Tag Archives: betrayal

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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OmU

I love sitting in a darkened cinema, just as the lights have dimmed and a hush falls over the audience. That sense of anticipation clings to every rustle of popcorn and suppressed cough. Everyone watches the silvery grey rectangle flicker to life and willingly loses themselves in that blacked out room. I am particularly fond of foreign language films. The exotic sounds of different tongues, the initial concentration required to read the subtitles as they flash before your eyes and vie for your attention against the beautiful cinematography before you.

OmU. Original mit Untertitel. Original language with subtitles. Subtitles. If only every scene had subtitles.

I would love to read the subtitles playing across the screen as Moriarty and I engage in what seems like hours of silent eye contact, of touching, fondling. We have met a number of times over the last few weeks. One evening at my place. We shared wine, conversation, open conversation (because there is a difference). Our legs brushed, then touched under the table. He exerts a certain pressure with his thigh when he touches my leg. It sends a jolt through me. Every time. He reached over the table, never losing eye contact and cupped my breast in his hand. Just that sensation of skin on skin, of someone else’s hand touching my flesh, is one I crave the most. I can go for weeks without feeling another’s skin on mine. It distresses me. I feel myself curling up like an autumnal leaf, drying up and cracking. Such a simple sensation makes me feel the blood in my veins, makes me feel green, alive.

He told me not to wear my hair up when with him, placing his hand at the back of my head and taking hold of my hair, pulling it out of the hairband, but in a controlling way, so that my head was pulled down. It was the first time anyone has done that. Taken control. Physical control. It was an incredibly intensely erotic experience. Not a word was spoken, yet we seemed locked in conversation, our eyes never erring.

Last night was another night of looking, touching, but still playing by a set of rules that I no longer understand. We do not kiss, yet his hands often stray from my thigh to knee and gently part my legs as he traces a delicate line along the inside of my thigh to that soft flesh between stocking and knickers. Never breaking eye contact. In a public place. I feel as if he challenges me to a duel. A silent duel. Yet I am at a disadvantage, because I do not know the rules of the game. And there are no subtitles.

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The unexpected

It was a late night. An evening I would prefer to forget.

A party, jointly organised with the economist, at his club. The same club we spent an afternoon together, touching, kissing, talking and deciding to have an affair all those months ago. He had warned me she was coming. That initial stab of jealousy had become a constant knot in my stomach. I had spent days trying to gloss over that fact, trying to persuade myself I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Yet as I walked into the club last night, finding just the two of them (no other guests had arrived yet), I couldn’t help but feel a wave of panic hit me. I wanted to turn and bolt. Instead, we greeted and hugged. Their cocktails arrived. He had ordered her a ‘Perfect Lady’. I felt sick.

He disappeared for 5 minutes, leaving just her and me. I made inane small talk, trying desperately to think of topics to discuss and taking deep sips of my G&T to numb the senses. Once other guests arrived, I mingled with them, keeping a safe distance. The economist and I barely spoke all evening. At the end of the evening, they left together. I still have the image of them walking arm in arm down the street. And I still feel sick.

The prospect of spending a weekend away with them and Moriarty in a few weeks time fills me with horror. I didn’t expect to feel like this.

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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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One year older, none the wiser

I have just realised my blog turned one this week. It has been an interesting journey writing about my adventures in adultery. In fact, I can’t imagine not having this blog to express my thoughts, feelings and ideas. It has become my companion, my sanctuary and strangely, this is where I feel most comfortable, most like ‘me’.

One year on and these things I know:

– I love my ‘secret’ life. It is a part of me that no one else can influence, a statement of independence, of my own identity. I often wonder whether I would choose to live my life differently and every time I come to the conclusion that I would not. I simply cannot imagine it. This little sliver of my life is what makes me feel alive.

– I know that every adventure will end in a little heartbreak. They will always stay with their wives, be consumed by their responsibilities as fathers, husbands or find new girlfriends and not wish to betray them. And so I write about them, our shared moments, the frustrations, the feelings I cannot express to them. Because of course, I would not want them to leave their wives and families for me. Every new affair has a natural end, every lover a different chapter.

– I love learning a new lover’s touch – the initial infatuation, the tingle of anticipation, the pain of separation and the thrill of new physical sensations. Every lover has a unique touch, every lover draws a different climax, every lover consumes me in a different way.

– I am glad I ‘outed’ myself to Moriarty and grateful to him for being non-judgemental about my little adventures. It has been wonderful to talk openly with someone who knows me, to share thoughts, ideas, experiences with someone who leads his own double life. He has opened my eyes to a world I had no idea about. And he has made me incredibly curious about delving into this world.

– I miss my older lover. I miss his scent, his taste, his incredible touch.

– I wonder whether my marriage will last. The more time I spend as the ‘real’ me, the wider the gap between the ‘married’ me becomes. I wonder whether that gap is one that can be bridged, or one I want to bridge.

– I do not regret anything.

 

This is who I am.

 

 

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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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