Category Archives: lovers

Highs and lows

This week has been marked by a series of highs and lows.

One evening spent in the company of Moriarty and my closest female friend, both of whom know about this blog and yet still talk to me. We sat in a room with a view over the city of London, watching the sky turn from pink to violet with golden whisps of cloud and finally black. The conversation was open, sexual, sensual and honest. A rare meeting of minds. Not that we all share the same opinion, but somehow at that moment in that space we were all free to talk. There were moments when I felt suspended, in a glass bubble. Given the topics of conversation I left that space feeling incredibly elated, horny and generally alive.

Picture the same setting the next evening. I invited the economist to join me. He brought the drinks and we sat next to one another looking over the skyline before us. We had briefly kissed on the lips when he first arrived, more out of habit and I tried to withdraw, wean myself off him. It was awkward at first. I think we both knew what the outcome of the evening would be. He apologised for ignoring me completely at the party. I told him it would be easier if we agreed to just be friends. He admitted he wasn’t able to cope with both of us at the same time. It was amicable, sweet.  But I couldn’t bring myself to look into his eyes, and so adjusted my chair and stared out over the cityscape before me. We listened to music and chatted on and off. There were moments of silence, of sadness. I felt a big space inside. It got late and so we left. As we said goodbye outside, we hugged briefly and he asked when I could introduce him to a friend of mine, a possible business contact for him. That threw me. My instant reaction was one of feeling used, but then he continued that it was just another way of asking when he was going to see me.

That cycle home was cold, damp and difficult. I felt as if I had no energy, my legs, head, heart felt like lead. I knew the husband would be at home and so tried to force myself to smile as I reached the house. He was still working and so I said a brief hello and went straight upstairs to bed. I collapsed and fell asleep, the weight of my decision pressing me into the sheets.

Checking my email before drifting off, I saw a message from older lover suggesting a drink next week. Perhaps this lowest of lows will be followed by another high. But for now, I stand below ground.

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Grown up affairs

I have had plenty of time to think about my affair with the economist over the last week. Chatting to him online last week, we agreed to meet for dinner on Thursday.  It will be the first time since we parted company after his birthday visit. Such a magical few days, but also a good six weeks ago. In the meantime, he has continued to ‘see’ a girl in London. Sweetly, he has always told me of developments with other women. And, as I have previously written, I do not think he is someone who is able to ‘cheat’. Therefore, if things get more serious with the girl he is seeing now, I expect he will not be able to cope with the deceit of having an affair with me at the same time.

This leads to a strange dynamic: on the one hand, I feel jealous of this other woman, yet do not want to put him in a difficult moral dilemma. And so, I think on Thursday evening I will do the honourable, grown-up duty of stepping aside. This past week, I have learned to contain my feelings for him, compartmentalising him, closing the lid on his box and placing him on a shelf in my mind. I would rather remain good friends, be able to look at him and his potential new girlfriend without feeling that lurch, that twist inside. It is a slightly painful process, but perhaps one I can distract myself from by finding a new lover or rekindling relations with my older lover. Here’s to a summer of lovers in London.

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A very special birthday party

As I wash the sheets we slept in together, discard the tickets and receipts, delete all traces of the photos I took of him, I feel a calmness, a tranquility wash over me. It was a magical few days.

The economist arrived around midnight in a taxi, having barely made his plane. Cancelled trains and delays in getting to the airport had threatened to ruin his secret birthday treat. I saw his taxi from the window and my heart skipped a beat as I recognised him stepping out. He rang the doorbell and I buzzed him up, watching him climb the stairs to my flat and felt a rush of joy. The last time I had seen him was after our shared lunch some weeks ago. The whole concept of him taking time off work to travel to see me, of spending his birthday with me here, had seemed so surreal for so long. We kissed passionately as the late dinner I was preparing for him bubbled on the stove. He looked tired, yet happy. I love those long, lingering kisses – the type you experimented with at school, when kissing was as far as you would go. It is incredible how erotic something so simple, so innocent can be.

We shared some wine and ate our midnight snack. He told me about his week, his travels, his work. We kissed, touched, embraced and moved to the bed with our wine glasses. I took my time unbuttoning his shirt and his jeans, enjoying the feeling of his warm skin and firm torso. I am mildly obsessed with his body. I could spend hours looking at him, tracing my finger along every bone, muscle, crevasse. He has a beautiful, uncomplicated body. I feel so terribly clumsy when I lie next to him. He pushed my legs apart and began to stroke my pussy with his fingers and tongue. Delicately, timidly at first, but feeling my body responding to his touch, he increased the pressure and speed, pushing his fingers deep inside me. Some men’s fingers are just the right length to touch my g-spot without even trying. The economist has the right fingers. As soon as he slipped them inside, I could feel the deep buzz, the flip, the leap of my cunt as he touched me inside and out. I let my mind go, tossed aside all the thoughts that keep me on the brink and felt the tide of orgasm wash over me. It was a much-needed, much-desired, much-craved orgasm. We fucked until 3am when we finally succumbed to sleep. I lay there, conscious of his body next to mine. I listened to his fast deep breathing, could feel his heartbeat through the mattress. He is a furious sleeper, he sleeps with such concentration, such dedication.

We woke early the next day – a day of work for both of us. He put his arm around me and I could feel his erect cock against my ass. I reached back and began to masturbate him. He pushed me face down onto the bed and entered me from behind. I loved the rawness of it, the feeling of being fucked whilst still half asleep. We shared breakfast in a cafe before I went to work. All day, my mind was distracted by thoughts of our night together. He had also told me over dinner that he has been seeing someone. I knew about her, I know who she is. It made me feel slightly sick to hear of their dates together. I was surprised at my reaction. Of course I have always known he will date other women, in fact I have encouraged him to do so. But it was difficult to accept nevertheless.

We met at the flat in the evening. It felt strangely normal to open the door and find him there, working at his laptop. He was exhausted from his run and so dinner was a simple, local affair. As midnight struck and it was officially his birthday, I bought him a special birthday drink in a little bar on the way home. We were slightly drunk and weaved our way home and to bed.

I had been thinking about how to make his 40th birthday a very special and memorable one. When the alarm went off, I got up and made coffee, placing a little chocolate truffle with a birthday candle on the tray with the cups and grabbing his present from the cupboard where I had been hiding it. He had a business call to make first thing and so I left him in bed to make the call. Freshly showered and feeling incredibly horny, I took a leather belt and silk scarf from my wardrobe. He had finished the call and was still lying naked under the covers. I sat astride him, taking his hands and tying them above his head with the belt. Then I gently tied the silk scarf over his eyes. I wanted to give him a birthday blow job he wouldn’t forget. Using a feather I touched his body delicately, brushing it over his stomach, hips and thighs, licking and nibbling at his nipples. I let my mouth wander down his body and teased his erect cock, letting him feel my lips clasp him again and again, but not allowing him to climax. He was so quiet, so relaxed and happy to be tied up, blindfolded, teased. I watched his timid smile as I took his balls in my mouth. He was so beautiful to look at. He was craving release and I took him in my mouth once again, sliding it in and out with a constant rhythm and pressure that made him even harder and finally allowed him the climax he had been searching for. I swallowed the hot jets. We lay naked, side by side and I cut him free of his ties.

We spent the day walking around the city, sharing breakfast, looking at some beautiful paintings, lying in the grass allowing the sun to warm our winter-pale skins. We found a quiet little restaurant for a late lunch, sitting outside, sipping cool white wine and enjoying that first day of spring when your body begins to awaken from the long winter months. I took him for ice cream, walking along the river and ending up in a rooftop bar where we watched the sun set over the city, sipping our cocktails. Light-headed and slightly drunk, we headed towards the restaurant I had booked for dinner, stopping to ride a merry-go-round on the way. I wanted him to let go, to feel free and happy. All day, I had taken photos of him and looking at them now, I love his laughter lines and the yellow hue of the merry-go-round. He looks so happy. Dinner was an intimate affair, followed by a club and some live jazz. It had been such a perfect day. As we walked home, he received a text message from his ex wishing him a happy birthday. He took it badly and I wish I could have erased that moment, to not let it cast a shadow over our time together.

We fell into bed, sleeping late the next day. We spent almost the entire day lying naked in bed, chatting, listening to music, behaving like adolescent students. It was decadent. We dressed an hour before his taxi arrived and shared a late lunch in a local cafe. I can’t quite describe my feelings. Tender is perhaps the best word. I wanted to keep him, to look after him, to protect him. It was a quiet hour, both of us aware that our secret sanctuary of the last few days was coming to an end. We kissed tenderly again, in the same spot where we had stood only three nights previously. So much left unsaid. He is back in London now, attending a birthday party Moriarty has organised for him tonight. I know that she will be there to toast him and I wrestle with how that makes me feel.

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The joys of silence

At last, a Saturday morning to myself. No visitors, no husband, just me (and my laptop). A moment to enjoy a freshly brewed cup of coffee in bed, reflect on events of recent days and allow myself the tingle of anticipation for the coming week.

I have been making slow, but deliciously tantalising progress with the Russian. We have shared a cup of tea in a tiny cafe, enjoyed lunch between classes and we will be seeing one another this evening at a class outing to the theatre. These small, seemingly meaningless events have always been in the company of others who can interpret for us. It is the strangest thing to have a conversation with him. We talk animatedly with one another, maintaining eye contact, whilst the interpreter translates. The topics of conversation are, naturally, neutral, safe topics. Yet, our eyes are locked in a silent conversation. Frequently, I feel myself blush and have to look away. He has such an intense gaze. He does not look away. I am trying to read him. When he stands next to me in class, demonstrating this or that, I inhale his scent, examine his neck, the stubble on his jaw, his eyes as he focuses on the task at hand. And then there are his hands. Long, slender, elegant fingers. My mind is distracted by thoughts of what it would be like to feel his fingers inside me, to kiss his neck, touch his torso. I feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. Then yesterday, after lunch, we walked back together. The others were lagging behind and so it was just us. We attempted a conversation, cobbling together words from different languages into sentences that probably made no sense. But it didn’t matter. The Russian and I were alone. We walked in the sunshine, smiling at one another and ‘talking’. I longed to touch him, to let him know how much I desire to be alone with him, to ‘tell’ him things without words. But the moment was all too brief. The others caught up and we were no longer alone. I hoped my eyes told him all these things. Tonight we will see one another again, in a crowd of others. But sometimes, when there are many people, it is easier to share moments of intimacy…

So many delicate delights to look forward to – an evening with the Russian tonight and in a few days’ time, the economist will arrive for a brief visit. It is his birthday. Many months ago, I suggested jokingly that he come to spend it with me. And he is. I am thrilled at the prospect of having two nights and days together – a foreign city, no husband, no flatmate. I want to make his birthday one worth remembering… I’m thinking a sensory/sensual day of indulgences 🙂

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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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