Monthly Archives: February 2011

Tied up on conference calls

I like flying.  No matter how often I fly, I still get that little buzz, the thrill of a new city, a few hours to think, reflect on recent events. And here I sit, on a plane somewhere above Europe, reflecting on the events and experiences of the past few days.

A short while ago, I touched down in London and made my way to the economist’s apartment. He had arranged to work from home, so we could meet alone and ‘catch up’ properly, following last weekend’s titillations. Queuing at passport control, I received a message from him to say his flatmate was at home and suggesting ways in which I could be smuggled into his room without her noticing.  I texted him from the station and he met me at his front door. She was in the shower and so we walked quickly and quietly up the stairs to his bedroom.

He was on a work conference call. His laptop had the sound turned up so we could kiss and he could still listen in.  He sat down at his desk and checked that his microphone was on mute. On the plane journey over, I had been thinking about what I might do with him. I removed his shoes, one by one, kneeling in front of him. Then stood to take off his sweater and t-shirt, kissing his neck as I did so. My red lipstick left beautiful delicate prints on his milky white skin. I kissed my way down his torso, unfastening his belt and unzipping his trousers. Pulling his remaining clothing from his body, I pushed him back in his chair and knelt in front of him. He was already very erect and I took him in my mouth, holding his balls in one hand and grasping the base of his cock with the other, I let him glide in and out of my mouth, pressing my tongue against the rim of his tip and using my lips to squeeze him, tease him.  He sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and let go. All the while, the conference call droned on in the background. His climax was swift. He shuddered as his hot cum hit the back of my throat.

We moved to the bed and I partially undressed, lying next to him under the covers. He stroked my arms, neck and thighs. I could feel that wonderful tingle of anticipation. But, until the call was over, he was not able to fully focus as he was expecting to answer some questions on a given topic. I grabbed my long black leather belt hanging on the back of his chair and straddled his naked body. Keeping eye contact and kissing him gently, I took hold of his wrists, forcing them above his head, Tenderly, I wrapped the soft leather around his hands, pulling it tight to secure them together and finishing it with a double-knot. I could see the curiosity tinged with slight anxiety in his eyes.  I sat on his chest, admiring my handy work and began to run my fingers gently up and down his torso, moving them lower and lower.  There was a hunger in his eyes that I recognised only too well. Kissing and licking my way down his body, I stood up and looked down at him, lying naked, tied up and hungry.  I retrieved a sketchbook and pencil from my bag and sat a few feet away from him on the bed and began to draw. Now, drawing someone like this is not only a feast for the eyes, but also a test of endurance. Each pencil stroke, every longing look is a form of foreplay for me. It is like admiring a feast before the toast. A form of ritual, of giving thanks for what you are about to receive.

He lay quite still, smiling as I sketched him. All the while, the people on the conference call continued their tedious discussion, unaware that he had not contributed any comment for some time.  As the call was reaching its end, he leant over his laptop, hands bound and hit the mute button again so he could say his part. I watched his earnest face as he tried to sound serious, business like. All the while, I ran my fingers over his body. Finally, people said their goodbyes and he hung up.

Now it was my turn. I gently untied his hands and let him push me back, parting my legs and burying his head between them. I was wet. The previous hour had been an exercise in patience, endurance, wetness. He flicked his tongue artfully across my clit, using his fingers to tease me into submission. It did not take long for the orgasm I had been craving for weeks and weeks to grip my being. Conscious of his flatmate in the room below, I kept my gasps and sobs low, burying my head in the pillow to dampen the sounds. He was incredibly hard again and entered me before the final waves of orgasm had subsided. We fucked and fucked. His body was so hot, his face focused. We came together a second time and then collapsed, catching our breath.

A door slammed shut below. His flatmate had left the apartment. We were able to chat, listen to music and I sketched him again sitting naked at his laptop. His face looked so beautifully calm, content, happy. He told me about some possible dates with other women he had lined up. I listened and was somewhat surprised at a little twinge of jealousy when he told me. I told him how I felt and realised that when he does meet someone, our little shared moments together would be gone forever. I don’t think he is someone who can cheat. And so, a sadness hit me and the desire to keep him tied up, locked away. I want to draw him, to capture that essence of him, of us, of those little shared moments. Only I will know what the true meaning of those drawings is.

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The countdown is on…

After, what has been an incredibly dry spell and frustrating month, I will at last be able to find a cure for my cravings. Two days until I travel directly from the airport to the economist’s place, where he will be ‘working from home’. We’ve agreed to meet for ‘lunch’. Frankly, I am not expecting us to be eating any food, as such. I have a few hours to spare before I meet the husband, and so this will be a shot of bliss and then a mad dash across town to drop off my bags before he arrives.

In addition to sex with the husband, I am also hoping for my first tantric massage. Moriarty and I were chatting last night and have agreed to try it together. Separate massages, but at the same time, comparing notes afterwards. Many hours of research online revealed very few genuine tantric massage sites. Most look like knocking shops, but we have found one, with appointments on Monday. I will need to ‘lose’ a few hours on Monday when I can sneak away from the husband, meet Moriarty and try, what should be an incredibly sensual and erotic experience. The excitement of many orgasms to come and the thrill of the new is making me hornier than ever… The economist won’t know what’s hit him.

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Mortality of the older lover

Over the last few weeks, I’ve had a surprising number of emails and texts from older lover. This comes as some surprise, given he was evasive and non-commital to meet when I was in London over the xmas & new year period. In my mind, ever since our last meeting I had begun to let go of him as a lover. Replacing him with the economist as my primary focus and resigning myself to the idea that I may never again feel his tongue on my sex or smell his warm, intoxicating scent. And to some extent, I’ve been successful in ‘letting go’. Surprisingly so.

And then his accident. Out of the blue he wrote to me from hospital where he was being treated for a motorcycle accident. A number of emails followed and I’ve been trying to understand why he suddenly feels the need to write to me. I think he is shaken up, certainly. His stable world of husband, father of three and professional career suddenly at risk as he realises his own sense of mortality. So why write? Is it that he feels he can confess his weaknesses, his doubts, concerns to me? Is he searching for sympathy he cannot get from his daily life? Is it a cry for help or a sense of regret that we have ‘lost’ our closeness, our ability to talk, to confide in one another?

On the one hand, I feel the urge to take him in my arms, cradle his head and kiss his forehead. To be there for him. But on the other hand, I am not sure I want to place myself in a position where I am vulnerable to the disappointment of second place when he gets his life back on track. I know that as a lover, you will always come second to the wife (or husband) and children. And that is my choice. But perhaps in this instance, I will choose not to be second.

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Featuring e[lust] #23 on SerialAdulterer’s Blog

I came across e[lust] a few weeks ago. A nice little newsletter of erotic writings from across the internet. To be included in their newsletter, you need to repost the full list of articles, so here they are, happy reading:

Welcome to e[lust] – Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #24? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Roadmaps of ConsentI fucking love consent. I love safewords. I can be much more cruel, and push much harder, if I trust my partner to tell me when I go too far.

Staying SafeOne cock, from one man, missing one condom, ultimately led to my brother’s death. And that sucks.

Flying the Friendly SkiesOne button on her sweater was undone, there was a rip in her hose, scratches on her boots, and her hair was carelessly pinned back with stray wisps of hair escaping. There was a curious flavor of soiling about her, something a bit dirty and unkempt.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Labels and my thoughts… In the past year and a half I have gone from being someone that was lost, without identity that fit, rattling around inside myself to someone that has names for what they are.

~ e[lust] Editress: Dangerous Lilly

 

See also: Pleasurists #116 and #117 for all your sex toy review needs

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Kink & Fetish

5 Kinky Toys from the Dollar Store

Alive in my Skin

Dacryphilia

Digitalized for Posterity

Eroti…ca

filthy…

He ripped a string of orgasms from me, and then ramped it up

Manual Dexterity

Nadia’s Surprise

Orgasms, Spoons Rests, and Fishnets! (The Play Party)

Punishment, humiliation and bondage

Schoolgirl in Saturday Detention

Steeling The Show

Water torture

Erotic Writing

A Little Night Music

Afternoon darkness

Crisp White Linens

dancing with (& then kinkily fucking) the dj

In the Mirror

Lope

Morning Sex

My First Anal Sex

September 1935

Shutter

Schoolgirl Part 1

Teenage Bukkake

Transition

You’re Gonna Keep My Soul

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A Doggie Kind of Love

Ashamed?! Are You Kidding Me?

Giggles, Groans and Panting

I Can Imagine How You Feel

Sex As Love

6 Moves Men Need to Be Sex Gods in the Bedroom

Terminology Fundamentalism

The COME HITHER QUIVER -or- How To Squirt

This Love

What I Want

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Kink Network Announces the Opening of Their Adult Blog Host Kinky-Blogging.com

Porn, degradation, and Khan Tusion

Women With Two Vaginas

Kink, virginity and big-tittied whores

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Nocturnal pursuits

The last 48 hours have been all enveloping, consuming, exhausting and a delightfully titillating time. It feels like one long night, the sort that wraps you in its seductive darkness and spins you round and round until you feel dizzy and disoriented.

It was the first weekend I’ve seen the husband in nearly two months. It was also the weekend of a long planned gathering of friends, including Moriarty and the economist. And so it was the first time I’d seen Moriarty since the day I sent him a link to this blog and outed myself to him. Such a strange scenario, to be sitting with the husband, one lover (the economist) and a man who knows about not only the economist, but also all of my other lovers. Perhaps, the only person at the table who knows the real ‘me’. There was little opportunity for physical touch or intimate conversations with the economist over the weekend. The odd gaze, or touching of knee under the table or hidden stroke in a shared nighttime taxi ride through the city. Never a moment alone. It was strange to see him talk with the husband, to watch them as their body language mirrored one another, trying not to let my gaze rest too long on his face.

And laced throughout these nights of drinking, talking, dancing, looking-without-touching, I kept catching his eye. Moriarty has a way of looking and communicating so much with just a glance. A fraction of a second when our eyes would meet and we both knew what the other was thinking. We share the same hunger, thirst, desires. We managed a few snatched conversations when the others were elsewhere or the din of the bar was loud enough to mask our conversation. There is so much I want to talk to him about.  So many things I’d like to share with him. And then last night, sitting opposite him, between the economist and the husband, our legs touched under the table and we held one another’s gaze. He pressed his leg against mine, with a pressure that sent a bolt through my body and triggered a tingling in my sex. My breathing shallowed and I felt naked under his gaze. The rest of the bar, the people around us seemed to dim as I looked into his eyes. My god, I could have sunk to my knees, melted under his gaze. You see, he caught me off guard. Given his views on the economist, and sitting right opposite him, I did not anticipate his touch under the table. But what a touch. I took a photo of him as our legs touched. His eyes say it all. That gaze will haunt me in my dreams.

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Finders, keepers

Its Sunday morning and after a very busy week I am enjoying a morning of coffee and blog-catch up in bed. Who would have thought that signing up to all these extra curricular classes with the Russian would mean so little time and energy for other things. The Russian seduction project is still work in progress, though he now utters ‘Hello xxx’ and my name every day. Ok, so this is a long way off getting intimate with him, but its a start.

I’ve just read a cry for help by Bad Girl Bloggers on where and how to find her G-spot. And so I wanted to share my valuable lesson in finding it and keeping it.

It wasn’t until I was in my early 30s that I actually came across my G-spot. Or more specifically, that he found it. We had been out for dinner after work. I knew he was trying to seduce me and played along, though in my mind I also knew there was no way I was going to bed with him. The restaurant was just around the corner from our office and so after dinner, lecherous boss and I returned to the office to collect our laptops. We were both slightly drunk after sharing pre-dinner cocktails and a bottle of wine. Waving briefly at the security guard, we took the lift up to the 9th floor. The open plan office was dark, only the lights of the city outside cast an eerie yellowish tint to our surroundings. The air was still, stifling as the air conditioning was switched off at night. We walked to our desks to pick up our bags. As I bent down to unlock my drawer, he pushed me against my desk. I turned around and he stood in front of me, his hands positioned either side of my hips against the desk, locking me in his embrace. I held his gaze, trying to frantically communicate without speaking that I did not want him. Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he moved his hand down my leg, pulling up my black pencil skirt. His fingers felt their way up my thigh and I could see a flash of surprise and then lust as he found the top of my stocking.

I didn’t move, I could feel his breath on my face. I felt his fingers fumble past my knickers and press against my cunt. He separated my labial lips and pushed his finger inside. I let out an unintentional sigh at this sensation. I didn’t want to encourage him, but at that moment my eyes closed and that thing in my brain suddenly flipped. He could have been anyone, I let the red darkness take me and focused my entire being on the sensation of his finger in my pussy. It was all about that moment. I was alive. There was no yesterday and no tomorrow.

He moved closer and I could feel the weight of his body pushing me against the desk, his hand pressed over mine, the edge of the table digging into my palm. And all the while his middle finger continued to move deeper inside me as I kept my eyes closed. I could feel a distant, but then an ever growing tingle as he moved his finger, beckoning me to him. It was quite unlike clitoral stimulation, which feels like ripples on the surface. This was different. There was an undercurrent tugging me deeper into the fleshy sea. A moment of panic as the sensations built into a frenzy and my mind let go, letting myself be pulled under and drowned by the waves. I came involuntarily, with sharp intakes of breath, my knees suddenly giving way and I slid down, my back scraping the edge of the desk. I didn’t know what had happened. He knelt down in front of me and asked me if I was alright. I opened my eyes again and saw his concerned expression.

‘I think you may have just found my G-spot.’ He laughed and said he had no idea how or what he had done to locate that elusive place.

I never let him finger me again after that. He has tried many times since, but he sets off distant alarm bells. I can’t quite put my finger on it (excuse the pun), however, I know he would be dangerous to get involved with.

A few weeks later, I was alone at home and frustration levels were running high (a little like this morning). I sat on the edge of my bed and inserted my right middle finger inside my pussy. I wanted to find out what he had done to cause such an intense orgasm. And so I pushed deep inside at the same angle his hand would have been and began to explore. I felt a slightly rougher, spongier spot inside and began to ‘beckon’ with my finger. Without touching any other part of my pussy, I managed to make myself orgasm. It took a little while, but with a persistent and regular motion of my finger, the same deep waves shook me.

And so I am grateful to lecherous boss for that. He found my G-spot and I’ve kept it. I haven’t even told my husband where it is. It is like a little part of me that I keep hidden from everyone. I may just go in search of it right now…

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Anais Nin

One of my favourite authors.

Today, I was in desperate need of a book to read. I popped into a bookshop at lunchtime and found a copy of ‘A spy in the house of love’. I first read it a few years ago. Even then, I connected with Sabina instantly. I read this passage today and wanted to share it:

” Alan [Sabina’s husband] says my eyes are beautiful, but I cannot see them, to me they are lying eyes, my mouth lies, only a few hours ago it was kissed by another … He is kissing the mouth kissed by another … shame … shame … shame … the lies, the lies … The clothes he is hanging up for me with such care were caressed and crushed by another, the other was so impatient he crushed and tore at my dress. I had no time to undress. It is this dress he is hanging up lovingly … can I forget yesterday, forget the vertigo, this wildness, can I come home and stay home? Sometimes I cannot bear the quick changes of scene, the quick transitions, I cannot make the changes smoothly, from one relationship to another. Some parts of me tear off like a fragment, fly here and there. I lose vital parts of myself, some part of me stays in that hotel room, a part of me is walking away from this place of haven, a part of me is following another as he walks down the street alone, or perhaps not alone: someone may take my place at his side while I am here, that will be my punishment, and someone will take my place here when I leave. I feel guilty for leaving each one alone, I feel responsible for their being alone, and I feel guilty twice over, towards both men. Wherever I am, I am in many pieces, not daring to bring them all together, any more than I would dare to bring the two men together. Now I am here where I will not be hurt, for a few days at least I will not be hurt in any way, by any word or gesture … but I am not all of me here, only half of me is being sheltered.”

If you haven’t read it, read it.

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