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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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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 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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Little Christmas indulgences

As the final turkey leftovers are thrown out, the decorations packed away and the new year settles in, I am usually grateful that the festivities are at an end. Though I like Christmas and all the family get togethers, I am usually left exhausted, recovering from the seasonal bout of flu. And so this year is no different. I lie in bed, awake far too early for a public holiday and my mind begins to wander to the precious days before the festivities began. To that afternoon spent in a hotel room with the economist (formerly M&A).

We had agreed to meet before he flew out for the holidays and so it was the last day before Christmas when I made my way to the five star hotel in central London. He had chosen the hotel for its proximity to the Royal Opera house, which is where I was meeting my husband and family later that evening. He had checked in first, texting me the room number and so I walked confidently into the lobby, smiling at the receptionist and striding into the lift, trying not to look like a woman about to commit adultery. Again.

My heart beat a little faster as the lift took me to his floor. The corridor was warm and muffled, thick carpets and heavy wallpaper dampened the sound of my footsteps as I approached his room. I was already dressed for the opera – a black vintage 50s dress, red petticoat, red heels, black stockings and black pearls. I stopped outside the room and drew a long breath, then knocked. I heard movement from within and the door opened quietly. The economist smiled at me and opened the door wider to let me in. He took my face in his hands and kissed my lips softly. My cheeks were still cold and his hands felt wonderfully warm. He looked into my eyes and said: ‘Be gentle with me, I’m terribly hung over.’ I smiled and teased him a little – we had joked that I had only ever seen him hung over, which to be fair, was only three times. We remained standing as we kissed, his hands warming my face and our kisses hot, slow at first, then becoming heated, tongues searching for one another. He unbuttoned my coat as he kissed my cheeks and neck. The coat dropped and I tugged at his sweater, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. I could feel his firm body through his shirt and a jolt shot through my sex. He fumbled with the fastening on my dress, I unhooked his belt and ran my fingers inside his jeans until I could undo the buttons of his flies. They dropped to the floor and he slipped off my dress, leaving me standing in my heels, petticoat and stockings. He pulled his buttoned up shirt over his head and gently sat me down on the edge of the bed. Kneeling before me, he removed one shoe at a time, keeping his eyes fixed on mine.

I lay back and let him climb astride me. We kissed and stroked one another enjoying the anticipation of our nakedness. I observed his body, his strong shoulders, lean torso and muscular legs. He has the body of a sportsman, yet the palest of skins, its delicacy belying the scars he carries from rugby injuries. I let my fingers find the rim of his boxers and began to slide them down, revealing his straining cock. He dropped onto the bed next to me and I removed his underwear, leaving him completely naked and erect. Smiling up at him, I guided his cock into my mouth and began to massage his shaft with my lips and tongue. He tasted good. I could hear him moan gently as I pressed my tongue to the pulsating vein at the base and traced its flow all the way up to the tip. Taking his balls in my left hand and firmly clasping the base of his penis with my right thumb and middle finger, I began to devour him, sucking, licking, pressing to a rhythm my own cunt dictated. He held my hair as he began to climax and I let him burst into my mouth, swallowing each shot as it came, a warm trickle escaping out of the corner of my mouth. When he was spent, I sat up and looked at him – he had gained some colour in his cheeks, a delicate rash on his chest hinting at the rush of orgasm.

He pulled me onto the bed and ripped off my stockings and petticoat, plunging his head between my legs, lapping at my freshly waxed cunt. I could feel the force with which he wanted to devour me, the pressure of his torso against my cocked legs and his fingers feeling inside me, reaching for that hidden spot of pleasure. I was conscious of how quickly he had become erect again and pulled his head up to kiss him, tasting my own juices as I did so. Deftly, he put on a condom and positioned his hips above mine, slipping deep inside me. A wave of delight washed over my body as we thrust into darkness, the red fleshy sea taking hold of us both. His movements had such zeal, such energy, I let myself be carried away to his rhythm, his force. My hands slipped on his back as sweat began to lubricate our bodies. We rolled over so that I was on top, such a perfect view of his face. He reached up and fondled my breasts as I gyrated on his cock, feeling its hardness touch deep inside my womb. He pulled me down to take my nipples in his mouth. There was such a rawness and frantic desire about him. I wanted him to enter me from behind, like animals. Leaning my arms against the padded headboard and kneeling with my legs apart, he understood exactly what I wanted him to do. He grasped my hips, pulling my ass towards him and plunged his cock into my pussy, the pressure of which pushed my face against the headboard as well. It felt incredible, he filled me so entirely. We fucked and fucked, trying different positions, each one was frantically constructed and deconstructed in favour of a new one. The sweat dripped and our bodies felt as if they were on fire. Collapsing on the bed together, I decided to take him once more in my mouth. His cock tasted of me and it felt like there was more cum the second time he squirted his juices into my mouth. As the waves of orgasm receded, we lay there, arm in arm panting heavily. My senses were so heightened, so on edge from the rawness of it all, that when he delicately touched my clit with his fingers, I felt as if I was walking on the edge of an abyss. He kept me clinging on, teasing, as if playing the harp. The tingling was ever present in all my limbs, just waiting for the final release. And then it came. I let him have my orgasm, it came in slow, increasing circles until each touch of his finger was a tremor deep inside me.

We had four hours in that hotel room together. Chatting, kissing, touching; our first foray into the affair. When it was time to leave, I showered, dressed, perfumed and styled myself for the opera. We shared a drink in the hotel bar before he left for the airport and I strolled to meet husband and family for dinner and opera.

The strangest thing happened on that walk to the restaurant: a man in his forties walked past me in the opposite direction and blew a kiss in my direction. Not recognising his action in time to dismiss him or smile at him, I pressed on. A minute later, he tapped me on the shoulder and said:

‘I didn’t mean any disrespect. Can I give you my number?’

I was so surprised by his advance that I just smiled apologetically and told him I was married. He smiled back and thanked me, then we parted. The scenario made me wonder what signals I must have been giving out that a complete stranger would approach me so directly? Perhaps, it is more a matter of when it rains, it pours.

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When opportunity knocks

A recent conversation with the husband has resulted in an extended stay for me in London after xmas. I will be there (alone) for a good two weeks, giving me ample opportunity to catch up with various lovers. This is an opportunity too good to pass up and so, the wheels are in motion and plans are being made.

The first rendezvous in the diary is next week. M&A has surpassed all expectations by booking a hotel room for the afternoon. Originally, I had planned to go to his place, but its location and both of us having to dash off by 5pm means we will have limited time together. I can feel the excitement building and catch myself looking at a photo I snapped of him on a regular basis. I know very little about him, yet am curious about his quiet demeanour and wry sense of humour. The idea of going to a hotel room, dressed for the opera (which is where I have to dash off to afterwards), letting him slowly undress me, kiss me, touch me, has me so erotically charged I am conscious of my cunt as I write.

My mind is filled with glimpses of what is to come. I long to see his torso, his back, to feel his skin against mine, his athletic stature pressing my soft curves. The first time is always special. There are so many expectations, worries and desires that blend together. The touch of a stranger. The sensation of his hand as he searches for my cunt, finds it and glides on my wetness. I want to kneel before him and take him in my mouth. Not in the same rushed way as last time, but to savour each lick and feel his hardness with my tongue. We will have four hours in a silent, private room together. Four hours to touch, stroke and know each other’s bodies.

When we part, it will be with the knowledge of what we have done. We will be bound by our secret. He will leave to catch his flight home for xmas and I will head to the opera. I will still be able to feel the wetness of our afternoon as I watch the performance, be able to close my eyes and see him in front of me. People will think I am closing my eyes to listen to the music, but only I will know how just a few hours before he was inside me.

 

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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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