Diary of a Courtesan January 15, 2026

The steam from the shower still clings to the bathroom mirror as I step out, droplets racing down my skin. I wipe a clear circle in the fog and take a moment to really look at myself—something I don't do often enough. The upscale Marriott has modern glass and lighting that makes everything look sleek and contemporary. My hair falls in damp waves past my shoulders, and I can see why they pay what they pay. Not just the body—though at sixty-two, I've learned exactly how to maintain it—but something in the eyes. Confidence, maybe. Or the promise of a secret.

take my time getting ready. This one matters, though I'd never admit that to anyone. We've been texting and emailing for a month now, building this fantasy brick by brick. He'd been specific about what he wanted: me arriving at his door in nothing but a black suede mini dress, stockings with seams up the back, stiletto heels, and a coat. That's it. No bra. No panties. Just the promise of what's underneath.

The dress slides over my skin like a whisper. It's shorter than short, hitting mid-thigh, the suede soft as butter against my bare breasts. The stockings are vintage-style, the kind with the seam that draws the eye up, up, up. I check the back in the mirror, making sure they're perfectly straight. The heels are five inches of pure sex—black patent leather that makes my legs look endless. I slip on the long camel coat, belting it tight. Underneath, I'm exactly what he's been dreaming about for thirty days.

The drive through Philadelphia's winter night is surreal. The city lights blur past my Mercedes window, and I feel that familiar flutter—part nerves, part excitement, part disbelief that this is my life now. The cool air bites at my face when I step out at his address. His house is one of those beautiful brownstones that whispers old money. I climb the steps carefully in my heels, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.

He opens the door before I can knock, and the smile that spreads across his face is worth every minute of preparation. He's exactly like his photos—tall, salt-and-pepper hair, the kind of handsome that comes with age and confidence. But it's his eyes that get me, the way they light up like I'm the only thing in the world.

"You're even more beautiful than I imagined," he says, his voice low and warm. "And I have a very good imagination."

I smile, feeling the power shift between us, that delicious dance we do. "You promised me a fire pit," I say, pulling the coat a little tighter around myself. "I'm holding you to that."

His laugh is genuine, surprised. "A woman who knows what she wants. Come on."

He leads me through his house, and I catch glimpses of his life—art on the walls, books everywhere, the kind of comfortable wealth that doesn't need to announce itself. He grabs a bottle of wine from the kitchen, something French and expensive, two glasses, and we step out into his back garden.

The fire pit is already going, flames dancing against the January cold. The space is private, enclosed by brick walls and winter-bare trees, the city sounds muted to a distant hum. He pours the wine, and we settle into chairs pulled close to the fire. The heat feels incredible against my legs, and I'm hyperaware of how little I'm wearing under this coat.

We talk. God, we talk like we've known each other for years. He tells me about his divorce, two years behind him now, and how he's learning to be alone without being lonely. I share glimpses of my everyday life outside the business—the social lunches with friends, my grandchildren and how they light up my world in ways I never expected. He asks about them with genuine interest, and I find myself telling him stories about being a grandma, the kind of private moments they've given an honest glimpse into my life behind the scenes. It's easy in a way that surprises us both. Like new lovers and old friends at the same time, existing in some space that shouldn't be possible but is.

The wine disappears, and he pours more. The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks into the dark sky. I can feel his eyes on me, patient but hungry, and I let the anticipation build until it's almost unbearable.

"I'm getting warm," I say finally, setting down my glass. I stand slowly, and his attention sharpens, focuses. My fingers find the belt of my coat, and I take my time untying it. The fabric parts, and I let it slide off my shoulders.

The look on his face is everything. His breath actually catches, and I watch him take in the full picture—the black suede barely covering me, the stockings with their perfect seams, the heels that make my legs go on forever. But more than that, I can see the realization dawning: I remembered. Every detail of the fantasy he'd described in those late-night emails. I made it real.

Jesus," he breathes. "You actually... you remembered everything."

I walk toward him slowly, deliberately, letting him look. "I pay attention," I say.

He stands, and suddenly we're close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, mixing with the heat from the fire. His hand comes up, hesitant, and I nod. His fingers trace the edge of the dress, barely touching, and I can feel goosebumps rising on my skin despite the fire.

"I've been thinking about this for a month," he says, his voice rough.

"I know," I whisper. "Me too."

The kiss, when it comes, is slow and deep and perfect. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back, and I press against him, feeling how much he wants this, wants me. The suede of my dress is so thin I can feel everything—the buttons of his shirt, the heat of his body, the way his breathing changes when I bite his lower lip gently.

His hands move down, tracing my spine, discovering the truth of what I'm not wearing underneath. He groans against my mouth, and I smile, feeling powerful and desired and alive. We're still by the fire, the heat of it mixing with the heat between us, and when his fingers slip under the hem of my dress, finding bare skin, I gasp.

"Inside," I manage. "Take me inside."

We barely make it. He's kissing my neck, my shoulders, pushing the thin straps of my dress down as we stumble through the back door. We leave a trail—his shirt, my shoes, his belt—and by the time we reach his bedroom, we're half-undressed and desperate.

The bed is huge and soft, and he lays me down like I'm something precious. The dress is around my waist now, and he takes his time, kissing down my body, his hands everywhere. When his mouth finds my breast, I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair. He's good at this, patient and attentive, reading every gasp and moan like a language he's fluent in.

I reach for him, and he finds my breadts first with his hands, then with his mouth, kissing me deeply as his fingers trace my ribcage, feeling me breathe beneath his touch. The intimacy of it—him feeling the rise and fall of my chest, the way my breathing quickens under his fingertips—makes something tighten in my core.

His kisses move over my body as I gently push his shoulders, guiding him where I want him. He follows my direction eagerly, moving lower and lower, his lips trailing fire across my stomach, my hip bones. He finds that smile between my legs and pauses, inhaling deeply, my sweet musky essence filling his lungs. I can see the appreciation for the scent of a woman on his face—raw, primal, hungry. It's a look I've seen before, but never quite like this.

I reach down and spread my fat, juicy pussy lips open for him, giving him full access to my clit. His eyes meet mine for a moment, dark with desire, and then his tongue makes first contact.

The sensation is electric. His tongue is warm and wet, circling my clit with deliberate, teasing strokes. He starts slow, learning me, and I feel my hips lifting off the bed, seeking more pressure, more friction. He flattens his tongue and licks the full length of my slit, gathering my wetness, groaning at the taste of me.

"Fuck," I breathe, my fingers tightening in his hair.

He takes that as encouragement, focusing his attention on my clit now, his tongue flicking against it in rapid movements that make my thighs tremble. Then he changes rhythm, sucking my clit between his lips, and the intensity makes me cry out. His mouth works me with a fucking motion—sucking, licking, sucking again—and I can hear the wet sounds of it, obscene and perfect.

My pussy is dripping now, and he slides one finger inside me, then two, curling them to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. He pumps his fingers in and out while his mouth stays locked on my clit, sucking with steady pressure. The dual sensation is overwhelming.

Oh god, oh god," I'm chanting, my hips grinding against his face. He doesn't let up, adding a third finger, stretching me, filling me, while his tongue works my clit relentlessly. I can feel my wetness coating his fingers, dripping down to his palm, and he groans against me, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through my core.

The orgasm builds like a wave, starting deep in my belly and radiating outward. My thighs clamp around his head and my back arches off the bed as I come, hard and loud, my pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers. He doesn't stop, working me through it, drawing out every last tremor until I'm gasping and pushing at his head, too sensitive to take any more.

I lie there catching my breath, my body "Oh god, oh god," I'm chanting, my hips grinding against his face. He doesn't let up, adding a third finger, stretching me, filling me, while his tongue works my clit relentlessly. I can feel my wetness coating his fingers, dripping down to his palm, and he groans against me, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through my core.

The orgasm builds like a wave, starting deep in my belly and radiating outward. My thighs clamp around his head and my back arches off the bed as I come, hard and loud, my pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers. He doesn't stop, working me through it, drawing out every last tremor until I'm gasping and pushing at his head, too sensitive to take any more.

still twitching with aftershocks. When I can finally speak, I manage a breathless laugh. "Your turn."

He grins up at me, his face glistening with my wetness, and I pull him up for a kiss, tasting myself on his lips. Then I push him onto his back and begin my descent, kissing down his chest, his stomach, following the trail of hair that leads to his cock.

I'm a woman who's been with countless men, and it's safe to assume I must have mastered this art—and I definitely have. I know exactly what I'm doing as I wrap my hand around his shaft, feeling how hard he is, how ready. There's already a bead of pre-cum at the tip, and I lean down to lick it off, savoring the salty-sweet taste of him.

Jesus," he hisses, his hips jerking.

smile and take him into my mouth, just the head at first, swirling my tongue around it before taking him deeper. I hollow my cheeks and suck with intensity, creating a tight, wet heat that makes him groan. My hand works the base of his shaft while my mouth moves up and down, taking him as deep as I can, letting him feel the back of my throat.

I pull off with a wet pop and use my saliva to lubricate him, stroking his cock with slick, twisting motions while I move lower. I take one of his balls into my mouth, sucking gently, then the other, and his hands fist in the sheets.

"Fuck, that feels incredible," he groans.

I alternate between his cock and his balls, taking him deep in my mouth and then moving down to suck and lick his sac, using my hand to keep stroking him. The sounds he's making—those desperate, guttural groans—tell me he's getting close. His cock is rock hard in my hand, pulsing, and I can feel his balls tightening.

"I'm gonna—I can't—" he gasps, and I know he's right on the edge.

I pull off and look up at him, my lips swollen and wet. "Not yet," I say. "I want you inside me when you come."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He pulls me up and flips me onto my back, settling between my thighs. His cock is slick with my saliva, and when he positions himself at my entrance, we both pause, eyes locked.

"You're amazing," he says again, and then he pushes inside.

We both gasp at the sensation. He fills me completely, perfectly, stretching me in the best way. For a moment we just stay like that, adjusting, savoring the feeling of being joined. Then he starts to move, and it's everything—deep and slow and intense. I wrap my legs around him, still in those stockings he'd fantasized about, and he groans, picking up the pace.

We find a rhythm that's both urgent and unhurried, like we have all the time in the world and no time at all. His mouth finds mine again, and we kiss through it, breathing each other's air, swallowing each other's sounds. He shifts his angle and hits that perfect spot inside me, and I cry out against his lips.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me feel you."

He reaches between us, his fingers finding my clit, and the added stimulation sends me spiraling. My pussy clenches around him as another orgasm builds, this one even more intense than the first. He's close too—I can feel it in the way his rhythm falters, the way his breathing becomes ragged.

"Come with me," I whisper, and that's all it takes.

We come together, our bodies locked in perfect synchronicity. I feel him pulsing inside me as my pussy milks him, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over us both. He buries his face in my neck, groaning my name, his whole body shaking with the force of his release.

We collapse together, sweaty and breathless and laughing a little at the intensity of it. He rolls to the side, pulling me with him, and we lie there in the tangle of expensive sheets, my leg thrown over his hip, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.

That was..." he starts, then laughs. "I don't even have words."

Good," I say, kissing his shoulder. "Words are overrated."

We lay there, together, with no words necessary.

In no time we begin to dance - slower this time, exploratory, learning each other's bodies like we have all night. And maybe we do.  Time feels different here, suspended in this bubble we've created. Eventually, reality creeps back in. I check my phone—we've been together for just over two hours. He sees me looking and reaches for his wallet on the nightstand.

"When can I see you again?" he asks, already pulling up his calendar on his phone. "Next month? I'm traveling for work, but I could do the fifteenth..."

I smile, touched by his eagerness. "The fifteenth works."

He hands me an envelope, and I don't count it until I'm back in my car, the city lights blurring past again. Twenty one-hundred-dollar bills. My price is 1300 for 2hours. The extra seven hundred sits heavy in my hand, warm like a secret.

I lean my head back against the seat, feeling the pleasant ache in my body, the wine still humming in my veins. Not bad, I think, tucking the money into my purse. Not bad at all for someone I would've spent time with anyways.

The city glitters outside my window, full of possibility and promise, and I'm already thinking about February fifteenth.