Tag Archives: original lover

London lover odyssey part 2 – the wedding gift

Life’s commitments have not permitted me the time nor space to document subsequent parts of my London lover odyssey. But today, as I sit outside in the morning sun, a cool wind lifting my hair and spirits I feel the need to write again.

I awoke on day 2 feeling that familiar ache in my legs and my cunt still tender from the hours spent with my older lover the night before. It was going to be another hot London day. I showered, reluctantly washing his scent off my body, dressed and headed into town to meet my original lover for lunch. We had not met for half a year or more, we haven’t slept together for even longer. Ever since he became a father, our lust for one another has faded. He still holds a very special place in my heart. We met near his office in the city, I saw him walking down the street towards me. I skipped towards him and we hugged, allowing the other suited workers to stream past us. Then we walked and talked, stopping at a little restaurant for a bite to eat (his treat) and wandered through the city at a slow pace. I had forgotten how well we get on and felt a little craving in my womb. The idea crossed my mind to book a hotel room, even if just for an hour. I’ve always wanted to do that. I love the decadence, the naughtiness of it.

After lunch, a stroll and an ice cream we parted, agreeing to meet later that afternoon at his office for a coffee. I roamed the streets of London floating in the summer’s breeze, feeling elated at the thought of my older lover’s tongue on my clit and the prospect of a new lover later that day. That afternoon I returned to his office. I think he wanted to show me his new place of work. We sat in his glass office and chatted over coffee again. I imagined what it might be like if his walls were not made of glass. The things I would like to have done to him then and there. The excitement and tenderness of our love affair was rekindled, ever so slightly. He had to go to a meeting and so I left him, both of us feeling the urge for more than just a hug and goodbye.

It was nearly time to meet the tall guy for our rendezvous and his wedding gift. He had flown into London especially. I walked to Soho and waited for him in a pub. He arrived from work wearing an expensive suit. Men in suits… call me old fashioned, but it just turns me on. We enjoyed a cold G&T together and moved on to a restaurant of his choosing. He had offered to buy me dinner – I assume to relieve his guilt of the sex that was to follow. Dinner was charming, a fancy underground affair. We ate and chatted. He told me about his wedding (it had taken place a mere month or so before). Perhaps we are two of a kind. He said he felt no guilt at breaking his vows so soon after making them.  And so after a drink at a seedy bar and numerous kisses across the table, we finally arrived at his hotel room. My wedding gift to him – me.

Having spent all day walking in sandals my feet were tired and aching, so I ran some cold water into the bath and sat on the edge, dipping my feet and washing them with soap. He came into the bathroom to bring me a drink and hugged me from behind, letting his hand stray inside my dress. I took his other hand and gave him the soap, then guided his hand down to my cunt, lifting my dress so that he could touch me with his soapy fingers. As he did so, I turned my head upwards and we kissed. He began to gently masturbate me and I could feel his cock through his trousers. I stood up in the water and he helped me step out of the bath and led me to the bed. Before I knew it, my dress and lingerie were off and I was lying naked before him. He stripped and lay next to me. We fondled each other’s bodies, savouring the new details. There is such a delight in discovering a new body. Every crevasse, crease and mole.

In our IM chats leading up to the meeting, he had talked about bringing a silk scarf, a blindfold. I had been excited by the prospect of a slow, sensual session. Yet, he had forgotten to bring it and as we fucked I began to remember why on the last occasion we had fucked it had not been an earth shattering experience. He entered me from behind and came rather quickly. The long drawn out build up I had hoped for did not occur. And after coming, try as he might, he couldn’t get a hard on again, despite numerous blow job attempts on my part. During one such blow job I suddenly realised he was trying to masturbate me at the same time, by rubbing his foot against my cunt – not, dare I say in a slow and sensual manner, but rather in a jerky and sporadic way that turned me off, rather than on. I decided to fake an orgasm in order to curtail the evening’s events. Then I dressed and left him to sleep, taking a cab home and feeling rather deflated. I had had high hopes for the night, he is an incredibly good kisser after all. But, it seems that some men just aren’t the right fit.

Perhaps that is a good thing, given he married someone else a month ago.


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Hotel adventures

The classic setting for an affair is of course a hotel. Over the years, I have stayed in probably 15-20 different hotels with different lovers. These were occasions when my own place was too much of a risk, or we felt like a change of scene. Taking a cab through London after a late night is usually a drive down memory lane as I whizz past the various Edwardian facades of the hotels I’ve fucked in. Outside of London my experiences are mainly tied to business trips abroad… Paris, I’ve already told you about. One of my other favourite hotel experiences was in Hamburg.

Our team was visiting the German office for a series of meetings. There were five of us staying in a five-star hotel overlooking the Alster in Hamburg. Those were the days before the recession, when companies didn’t scrimp and save on accommodation. Once again, through a series of political maneuverings, my original lover and I had managed to get ourselves on the same trip. During the flight, we tried to play the ‘we’re-just-colleagues’ roles, limiting eye contact and planning for the meetings the next day. We arrived on the evening flight, traveling directly from the airport to the hotel.We checked in, one after the other. I went first and pretended to look for something in my handbag so I could hear the room number given to original lover as he checked in. It was on a different floor altogether and so I took the lift up to my room, planning to call him when I was safely inside.

The room I had been allocated stank of smoke and so I returned to the hotel reception to ask for a new one. The keycard to the new room turned out to be next door to the room my original lover had been given. My pulse quickened and I entered the room, surveying the setting that was to become the backdrop to a night of sensual delights. It had a kingsize bed, huge bathroom with walk-in shower and an incredible view over the lake through a French balcony window. I called him and told him where I was. He said to look out of the window and he popped his head out of his room next door. Then he climbed out of his window and onto rather narrow ornamental balcony, squeezing himself under the metal awnings separating our two rooms. Inside my room, he took me in his arms and we kissed, feeling a sense of excitement at the night ahead. He told me that one of our other male colleagues* was staying in the room on the other side of his, so we would have to be doubly careful about entering and exiting each other’s rooms. Thankfully, the balcony gave an escape route if needed.

We only had a short time before we had to meet the rest of the team for drinks in the lobby bar and so he snuck back into his room and we quickly freshened up, changing into a more appropriate attire. Downstairs in the lobby a jazz pianist accompanied our cocktails. Once everyone had assembled we set off to a nearby restaurant for a relaxed dinner. As a team everyone got along very well and so the evening was full of banter and witticisms. Throughout, I kept imagining what it would be like to be alone with him in my hotel room and all the delicious things I wanted to do with him.

Finally, after many hours of eating and drinking we returned to the hotel. The three of us staying on the same floor all entered our rooms with a cheerful goodnight, doors closing behind us. I opened the balcony doors and peered out. There he was, the reflection of the lights on the water below dancing across his face. He made his way quietly to my room, the cool night air cleared my head a little. Then we were alone. The hours of build-up took their toll and we tore at each other’s clothes, stripping down to naked flesh and falling onto the bed, ready to devour. He moved his hand up and down my body, kissing me fervently, finally allowing his fingers to find my pussy. I was so wet with desire that his fingers slipped inside with ease. He teased me like this until I was on the brink of climaxing, then withdrew. We had all night together and wanted to make the most of it. I rolled him on his back and sat astride him, lowering my head to his chest and then gently kissing my way towards his cock, taking it in my mouth. Lightly at first, then with more pressure from my lips and tongue until he began to sigh with pleasure. Holding the base of his shaft and balls in my hands I licked and sucked until I could feel the sudden movement, the slight pulse that signals the start of his orgasm. I withdrew and pulled him up to his feet.

I opened the balcony doors and leant against the railings, my naked body visible to anyone who cared to look up. The thrill of being seen by a passerby, or even our colleague two doors down was exciting. Leaning forward against the railings, half my body outside, half still inside the room, I beckoned him to enter me from behind. He pushed my legs apart a little more and found my wetness with his erect cock, thrusting it inside. As he did so, he let out a loud grunt. I was conscious of the noise, but at the same time, loved the potential of being discovered. He gripped my hips and moved against me, pushing ever deeper inside. I held onto the railings, my bare breasts moving to his rhythm. The cool air made my nipples incredibly erect and I looked out over the lake as he came with a shuddering jolt. We moved inside and onto the bed again, he was out of breath. I sat above his face, feeling his short breaths calming down as he licked my pussy, letting his own juice trickle into his mouth. I leant back and felt the orgasm rising, not able to control it this time, I climaxed loudly, falling back on top of his torso as I did.

We lay together for some time, just enjoying the warmth of skin on skin. Then we moved into the bathroom and the tiled walk-in shower. We stood in the jet streams of the shower together, washing each other with a soapy lather. The sensation of such a soft lubricated touch on my skin was excrutiatingly tantalising and he pushed me against the wall, lifting my right leg and entering me again. I was conscious of the contrast between the cold hard tiles of the wall against my back and the warm water trickling down between our bodies as he gently made love to me. Our soapy bodies slipped and glided together. He took a fresh squirt of shower gel in his hand and started to rub my clitoris with it as he fucked me. I was so aroused that it took only seconds for me to come again and he held me as I almost melted to the floor. He continued to move, getting quicker, stronger and took my wet hair between his hands, pressing my head to the wall and looking into my eyes as he came, doubling over letting himself go.

That night we slept in my room. The next morning he scrambled across the balcony again to get dressed. We met our other colleagues for an early breakfast before heading off to the office. Everyone looked fresh. Everyone, except us.

* this male colleague also became my lover later on


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Memories of Paris

Paris. What a place. So many books, poems and paintings have been inspired by this city. Think Henry Miller, Anais Nin and Ernest Hemingway. It’s wide boulevards, the narrow maze of the Marais, the languid Seine and Rive Gauche, busy cafes and bars, queues outside the boulangerie. What a city to fall in love in. Twice.

I first fell in love with my husband in Paris. Many years later, I fell in love with my original lover one hot and sunny August afternoon. We traveled to Paris for a meeting at the French office. Early morning Eurostar, a busy day of presentations and meetings. By about 3 o’clock we had achieved what we set out to and waved goodbye to our remaining colleagues as we set off for the hotel. Call it incredible luck, fate or just damn good planning, but somehow we had managed to arrange to an overnight stay in Paris. Our other colleagues were returning to London on the evening train and so we were alone. In Paris. In a hotel.

We showered and changed out of our suits, wanting to make the most of the hours we had together. My original lover had spent time in Paris as an 18 year old. He was a romantic and wanted to show me all the areas he knew. So we walked. Along the Seine, across the Pont Neuf bridge, past Notre Dame, popping into the Shakespeare and Company English bookstore on the banks of the river. We were in a foreign city, anonymous, lovers, holding hands, stopping every now and then to kiss, talking non-stop as we meandered through the streets. In the Marais district we found a secluded bar with a courtyard at the back. It was still the afternoon and so the North African inspired courtyard was empty. The heat was almost oppressive, but it didn’t seem to matter. We took a seat in the shade and ordered a cooling Mojito.

It was the first time that we were able to be freely and openly lovers. Until then, we had only met in the confines of my small London flat. There was a sense of liberation to be out in the open – both physical and emotional. I think that is when I first realised my true feelings for him. I knew that I would be leaving in a month, moving to a different country and so we lived that day, minute by minute as if it was our last. When I close my eyes now and think back, I am conscious of three things – my own heartbeat, the heat of that August afternoon and his bright blue eyes. As it got dark, we found a secluded little restaurant with a piano player and ate dinner together. I didn’t want that day to end. The thought of having to return to London in the morning and not be able to touch and kiss him whenever I wanted was traumatising. It is strange to feel both elated, yet tethered and afraid at the same time.

After dinner we took a taxi back to the hotel. Naturally we had two separate rooms, we were there on business. We took the lift to the 9th floor and he followed me to my room in silence. I opened the door. The lights were off, but the Paris skyline cast an iridescent glow, enough light to see his face, stroke it. We kissed, unbuttoning each other’s clothes. The distant sounds of other guests returning to their rooms, muffled footsteps on the carpeted corridor outside. Silence. We had all the time in the world. It was just the two of us. Every breath, every touch, every kiss was the last. He cupped my breasts in his hands and bent down to kiss them. I ran my fingers through his hair and down his back. He knelt kissing my stomach and hips as he lowered himself. When he reached my sex, he parted my lips with his fingers and tasted me with his tongue, licking slowly, tenderly. My knees felt weak and so I sank to the floor, kneeling opposite him. Our bodies melted together, and we embraced, pulling one another closer together. He was erect and I let him slide between my legs as we knelt on the floor. Such a wonderfully hot sensation.

I pushed him down, straddling him and hovered just above the tip of his cock. I love the feeling of his tip precariously placed just inside me and slowly, ever so slowly lowering my ass to draw him all the way in. The tip, the ridge and then the fullness of the shaft. Slowly, up and down. Conscious of every inch. Not a word was said. We had talked all afternoon and evening. This was the moment of silent communication. Feeling him inside me, I leant back, resting my hands by his knees and continuing the slow gyrations of my hips. He placed both his thumbs on my cunt, moving them one after the other up and down my clit as I moved. It was a mind blowing sensation – to feel him so deep inside me and a constant stroking of my clit. Being on top, I could control the rhythm and began to increase my movements until I could feel the beginning of the orgasm. It starts somewhere in my core, my womb and rises up my body until I feel I am blinded by the redness, the darkness. The only sound to break the silence of the that hotel room was my cry as I came.

He moved me to the bed and spread my legs, mounting me and thrusting his cock even deeper inside. The pace quickened and he held me head still, looking into my eyes as he moved. I could feel his heat, his weight on top of me and watched his face as he came, a gentle sigh of relief and the room returned to silence. We lay there for a long time, just holding one another, the unbearable burden of tomorrow’s separation keeping us from sleeping.

The next day, we sat through more meetings together, dashing to catch our Eurostar home, accompanied by some other colleagues. Our window of anonymity and openness closed. I felt a physical loss as I watched the Gare du Nord recede and Paris disappear from view. I had fallen in love. Both with Paris and with him.

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Tarte tatin and other sweet things

I am making a tarte tatin for dessert tonight. A small soiree with friends. Wine, a warming stew and a suitable French delicacy for dessert. It is funny how smells and tastes can bring back memories in a way that a photograph or film cannot. When I taste tarte tatin I am transported to a hot summer’s evening a few years ago.

London’s hottest summer. The air in my flat was thick, sticky. No movement at all and no reprieve in sight. It was the first summer I spent with my original lover. We would arrange to meet in the evenings, after work. He would leave early to go shopping. I would cycle home, shower (a cold one usually) and dress as a mistress should – beautiful lingerie and sensual, easy to undo dresses. That thrill of waiting for the doorbell to ring, buzzing him in and waiting for his tall figure to appear. He would always enter and leave quietly, not to draw attention to himself.

He took such a great delight in preparing delicious three course dinners for me, accompanied by the best wines and dessert wines. He loved to cook, to choose a combination of flavours, textures and colours that would come alive in my kitchen. As he chopped, whisked, heated, I would sip a cool glass of white, watching him, chatting, listening to jazz. It was such a wonderful sense of being looked after, letting go and allowing someone else to decide for me – what I would eat, drink, taste. I loved it. When I was so aroused by simply watching him, being near him, I would stand behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and let my fingers slip inside his jeans, teasing and distracting him from the task at hand.

Often, the food would be simmering in the pot and he would abandon it to follow me into the bedroom where we would strip naked, bare skin on bare skin, our bodies only slightly hotter than the summer’s night. Sex with my original lover was a deeply sensual experience. He would take the time to touch every part of my body, not allowing me to touch him and driving me wild with anticipation. When every hair tingled at the sheer brushing of his hand over my stomach, he would let me pleasure him. I loved to take him in my mouth. He was beautiful, tasted good and loved me licking him to the point of climax, but to then withhold and sit astride him, mounting him instead. Our pre-dinner fucks were intense bursts of heat and energy, a taster of what was to follow.

We would sit at the dining table, candles, wine, he wearing only his underwear, me wearing a silk slip, no knickers. If you have never tried it, then I strongly recommend eating dinner like this. The food is just a pause, a break between fucks. We would return to the bedroom after each course, fucking each other until we came again and again.

Dessert was always my favourite course. He excelled at desserts. The night he made a tarte tatin was one of the most intense nights we had spent together. That sticky hot sweetness with a tangy edge. It is a strange phenomenon, but it seemed that all my senses were heightened after climaxing. Every bite, lick and swallow of the tarte was magnified. Perhaps your body is more receptive to other pleasures when it is in that wonderful state of relaxation and tingling tension.

After dessert we withdrew to the bedroom, his cock was already erect for our grand finale. He lay back on the bed, keeping eye contact with me as I climbed onto it, standing above him looking down. I let my hand touch my sex, and slowly began to stroke my clit, masturbating myself standing over him. He watched, smiling and eventually pulled me down towards him. I knelt over his face and he lifted his head so his tongue could touch my cunt. Burying his tongue into me he seemed to consume me like one might a ripe fig. Pushing his tongue inside, into the soft flesh and savouring its juices. I arched back reaching for his cock with my hand, massaging him to the same rhythym as he licked me. The orgasm came swiftly, our senses already so raw after the many courses and climaxes. I love the sensation of orgasms in quick succession – the first one feels like a dam has been broken and after that they wash over me like the waves of a tsunami, all consuming, almost drowning. I feel them in my fingers and toes and hair.

That was an intensely sensual night, in so many ways. Such a simple combination of pleasures, but explosively erotic. The best tarte tatin I’ve ever had.

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The original lover

I suppose it is time to introduce you to my original lover. He was not the first, but he was the first one I think I fell in love with. There have been lovers since and I am sure there will be more. But he was the one with whom I shared some of the most precious moments. I say ‘I think I fell in love with’, because at the time I was, but it is amazing how having children can change someone. I met him at work. The affair with the first lover was ongoing whenever he was in London on business. I didn’t think I would consider taking another lover. That seemed wrong. Strange how attitudes can change…

It was the office summer party, the year of the world cup in Germany. Another hot summer. We had already met in a meeting and so ended up sharing a table and drinking together. The conversation was fast-paced, witty, challenging. Like skipping across water, you have to keep moving forward or you’ll sink. He was tall, strawberry blond hair, piercing blue eyes. Some might say, not handsome, but there was something striking about him, possibly his intelligence, the sparkle in his eye, who knows. We told each other about our lives – he, married for many years, I, boyfriend of many years. There were certain strange similarities that are too difficult to document here. But he was someone I felt instantly at ease with, someone I felt I had known forever.

The evening was fun, lots of drink, food, great conversation. He made me laugh. As the party drew to a close, he offered to walk me home. I had my bicycle, so we walked together, bike between us. At one point we stopped and he bent over the bike and kissed me. That was the beginning of an affair that was to last many years, and I suppose in a way will always be there, in the background.

He came back to my place. This was new territory for both of us. The first lover always had a hotel room we could go to. This was the first time I had brought a man home. It was already late and so our time together was rushed, hushed, frantic. We fucked on the bed, on top of the covers. I remember feeling his weight on top of me. Finally a man taller than me. He was so gentle, the softest wet kisses. Already then, without knowing her, I envied his wife. His cock was large, erect. He had a physical presence that so many others don’t, a gravity that draws you towards him, anchors you. I would get to know his body inch by inch over the coming months. That night something changed for both of us. A leap of faith, perhaps. Only four months later, I was considering leaving my then boyfriend, now husband for him.


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