Diary of a Courtesan January 10, 2026

Bill arrived at 3 PM sharp with tulips. A dozen of them in soft blush pink, my absolute favorite. He knows me.

"These are perfect," I told him, taking the bouquet and breathing in their subtle scent. I arranged them quickly in my crystal vase on the antique sideboard, their delicate petals already beginning to open in the warmth of the studio.

When I turned back to face him, his eyes locked onto my body. The black lace bodysuit left nothing to the imagination—my nipples pressed visibly through the sheer fabric, pale, pink and hard. The crotchless design meant he could see everything between my thighs. My black patent leather stilettos caught the light, adding six inches to my height and making my legs look endless.

"Come here," I said softly.

He approached like a man in a trance. His hands immediately went to my breasts, grabbing, squeezing without rhythm or intention. Just raw need. Groping.

I caught his hands gently, stilling them. "Slow down. Let me show you."

I guided his palms to cup the full weight of my breasts, showing him how to squeeze from the base, how to massage rather than grab. "Feel how heavy they are. Take your time."

His breathing deepened. I moved his hands in slow circles, taught him to use his thumbs to tease my nipples through the lace. When he finally got the rhythm right, I released his hands and let him continue on his own.

"Better," I murmured. "So much better."

He lowered his head without asking, his mouth closing over my right nipple through the lace. He bit down gently and I gasped. The sensation of his teeth through the fabric was exquisite. He moved to the left, sucking hard enough to make me arch into him.

"Please," he groaned, pulling back to look up at me. "Please, I need to fuck your tits. Let me hold them together. Let me—"

"The chaise," I interrupted, leading him across the studio.

I laid back on the velvet surface, the fabric cool against my bare skin. Bill stood over me, his cock already straining against his pants. I reached for the bottle of lube on the side table—I always keep supplies within reach—and held his gaze as I squeezed a generous amount directly onto my breasts.

The clear liquid pooled in my cleavage, then ran down the curves in shining rivulets. I spread it slowly, coating every inch of my skin until my breasts gleamed under the studio lights. My nipples were hard points, slick and glistening.

"Fuck," Bill breathed.

"Straddle me," I commanded.

He stripped fast, nearly tripping over his pants in his eagerness. When he positioned himself over my torso, his cock was already leaking. I pressed my breasts together, my nipples touching, creating a tight, slippery channel.

"Fuck me," I told him. "Hard."

He slid his cock between my breasts and groaned like a dying man. The lube made everything slick and hot. I squeezed tighter, giving him more friction.

"You love this, don't you?" I whispered. "Love fucking these big tits. You've been thinking about this all week, haven't you? At work, at home, lying in bed at night stroking your cock and imagining this exact moment."

"Yes," he gasped, thrusting faster. "God, yes. Your tits are fucking perfect. So big, so soft—"

"That's it. Use them. Fuck them like you own them."

His rhythm became frantic. I could feel him swelling, could see the desperation in his face. "Where—where should I—"

"Where do you think?" I looked down at my shining breasts, then back up at him. "It would be a waste not to cover these pretty tits with that huge load. Come on them. Cover me."

That permission was all he needed. He thrust harder, faster, his cock sliding through the slick valley between my breasts. I could feel every ridge, every vein, the heat of him against my skin. His breathing became ragged, desperate.

"Look at me," I commanded, and his eyes snapped to mine. "I want to see your face when you come all over me."

He moaned, his hips stuttering. I squeezed my breasts tighter together, creating more pressure, more friction. The head of his cock appeared and disappeared with each thrust, glistening with lube and precum.

"Tell me how it feels," I said. "Tell me what you're thinking about."

"So good," he gasped. "So fucking good. I've been—God, I've been jerking off to this all week. Thinking about your tits, how they feel, how they look. I came three times yesterday just thinking about this."

"Three times?" I raised an eyebrow. "And you still have this much for me? You must have been saving up."

"I couldn't help it," he panted. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. Saw these perfect fucking tits. Saw myself doing exactly this."

I could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming erratic. His face was flushed, his mouth open, his eyes locked on where his cock disappeared between my breasts.

"You're close, aren't you?" I whispered. "I can feel it. Your cock is so hard, so ready to explode all over me."

"Yes," he groaned. "Fuck, yes, I'm so close—"

"Do you dream about this? About covering me in your cum? About marking these tits as yours?"

"Every night," he admitted, his voice breaking. "Every fucking night."

I adjusted my angle slightly, pressing my breasts together even tighter. The increased pressure made him cry out.

"That's it, baby," I encouraged. "Give it to me. I want to feel how much you've been thinking about this. I want to see how much you've been saving for me."

His movements became frantic, desperate. I could see the tension building in his body, the way his muscles tensed, the way his breathing stopped for just a moment.

"Now," I commanded. "Come for me now."

He lasted maybe three more thrusts before he exploded. Hot cum shot across my breasts, my collarbone, my neck. He kept coming, painting me white, groaning through every pulse.

When he finally stopped, I released my breasts and checked my phone. Shit. My next appointment was in forty-five minutes and I'd squeezed Bill in last-minute.

"I need to shower," I said, already sitting up. "Busy day."

Bill was still catching his breath, sprawled on the couch with his pants around his ankles, looking thoroughly spent. His cum was cooling on my skin, starting to drip down between my breasts. I could feel it sliding down my sternum, pooling in my cleavage.

"That was..." he started, but couldn't seem to find the words.

"Intense?" I offered, standing up. More of his release dripped down my stomach. "You certainly had a lot saved up for me."

He laughed weakly, running a hand through his hair. "I told you. Three times yesterday and I was still ready to explode."

I walked to the bathroom, feeling his eyes on me the entire way. I knew what he was seeing—his cum glistening on my breasts, dripping down my body, marking me exactly the way he'd fantasized about. I paused at the doorway and looked back at him.

"You should see yourself right now," I said. "You look like you've just had a religious experience."

"I think I have," he admitted, his voice still rough. "Every time with you feels like that."

I smiled and stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. I knew he'd watch as I turned on the shower, as I stepped under the spray. Some clients need that final visual, that last image to carry with them. Bill was one of them.

The hot water felt incredible, washing away the stickiness, the sweat, the evidence of what we'd just done. I took my time, letting the water cascade over my breasts, down my stomach, between my legs. I could feel Bill's eyes on me through the crack in the door.

I soaped up slowly, deliberately, running my hands over my body the way he'd wanted to. My breasts were slightly tender from the pressure, my nipples still sensitive. I cupped them gently, remembering the look on his face as he'd thrust between them, the desperation in his eyes.

The water turned my skin pink, washing away every trace of him. I shampooed my hair, conditioned it, took the time to do everything properly. When I finally turned off the water, I could hear Bill moving around in the other room—getting dressed, probably straightening up.

I wrapped myself in my silk robe, the fabric clinging to my still-damp skin. When I emerged from the bathroom, Bill was fully dressed, his hair somewhat tamed, looking almost respectable again. The only evidence of what we'd done was the slight flush still coloring his cheeks and the satisfied gleam in his eyes.

"The tulips are beautiful," I said, nodding toward the vase. "Thank you."

"They reminded me of you," he said. "Elegant. Perfect."

He moved toward the door, then hesitated. "Same time next week?"

"I'll check my schedule and text you," I said. "But probably yes."

He nodded, lingering for just a moment longer, as if he wanted to say something else. But he didn't. He just smiled, that soft, grateful smile that made him look ten years younger, and let himself out.

I heard the door click shut and immediately checked my phone again. Thirty-eight minutes until my next appointment. Enough time, but I'd need to move quickly.

I dropped the robe and stood in front of my closet, considering my options. The next client—David—preferred a different aesthetic entirely. Where Bill loved the soft, romantic look, David wanted something more aggressive. More dominant.

I pulled out black leather lingerie, the kind with strategic cutouts and silver hardware. The bra pushed my breasts up and together, creating dramatic cleavage. The panties were little more than straps. I added thigh-high boots with five-inch heels and a black choker.

I checked myself in the mirror. The transformation was complete—from soft and nurturing to commanding and severe. This was the version of myself that David paid for, the one who would make him beg and deny him until he was desperate.

I reapplied my makeup, going heavier on the eyes, darker on the lips. I spritzed on a different perfume—something sharper, more assertive. By the time I was done, there was no trace of the woman who'd just given Bill such tender attention.

The doorbell rang exactly on time. David was always punctual