The fun of infatuation

And so it has started. My infatuation. I find myself thinking about him all the time. Without realising it, I check my phone for messages from him. I keep going back to the two or three photos I snapped of him the first time we met. My waking and sleeping thoughts are plagued by him – flashes of his torso, his neck, his eyes. I trace each wrinkle of his face before I fall asleep. I crave him, desire him.

The economist has me infatuated, elated, alive again. We have met three times in as many days – twice yesterday! We will see each other every day until I leave the country in four day’s time. Sometimes I feel like I am hurtling myself towards an abyss. When I leave the country I will leave him behind too. A massive void ripped into my daily existence. We will be left only with recent memories of our secret rendezvous – his club, the hotel room, his flat, my place, dark London streets at night. It is all consuming, this infatuation. I long to be with him, every minute of every day. If I could, I would be happy to just sit and watch him work, observing him silently, etching him into my memory so that I may never forget his beautiful face.

Yesterday, I bought him flowers. It was an impulsive gesture. They now sit in a glass jug in his bedroom. They will still be there long after I have left the country. I went to his place yesterday lunchtime. He was working from home, as his business trip had been cancelled at the last minute. He met me at the bus stop and we walked back to his flat, my arm interlinked in his. He took me up the stairs and placed the flowers in water, preferring to keep them in his bedroom where his flatmate would not see them. He has never been given flowers before. We stood in his bedroom, smiling at one another in the middle of the day. Such decadence! It was like being a student again. Making love in the middle of the day, as the rest of the world rushed about their business.

We undressed and lay on his bed, the only sounds were the church bells and the gentle buzz of his Blackberry as his emails trickled in. He went down on me, his head buried between my legs, his tongue licking and flicking at my heat. Making love in broad daylight marks a new stage in any physical relationship – no longer a fumbling in the dark, alcohol induced haze. Broad daylight reveals all. There is no hiding. There is an open frankness about the sex. An honesty that brings a closeness. Using his fingers to stimulate my G-spot whilst pressing his tongue to my clit I came quite suddenly, shudderingly. My legs shook and the soft fleshy part of my inner thigh twitched as the waves of orgasm gripped my body. I reached for his cock and found it rock hard and ready. He entered me, holding his torso above mine so that only our hips touched. His arms and shoulders were tense with the pressure and I could see the veins on his neck and forehead begin to throb as he moved ever deeper inside me. My sex was so sensitive and ready for the sensations of him. It felt like a deep thirst being quenched. We moved together and he teetered on the edge of climax for a long time, saying suddenly that he couldn’t come. But then within seconds of saying it, the barriers were breached and his body was gripped by the orgasm. I watched his face as the tension changed to concentration and then elation. He collapsed on top of me, panting heavily.

After sex, we dressed and went for lunch in a nearby pizzeria, drinking a glass of wine and sharing stories, ideas, dreams. I didn’t want to leave him. I wanted to lie in his bed and watch him work, naked. I felt a physical tug inside as we parted at the station. During the afternoon we arranged to meet again in the evening. Seeing him, fresh after his run and floating through the streets of London together was a perfect end to a perfect day. We ate dinner and chatted until our respective curfews. I miss him, though I know I will see him in a matter of hours. I revel in this infatuation. He is my muse.

Schedules – Dinner date

Having left the tall guy in his hotel room, I spent a day walking around London in the rain, hiding in galleries and cafes and watching a film in the afternoon. I was conscious of his scent still lingering on my body and desperately wanted to shower and change. But, I was meeting the economist for drinks and dinner and so applied fresh lipstick and perfume in the ladies powder room of a department store before choosing a bar to meet him in.

It was a rather typical overpriced bar in Mayfair. I found a secluded corner and ordered a champagne cocktail, texting him the name of the bar. He arrived a few minutes later, wearing a crisp white shirt and dark blue suit. He looked sexy. His athletic physique was complimented by his smart attire. It was the first time I had seen him in something other than jeans and a sweater. And all I wanted to do was throw him on the floor and ravage him. Instead, I sat with my legs crossed and smiled mischievously at him. We drank the cocktails and chatted about the events of the last few days. He had had a stressful week at work and was being sent to New York the following week. After the drink we moved to the restaurant and ordered some food. Dinner was early, as he had to meet some friends later, a blind date. We ate, our knees touching under the table and he slowly began to relax into his usual self. There is something about his face that fascinates me. I love his chiselled jaw and cheekbones, the laughter lines around his eyes and the little protruding rivulet veins on his temples. He is shy, I think. Shy and reserved and so a double turn on for me. The restaurant was now filled with the usual Friday night post-work crowd and we both agreed it was a dreadful crowd. Wanting to escape the crush, we decided to go to the river and find a quieter bar with a different scene.

Taking the tube to Charing Cross, we walked down to the river and across the bridge. We held hands and kissed in dark side streets, both of us conscious of bumping into someone we might know. He took me to a little underground bar in Waterloo. This was a different crowd – more my kind of thing. We drank beer from bottles and sat opposite one another at a tiny table, our knees touching. We were overdressed for our new venue, but it didn’t matter. I could look at him in peace and quiet, etching each line, wrinkle and expression into my memory. Meeting a lover for an evening, when you both know you will not be able to share a bed brings with it a delightful simplicity and innocence. We both knew those shared beers would be our last before he left to meet other friends and I would return to my bed alone. That hour felt like a whole evening together. We flirted, touched, laughed, drank, tucked away in a basement behind Waterloo. It was perfect.

As we walked to the station, he stopped and pulled me towards him, taking my face in his hands and kissing me passionately. Through our coats, I could sense his erection and he pulled me tight whispering that he wished he could come home with me. I smiled and stroked his hair. We both knew he couldn’t get out of his ‘blind date’ with a friend of a friend. The irony of taking a single man as a lover: he still has dates with other women. I told him he would have a great time and may even like the girl he was being set up with. We agreed to meet on Sunday instead. We parted at the station, both of us desiring the other’s body. I crave him, desperately.

Schedules – Breakfast meeting

I’m exhausted. The first week of 2011 has proved to be a packed schedule. I wonder if this is the sign of things to come. It started with a rendezvous with the economist, followed by drinks with the lecherous ex boss, then dinner and drinks with the tall guy, culminating in yesterday – breakfast with the tall guy and dinner with the economist.  And yet, still no date arranged with my older lover. I am hoping we manage to meet next week. No one else brings me to climax quite like him. However, all in all, six orgasms in four days with two men ain’t half bad.

When he told me he was in town on business, I knew it was necessary to meet him again. The tall guy is someone I’ve known for many years. In that time, I’ve got married, he’s dated various women and has himself got married to someone who has distinct physical similarities to me. He says he is in love with me. I say I reciprocate. But I don’t. And I don’t want to hurt his feelings. So I found myself meeting him for dinner on Thursday. He wanted me to come back to his hotel. I couldn’t that evening, as my absence would have raised suspicions. And so I agreed to pay him a morning visit instead. I woke early, dressed in stockings and bra, stuffing my lacy knickers into my handbag. If I was going to get on a packed commuter train, I wanted to be standing between them, knowing that I was bare beneath my little black dress. As I clung to the rail and bumped against weary looking commuters, I closed my eyes and began to think of the physical sensations of being pleasured. Though I like the tall guy as a friend, he is not what I would call ‘my type’. He doesn’t turn me on physically in the way the economist does, for example. And so I need a little bit of mental preparation before getting into a bed with him, especially if no alcohol has been consumed.

I arrived at his hotel – the same hotel in which I bestowed him his wedding gift last year. Strangely, his room number was the same room number the economist had had before xmas (different hotel of course). I knocked on his door and entered. He was dressed only in a towel. He had cancelled his meetings for the morning, so we could be together. Now normally, a gesture like that would thrill me, but with him, I wonder whether he is a little ‘too in love’ with me. His kisses tend to smother and I find his advances, constant IMs and texts a little stalkerish at times. More on that later.

I removed my coat and he kissed me, unzipping my dress as he did so. He took off my clothes and boots, leaving only my stockings and bra. Pushing me to the bed, he took the silk scarf I had worn around my neck and tied it over my eyes. Gently he touched my arms, breasts, stomach and kissed his way down to my sex. Pushing my legs apart, he began to lick my clit, moving his tongue rapidly up and down and from side to side. The sensations of sex first thing in the morning are very different to night time fondling. I feel suddenly hot, feverish and a surreal state of mind grips me. My orgasm was swift as he pushed two fingers inside me and licked my cunt into submission. As I came, I was grateful for the blindfold. I did not have to see who was pleasuring me, and could imagine a stranger, or one of my many other lovers. But not him. I couldn’t bare the thought of him. He thrust himself inside me and within a few short seconds had come.

We lay in bed together for a long time, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep a little. He kept touching me as I feigned sleep and I was conscious of him looking at me throughout. For some reason I found this behaviour a little disturbing. Like his smothering kisses, I felt trapped. I was keen to get out of that hotel room and be alone again. When I stirred from my faked slumber, he moved his hand to my sex and began to masturbate me. I was still very sensitive from the climax earlier and so knew his fingers would tease another orgasm relatively quickly. I closed my eyes and concentrated on coming, so I could get out of there. His touch lacked the softness or delicacy of other lovers and I came, but was removed from the sensation mentally. He came in my hand at the same time, giving me an excuse to wash in the bathroom. I decided not to bother with a shower and instead washed at the basin, trying to remove his scent from my body as best I could. Then I dressed and made a swift exit, leaving him to shower and dress.

I walked in the rain, feeling slightly bewildered and sick. I ended up at the British Museum. There were so many people and my head was spinning. Looking at the ancient Greek and Roman statues, I decided that I could not sleep with the tall guy anymore. There was a sense of uneasiness at the pit of my stomach. He was definitely a sympathy shag, someone I had slept with to be polite and it had to end. And so I will need to fashion a good excuse for not visiting his hotel room next week when he is back in town.

 

Interesting insights – a night at home

Last night I saw the economist. We met in an anonymous pub near his office where we chatted briefly over a couple of drinks. As his flatmate (yes, he has a flatmate at the age of 39!) was still away for xmas, we agreed to seize the opportunity and traveled by tube to his less-than-salubrious part of town. We walked arm in arm to his flat. I felt safe with him.

The light in his stairwell was broken and so I had to hold onto his shoulder as we climbed the to his apartment. He let us in and turned on the heating. The flat was minimalist, bare walls, leather sofas, huge TV. A true bachelor pad. He took me on the grand tour, ending it in his bedroom. I removed his clothes, one by one, keeping eye contact. When he went to lift my cashmere sweater, I pushed his cold hands back and threw him on the bed naked. Fully clothed, I sat astride him and examined his nakedness. We had said very little since entering the flat. The polite chit-chat of the pub now far away. We both knew why we had met that night. We both needed a release.

Enjoying the feeling of power, being the one on top of him and still wearing all my garments, I knelt lower and took him in my mouth. I could sense he just needed to let go and lose himself in sex. His relatively recent breakup has left him lost. I know how that feels and how sex with a relative stranger can help. Seeing his spartan flat and talking to him about his ex made me want to take him in my arms and stroke his hair, to love him unconditionally, even if only for that night. It is not that I feel sorry for him, that would be patronising. I just sense his deep melancholy and I wish I could help release him from that. He came in my mouth relatively quickly. I had warmed up by then and stripped, lying naked next to him, letting him hold my breasts and tug at my nipples. He was so gentle with me. I felt both close and very removed from his bed. He moved his head down, pushing my legs apart and began to lick and suck my pussy. It was a delicate sensation, timid even. Then he found his rhythm and I felt the tide rise within. When he could sense I was close to coming, he inserted two fingers into my cunt and touched that sensitive spot whilst continuing to lap at my clitoris. I came shudderingly, the heat rushed through me and he didn’t stop until the aftershocks had ceased. We lay naked under the covers breathing heavily. It had been a craving we had fixed.

We chatted naked in bed for a good half hour. His eyes occasionally showed his sadness and I began to realise that I was the first woman he had slept with in his bed since she had left him. I lay on my stomach, propping my head up on the pillow and looked at him intently. He ran his fingers up and down my spine. Silence. We were there together, quietly. His hand traced the hollow down towards my rear and slipped further down, finding my wetness. He pushed his fingers inside me and began to slip them in and out very gently whilst massaging my clit with his thumb. I let my head rest on the pillow and enjoyed the sensation of him touching me like this. Then he mounted me from behind and slipped his cock inside me, fucking me as I lay quite still. I could feel his balls beat against my clit each time he slid in and out. He was in control now and I let him be.

We ate a late dinner together and shared a bottle of wine. When it was time for me to go, he walked me to find a cab. He is sweet. He is a bit of a mystery. So gentle, calm, yet also unhinged in some ways. Perhaps I sense a similarity between us – a double life, a feeling of being lost, of wondering what the point is, of not really knowing what to do with this life that we have. I am not sure. But, seeing him in his home gave me a different perspective on him. I like him. I just wish I could have stayed and let him sleep in my arms.

Little Christmas indulgences

As the final turkey leftovers are thrown out, the decorations packed away and the new year settles in, I am usually grateful that the festivities are at an end. Though I like Christmas and all the family get togethers, I am usually left exhausted, recovering from the seasonal bout of flu. And so this year is no different. I lie in bed, awake far too early for a public holiday and my mind begins to wander to the precious days before the festivities began. To that afternoon spent in a hotel room with the economist (formerly M&A).

We had agreed to meet before he flew out for the holidays and so it was the last day before Christmas when I made my way to the five star hotel in central London. He had chosen the hotel for its proximity to the Royal Opera house, which is where I was meeting my husband and family later that evening. He had checked in first, texting me the room number and so I walked confidently into the lobby, smiling at the receptionist and striding into the lift, trying not to look like a woman about to commit adultery. Again.

My heart beat a little faster as the lift took me to his floor. The corridor was warm and muffled, thick carpets and heavy wallpaper dampened the sound of my footsteps as I approached his room. I was already dressed for the opera – a black vintage 50s dress, red petticoat, red heels, black stockings and black pearls. I stopped outside the room and drew a long breath, then knocked. I heard movement from within and the door opened quietly. The economist smiled at me and opened the door wider to let me in. He took my face in his hands and kissed my lips softly. My cheeks were still cold and his hands felt wonderfully warm. He looked into my eyes and said: ‘Be gentle with me, I’m terribly hung over.’ I smiled and teased him a little – we had joked that I had only ever seen him hung over, which to be fair, was only three times. We remained standing as we kissed, his hands warming my face and our kisses hot, slow at first, then becoming heated, tongues searching for one another. He unbuttoned my coat as he kissed my cheeks and neck. The coat dropped and I tugged at his sweater, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. I could feel his firm body through his shirt and a jolt shot through my sex. He fumbled with the fastening on my dress, I unhooked his belt and ran my fingers inside his jeans until I could undo the buttons of his flies. They dropped to the floor and he slipped off my dress, leaving me standing in my heels, petticoat and stockings. He pulled his buttoned up shirt over his head and gently sat me down on the edge of the bed. Kneeling before me, he removed one shoe at a time, keeping his eyes fixed on mine.

I lay back and let him climb astride me. We kissed and stroked one another enjoying the anticipation of our nakedness. I observed his body, his strong shoulders, lean torso and muscular legs. He has the body of a sportsman, yet the palest of skins, its delicacy belying the scars he carries from rugby injuries. I let my fingers find the rim of his boxers and began to slide them down, revealing his straining cock. He dropped onto the bed next to me and I removed his underwear, leaving him completely naked and erect. Smiling up at him, I guided his cock into my mouth and began to massage his shaft with my lips and tongue. He tasted good. I could hear him moan gently as I pressed my tongue to the pulsating vein at the base and traced its flow all the way up to the tip. Taking his balls in my left hand and firmly clasping the base of his penis with my right thumb and middle finger, I began to devour him, sucking, licking, pressing to a rhythm my own cunt dictated. He held my hair as he began to climax and I let him burst into my mouth, swallowing each shot as it came, a warm trickle escaping out of the corner of my mouth. When he was spent, I sat up and looked at him – he had gained some colour in his cheeks, a delicate rash on his chest hinting at the rush of orgasm.

He pulled me onto the bed and ripped off my stockings and petticoat, plunging his head between my legs, lapping at my freshly waxed cunt. I could feel the force with which he wanted to devour me, the pressure of his torso against my cocked legs and his fingers feeling inside me, reaching for that hidden spot of pleasure. I was conscious of how quickly he had become erect again and pulled his head up to kiss him, tasting my own juices as I did so. Deftly, he put on a condom and positioned his hips above mine, slipping deep inside me. A wave of delight washed over my body as we thrust into darkness, the red fleshy sea taking hold of us both. His movements had such zeal, such energy, I let myself be carried away to his rhythm, his force. My hands slipped on his back as sweat began to lubricate our bodies. We rolled over so that I was on top, such a perfect view of his face. He reached up and fondled my breasts as I gyrated on his cock, feeling its hardness touch deep inside my womb. He pulled me down to take my nipples in his mouth. There was such a rawness and frantic desire about him. I wanted him to enter me from behind, like animals. Leaning my arms against the padded headboard and kneeling with my legs apart, he understood exactly what I wanted him to do. He grasped my hips, pulling my ass towards him and plunged his cock into my pussy, the pressure of which pushed my face against the headboard as well. It felt incredible, he filled me so entirely. We fucked and fucked, trying different positions, each one was frantically constructed and deconstructed in favour of a new one. The sweat dripped and our bodies felt as if they were on fire. Collapsing on the bed together, I decided to take him once more in my mouth. His cock tasted of me and it felt like there was more cum the second time he squirted his juices into my mouth. As the waves of orgasm receded, we lay there, arm in arm panting heavily. My senses were so heightened, so on edge from the rawness of it all, that when he delicately touched my clit with his fingers, I felt as if I was walking on the edge of an abyss. He kept me clinging on, teasing, as if playing the harp. The tingling was ever present in all my limbs, just waiting for the final release. And then it came. I let him have my orgasm, it came in slow, increasing circles until each touch of his finger was a tremor deep inside me.

We had four hours in that hotel room together. Chatting, kissing, touching; our first foray into the affair. When it was time to leave, I showered, dressed, perfumed and styled myself for the opera. We shared a drink in the hotel bar before he left for the airport and I strolled to meet husband and family for dinner and opera.

The strangest thing happened on that walk to the restaurant: a man in his forties walked past me in the opposite direction and blew a kiss in my direction. Not recognising his action in time to dismiss him or smile at him, I pressed on. A minute later, he tapped me on the shoulder and said:

‘I didn’t mean any disrespect. Can I give you my number?’

I was so surprised by his advance that I just smiled apologetically and told him I was married. He smiled back and thanked me, then we parted. The scenario made me wonder what signals I must have been giving out that a complete stranger would approach me so directly? Perhaps, it is more a matter of when it rains, it pours.