Diary of a Courtesan January 11, 2026

Another appointment with David today. I've been seeing him for about eight months now, and I think I'm finally starting to understand what makes him tick—or rather, what makes him need this particular brand of release.The preparation is always my favorite part. There's something almost meditative about the transformation into my dominant persona. I stood in front of my full-length mirror this afternoon, watching myself disappear and reappear as someone else entirely. The black latex bodysuit went on first, clinging to every curve like a second skin. The material is unforgiving—it shows everything, hides

nothing, which is precisely the point. Over my breasts, I positioned the sheer net panel, a tease of visibility, and then carefully placed the black lace cross over my nipples.

Strategic coverage. Calculated revelation. The thigh-high boots came last, adding four inches to my height and transforming my walk into something predatory.I checked myself one final time. Makeup sharp and dramatic. Eyes cold. This is the woman David needs to see. Not the woman who worries about her mother's health or whether she remembered to pay the electric bill. He needs the dominatrix—untouchable, superior, devastating.He arrived at exactly 3 PM.

Punctuality is one of David's few reliable qualities. I heard his tentative knock, that apologetic little tap-tap-tap that already communicates submission before I've even opened the door.

When I let him in, he couldn't meet my eyes. Good. That's exactly where we need to start."Sit," I said, gesturing to the chair I'd positioned in the center of the room. No pleasantries. No "how was your week?"

That's not what he's paying for.

He lowered himself into the seat, hands clasped in his lap, shoulders already curving inward. The body language of shame, even before I'd given him anything to be ashamed of.

I circled him slowly, letting my boots click against the hardwood floor. Each step deliberate. Each pause calculated. I could feel his anxiety building, could practically taste it in the air.

This is the psychology of it—the anticipation is half the experience. Maybe more than half."So," I began, my voice low and cutting, "here we are again. You, sitting there with that pathetic little secret between your legs. Should we talk about it, David?

Should we discuss what you're so desperately trying to hide?"His face flushed immediately. Bingo. I've learned exactly which words land, which phrases make him squirm. "Small penis humiliation" is what he requested in his initial consultation email, typed out with obvious embarrassment even through the anonymity of the internet.

But it's not really about his penis, is it? It's never really about the thing itself. It's about the vulnerability, the exposure, the permission to feel inadequate in a controlled environment where inadequacy is the entire point.

You know what I did last weekend, David?" I continued, running one gloved finger along his shoulder as I passed behind him. "I went out. Met someone. Someone who actually knows what to do with a woman. Someone who doesn't show up to a dominatrix because no one else will touch him."I watched his breathing change, becoming shallower.

"He was incredible," I said, my voice taking on a dreamy quality that I knew would torment him. "The kind of man who fills you up, who makes you forget your own name. The kind of cock that actually satisfies." I paused, leaning down to whisper near his ear. "Everything you're not, David. Everything you'll never be."

This is the dance we do. I tell him stories—some real, some fabricated, all designed to emphasize his inadequacy. I describe encounters in vivid detail, the size, the stamina, the satisfaction. I paint pictures of sexual experiences he'll never have, with equipment he'll never possess. And he sits there, absorbing every word like punishment, like penance.

Show me," I commanded, straightening up. "Take it out. Let's see what we're working with. Or not working with, as the case may be."

His hands trembled as he unzipped his pants. The humiliation was already written across his face, and we'd barely begun. When he finally exposed himself, I let out a theatrical sigh.

"

"Oh, David. There it is. That sad little thing you call a penis." I shook my head slowly. "You know what? Go ahead. Touch it. Masturbate for me. Because honestly, who else would want it? Who else would volunteer to deal with that disappointment?"

He hesitated, and I snapped my fingers. "Now, David. Stroke that pathetic little cock. Show me how you have to pleasure yourself because no woman in her right mind would do it for you."

He began, his movements awkward and ashamed, and I continued the verbal discipline . This is my job—to provide the psychological framework for his release. To be the voice of every fear, every insecurity, every moment of sexual inadequacy he's ever felt. To make it explicit, to make it real, and somehow, paradoxically, to make it safe.

"Faster," I instructed. "Pretend you're a real man. Pretend you have something worth touching." I described more encounters, more comparisons, each one designed to emphasize his inadequacy. "That's right, keep going. This is your sex life, David.

Alone in a chair, paying someone to watch you jerk off because it's the only way you can get off anymore."

The psychology of this work fascinates me. David is successful in his regular life—he's a financial analyst, makes good money, has a nice apartment. But he needs this. He needs someone to articulate his deepest fears, to confirm his worst suspicions about himself, and to give him permission to find arousal in his own humiliation.

It's not about cruelty; it's about catharsis.

I watched as his breathing became more ragged, as his movements became more desperate. "That's it," I said, my voice dripping with disdain.

"Come for me, David. Show me what that little thing can do. Prove to me that it's good for something, even if it's just making a mess."

When he finally climaxed, the shame on his face was immediate and profound. This is always the moment of transformation—from arousal to disgust, from fantasy to reality. The endorphins fade, and what's left is just a man sitting in a chair with his pants open, confronting what he's just done.

Clean yourself up," I said, my voice flat and dismissive. "Bathroom's down the hall. You know where it is."

He shuffled off, and I took the opportunity to step out of character for a moment, to breathe, to let the dominatrix persona recede slightly. I poured myself a glass of water and waited.

When David emerged from the bathroom, he looked exactly as I expected—ashamed, guilty, unable to meet my eyes. This is the part that used to surprise me, back when I was new to this work. The way clients can transform after orgasm, how the fantasy that seemed so urgent moments before suddenly feels sordid and wrong. It's the refractory period of the psyche, I suppose.

He gathered his things quickly, mumbling something about payment, which he'd already handled through the booking system. He moved toward the door with his shoulders hunched, his entire demeanor screaming "get me out of here."

"Same time next month?" I asked, my voice neutral now, professional.

He nodded without looking at me, and then he was gone. No goodbye. No thank you. Just a hasty retreat, as if he could outrun his own desires by moving quickly enough.

This is the part that used to bother me—the post-session rudeness, the way clients sometimes treat you like you're the problem, like you're the reason they have these needs. But I've learned to reframe it. David's sheepish, almost rude departure isn't really about me. It's about him, about his inability to integrate this part of himself with the rest of his identity. He needs to make me the villain so he can be the victim of his own desires.

And honestly? It's perfect fuel for next session. Next time, I'll mention his hasty exit. I'll comment on how he couldn't even look at me, how he scurried away like a guilty kid . I'll use his shame against him, because that's what he's paying me to do.

As I cleaned up the space and began the process of transforming back into my everyday self, I found myself thinking about the strange intimacy of this work. I know things about David that his wife probably doesn't know, that his friends certainly don't know. I know his deepest vulnerabilities, his most secret shames. And once a month, he trusts me to weaponize that knowledge against him in exactly the way he needs.

It's not traditional therapy, but it is therapeutic. It's not conventional sex work, but it is deeply sexual. It exists in this liminal space between psychology and performance, between service and domination.

I peeled off the latex, hung up the boots, removed the severe makeup. In the mirror, the dominatrix disappeared, and my ordinary self returned. I have a dentist appointment tomorrow. I need to call my sister back. The ordinary world reasserted itself.

But in four weeks, David will book another session. He'll arrive on time, sit in the chair, and we'll do this dance again. He'll need the humiliation, the degradation, the permission to be small. And I'll provide it, because that's my job, my craft, my strange and specific expertise.

Until next time, David. Until you need me to tell you all the things you're afraid are true, so you can survive believing they might not be.