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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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My first swinging experience

My brain is electric. I have just cycled the 30 minutes to work on auto-pilot. My mind will not stop. I keep thinking about last night. My first swinging experience. I feel compelled to write, to purge some of the imagery, the sensations, the smells.

Having made my excuses and left the husband on the sofa watching Saturday night tv, I walked to the bus stop. I just missed one bus and then missed a second as I walked to the next stop, at which point I hailed a cab to take me to the inconspicuous pub south of the river where I was to meet Moriarty. The pub was packed, the football was on. The air was thick with the smell of beer and sweat, a sea of red faced football fans leering, chanting, cheering. I ordered a large G&T and stepped outside to wait for Moriarty. He was late. I felt appropriately conspicuous in my red heels, fishnets and belted up raincoat. I had tried to distract myself with work all day long, but all the while I could sense the nervousness at the pit of my stomach. As the first gulps of gin took effect, I began to enjoy my heightened state of anticipation. He arrived in a taxi, looking incredibly dashing with his crisp white shirt and smart jacket. He apologised for choosing such a busy pub, went to order a beer and joined me outside. The cool fresh air helped keep my blushes hidden as he said I looked ‘pretty’. It felt rather odd hearing him say something like that.

We had a few hours before the club opened and so rapidly moved onto a less busy pub where we could sit and talk. As I ordered at the bar, he took a call from the economist asking whether he was free to meet for drinks. The irony of the situation was not lost on either of us. Over the next two drinks he ‘briefed’ me on what to expect. The rules of the club, the code we would use in case we wanted to escape a particular situation and finally the rules of our relationship. The rules are: touching, sucking, fondling is ok. Fucking is not. There will (apparently) be no intercourse between Moriarty and myself. I swung from feeling excited, to nervous, to terrified and finally just wanting to get it over and done with.

We took a taxi to the club. Funnily enough it is located on an industrial estate I shared an office on many years ago. Back then I had no idea what took place in those buildings at night. Now I know. The entrance was lit up with a red light, a large bouncer welcomed us in. We walked up a flight of stairs, arriving at the reception. Showing ID and paying for entrance we then deposited coats and phones in the cloakroom. A friendly middle aged woman greeted us and explained the layout of the club. It was relatively empty when we arrived and so we ordered some drinks and took a stroll around the various rooms: open rooms with beds, smaller, private rooms with glass fronted doors, one large room with a bed the size of four doubles put together and the ‘grope box’ (a cabin-like box with various holes intended for people to touch anonymously). We took our seats in the bar and watched as people arrived. I felt so shy and out of my depth that I locked my gaze on Moriarty. He was relaxed, in control of the situation. More and more people began to arrive, some danced, others sat and talked, there was a general buzz, but no action. Yet.

We walked around the rooms again, spotting the odd couple in embrace or seeing silhouetted figures through see-through curtains. Returning to the dance floor we watched as one woman bent forward to suck the cock of a man, whilst being fucked from behind by another and another woman masturbated her clit, their bodies moving to the music, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered to watch. They eventually moved into one of the ‘open rooms’ assuming positions on the bed. Others flocked the windows to watch. Moriarty took me by the hand and led me into the room. We stood against the wall, only a foot away from the bed and watched as more and more people joined the group. It was the first time I had ever seen people fucking, let alone 8 of them. Limbs interlinked, touched, groped, cocks were in mouths, in cunts and fingers fondled arses. We watched. It didn’t feel real. It felt like watching a screen, and not just the people, but me, standing there in a dark corner watching them. I did not feel real in that moment.

We returned to the bar and Moriarty asked if I was ok. He was so kind, so gentle, so concerned. Something flipped in my head. I ran my fingers up his thighs to his crotch. Now this is not something I am unaccustomed to, in fact, he and I have been indulging in public touching quite a lot recently. What was deliciously new was the feeling of liberation, of the freedom to touch his crotch, feeling his hard-on through his jeans without worrying about being caught. And so I did. I let my hands touch him, massage him a little. He moved his hand to part my legs and felt his way along the fishnet stockings to my fleshy thigh. I could feel that sense of abandon rising. That switch that flips. We walked around the various rooms again, seeing more and more bodies in various states of undress. Standing in a narrow hallway outside one of the smaller rooms we watched as four people fucked. Moriarty touched my leg, hitching my skirt up a little to gain access. As he touched my ass I was suddenly aware of another hand touching my other thigh. I closed my eyes for a second, my heart jumping into my throat and a cold heat gripped my body. We moved to the room with the enormous bed.

The room was packed, there must have been at least 10-12 people on the bed, their clothes and shoes strewn on the floor, another 15 people standing watching. Moriarty led me into the room, taking position in a corner. I stood frozen to the spot watching the mass of limbs, breasts, cocks. The air smelt heavy, thick of sex. I didn’t know you could smell sex. But with that many people in such an enclosed space you could not avoid it. I began to touch Moriarty’s cock, unbuttoning his trousers and taking him in my hands. He hitched up my skirt and touched me. I maintained eye contact with him, letting the music drown out the sounds of the others. Kneeling before him, amidst other’s discarded clothes, I took him my mouth. He has a beautiful cock, incredibly hard and a girth to make a girl melt. We moved to the bed. At every stage Moriarty always asked if I was ok, if I was happy to do it. He climbed onto the bed and helped me join him. Strangely, I did not want to take off my shoes. There was something disturbing about seeing everyone’s shoes scattered on the floor. And so I lay down next to him fully clothed and shoed. He pulled up my skirt and went down on me. I have not been touched for so long. It was an incredible sensation. I was conscious of the people standing just above my head watching the whole scene. Trying to concentrate on the incredible head Moriarty was giving, I closed my eyes, furrowed my brow and tried to block out the sound of others talking. Someone’s hand reached over and slid beneath my shirt, taking hold of my breast. My heart skipped a beat. Moriarty slipped his fingers inside me, fucking me hard. (But of course this is not actual ‘fucking’ according to the rules, so apparently that’s ok.) I was so close to climax but then the cerebral part of my brain kicked in and all I could think about was ‘what if someone steals my handbag whilst I have my eyes closed’. And so I didn’t come.

I assumed a position over Moriarty where I could give him a blow/hand job (and also keep an eye on my bag). As I leant over him, I was suddenly conscious of my skirt still being hitched up around my waist, and the fingers of another slipping inside me as I sucked him. I heard him say to another couple that it was my first time, and to ‘go easy’. I felt like such a clumsy school girl. A blond woman kissed me and said ‘You’re pretty’. Her partner asked Moriarty if he wanted to ‘swap’. He took me to one side and asked me how I felt about that. I couldn’t, the thought of being fucked by the stranger next to me felt wrong. It would be outside my safety net, without Moriarty. And so he declined their offer. I brought him to orgasm and he came over his stomach. I enjoyed watching him cum. And so did many others I think.

We moved back to the bar and ‘de-briefed’. I didn’t even recognise the couple who had propositioned us as they sat on the sofa next to us. That is what I find so strange. I can’t remember the faces of anyone. Usually, I have a very good memory for faces. But last night, everyone seemed to blend into one. Or perhaps there were just too many (orange) tanned platinum blondes. I don’t know. All I know is that after a shared taxi ride with Moriarty at 3am, I entered my marital bedroom, waking the husband briefly before he fell back to sleep. As he slept, I masturbated myself in the bathroom next door. Seeking the relief that had eluded me earlier.

A sensory overload, an indulgence, an education, an incredible experience. I just wish I wasn’t so damn shy.

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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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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 fun of infatuation

And so it has started. My infatuation. I find myself thinking about him all the time. Without realising it, I check my phone for messages from him. I keep going back to the two or three photos I snapped of him the first time we met. My waking and sleeping thoughts are plagued by him – flashes of his torso, his neck, his eyes. I trace each wrinkle of his face before I fall asleep. I crave him, desire him.

The economist has me infatuated, elated, alive again. We have met three times in as many days – twice yesterday! We will see each other every day until I leave the country in four day’s time. Sometimes I feel like I am hurtling myself towards an abyss. When I leave the country I will leave him behind too. A massive void ripped into my daily existence. We will be left only with recent memories of our secret rendezvous – his club, the hotel room, his flat, my place, dark London streets at night. It is all consuming, this infatuation. I long to be with him, every minute of every day. If I could, I would be happy to just sit and watch him work, observing him silently, etching him into my memory so that I may never forget his beautiful face.

Yesterday, I bought him flowers. It was an impulsive gesture. They now sit in a glass jug in his bedroom. They will still be there long after I have left the country. I went to his place yesterday lunchtime. He was working from home, as his business trip had been cancelled at the last minute. He met me at the bus stop and we walked back to his flat, my arm interlinked in his. He took me up the stairs and placed the flowers in water, preferring to keep them in his bedroom where his flatmate would not see them. He has never been given flowers before. We stood in his bedroom, smiling at one another in the middle of the day. Such decadence! It was like being a student again. Making love in the middle of the day, as the rest of the world rushed about their business.

We undressed and lay on his bed, the only sounds were the church bells and the gentle buzz of his Blackberry as his emails trickled in. He went down on me, his head buried between my legs, his tongue licking and flicking at my heat. Making love in broad daylight marks a new stage in any physical relationship – no longer a fumbling in the dark, alcohol induced haze. Broad daylight reveals all. There is no hiding. There is an open frankness about the sex. An honesty that brings a closeness. Using his fingers to stimulate my G-spot whilst pressing his tongue to my clit I came quite suddenly, shudderingly. My legs shook and the soft fleshy part of my inner thigh twitched as the waves of orgasm gripped my body. I reached for his cock and found it rock hard and ready. He entered me, holding his torso above mine so that only our hips touched. His arms and shoulders were tense with the pressure and I could see the veins on his neck and forehead begin to throb as he moved ever deeper inside me. My sex was so sensitive and ready for the sensations of him. It felt like a deep thirst being quenched. We moved together and he teetered on the edge of climax for a long time, saying suddenly that he couldn’t come. But then within seconds of saying it, the barriers were breached and his body was gripped by the orgasm. I watched his face as the tension changed to concentration and then elation. He collapsed on top of me, panting heavily.

After sex, we dressed and went for lunch in a nearby pizzeria, drinking a glass of wine and sharing stories, ideas, dreams. I didn’t want to leave him. I wanted to lie in his bed and watch him work, naked. I felt a physical tug inside as we parted at the station. During the afternoon we arranged to meet again in the evening. Seeing him, fresh after his run and floating through the streets of London together was a perfect end to a perfect day. We ate dinner and chatted until our respective curfews. I miss him, though I know I will see him in a matter of hours. I revel in this infatuation. He is my muse.

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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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