approached the lift.

'Yes, I'm sure. I've thought about it a lot since we last spoke and I want to.' As soon as I had said the words aloud, I knew I really did want to. No one was forcing me into it, this was something I wanted to do for myself and