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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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Gratuitous sex post

It was dark, the house was quiet. 4am and the bedroom a welcome end to a great night out. He slowly unzipped the back of my black dress, dropping it to the floor, my long pearl necklace falling across my breasts and dangling dangerously close to my sex. I unzipped his flies and his trousers joined my dress. The heat of his body was tangible in the cool night air. I sank softly to the bed, letting his hands push me back until my legs were open, ready to receive him.

He started by licking and flicking his tongue around my cunt, teasing, ever so slowly. The dark red sea engulfing me as I felt a sense of abandon.
As he lapped at my clitoris, he slid a finger into me, then two and yet another. I could feel my muscles tightening around him trying to hold on.

I reached down to find his cock and began to move my hand to the rythym of his tongue. He was excited, rock hard. Moving his head away and kneeling closer to the edge of the bed, he thrust it inside me, keeping his thumb massaging my clit. We moved together enjoying the wetness, heat, sensations.

Without warning he withdrew his cock and angled it further down, finding my anus. I could feel the tip of his cock pushing against me, seeking a new and forbidden path. The thrill of being fucked there was too irresistible and so I let him push, feeling the incredible tightness of him inside me. I felt like I was losing control and it felt amazing. He moved gently, timidly, finding the new rhythym. Once he was all the way inside he slipped two fingers into my cunt, filling me entirely. I could feel the rub of his cock against his fingers and saw he was close to coming. I slid one of my own fingers inside myself. I was wet. Incredibly wet. Our fingers slipped in and out together, heightening the tension and tightness for him. To feel so ‘full’ and have his hands bring me to climax is a feeling difficult to describe. We both came hard.And as he withdrew his cock from my ass I came again.

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