Monthly Archives: March 2010

Tarte tatin and other sweet things

I am making a tarte tatin for dessert tonight. A small soiree with friends. Wine, a warming stew and a suitable French delicacy for dessert. It is funny how smells and tastes can bring back memories in a way that a photograph or film cannot. When I taste tarte tatin I am transported to a hot summer’s evening a few years ago.

London’s hottest summer. The air in my flat was thick, sticky. No movement at all and no reprieve in sight. It was the first summer I spent with my original lover. We would arrange to meet in the evenings, after work. He would leave early to go shopping. I would cycle home, shower (a cold one usually) and dress as a mistress should – beautiful lingerie and sensual, easy to undo dresses. That thrill of waiting for the doorbell to ring, buzzing him in and waiting for his tall figure to appear. He would always enter and leave quietly, not to draw attention to himself.

He took such a great delight in preparing delicious three course dinners for me, accompanied by the best wines and dessert wines. He loved to cook, to choose a combination of flavours, textures and colours that would come alive in my kitchen. As he chopped, whisked, heated, I would sip a cool glass of white, watching him, chatting, listening to jazz. It was such a wonderful sense of being looked after, letting go and allowing someone else to decide for me – what I would eat, drink, taste. I loved it. When I was so aroused by simply watching him, being near him, I would stand behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and let my fingers slip inside his jeans, teasing and distracting him from the task at hand.

Often, the food would be simmering in the pot and he would abandon it to follow me into the bedroom where we would strip naked, bare skin on bare skin, our bodies only slightly hotter than the summer’s night. Sex with my original lover was a deeply sensual experience. He would take the time to touch every part of my body, not allowing me to touch him and driving me wild with anticipation. When every hair tingled at the sheer brushing of his hand over my stomach, he would let me pleasure him. I loved to take him in my mouth. He was beautiful, tasted good and loved me licking him to the point of climax, but to then withhold and sit astride him, mounting him instead. Our pre-dinner fucks were intense bursts of heat and energy, a taster of what was to follow.

We would sit at the dining table, candles, wine, he wearing only his underwear, me wearing a silk slip, no knickers. If you have never tried it, then I strongly recommend eating dinner like this. The food is just a pause, a break between fucks. We would return to the bedroom after each course, fucking each other until we came again and again.

Dessert was always my favourite course. He excelled at desserts. The night he made a tarte tatin was one of the most intense nights we had spent together. That sticky hot sweetness with a tangy edge. It is a strange phenomenon, but it seemed that all my senses were heightened after climaxing. Every bite, lick and swallow of the tarte was magnified. Perhaps your body is more receptive to other pleasures when it is in that wonderful state of relaxation and tingling tension.

After dessert we withdrew to the bedroom, his cock was already erect for our grand finale. He lay back on the bed, keeping eye contact with me as I climbed onto it, standing above him looking down. I let my hand touch my sex, and slowly began to stroke my clit, masturbating myself standing over him. He watched, smiling and eventually pulled me down towards him. I knelt over his face and he lifted his head so his tongue could touch my cunt. Burying his tongue into me he seemed to consume me like one might a ripe fig. Pushing his tongue inside, into the soft flesh and savouring its juices. I arched back reaching for his cock with my hand, massaging him to the same rhythym as he licked me. The orgasm came swiftly, our senses already so raw after the many courses and climaxes. I love the sensation of orgasms in quick succession – the first one feels like a dam has been broken and after that they wash over me like the waves of a tsunami, all consuming, almost drowning. I feel them in my fingers and toes and hair.

That was an intensely sensual night, in so many ways. Such a simple combination of pleasures, but explosively erotic. The best tarte tatin I’ve ever had.


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Raw and heated – the horny American

Sometimes you just need sex. And I’m not talking about making love, the anticipation, the build-up, the foreplay. I am referring to those moments when you need the other person to just take control and take you in whatever way he wants. When I close my eyes and think back to that night, it still sends shivers down my spine.

I met him at a class. He was funny, witty, bright. We engaged in banter, batting the words back and forth, teasing, leading, beating one another. It was a competition of sorts. He was tall and had an open face. He always arrived late, carrying his biker’s helmet and jacket. The connection between us was instant and I found myself looking forward to the next week’s class, just so I could see him again. The second time we met, we went for a drink together after the class. Talking, laughing, joking. I told him I was about to get married. He told me about his ex-girlfriends and his love for literature. The pub closed and we walked back to his bike. He pushed me against a shop window, in plain view of the cars driving past and began to kiss me with such ferocity that I felt my knees weaken. He seemed to just scoop me up with his arms and I felt at his mercy. We parted that night, out of breath from desire for one another.

The following week I rushed to the class. Again, excited about seeing him there. He did not come and I was rather taken aback by my sense of disappointment. Then he texted, suggesting we meet on a different evening. My instinct told me that we would not be able to resist the strong sexual force between us. After meeting in a bar and chatting over a few drinks, he asked if he could stay. I nodded and we walked back to my place. The next few hours are etched in my memory.

As soon as I had opened the door and let us into the dark flat, he pushed me against the wall and began kissing me, exploring my mouth with his tongue. There was such force and pressure in his actions that I did not feel I could escape him, even if I’d wanted to. He pulled at my shirt, buttons popping open and reached for my breasts, sucking on my nipples and keeping my shoulder pressed to the wall. With his other hand, he hitched up my skirt and went straight for my cunt, thrusting his fingers inside me. I abandoned myself entirely to him, letting him lead me to the kitchen table, pushing me back on it, all the while keeping his fingers inside me. He ripped off my lace knickers and lifted my hips and ass towards him. I could not believe the speed and eagerness with which he moved. He bent over me and ate my cunt in a way that was so basic, so animalistic, such a turn on. There was nothing I could do, just close my eyes and let him lick and bite me, thrusting his fingers deep inside me.

He was still fully dressed, I was lying on the table, bare, exposed like a specimen for him to dissect. Suddenly he turned me over, my feet touching the floor, hips against the edge of the table and bent forward as one of his hands pushed me down and the other fumbled with his jeans. He used his knees to widen my legs and without warning thrust his hard cock inside me. I could barely breathe for excitement. He fucked me hard. From behind until he came, doubling over my body, his weight pressing me down against the cold hard wood.

Sometimes you just need sex. Raw, heated sex.


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Gratuitous sex post

It was dark, the house was quiet. 4am and the bedroom a welcome end to a great night out. He slowly unzipped the back of my black dress, dropping it to the floor, my long pearl necklace falling across my breasts and dangling dangerously close to my sex. I unzipped his flies and his trousers joined my dress. The heat of his body was tangible in the cool night air. I sank softly to the bed, letting his hands push me back until my legs were open, ready to receive him.

He started by licking and flicking his tongue around my cunt, teasing, ever so slowly. The dark red sea engulfing me as I felt a sense of abandon.
As he lapped at my clitoris, he slid a finger into me, then two and yet another. I could feel my muscles tightening around him trying to hold on.

I reached down to find his cock and began to move my hand to the rythym of his tongue. He was excited, rock hard. Moving his head away and kneeling closer to the edge of the bed, he thrust it inside me, keeping his thumb massaging my clit. We moved together enjoying the wetness, heat, sensations.

Without warning he withdrew his cock and angled it further down, finding my anus. I could feel the tip of his cock pushing against me, seeking a new and forbidden path. The thrill of being fucked there was too irresistible and so I let him push, feeling the incredible tightness of him inside me. I felt like I was losing control and it felt amazing. He moved gently, timidly, finding the new rhythym. Once he was all the way inside he slipped two fingers into my cunt, filling me entirely. I could feel the rub of his cock against his fingers and saw he was close to coming. I slid one of my own fingers inside myself. I was wet. Incredibly wet. Our fingers slipped in and out together, heightening the tension and tightness for him. To feel so ‘full’ and have his hands bring me to climax is a feeling difficult to describe. We both came hard.And as he withdrew his cock from my ass I came again.

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The original lover

I suppose it is time to introduce you to my original lover. He was not the first, but he was the first one I think I fell in love with. There have been lovers since and I am sure there will be more. But he was the one with whom I shared some of the most precious moments. I say ‘I think I fell in love with’, because at the time I was, but it is amazing how having children can change someone. I met him at work. The affair with the first lover was ongoing whenever he was in London on business. I didn’t think I would consider taking another lover. That seemed wrong. Strange how attitudes can change…

It was the office summer party, the year of the world cup in Germany. Another hot summer. We had already met in a meeting and so ended up sharing a table and drinking together. The conversation was fast-paced, witty, challenging. Like skipping across water, you have to keep moving forward or you’ll sink. He was tall, strawberry blond hair, piercing blue eyes. Some might say, not handsome, but there was something striking about him, possibly his intelligence, the sparkle in his eye, who knows. We told each other about our lives – he, married for many years, I, boyfriend of many years. There were certain strange similarities that are too difficult to document here. But he was someone I felt instantly at ease with, someone I felt I had known forever.

The evening was fun, lots of drink, food, great conversation. He made me laugh. As the party drew to a close, he offered to walk me home. I had my bicycle, so we walked together, bike between us. At one point we stopped and he bent over the bike and kissed me. That was the beginning of an affair that was to last many years, and I suppose in a way will always be there, in the background.

He came back to my place. This was new territory for both of us. The first lover always had a hotel room we could go to. This was the first time I had brought a man home. It was already late and so our time together was rushed, hushed, frantic. We fucked on the bed, on top of the covers. I remember feeling his weight on top of me. Finally a man taller than me. He was so gentle, the softest wet kisses. Already then, without knowing her, I envied his wife. His cock was large, erect. He had a physical presence that so many others don’t, a gravity that draws you towards him, anchors you. I would get to know his body inch by inch over the coming months. That night something changed for both of us. A leap of faith, perhaps. Only four months later, I was considering leaving my then boyfriend, now husband for him.


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Dreams on high seas

My night on the boat was plagued by dreams and interrupted sleep. Perhaps it was the lumpy pillow, the air conditioning, the sound of fellow passengers returning to their cabin after one too many pints. Or perhaps it was the seed, planted in my sub-conscious of a new adventure.

Imagine ‘meeting’ someone on Twitter. Imagine talking to them, DM naturally and noticing a growing curiosity. Who is he? What does he look like? Is he tall, medium or short? What would it be like to touch him, be touched by him?
And so in my dreams last night I met him. I snuck away from husband and family for a few hours and travelled south to meet him. We don’t know each other’s real names, but I recognised him in the bar immediately. Little was said, we swiftly downed our drinks, mine a whiskey. Lagavulin I think it was. And then we got up, I followed him. I knew where he was taking me and showed no resistance.

Images of the opening scenes of ‘Intimacy’ played in my mind. Sex with a stranger, no names, just two naked bodies entwined, in search of that moment. That moment when you truly feel alive, when there is no past and no future, just this. Right now.

The seed has been planted, my mind will do the rest.

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A long hot summer – the gardener

It was about three years ago that we met outside a bar. It was the springtime and the nights were balmy enough to drink outside. I had just got engaged and was there with my soon to be husband. The gardener was introduced to us by a mutual friend.

He had the air of someone who spends a lot of his time outdoors. A tanned face, a healthy glow in his cheeks and the stature of a man used to physical labour. As we said our goodbyes, I remember kissing him on both cheeks and feeling his hard biceps through his jacket. It was enough to make me curious about the rest of him. Shortly after that we invited him to one of our dinner parties, in the hope of setting him up with one of our younger single friends. He showed up with a homemade quiche and bottle of red wine. I was impressed with his cooking abilities (I’m a sucker for men who can cook). The dinner party took it’s course and he came across as the shy, bumbling Englishman when introduced to our friends. But there were moments of lingering eye contact across the dinner table and I decided to get to know him a little better.

The following week he and I met. We went for drinks. He had driven in from the villa outside the city where he worked and had parked his car a short walk from my flat. So, it seemed only polite to invite him in for coffee on our stroll home. I was also a little concerned about the amount he had drunk, given he was planning to drive. We talked, drank coffee and I teased him about setting him up with my younger friend. We moved closer to one another and he took my hand, playing with my fingers. The flat was silent. We both looked at our intertwined fingers, furtively glancing up in an attempt to gauge what the next step should be. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. And so we kissed, timidly at first and then with a heated animation. That first night was very innocent, just kissing and fondling. It was fun, like being teenagers again.

That was the start of my long hot summer with the gardener. He started to drive into town regularly. Monday nights became our ‘pasta & fuck’ night. I would make us dinner, the same pasta sauce every time. We would open a bottle of wine, talk, eat a little, fuck a little and then go back to finish the pasta and wine. It was such a wonderfully simple combination. No expectations, just chat, sex, food and wine. He had started dating the young friend I had set him up with. When coming into town to see her, he would arrive early and drop by my place first. Within a minute of opening the door to him, we would be kissing and stripping the clothes from one another’s bodies, moving towards the bedroom as we did so. His body was so firm and tanned. I loved to run my hands over his torso, tracing each bump and dip with my finger, licking his skin to taste his salty sweat. His biceps and forearms were perfect. Perhaps it is a little fetish of mine, but I cannot resist a man with well defined forearms. It gives me a sense of security, perhaps the feeling that those arms could protect me, carry me, caress me. It drives me wild.

After our heated sessions together, he would shower, dress and head over to his new girlfriend’s place, where he would usually have to spend the night. I got a thrill out of meeting up with him and her for drinks within an hour of having his cock inside me. I have often wondered whether he and I were most alike in that sense. He was and remains a bachelor, a guy who fucks around. He liked the thrill and danger of our affair as well. That summer we lived a risky life, so much deceit, so many lies, but what incredible sex we had and on many occasions the bruises to prove it. But that’s another story for another day.


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Perhaps there’s a thesis in that…

On my long drive across the Europe today, I had plenty of time to think. It occurred to me that the two lovers designated to my ‘RIP’ category are both Doctors. One has a doctorate in maths (the Italian), the other a doctorate in law (the German). Both speak multiple languages – 4 and 5 respectively.

Both seem to struggle with the most basic knowledge of female anatomy and sex. Could these facts somehow be related? And if so, is this a bad sign for the cute barman?

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