Tag Archives: flirts

The pilot

Let me introduce you to the pilot. He is someone I work with. Charismatic, engaging, intelligent, ambitious. He can also fly a plane and for the purposes of this blog, will henceforth be known as the pilot.

We have spent a couple of evenings together (always within a work context), yet it is already clear that both he and I share a physical attraction. His hands have strayed to touch my back, slipping around my waist as others were not looking and quickly withdrawing before being caught. Sitting side by side at a table, our legs brushed and remained touching as conversation above the table continued with other colleagues. We have exchanged late night texts, confided aspects of our personal lives with one another and I am beginning to realise he and I may well be a similar species: adulterers. There is something about the way he makes eye contact (held just a fraction longer than is socially acceptable); his smile (the slight twitching of the corners of his mouth as he decides whether to toy with me or not); the way he looks at me (I feel undressed, light headed).

The unspoken conversation between us is unravelling into the most delicious, delectable game of flirtation, chastisement and desire. How delightful that he and I have a meeting over coffee tomorrow morning.

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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 joys of silence

At last, a Saturday morning to myself. No visitors, no husband, just me (and my laptop). A moment to enjoy a freshly brewed cup of coffee in bed, reflect on events of recent days and allow myself the tingle of anticipation for the coming week.

I have been making slow, but deliciously tantalising progress with the Russian. We have shared a cup of tea in a tiny cafe, enjoyed lunch between classes and we will be seeing one another this evening at a class outing to the theatre. These small, seemingly meaningless events have always been in the company of others who can interpret for us. It is the strangest thing to have a conversation with him. We talk animatedly with one another, maintaining eye contact, whilst the interpreter translates. The topics of conversation are, naturally, neutral, safe topics. Yet, our eyes are locked in a silent conversation. Frequently, I feel myself blush and have to look away. He has such an intense gaze. He does not look away. I am trying to read him. When he stands next to me in class, demonstrating this or that, I inhale his scent, examine his neck, the stubble on his jaw, his eyes as he focuses on the task at hand. And then there are his hands. Long, slender, elegant fingers. My mind is distracted by thoughts of what it would be like to feel his fingers inside me, to kiss his neck, touch his torso. I feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. Then yesterday, after lunch, we walked back together. The others were lagging behind and so it was just us. We attempted a conversation, cobbling together words from different languages into sentences that probably made no sense. But it didn’t matter. The Russian and I were alone. We walked in the sunshine, smiling at one another and ‘talking’. I longed to touch him, to let him know how much I desire to be alone with him, to ‘tell’ him things without words. But the moment was all too brief. The others caught up and we were no longer alone. I hoped my eyes told him all these things. Tonight we will see one another again, in a crowd of others. But sometimes, when there are many people, it is easier to share moments of intimacy…

So many delicate delights to look forward to – an evening with the Russian tonight and in a few days’ time, the economist will arrive for a brief visit. It is his birthday. Many months ago, I suggested jokingly that he come to spend it with me. And he is. I am thrilled at the prospect of having two nights and days together – a foreign city, no husband, no flatmate. I want to make his birthday one worth remembering… I’m thinking a sensory/sensual day of indulgences 🙂

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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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