Tag Archives: foreplay

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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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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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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Nocturnal pursuits

The last 48 hours have been all enveloping, consuming, exhausting and a delightfully titillating time. It feels like one long night, the sort that wraps you in its seductive darkness and spins you round and round until you feel dizzy and disoriented.

It was the first weekend I’ve seen the husband in nearly two months. It was also the weekend of a long planned gathering of friends, including Moriarty and the economist. And so it was the first time I’d seen Moriarty since the day I sent him a link to this blog and outed myself to him. Such a strange scenario, to be sitting with the husband, one lover (the economist) and a man who knows about not only the economist, but also all of my other lovers. Perhaps, the only person at the table who knows the real ‘me’. There was little opportunity for physical touch or intimate conversations with the economist over the weekend. The odd gaze, or touching of knee under the table or hidden stroke in a shared nighttime taxi ride through the city. Never a moment alone. It was strange to see him talk with the husband, to watch them as their body language mirrored one another, trying not to let my gaze rest too long on his face.

And laced throughout these nights of drinking, talking, dancing, looking-without-touching, I kept catching his eye. Moriarty has a way of looking and communicating so much with just a glance. A fraction of a second when our eyes would meet and we both knew what the other was thinking. We share the same hunger, thirst, desires. We managed a few snatched conversations when the others were elsewhere or the din of the bar was loud enough to mask our conversation. There is so much I want to talk to him about.  So many things I’d like to share with him. And then last night, sitting opposite him, between the economist and the husband, our legs touched under the table and we held one another’s gaze. He pressed his leg against mine, with a pressure that sent a bolt through my body and triggered a tingling in my sex. My breathing shallowed and I felt naked under his gaze. The rest of the bar, the people around us seemed to dim as I looked into his eyes. My god, I could have sunk to my knees, melted under his gaze. You see, he caught me off guard. Given his views on the economist, and sitting right opposite him, I did not anticipate his touch under the table. But what a touch. I took a photo of him as our legs touched. His eyes say it all. That gaze will haunt me in my dreams.

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Teacher’s pet

Day 2 of my challenge to seduce the Russian speaking teacher and I am making some progress. He complimented me on my work during the class and smiled frequently at me when giving a demonstration. I have enrolled in an extra curricular class he will be teaching two evenings a week. When I mentioned it to him, he looked genuinely happy and told me (via the interpreter) that he was glad I would be joining the class. I am excited. I might also learn something in the process. An added bonus!

There is something so incredibly sexy about an authoritative figure, a teacher. I love to learn. Always have. I have very fond memories of my Philosophy teacher who took me to bed when I was still in high school. It was such a thrill and yes, I did learn a lot that night.

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Schedules – Dinner date

Having left the tall guy in his hotel room, I spent a day walking around London in the rain, hiding in galleries and cafes and watching a film in the afternoon. I was conscious of his scent still lingering on my body and desperately wanted to shower and change. But, I was meeting the economist for drinks and dinner and so applied fresh lipstick and perfume in the ladies powder room of a department store before choosing a bar to meet him in.

It was a rather typical overpriced bar in Mayfair. I found a secluded corner and ordered a champagne cocktail, texting him the name of the bar. He arrived a few minutes later, wearing a crisp white shirt and dark blue suit. He looked sexy. His athletic physique was complimented by his smart attire. It was the first time I had seen him in something other than jeans and a sweater. And all I wanted to do was throw him on the floor and ravage him. Instead, I sat with my legs crossed and smiled mischievously at him. We drank the cocktails and chatted about the events of the last few days. He had had a stressful week at work and was being sent to New York the following week. After the drink we moved to the restaurant and ordered some food. Dinner was early, as he had to meet some friends later, a blind date. We ate, our knees touching under the table and he slowly began to relax into his usual self. There is something about his face that fascinates me. I love his chiselled jaw and cheekbones, the laughter lines around his eyes and the little protruding rivulet veins on his temples. He is shy, I think. Shy and reserved and so a double turn on for me. The restaurant was now filled with the usual Friday night post-work crowd and we both agreed it was a dreadful crowd. Wanting to escape the crush, we decided to go to the river and find a quieter bar with a different scene.

Taking the tube to Charing Cross, we walked down to the river and across the bridge. We held hands and kissed in dark side streets, both of us conscious of bumping into someone we might know. He took me to a little underground bar in Waterloo. This was a different crowd – more my kind of thing. We drank beer from bottles and sat opposite one another at a tiny table, our knees touching. We were overdressed for our new venue, but it didn’t matter. I could look at him in peace and quiet, etching each line, wrinkle and expression into my memory. Meeting a lover for an evening, when you both know you will not be able to share a bed brings with it a delightful simplicity and innocence. We both knew those shared beers would be our last before he left to meet other friends and I would return to my bed alone. That hour felt like a whole evening together. We flirted, touched, laughed, drank, tucked away in a basement behind Waterloo. It was perfect.

As we walked to the station, he stopped and pulled me towards him, taking my face in his hands and kissing me passionately. Through our coats, I could sense his erection and he pulled me tight whispering that he wished he could come home with me. I smiled and stroked his hair. We both knew he couldn’t get out of his ‘blind date’ with a friend of a friend. The irony of taking a single man as a lover: he still has dates with other women. I told him he would have a great time and may even like the girl he was being set up with. We agreed to meet on Sunday instead. We parted at the station, both of us desiring the other’s body. I crave him, desperately.

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