Diary of a Courtesan — December 16, 2025

There’s a reason men come to me. It isn’t just the body, or the fantasy, or even the discretion — it’s the experience of being fully seen and genuinely desired, if only for a moment. Many of the encounters I’ve shared over the years have been incredible, intimate, and deeply memorable. Some men, in particular, I’ve grown quite fond of — connections built on trust, chemistry, and mutual appreciation within the space we shared. But even the most intoxicating encounters were still held within that beautiful, defined window of time. I haven’t had a man I would truly call a lover in years, because a lover is something different altogether — someone allowed beyond the physical, into my inner life, where emotional and mental connection intertwine as deeply as the desire itself.

Lately, though, I’ve felt a shift. A hunger I’d kept dormant began to stir—one that wasn’t satisfied by routine desire or borrowed passion. The idea of being wanted again, not just consumed, stayed with me long after it first crossed my mind.

When he entered the room, he stopped.

I saw it happen—the moment his composure failed him. His eyes moved over me with desire, instinctively stripping me down even though I was already dressed in sheer black lace that clung like a second skin. But it wasn’t the lace that undid him.

It was the gloves.

Delicate. Dainty. Feminine. Sliding past my elbows, leaving my fingers bare, my nails exposed. They softened the lines of my arms while somehow making every movement sharper, more deliberate. I watched his attention return to them again and again, as if he didn’t quite understand why they affected him so deeply—but couldn’t look away.

He moved closer, hesitant now, breath uneven. When he leaned in to kiss me, his knees betrayed him, shaking just slightly as though the world had shifted beneath his feet. The kiss itself was slow, searching, his lips soft but desperate, already knowing how far this was about to go.

My gloved hands stayed on him—guiding, steady, controlled. The contrast of sheer fabric against warm skin made him inhale sharply, and I felt the power of that reaction settle into me.

His lips were soft and hungry for the type of passion I could provide him.  I had to encourage him to move his hands over my body, whispering guidance to him.

My head was spinning as our tongues met and danced with desire and need.

As he touched my breasts I felt my nipples go hard.  It took very little encouragement to have him move his mouth lower.  The feel of his lips, the light biting of his teeth on my erect nipples was having an effect on me like I hadn’t felt in years.  It was as though something was being awakened inside of me.  I had the desire to be pleased as well as to please.  This didn’t feel like “work”.

I could feel my juices beginning to flow, the wet heat seeping through the lace garment.  Taking his hand in mine, I gently guided it between my legs, telling him how I wanted him to feel my wetness.  His fingers instinctively moved over my clit, my essence becoming a natural lubricant.  He was still nervous, and a little forceful, almost clumsy, so I had to slow him down and show him how I like it.   In no time he was working my swollen pussy like an expert.  When he slipped a finger in, and then two, I knew I had found a man who I was going to hunger for from that moment on.

I never removed the gloves. I didn’t need to.

I guided him without words, letting the lightest touches redirect him, teaching him where to slow down, where to linger. His eagerness bordered on clumsy at first, and I corrected him gently, rewarding him when he listened. The way he responded—to instruction, to restraint—only deepened the tension between us.

I begged him to fuck me with his fingers, my juice allowing him to slide them in and out in a motion that left me gasping for air.  He moved quicker, his lips meeting mine in a fervent manner.  “Harder, faster” I commanded, encouraging him to use three fingers.  He did as he was told, only with four fingers which filled and stretched my tight pussy to her limit.  

Time dissolved into sensation. Breath. Pressure. Heat. I felt myself opening in ways I hadn’t in years, responding without hesitation, without restraint. When I finally let go, it wasn’t quiet or contained. It took me completely, leaving me shaking, undone—my gloved hands gripping him as though anchoring myself to the moment.

After, he held me as if committing me to memory, knowing this was not something he would forget—or easily replace.

We moved to the bed then, partly because my knees would no longer allow me to stand.  He looked at me intensely, with a sense of urgency, telling me he was about to lose it and had lost any control over this when he felt my cum running down his hand.  I moved that same hand to his cock, stroking with an expertise that left him breathless.  True to his word, he could not hold back and quickly surrendered to the expertise of my stroking hand.  He came with an explosion, crying out in a primal manner, his load covering my pretty hands…..and, of course, the sexy fuckin gloves.

We lay there together, breathless, talking about everything and nothing, just connecting.   Eventually real life tolled it’s bell, and he excused himself to the restroom, stepping out minutes later wearing his suit and tie. He looked no different than when he had entered….other than the smoky heat of passion clouding over his eyes. 

I remainedThere’s a reason men come to me. It isn’t just the body, or the fantasy, or even the discretion — it’s the experience of being fully seen and genuinely desired, if only for a moment. Many of the encounters I’ve shared over the years have been incredible, intimate, and deeply memorable. Some men, in particular, I’ve grown quite fond of — connections built on trust, chemistry, and mutual appreciation within the space we shared. But even the most intoxicating encounters were still held within that beautiful, defined window of time. I haven’t had a man I would truly call a lover in years, because a lover is something different altogether — someone allowed beyond the physical, into my inner life, where emotional and mental connection intertwine as deeply as the desire itself.exactly as I was when I walked him to the door—lace in place, gloves still on, composed again in the way that unsettles men most. His eyes flicked to my hands one last time, as if the answer to something elusive lived there.

At the door, he hesitated. One hand on the handle, the other flexing unconsciously.

“I almost wish you hadn’t worn those,” he said, voice low.

I smiled.

As he left, I heard him mutter it again—half curse, half confession.

Those damn gloves.