When opportunity knocks

A recent conversation with the husband has resulted in an extended stay for me in London after xmas. I will be there (alone) for a good two weeks, giving me ample opportunity to catch up with various lovers. This is an opportunity too good to pass up and so, the wheels are in motion and plans are being made.

The first rendezvous in the diary is next week. M&A has surpassed all expectations by booking a hotel room for the afternoon. Originally, I had planned to go to his place, but its location and both of us having to dash off by 5pm means we will have limited time together. I can feel the excitement building and catch myself looking at a photo I snapped of him on a regular basis. I know very little about him, yet am curious about his quiet demeanour and wry sense of humour. The idea of going to a hotel room, dressed for the opera (which is where I have to dash off to afterwards), letting him slowly undress me, kiss me, touch me, has me so erotically charged I am conscious of my cunt as I write.

My mind is filled with glimpses of what is to come. I long to see his torso, his back, to feel his skin against mine, his athletic stature pressing my soft curves. The first time is always special. There are so many expectations, worries and desires that blend together. The touch of a stranger. The sensation of his hand as he searches for my cunt, finds it and glides on my wetness. I want to kneel before him and take him in my mouth. Not in the same rushed way as last time, but to savour each lick and feel his hardness with my tongue. We will have four hours in a silent, private room together. Four hours to touch, stroke and know each other’s bodies.

When we part, it will be with the knowledge of what we have done. We will be bound by our secret. He will leave to catch his flight home for xmas and I will head to the opera. I will still be able to feel the wetness of our afternoon as I watch the performance, be able to close my eyes and see him in front of me. People will think I am closing my eyes to listen to the music, but only I will know how just a few hours before he was inside me.

 

The end of the affair(s) – part three

I have not written much about the female friend. She was first and foremost a friend. And so I felt uncomfortable writing about our relationship. However, as the title of this post suggests, even that friendship is over. This is about her.

It was my own fault. I was the one who initiated it. About two and a half years ago, she and I were drinking and chatting in a pub. Moving onto the whiskeys signalled the snap in my brain. It happens sometimes. I don’t know why, but my blood races, my heart pounds and all I want is to be fucked, or in this case fingered. I remember thinking, as I spoke to her, ‘this is not what I really think, why am I saying this?’. I told her I liked her, that I found her interesting, attractive and wondered what she thought about me. It was suggestive enough for her to get the gist of what I was saying and she was ‘flattered’ by my advance. There was no fingering that night and I awoke to a terrible hangover and regret for what I had said.

Since then we have had a couple of encounters when, again after numerous drinks, the conversation turns to our ‘relationship’. There has been one kiss, which was not at all one I would like to repeat. Perhaps I am not attracted to women. Or more to the point, I am simply not attracted to her. She is not my ‘type’, if I had one.

One thing I have learned during these close encounters with her, is how tedious women can be about relationships. It is all so serious, so emotional. Whenever I found myself in earnest conversations with her, in which she raised concerns about my marriage and how she was ‘there’ for me if I needed her, I kept thinking: ‘and all this because I just wanted to be fingered’. Christ. What happened to easy talk and loose sex?

Back in the summer, she was round for dinner with another friend. We drank a lot and chatted late into the evening. At one point I caught her eye and she mouthed ‘I love you’ to me. My stomach lurched and I felt slightly sick (a sure sign that there is no attraction, I think). That was the last time I had seen her until November when I met her and the tall guy for dinner and drinks.

I purposely arranged to meet both of them, so I would not have to:

1) sleep with the tall guy, who, although a good kisser, just ain’t that good in bed

2) have long, meaningful conversations with her about our supposed relationship

The tactic worked to some extent. The tall guy could only grope and kiss me when she went to the bathroom and she didn’t find the opportunity to ‘talk’ alone with me. After dinner we trawled the cocktail bars in Soho. A lot was drunk. We finally parted company with the tall guy and she and I shared a taxi home. There was a long (and rather tedious) conversation about our last encounter and how she had spotted my recoil from her ‘I love you’ words. When I got out of the taxi, she stepped out too, to continue the conversation. All I wanted was to go to bed. I was drunk and tired and had had enough of all this ‘analysis’. But she went on and on, until she said she could not cope with seeing me, even as a friend. It was too upsetting for her. Or at least, it was something like that.

I am surprised at how I responded – tears (I was tired and emotional, aka drunk). But inside I was happy. Happy, that by ‘breaking up’ with me, I no longer had to deal with her conversations, insinuations and expectations. Happy, that I could shake off that little mistake I had made two and half years ago. She was the one who wanted me out of her life. And so I would oblige. The tears were there to make her feel good, to mask my relief.

I walked back home, feeling elated. When I got back, I told my husband (having woken him whilst drunkenly getting changed) that we should have a child together. It felt right. Then.

The next day, I received a text from her. She regretted what she had said and wanted to ‘keep me in her life’. I am not sure I want to. Things felt so simple that night she ‘broke up’. The irony of course is, there was nothing to ‘break up’. Just a friendship.

 

The end of the affair(s) – part two

Closure is important, I suppose. So when my Italian lover contacted me on Skype recently, that is what I gave him. Closure.

We have not seen one another since saying goodbye at the airport after our second Scotland trip together back in March. I resolved back then to dump him, after some of the worst sex I’ve had and three excruciating days together. I’ve received the odd text from him since then, but nothing more than that.

Two weeks ago he popped up on Skype. Told me his news and then asked me about mine. Then he wanted to know what had happened, why I had suddenly stopped talking to him nine months ago. I realise now, that nine months is perhaps a pertinent number given his question about whether I had had a baby. In his mind, I suspect he had concluded I was pregnant after our Scotland trip and hence had broken off all contact. Of course that was not the reason.

Being English, I have real issues when it comes to politeness and upsetting people. In fact, I believe one of the reasons for my numerous lovers is that I do not wish to offend any admirer and so would rather go to bed with them, than upset them by saying no. However, I felt it was time to give him an answer.

And so I told him: his unwillingness to use a condom, despite numerous requests on my part, showed a lack of respect for my person. And, as a result, I was angry with him and that is why I never contacted him again. He was devastated.

I’m just glad I told him that reason and not that he was simply shit in bed… Not sure his ego could have coped with that blow.

The end of the affair(s) – part one

As I watch the snow gently falling outside and the black silhouette of the lifeless tree against the grey sky, I can’t help but feel the end of an affair is near. Perhaps, after two years, my older lover and I are in the winter of our relationship.

We met at a party in London last week. It was the first time in six months. The last time we kissed goodbye it was early summer. The sun shone brightly and there was hope, a lightness, an optimism in the air. It was also then that I gave him a drawing, a birthday present. A drawing that now, apparently, hangs in his marital bedroom.

I arrived at the party, excited at the prospect of seeing him. My eyes scanned the room when I entered, but I couldn’t see him and so chatted to strangers, looking up expectantly every time a guest arrived. It wasn’t until an hour or so later that I saw him. He had been there the whole time. We chatted amidst others, trying to keep the conversation casual. Eventually we left the party together. It was a late hour and there was no plan to go on together. We walked and talked, kissing in doorways. I told him I was in love with him. I told him how much I missed him. How sad I was that we had not seen each other in six months, despite many attempts on my part to make it happen. He asked why I never write in our blog anymore. Why I am so distant. I got into a taxi. He got on his scooter. We have not spoken since.

In my mind, I make excuses for him – his redundancy, search for a new job, father of three kids, etc., etc. That is why it has been so difficult for us to meet when I have been in London. But then I think that if he really wanted to, he would make it happen. He does not commit, does not make plans. It is all left to the last minute, to fate. He fails to realise the lengths to which I have gone and will go to see him. The lies I tell, the money I spend. And so I told him that. I also told him how I had realised that I will never be his focus. His family and wife will always come first. And that makes me ever so slightly sad.

I am not entirely sure what new phase of our relationship last Friday night marks. I worry it is the end. It leaves me feeling empty. Cold.

If it is the end of my affair with my older lover, then I do not regret my time with him. He was, after all, the best fuck I’ve ever had. He raised the bar. He gave me the best oral sex I have ever had. I shall miss him.

Toyboy fantasy – pros and cons

Last night I was home alone. I poured a glass of good Rioja, kicked back on the sofa and up pops the cute barman on IM. It has been an age since we last flirted online. I have been largely offline for logistical reasons in the past few months and so decided to indulge him.

As I have written before, he is an incredibly horny young thing. Cute, sexy, determined, bright. He ticks all the right boxes. He is also a bit of a slut and so I know that as much as I like to ‘toy’ with him, he does the same with me. Out of the blue last night he asked me if I wanted to sleep with him. Naturally I do. And I said so. He told me about how hard our little chats make him, told me to masturbate, think of him and text him once I’d licked my finger. He asked me to masturbate wearing a thong and send it to him. He asked me about waxing, told me he ‘trims’.

Now normally, all this is a huge turn on. It is all very entertaining and certainly gets me into a very wet state of mind and pussy. But equally, I find his chat so adolescent, so school boyish. Is it the younger generation (he’s 28) who are obsessed with waxing etiquette and thongs? I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m more of a pearl and lacy knicker kinda girl. I do wax when I have time, but then other lovers (i.e. older lover) prefer a non-waxed pussy.

He wants to come for a weekend, when the husband is away. I think it could be fun, but then I worry so much about all of these unwritten rules and my older body and his potential disappointment at the reality of a mid-30s married woman. I’m pretty sure the sex would be mind-blowing. But the games can be so much more fun than the reality….

Introducing the potential new lover

It has been such a long time since I last felt those initial thrills and butterflies. And I didn’t plan this one at all.

We have a mutual friend, the brother of my female friend (it gets complicated). The potential new lover, I shall call him M&A as he is in mergers and acquisitions, is of the Emerald Isle. He has a satisfyingly uncomplicated physique, a marathon runner and a rugby player. He is neither too wiry, nor too bulky. His face is kind, neatly chiselled and he has wonderful laughter lines hinting at his 39 years. He has also recently come out of a major break-up. She left him. He was devastated and has been self-medicating the Irish way ever since.

And so for that reason I suppose we ended up in a club together, me swallowing his cum in a dark stairway early one Saturday morning. It was not the first time we’d met. I remember him from a previous occasion the year before, when he was there with his girlfriend. But this was the first time we’d really talked. We got on. I liked his acerbic wit, his party instincts, his desire to let go. I think I recognised the need to push the boundaries, to live life teetering on the edge of that abyss. He is there, I have been there and so we took the plunge together.

He complimented me on my blow job and asked to see me again. I fear our mutual friend noted our sudden absence and I am sure he suspects. But the deed was done. No going back, no regretting. A follow up lunch at his club in London and a mutual pact not to tell anyone has meant we move on to the next stage: the affair.

Of course, he is single. That makes it complicated. He does not have the same need for secrecy that I do. He may well also harbour judgemental views on adultery. I don’t know. But, I like him. I am curious about his body. I think both of us need a physical outlet. He needs to feel wanted again, no strings attached. I just need a fuck and the thrill of the new with the danger of the forbidden. And so he suggested meeting for lunch before xmas. A long lunch, at his place, or a hotel. I am excited and apprehensive. A new lover requires energy, time and an emotional investment (however small). It raises conflicts in me about the decision to try for a baby with the husband. I know a new lover would provide the necessary distraction from focusing my attentions on the whole ‘family’ question. But even as I write these doubts, I know full well that in a week’s time, I will be undressing in front of him and letting him explore my body as I close my eyes and succumb to the blackness.

 

New year, new lovers

Thanks to a recent message on Twitter from @ladylikepervert I feel inspired to write today. It has been months since my last post and so I am a little rusty. I apologise.

Re-reading some of my posts from the last nine months in bed this morning, reminded me of how alive I can feel in this double life I lead. It also made me realise how withdrawn I have become. So let me recap, briefly, on events of recent months:

After the masseur experience back in early October, I returned home from my travels with the husband, got a job, didn’t go out, didn’t drink and focused entirely on work. On a trip back to London in early November, I met up with the tall one and the female friend for, what turned out to be a very drunken evening. It ended in a shared taxi ride home with the female friend, a long chat about her feelings for me and us parting company (and friendship) at about 3am. The strange thing was the relief I felt when we parted. More about that later.

I returned home to the husband, suddenly liking his familiarity, his warmth, his embrace. And in the dense fog of my hangover the next day I decided that we should try to have a baby together. It struck me quite out of the blue. And so, a week or so later, we tried. Twice. And a week or so later, I got my period.

That too was a relief. And, knowing I was not pregnant, I went out on the town with two male friends visiting the city. It was one of those crazy nights, when one bar leads onto another, when you meet some of the strangest people and have surreal conversations. We ended up in a club, already empty due to the lateness of the hour. I suppose it was the drink, but I found a dark stairway with one of them and we kissed frantically, fondling one another. I had my back against the wall and sunk down to waist height, unzipped his jeans and took his cock in my mouth. It was a swift and perfectly executed blow job. He came within seconds. We returned, individually, to our mutual friend and I returned home shortly afterwards to a sleeping husband.

The blow job was ten days ago and I have seen him twice since. Once when he was still here and then again a few days ago at his club in London. I think he might be my new lover. A new lover for the new year.