Tag Archives: flings

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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The road to recovery

I suppose I’ve come off the rails a bit recently, neglecting this blog, my adventures in adultery, losing my lust for life and libido in the process. Don’t get me wrong, there have been flirtations, fleeting embraces and some incredible head (courtesy of a surprise visit by my older lover). But somewhere in my brain that switch hasn’t flipped for some time. I long to lose myself in sheer physical, sensual arousal.

I had a good half hour of thinking time, driving across London this morning. I drove past the pub where I met Moriarty before going to the swinging club all those months ago. It crossed my mind to go there one evening, to be touched, sucked, fucked out of this numbness. I spent an evening with Moriarty this week. He cooked, we talked, drank wine, touched. It felt like a thaw, a long inhalation of breath. Something began to shift, lift.

The next night I saw the economist, ironically he has broken up with his girlfriend. We had dinner, though he remained on a work conference call throughout. We went to a gig, hands touching briefly, the alcohol loosening our inhibitions. We spent time at a bar afterwards. I told him how much he meant to me. We kissed. But it is clear to me that he is not someone who can cheat. And I cannot bear to witness him find another girlfriend again, standing on the sidelines as a substitute.

And so, I am reaching the conclusion that the road to recovery lies ahead. A new lover. A new lust for life, for living, for fucking, for feeling. I am hopeful.

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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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Dipping my toes

Perhaps it was the good wine, the good company or the sheer desire to live life again. Whatever it was, I have had my first lesbian sex experience. Not a full immersion, a mere dipping of my toes. A late night, alcohol infused kiss, leading to a bedroom and clothes strewn on the floor.

There are those drunken evenings when the repercussions of the previous night’s actions don’t fully sink in until a day or two later. Even now I am not quite sure how it happened. The evening had been entertaining, fun and perfectly normal. Perhaps we had opened one bottle of wine too many, fuelled by witty conversation and laughter.  A look, a brushing of hands and suddenly we were kissing passionately. The strangely smooth sensations of kissing a woman, the lack of stubble, conscious of her breasts against mine. I had to close my eyes in order to focus on the task at hand.

We moved to the bedroom, giggling like school girls. Neither of us quite knowing what was going to come next. I removed her top, she undid her bra. Her breasts seemed so soft, so white. I cupped them in my hands and leant to kiss them. They felt so normal, just like mine. Taking her nipples in my mouth I was struck by how natural it felt. Was I remembering what it was like as a baby, the sensation of my mother’s breasts?

She removed my top and slipped my bra down to expose my nipples. I couldn’t help comparing and decided she had the better pair. Lying on the bed, I removed her trousers, her knickers and asked if I could lick her. I have always been curious about what it must be like to lick a cunt. Parting her lips I began to lick timidly, then tried to remember what it felt like when others did it to me, I pressed firmly with my tongue and moved it over her clit. She sighed deeply and I tried to find a rhythm. It was a strange taste, texture, movement; my mouth and tongue were not used to the flatter, side to side motions. Blow jobs are much easier!

We didn’t last long, giggles and general drunken exhaustion set in before any further orgasms or fumblings could. Now the whole experience feels more like a film I watched late one night, than an actual experience. It has awakened my curiosity, but perhaps next time I should find a woman who knows the ropes better than I. The blind leading the blind, or rather the drunk leading the drunk, is not a recipe for success.

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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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Living dangerously

It has been an intensively dangerous few days in my life as a serial adulterer. I have met my male equivalent, we shall call him Moriarty. He has confessed his sexual addictions to me and I, in return have told him a few of mine. Our mutual confessions turned into lustful cyber chats last week, and then, a few days ago we saw each other again in person, the mutual physical attraction bubbling under the surface. Glances across and touches under the table of a busy pub. A sense of understanding one another, of trust, of recognition.

The problem is, he is a good friend of the economist. I have not told him about the economist, but I think he suspects something is going on. He admitted in an IM that if I were chatting with the economist in the same way, it would be ‘too weird’ for him. This, despite his extremely active and open sex life. And so I didn’t tell him about the economist. I can be discreet when I want to be. But now, I am in this strange place, where I would dearly love to experiment with Moriarty, to play with him when both of us know that we play with others. An ‘open’ affair in that sense, a freedom to be ourselves and not ‘pretend’. I think the sex would be amazing.

Equally though, I’ve just spent the last three nights in the same bed as the economist, getting to know him better, feeling close to him, fucking him hard. My legs and cunt ache from our nightly and morning pursuits. He wouldn’t understand the lifestyles Moriarty and I have chosen to lead. He can only ever see one side of me. I like him. A lot. And yet, my one avenue of honesty is already blocked. I can’t tell Moriarty about him, even though he occupies so many of my thoughts. I feel like I can almost touch salvation, like Moriarty would be the one who could accept me for who I really am and fuck me all the same. Yet, when I was out with both of them a few nights ago, Moriarty disappeared and since then he has talked to me differently. Not as openly, as lustfully as before. I worry I have upset him in some way. Perhaps he has spotted a glance, or light touch of the knee between the economist and I. Perhaps he feels I have chosen someone else over him. If only he could understand that I can do both. I want to do both. And so kissing the economist goodbye this morning, the bed still warm from where we slept together, I left the house to meet Moriarty for breakfast. He couldn’t keep eye contact, his flirtatious undercurrents gone. My sense of disappointment at losing our open frankness is overwhelming. And so I write, in the hope that this will rid me of the turmoil I feel inside.

As I write, I receive a text from him saying he cannot be involved with a friend. His sexual preferences are for ‘discreet and simple’ relationships. So, who the fuck knows? I’ve got myself tangled in this web and the only way out is to escape and flee the country. Which I am doing. New adventures await elsewhere. New webs to get tangled up in.



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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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