Category Archives: flings

Fear of flying

If you haven’t read it you should. At least, that is what my vague recollections tell me. I read it many years ago – Erica Jong’s ‘Fear of flying’. At the time, I’d just left my heated affair with my original lover to live abroad and pursue my dreams. That was a heady time. Heat, lust, touch, sensations. The book seemed so relevant then. It is funny how certain books strike a chord at particular times in your life. I remember reading ‘Nausea’ by Jean-Paul Sartre when I was 17. It felt as if that book had been written for me.

Where is the book I need to read now? I feel so distant from everything. I want to feel. I want to feel alive. I feel removed, behind a wall of muslin, unable to really see or feel anything. In that frame of mind, I ‘confessed’ some of my most inner thoughts to the pilot today. It felt good.

I told him how I have only had sex once with the husband in the last 6+ months. I told him how I feel so much better when we are living separately, in different countries. I told him that I have been trying to find a way to ‘separate’ without really ‘separating’. I crave independence. I long to remember who I am. I long to not be married.

It was a conversation shared with someone I have merely flirted with. In an underground car park (of all places!). Yet it meant a lot. For once, I felt a connection. I wanted to tell him so many things. I longed for a quiet corner table in a cafe (in Paris or Berlin). A bottle of wine, anonymity as we talked. For hours. That open, honest conversation one has so very rarely.

If I had been sitting in that corner of that cafe, I would have told him about the drunken sex had with the co-pilot last week. The anal sex with him on the wooden floorboards of my living room. Of digging my nails into his back until he bled. Sex that was searching, but not fulfilling.

For a few moments, I opened up. He could see that. We had a discourse, a direct and honest conversation. I trusted him implicitly. I’ve emailed him tonight, asking him to dinner. Time to overcome my fear of flying with the pilot.

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Flying with the co-pilot

Insomnia. It is a good state to be in when you want to write. Dark outside, husband asleep, brain racing.

Last week was that start of an adventure. It has been six months of build up – looks at work, touching under the table in bars and conversations full of innuendo and promise. The co-pilot is someone I’ve had my eye on for some time.

He is the pilot’s best friend and partner in crime. The pilot has instigated a role change for me at work, so that I now work directly with the co-pilot. I can tell he fully expects something to happen between us. It has brought about a delicious dynamic between the three of us – meetings, lunches, drinks – we all know what will eventually happen. You see they are both like me. They are serial adulterers.

Last week the co-pilot and I travelled on business together. We stayed in the same hotel, taking the local teams out for dinner and drinks – a double act of charm and hard work. There is an unsaid understanding between us. We work well together. We play even better together. As the evening drew to a close and we regaled the remaining stragglers with stories of the London office, we fondled one another’s legs under the table. That familiar heady heat began to course through my veins. It was time to leave. A short taxi ride later, we stepped out of the lift and walked calmly to his room.

I had decided not to give myself to him yet. I wanted to retain control over him, so I undressed him, not allowing him to remove my clothing. Blindfolding him and tying his wrists together with his leather belt, I pushed him to the bed. It has been such a long time since I had touched a man. I reveled in his pale, naked skin, his beautiful body and fully erect cock. He has a cock to admire – both aesthetically and proportionally. My objective: to give him the best blow job he could have hoped for. And to leave him wanting more.

Taking him in my mouth, I slid his shaft in until his tip touched the back of my throat, clasped his girth with my lips and pressed my tongue against the underside of his cock. I began to massage that throbbing vein with my tongue as I masturbated him with my mouth and hands.

The first time you bring someone to orgasm is like a sketch for a painting. You are looking, watching, reading, interpreting. It is the first stage of a process. Every sigh, exhale, shudder and gesture hints at how you need to capture the person. The co-pilot promises to be an interesting subject for a longer term project. The first studies are done, I begin to plan my masterpiece.

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Caffeinated dating

He owns a cafe in trendy East London. We met at a gallery a few weeks ago. Last night we met again. I will call him the barista, though I have yet to try his coffee.

I can tell he is a player. He has that twinkle in his eyes, a disarmingly charming smile and he moves quickly. He approached me first of all, handing me his card, promising to make me any coffee I wanted ‘on the house’. He flattered me, followed me from gallery to gallery, pub to pub for the rest of the evening. We talked, openly, honestly. He told me about his girlfriend who had just found out she was pregnant. He seemed excited about it, unable to keep it a ‘secret’. I told him about my husband, about my life. He suggested we all meet up for dinner sometime. We exchanged numbers and this week arranged to meet up. But just the two of us.

Wanting to have an ‘activity’ to do together, I booked last minute tickets to a comedy show. We met in the rain outside the theatre, kissing cheeks (as friends would). I was struck by his scent – the same scent as my older lover. It triggered a deep and distant desire. We chatted over a few beers before the show started, our conversation very rapidly turned to sex. He told me about some of his sexual experiences, revealing rapidly what I had suspected – that he has a high sex drive and follows his desires. We took our seats in the theatre, but left half way through, the show not living up to expectations. We jumped in a taxi to avoid the rain and sped towards Soho.

Drinking G&Ts at various pubs and bars, we talked, looked, smiled, I blushed. There was a tension in the air, one that felt heavy and in need of release. After all the usual places had closed, we found our way to a great little underground bar. He had this uncanny way of talking to the bar staff and waitresses that made them feel at ease, giving us incredible service all night. In that underground bar, we sat close to one another, our legs touching, our hands lingering on the other’s arm, our eyes locked in a silent conversation. I felt alive. He touched my knees, letting his fingers linger between my legs, hinting at what he ‘could’ do. He is an incredibly sexual person, a predator. I recognise those traits. We were the last to leave the bar when it closed and walked arm in arm to find taxis. He stopped and took me in his arms, kissing my neck and collar bone. I could feel his erection as he pressed against me. We did not kiss, merely let our cheeks brush and inhaled one another’s scent. It was intoxicating. It reminded me of an animal sizing up the prey it has caught.

Today he has texted me a number of times. I find my mind wondering what it would be like to have sex with someone so experienced, such a predator. I suppose only time will tell. I sense a little danger, but then I love that tingle that comes with it.

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Dipping my toes

Perhaps it was the good wine, the good company or the sheer desire to live life again. Whatever it was, I have had my first lesbian sex experience. Not a full immersion, a mere dipping of my toes. A late night, alcohol infused kiss, leading to a bedroom and clothes strewn on the floor.

There are those drunken evenings when the repercussions of the previous night’s actions don’t fully sink in until a day or two later. Even now I am not quite sure how it happened. The evening had been entertaining, fun and perfectly normal. Perhaps we had opened one bottle of wine too many, fuelled by witty conversation and laughter.  A look, a brushing of hands and suddenly we were kissing passionately. The strangely smooth sensations of kissing a woman, the lack of stubble, conscious of her breasts against mine. I had to close my eyes in order to focus on the task at hand.

We moved to the bedroom, giggling like school girls. Neither of us quite knowing what was going to come next. I removed her top, she undid her bra. Her breasts seemed so soft, so white. I cupped them in my hands and leant to kiss them. They felt so normal, just like mine. Taking her nipples in my mouth I was struck by how natural it felt. Was I remembering what it was like as a baby, the sensation of my mother’s breasts?

She removed my top and slipped my bra down to expose my nipples. I couldn’t help comparing and decided she had the better pair. Lying on the bed, I removed her trousers, her knickers and asked if I could lick her. I have always been curious about what it must be like to lick a cunt. Parting her lips I began to lick timidly, then tried to remember what it felt like when others did it to me, I pressed firmly with my tongue and moved it over her clit. She sighed deeply and I tried to find a rhythm. It was a strange taste, texture, movement; my mouth and tongue were not used to the flatter, side to side motions. Blow jobs are much easier!

We didn’t last long, giggles and general drunken exhaustion set in before any further orgasms or fumblings could. Now the whole experience feels more like a film I watched late one night, than an actual experience. It has awakened my curiosity, but perhaps next time I should find a woman who knows the ropes better than I. The blind leading the blind, or rather the drunk leading the drunk, is not a recipe for success.

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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.

 

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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….

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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.

 

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