I've been around the block a few times, I don't mind admitting.

The name 'escort' has got pretty besmirched of late, thanks to all the new East European teenage 'scrubbers'; and 'courtesan' is a word that most punters can't get their heads around, let alone pronounce (I'm thinking here of the Russian oligarchs). So I regard myself simply as a high class lady for hire. And that's what it says on the gilt-edged visiting cards I carry around in my Prada clutch bag, distributing them to the head porters and doormen of five star hotels in most major cities. I reckon I must have shelled out over $5000 in commission to those pimps last year.

Rome, Monaco, Biarritz, St Moritz. I follow the money. International bankers, super-rich hedge funders, Lebanese ex-pats, former Egyptian army colonels. They all need skirt and they're all willing to pay well for it. So long as the skirt performs.

I'm certainly not one of those casino molls who stays draped on some miserable Chinese gambler's arm all night, slurping Pina Coladas and whispering sweet nothings in his ear, while he blows a small fortune at the roulette table. I like action. Hard-humping, relentless, all-night sex action. Last year, returning to Britain from an IMF conference in Paris, I was so sore I could hardly get up the aeroplane's steps!

Sex is my forte. And the dirtier the better for yours truly! In my Clients' Manual, the page marked 'No-No's' is blank!

I was in Geneva. The latest G7 Summit had broken up with its usual disunity and animosty, masked by the carefully-choreographed group photo at the end. I was standing at the back of a crowd of onlookers, on the arm of a minor UK civil servant, who I'd only discovered at two o'clock in the morning was gay and into Golden Rain. Don't gt me wrong - I've no objection to piss-play. It's just that, as I hitched up my Dior dress to squat on Tristran's face, I wondered just how ethical it was for a civil servant to get British taxpayers to finance his watersporting habit. Still, they got their moneysworth.

On the end of the second row of the collected Global Great-and-the-Good, was a big swarthy bastard; probably North African I guess. I nudged Tristran. "Who's the big guy on the right? Second row?"

He put his hand in front of his mouth and whispered: "Tariz al-Majarif, Gaddafi's Number 3 in Libya's hated security service. Got out two days before Tripoli fell. Said to be worth $6-billion!"

"Nice. Where's he keep it? Under the matress?"

"All over the place. Rumour has it that he's got most of it stashed away in an armoured vault underneath his London house in Regent's Park. In gold bullion."

"You don't say?" I conjured up the idea of owning a couple of gold ingots, to have as a nice pension policy for my old age. I squeezed Tristran's arm tightly. "Couldn't fix me an introduction could you, darling?"

He stared straight ahead and smirked. "Are you free tonight, Tina?"

"For you, darling? All night long! What's more, I'll make sure I drink plenty of water during the day!"

That clinched it. The piss-loving little poof marched me down to the dais just as the photo-shoot was breaking up, narrowly avoiding a nasty head-on collision with the ample-bossomed US Lady President, who was earnestly pressing flesh.

"Tariz! Remember me? Tristran Wildeblood? Her Majesty's Foreign & Commonwealth Office?" Tristran's arm shot out for a hand-shake, but Tariz stared down at it as if it was a stale kipper. "I guided four of your domestric staff through Immigration at Heathrow Airport last summer?" A sort of half-recollection of the incident registered on the big man's face. "They were about to be sent to the Detention Centre at Hounslow?"

Now the penny had dropped and Tariz beamed, bellowing out: "Of course! Now I remember! And I never had time to thank you, Tristran!" He slapped my companion heartily on the shoulder. He still hadn't even glanced at me. "When are you returning to Lond?" he asked.

"We've got a government charter jet out for tomorrow at 8.00a.m. You?"

"Sadly, I must fly to Baku, Azerbaijan, tonight. Problems with my investments there." Then he brightened up. "But then I shall have a whole week chilling out in Regent's Park. Tell you what..." For the first time, the Libyan's gimlet-like gaze moved across to check me out. Up and down. Mentally undressing me on the spot. "I'm having a little cocktail party for a few friends in Cumberland Terrace on Saturday evening. Why not come along, and bring this delightful young lady with you?"

Tristran gently nudged me. "I'm so sorry, I didn't introduce you two. Tariz al-Majarif: may I present Miss Christina Valdez? Tina is from Uruguay."

The Libyan bear half-turned to go as a black-suited minder took his arm. "I hope to see a lot more of you on Saturday night, Senorita Valdez." He smiled lecherously as he was led away.

* * * * *

The minder from Geneva magically appeared on the pavement, as our taxi pulled up in front of the Libyan billionaire's mansion in Regent's Park. I'd decided to dress somberly - on the outside, at least. I wore a dove grey, pencil-line shot silk two-piece suit, a cream silk blouse and black patent leather half-heels. But underneath this conservative attire was a different world entirely. One reserved for exclusive use and abuse by Tariz al-Majarif. My hidden exotic lingerie included black fishnets, fastened by pink satin suspenders to an emerald green and purple satin basque, with a cheeky, pearl-lined silver lame half-cup bodice and silver glitter shoulder straps. I looked like $1-million - which happened to be my 'target fee' for the night!

Gently taking my elbow, Tristran smoothly guided me into the huge entrance hall, in which more than a hundred noisy guests were assembled. A string quartet of glamorous young ladies was playing up on a balcony. Waiters drifted through the throng, bearing trays of delicious canapes and within minutes of our arrival, a beaming Tariz was at our side, proffering two champagne flutes.

After one or two niceties, Tristran discreetly excused himself, mumbling something about needing to say good evening to the Foreign Secretary.

Two minutes later, however, I spotted him chatting up two gorgeous looking teenaged Pakistani waiters.

"So how did your trip to Baku go?" I asked Tariz, slipping easily into the role of dutiful concubine.

"Bad! The government has nationalised my agro-chemical company."

"Why?"

"Avarice. Financial jealousy, my dear." He shrugged. "Still, I managed to hang on to my TV station - after a couple of generous bribes!" Taking my arm, he advanced towards a huge curving marble staircase. "Now, no more business talk! Let's go upstairs to my bedroom for more champagne. And perhaps play some naughty games?"

I stood my ground. 'It's now or never, Tina', I thought. "Couldn't we perhaps go down to the basement, Tariz? So much quieter. We could be even naughtier down there!"

"Max! Bring a magnum of champagne down to the swimming pool," he barked at a white-jacketed waiter, leading the way towards a wrought iron spiral staircase. 'Wow! That was easy.' I thought.

Al-Majarif's swimming pool was positively gargantuan - a half-Olympic, I guessed. The walls were marble-lined, with a huge photo gallery of framed erotic photographs and drawings at the far end. Sumptuous changing rooms were set in each corner, alongside a sauna and a steam room. Max appeared silently behind us, carrying a silver tray bearing the magnum in an ice bucket and two gold goblets. "And make sure we're not disturbed," Tariz told the departing waiter.

Handing me my third champagne of the evening, the Libyan entrepreneur enquired: "So how naughty do you want it to be?"

"Darling, I'm all yours now. Do what you like with me. The dirtier the better." I knocked back the drink I was holding in two huge swigs, which made him grin lasciviously.

We dumped our eveningwear in the changing room and put on a couple of white towelling robes. As Tariz re-filled my goblet, I let my robe fall open, giving him his first glimpse of my exotic underwaer. He nearly dropped the bottle, as his eyes popped out like organ stops.

"Why don't I get on all fours," I suggested, "and you can piss all over my ass? Make sure some goes in my bum hole. Then rim me, please?"

He didn't need to be asked twice and was soon unleashing a huge amber spray all over my back and backside. It was like a fire hose. I rolled over onto my back, cooed with delight and opened my legs wide, flasing my shaven pussy. He roared his appreciation, before pouring champagne all over my tits. I pinched my nipples hard. Throwing back his unfastened robe, he bellowed: "Now slut - watch while I cover you with cum, you filthy whore!"

Things went from bad to worse - or, I should say, from filthy to downright depraved. Fortified by a second magnum (brought down by Max), we retired to the steam room, where my ardent new lover entered all my holes in succession, filling them with spunk and piss. He was a sexual animal, this one!

But before he passed out with fatigue, I urgently needed to get him to show me his gold hoard. Slumping back on a pillow on the granite bench, he let out a huge belch. "That's better," he murmured. I could see that he was about to take a recuperating nap. I planted a succession of kisses up the inside of one of his hairy legs, stopping just short of his huge ball sack.

"Couldn't we go somewhere cooler, darling?" I murmured. "Somewhere nice and dark, where your Tina could stroke your body sensuously? Give you an erotic massage, perhaps? Until you are ready to enter me again, my beloved?"

He sat upright and smiled. "I know just the place!"

Snatching up our robes, we headed out of the pool complex and down a dimly-lit corridor. At the far end was a fearsome-looking two metre-high strongroom door. While I took a fortifying swig from the magum I'd brought along, Tariz tapped a code into the illuminated keyboard. Silently, the heavy steel door swung inwards, as a series of soft yellow interior lights switched on simultaneously.

The gold bullion vault was a bare, concrete-walled space of about ten square metres, bereft of all furnishing or decorations. But in the centre of the floor - shining so brightly that it positively blinded one's eyes - was a huge stack of gold bars. Hundreds and hundreds of them, all immaculately stacked criss-cross fashion, to form a dazzling gold pyramid.

Tariz al-Majarif looked expectantly at me for comment. He was like a child, showing another child a new train set. Though I was open-mouthed with disbelief, I managed to retain a modicum of decorum. I squeezed his hand tightly and simply purred: "Mmm."

"What do you think, Tina?"

"Darling, I'm so excited I think I'm going to wee myself!"

"Well don't piss on the floor, sweetheart; I've got a better idea. Climb up onto the top of the pile and let me watch you piss all over my gold!"

I flung off my robe and eagerly ascended the stepped pile like a monkey, wiggling my hips as I climbed. Then, standing astride the millions, I opened my legs, raised the bottom of my basque and parted my piss flaps.

"What's it worth if I can piss directly into your mouth from up here, you darling man?"

"Worth?"

"Why, my fee for a very hectic night's work!"

"Name your price!"

"Two gold bars - as a souvenir of a sublime evening together?"

"Done!"

A beautiful curving amber-coloured arc cascaded down from my cunnie towards the lecherous Libyan's expectant mouth. It sparkled like golden champagne.

When Tristran and I finally strolled home through Regent's Park in the early hours of the morning, my shoulder bag felt a whole lot heavier!

* * * * *

And that is how I come to be writing this little memoir of my erotic night in London, for all you naughty Lush readers. Now I can sit here, a bottle of chilled champagne at my side, enjoying the beautiful view of Monaco Harbour from the terrace of my roof-top penthouse.