Everything begins with a single written line: where you are, when you want her, how long for, and, if you have been reading, which name or which chapter. Ten minutes later, give or take, you hold a confirmation; twenty to thirty after that, in the centre, you hear the knock.
The procedure has four movements and no hidden ones. You write to us. We reply with a name and an arrival window, and the reply takes about ten minutes whether the clock says three in the afternoon or three at night. She travels, twenty to thirty minutes to anything inside the ring. She arrives, the rate is settled in the room, and the commissioned time is yours entire. No deposit interrupts that sequence, no form, no account, and no request to move money through a chat thread, tonight or ever.
Editors ask writers for four things, and we ask you for the same: a place, which can be a hotel's name or a district and nothing more; an hour; a duration; and a choice, whether that is a woman from the masthead or a chapter from the contents page. The room number is not needed until she is minutes away, so withhold it as long as you like. Anything unusual belongs in this first line too, a pair rather than one, an overnight, a hotel out at Schiphol, which we arrange on its own timing rather than promise against the city's.
Use the interval well: warm the room, since oil and gel both prefer it, and let the shower run hot if you want to begin unhurried. She crosses the lobby as any well-dressed visitor crosses a lobby, rides up unannounced, and carries everything the chapter requires. When plans slip, flights, dinners, second bottles, a one-line amendment on the same thread moves the booking without ceremony, because nothing has been paid and nothing is owed until she arrives.