Diary of a Courtesan January 8, 2026

Today was exactly what I needed—a reminder that I still have it, that age is just a number when you know how to work what you've got.I spent the afternoon preparing my studio, making sure every detail was perfect. The canopy bed with its flowing tulle netting caught the candlelight beautifully, casting soft shadows across the silk sheets. My vintage chaise lounge sat in the corner, velvet cushions arranged just so. I'd placed candles strategically around the room—on the nightstand, the dresser, the windowsill—creating that warm, flickering glow that makes skin look golden and flawless.I chose the pale blue lace lingerie he'd requested, the delicate fabric barely containing my breasts, which still sit high and full despite my sixty-three years. The matching stockings attached to a garter belt, and I slipped into those strappy heels that make my legs look endless. When I caught my reflection in the mirror, I had to smile. Gravity hasn't won yet.Marcus arrived at eight sharp. The look on his face when I opened the door was priceless—that flash of pleasant surprise, the quick scan up and down my body, the slight parting of his lips. "You're... stunning," he managed.We started with wine, sitting on the chaise, talking about his work, his recent divorce. I watched him carefully, reading the signals. His words were polite, measured, but his eyes kept drifting to my cleavage, to where my thighs pressed together. He wanted someone to take charge, to do what his ex-wife probably never did.I stood to refill his glass, letting him watch the sway of my hips. When I bent down to hand it to him, I kissed him—slow and deep, my tongue exploring his mouth while my hand cupped his jaw. He groaned softly."Stay still," I whispered, and straddled him, grinding against the growing hardness in his pants. I took his hand and guided it between my legs, pressing his fingers against the damp lace. "Feel that? That's for you."His breathing quickened. I could feel him throbbing beneath me.I stood him up, my fingers working his belt, his zipper. His pants pooled at his ankles. I positioned a chair directly across from him and sat down, legs spread, maintaining eye contact as I took him in my mouth. He was thick and already leaking. I worked him with my tongue, my lips, taking him deep, then pulling back to tease the tip. His hands gripped the back of the chair behind him."I'm going to—" he gasped.I pulled back just enough, and he finished across my breasts, hot streams coating the pale blue lace.Afterward, as he was dressing, he asked about the lingerie. "I collect them," he admitted sheepishly, offering an extra two hundred. I peeled off the set and handed it to him, still warm and marked. As I locked the door behind him, I felt satisfied. Not just professionally, but personally. I'd given him exactly what he needed, what he'd probably fantasized about for years.Some nights, this work still feels like power.