Tag Archives: erotic fiction

Finders, keepers

Its Sunday morning and after a very busy week I am enjoying a morning of coffee and blog-catch up in bed. Who would have thought that signing up to all these extra curricular classes with the Russian would mean so little time and energy for other things. The Russian seduction project is still work in progress, though he now utters ‘Hello xxx’ and my name every day. Ok, so this is a long way off getting intimate with him, but its a start.

I’ve just read a cry for help by Bad Girl Bloggers on where and how to find her G-spot. And so I wanted to share my valuable lesson in finding it and keeping it.

It wasn’t until I was in my early 30s that I actually came across my G-spot. Or more specifically, that he found it. We had been out for dinner after work. I knew he was trying to seduce me and played along, though in my mind I also knew there was no way I was going to bed with him. The restaurant was just around the corner from our office and so after dinner, lecherous boss and I returned to the office to collect our laptops. We were both slightly drunk after sharing pre-dinner cocktails and a bottle of wine. Waving briefly at the security guard, we took the lift up to the 9th floor. The open plan office was dark, only the lights of the city outside cast an eerie yellowish tint to our surroundings. The air was still, stifling as the air conditioning was switched off at night. We walked to our desks to pick up our bags. As I bent down to unlock my drawer, he pushed me against my desk. I turned around and he stood in front of me, his hands positioned either side of my hips against the desk, locking me in his embrace. I held his gaze, trying to frantically communicate without speaking that I did not want him. Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he moved his hand down my leg, pulling up my black pencil skirt. His fingers felt their way up my thigh and I could see a flash of surprise and then lust as he found the top of my stocking.

I didn’t move, I could feel his breath on my face. I felt his fingers fumble past my knickers and press against my cunt. He separated my labial lips and pushed his finger inside. I let out an unintentional sigh at this sensation. I didn’t want to encourage him, but at that moment my eyes closed and that thing in my brain suddenly flipped. He could have been anyone, I let the red darkness take me and focused my entire being on the sensation of his finger in my pussy. It was all about that moment. I was alive. There was no yesterday and no tomorrow.

He moved closer and I could feel the weight of his body pushing me against the desk, his hand pressed over mine, the edge of the table digging into my palm. And all the while his middle finger continued to move deeper inside me as I kept my eyes closed. I could feel a distant, but then an ever growing tingle as he moved his finger, beckoning me to him. It was quite unlike clitoral stimulation, which feels like ripples on the surface. This was different. There was an undercurrent tugging me deeper into the fleshy sea. A moment of panic as the sensations built into a frenzy and my mind let go, letting myself be pulled under and drowned by the waves. I came involuntarily, with sharp intakes of breath, my knees suddenly giving way and I slid down, my back scraping the edge of the desk. I didn’t know what had happened. He knelt down in front of me and asked me if I was alright. I opened my eyes again and saw his concerned expression.

‘I think you may have just found my G-spot.’ He laughed and said he had no idea how or what he had done to locate that elusive place.

I never let him finger me again after that. He has tried many times since, but he sets off distant alarm bells. I can’t quite put my finger on it (excuse the pun), however, I know he would be dangerous to get involved with.

A few weeks later, I was alone at home and frustration levels were running high (a little like this morning). I sat on the edge of my bed and inserted my right middle finger inside my pussy. I wanted to find out what he had done to cause such an intense orgasm. And so I pushed deep inside at the same angle his hand would have been and began to explore. I felt a slightly rougher, spongier spot inside and began to ‘beckon’ with my finger. Without touching any other part of my pussy, I managed to make myself orgasm. It took a little while, but with a persistent and regular motion of my finger, the same deep waves shook me.

And so I am grateful to lecherous boss for that. He found my G-spot and I’ve kept it. I haven’t even told my husband where it is. It is like a little part of me that I keep hidden from everyone. I may just go in search of it right now…

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Anais Nin

One of my favourite authors.

Today, I was in desperate need of a book to read. I popped into a bookshop at lunchtime and found a copy of ‘A spy in the house of love’. I first read it a few years ago. Even then, I connected with Sabina instantly. I read this passage today and wanted to share it:

” Alan [Sabina’s husband] says my eyes are beautiful, but I cannot see them, to me they are lying eyes, my mouth lies, only a few hours ago it was kissed by another … He is kissing the mouth kissed by another … shame … shame … shame … the lies, the lies … The clothes he is hanging up for me with such care were caressed and crushed by another, the other was so impatient he crushed and tore at my dress. I had no time to undress. It is this dress he is hanging up lovingly … can I forget yesterday, forget the vertigo, this wildness, can I come home and stay home? Sometimes I cannot bear the quick changes of scene, the quick transitions, I cannot make the changes smoothly, from one relationship to another. Some parts of me tear off like a fragment, fly here and there. I lose vital parts of myself, some part of me stays in that hotel room, a part of me is walking away from this place of haven, a part of me is following another as he walks down the street alone, or perhaps not alone: someone may take my place at his side while I am here, that will be my punishment, and someone will take my place here when I leave. I feel guilty for leaving each one alone, I feel responsible for their being alone, and I feel guilty twice over, towards both men. Wherever I am, I am in many pieces, not daring to bring them all together, any more than I would dare to bring the two men together. Now I am here where I will not be hurt, for a few days at least I will not be hurt in any way, by any word or gesture … but I am not all of me here, only half of me is being sheltered.”

If you haven’t read it, read it.

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Running high

That is, my frustration levels are running high.

My thoughts have been plagued by memories of the nights spent with the economist, the (now) pipe dreams about Moriarty and an evening spent at a lecture with a number of men in the audience I could quite happily have shagged. One in particular excites me. I met him last summer. He is oh-so-young. Probably 21-22. But a James Dean look-a-like and frankly, has a lingering eye contact when he talks that turns me on. The lecture was about to start, the lights dimming and we spotted one another across the room. He inclined his head, raised and tipped his glass, mouthing ‘Salute’. I blushed.

Talking to him briefly after the lecture, I felt the tingling, expectant sensitivity of my sex and cursed his young body, intelligent gaze and flirtatious manner. For now, I am home, alone (he, naturally has returned to his girlfriend). My levels of frustration are bubbling dangerously close to the surface. I have had a few glasses of wine and my breathing is shallow. What I wouldn’t give to be touched right now.


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