My latest (sexual) encounter with the woman I’m going to call B was, as nearly always nowadays, in a hotel. B really is like that old song by T Rex: she’s dirty, sweet and she’s my girl. However, strictly speaking, she’s actually someone else’s girl – or rather, someone else’s wife - so a hotel is inevitable. There are other places: we’ve had sex in the woods, in one another’s homes, in cars (of course! – that’s always hot), and in apartments borrowed for the purpose; but I’m a great fan of the hotel fuck. For one thing, it’s civilised: you’ve got en suite, heat and light, somewhere to plug in music if you want, you can order wine, smoke a spliff and drink without worrying about driving afterwards, and you’ve got clean sheets and clean towels without having to smuggle them out of your own home. For another, it’s safe and private and anonymous: al fresco sex and car sex have a frisson of danger, it’s true; but getting seen in a car together by acquaintances or colleagues, being seen by neighbours visiting one another’s homes - or, heaven forbid, being caught there by a partner! - that wouldn’t feel very exciting at all and it certainly wouldn’t be very clever. Find a hotel with a good bar, and worst comes to the worst, you could have been simply meeting for a drink.
Best of all, I find hotels very sexy. I try not to risk us being seen together or embarrass her with a check-in; I go there on my own, in the afternoon, to get a room. I also arrive first in the evening, get some chilled wine, draw the curtains, check the temperature, light some candles. Then I come down to the foyer to meet her, when she arrives, and that way there’s no record of her being there at all. But even just checking-in during the afternoon, the sense of anticipation has already started – that’s another hotel plus - I get a buzz (and yes, sometimes an anticipatory stiffening in my crotch) just from walking down the corridor and opening the door. This is a space from which the workaday world has been excluded: here’s a place which isn’t for sleeping, or storing your clothes, or watching tv, or reading a book. It’s a stage, a little theatre, a film set – a closed one at that – and you can’t wait for the performance to begin. None of it has anything to do with your partner, your children, your home, your work, your friends and family. There’s no agenda, apart from pleasure. No one’s going to make demands on you; aside from where to put your tongue or fingers or cock and when to do it. It’s just impure, unadulterated fun. Worried about your relationship going stale? - have sex with someone else in a hotel room.
There are rules and constraints. Impulsive, spontaneous sex, unexpected sex, unlikely sex; they definitely have their place in life. But after the first few times, adulterous sex is about planning. Otherwise, it never happens. You’re not only taking account of two people’s mood and inclination, two people’s work schedules and their other social commitments; you’ve got two entire households to take into account, every time. Children have to be given their teas and their baths and get put to bed; teenagers fed and settled down to do some homework, and you have to hear about a partner’s day, cook, give them some chat, have dinner with them, clear-up afterwards, put the cat out, whatever; all before you can even have a shower and change your clothes (not too perfumed, not too dressed-up; you’re only going to an evening class, or a drink with a couple of mates from work).
On the other hand, you know for days beforehand that, barring a sudden bug, or unforeseen problems at home, you’ve got a hot date on the cards. On the day, you’re not wondering whether you’re going to get lucky that evening, or whether him/her indoors might be amenable, rather than too tired: you know for sure you’re going to give, or receive, a proper seeing to. You don’t know exactly what form the action will take; but all you know, all you can think about, is that there is going to be some sort of fun to be had: you’re going to see your lover. Paradoxically, I find that because it’s booked and diaried and, in a sense, a ritualised event, it actually frees you to enjoy it more. Put simply (thank God! you’re saying), you no longer have to think will it happen and wonder when it will happen and can concentrate instead on all the dirty possibilities of how it will happen.
So all day, the feeling builds and builds: not a vague, unchannelled, frustrated sexual tension, unsure of its release - it has an object – and an objective. Sometimes you manage to talk on the phone during the day and your lover’s voice, their happy laughter at some shared joke or intimacy, whets your appetite for their company. Sometimes you can’t. Yet even though you’re not with them; as you each go about your own work tasks, attend to the demands of your different households, make your divergent journeys across the city, you’re connected: you share a secret knowledge. You have the self-same goal in your minds, all day long. You’re aware that, gradually, the parallel trajectories of your lives are moving imperceptibly closer; until, as darkness falls, they begin to converge, towards that moment when you’ll finally feel their skin against your own again…..
And is there anything that beats being in a hotel room, brimful of anticipation, and getting that lover’s call, to tell you she’s in a cab and on her way? I doubt it.
Time for a brief digression, while I’m waiting. The purpose of this will soon become clear. (Please note, this message will not be shown again – I’ll just bloody-well digress):
The film Random Hearts (1999, from an eighties novel) is a deeply flawed and at times turgid work, despite great leads (Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas) and Pollack at the helm. I used to think it was probably an insensitive and over-narrativised remake of Wong Kar-Wai’s more modest, low-key and subtle effort, In the Mood for Love; but although the latter is set in Hong Kong in l962, it is actually the later film, released in 2000. Why do I mention them now? Two reasons. One: because both feature two tentative strangers, falling for one another, when they are obliged to confront their spouses’ adultery. In a sense, their own confusion and hurt shows them how their partners could have strayed; yet in both films you feel that the bond between the wronged partners, a bond gradually created by their shared predicament, probably becomes more profound than the one experienced by the original adulterers.
In the Mood for Love is stylish and accomplished, well worth a viewing; Random Hearts less so. Nevertheless, the American film does have a great idea (which it almost completely wastes); that is, suddenly realising you never really knew a dead partner at all. And like a lot of flawed films, it still has its moments. The second reason I’m mentioning the movie here, is because of one such moment. In it, Ford and Scott Thomas are brought together when their partners are killed in a plane crash on their way to a secret weekend together. Ford finds it hard to live with his new knowledge of his dead wife and questions one of her colleagues, as he tries to discover how long the affair had been going on and whether he was the only one in ignorance:
In the Mood for Love is stylish and accomplished, well worth a viewing; Random Hearts less so. Nevertheless, the American film does have a great idea (which it almost completely wastes); that is, suddenly realising you never really knew a dead partner at all. And like a lot of flawed films, it still has its moments. The second reason I’m mentioning the movie here, is because of one such moment. In it, Ford and Scott Thomas are brought together when their partners are killed in a plane crash on their way to a secret weekend together. Ford finds it hard to live with his new knowledge of his dead wife and questions one of her colleagues, as he tries to discover how long the affair had been going on and whether he was the only one in ignorance:
“Why is this so important to you?” she asks him.
And then she goes on to tell him how she herself surprised her husband with someone else:
“I caught Sam with a woman once. I spilled a milkshake on my skirt, so I ran home from lunch. I heard them in the shower. And at first, I thought it was the radio. But what she was saying you don't hear on the radio. I ran. I couldn't go back to work. For hours, literally... ...I didn't even remember I was involved with someone else - I had been for months. And I liked my life with Sam. Things were fine.”
“What'd you do?” he asks.
“What'd you do?” he asks.
“I kept my mouth shut. And I never went home again without calling first.”
And then she tries to explain, in vain, to this really straight-up, scrupulously honest guy (he’s a detective with Internal Affairs), how – or why - she lives with these compromises and unknowns he’s obviously finding intolerable, even in retrospect:
And then she tries to explain, in vain, to this really straight-up, scrupulously honest guy (he’s a detective with Internal Affairs), how – or why - she lives with these compromises and unknowns he’s obviously finding intolerable, even in retrospect:
“To say that involvement......and I don't mean casual sex, I mean romance. To say that whole part of life - half the fun of life - has to end... If you told me that had to be over......I'd feel old.”
Ford:
“If you had known about Peyton......would you tell me? Now, I mean.”
“No.”
(thanks Drew's Script-O-Rama – mad, but great work)
Anyway, back to me - I’m in that hotel room, still waiting. And then, lo and behold, I get the call. She’s late – married lovers are always late – get used to it. And yet she says ‘sorry’, so very sweetly, once she’s in the lift and kissing me, I couldn’t care less if I’d been waiting for hours. She’s no pushover – she’s a termagant when wronged – but the way she says ‘sorry’ sometimes is so-o acquiescent, it’s almost dirty. ‘Christ!’ you think to yourself, ‘what on earth could she possibly have done to be that sorry – gone several rounds with my best friend?’
(Her ‘Hello’ on the phone has a similar effect - it feels like she’s just put her tongue in my ear. Does she practice this stuff?)
The other thing she says, once we’ve had some chat and a bit of fondling and she’s down to her smalls, is:
‘How do you want me?’
Girlfriends, partners, lovers, wives - I can only suggest you try this little phrase at home. Perhaps you already do, or something similar; but some of you might not have attended the same Training School for Sluts as my Sweet Pea, so it may be worth mentioning. Saying ‘sorry’ in a manner which suggests you feel so guilty about some recent act of depravity you’d not only consider it completely reasonable, but actually welcome being spanked silly, as expiation for your crime: that’s on the advanced course and probably quite a difficult skill to acquire (though after all, any apology is never going to go amiss). But saying ‘how do you want me?’ in a waistressy, air hostessy sort of way, that’s not too hard, is it?
Sometimes, as Robert Burns famously noted, things get messed up by contingencies; however much planning you do. Domestic or work problems can cause a last-minute cancellation – and then I’ll find myself sitting on my own, with only a brief and apologetic text to ease my misery. You’re both married, so you aren’t going to have a nice long chat on the phone instead, or an arrangement to meet later – you’re on your own, so get used to it. Is there anything worse, I wonder, than waiting in a hotel room, full of anticipation, and then getting that message from your lover, to tell you she won’t be coming? I doubt it. Perhaps that’s why her apologies are so abject, so freighted with regret - because she really knows how it can feel sometimes.
On another occasion recently, she was very late, after a blazing row at home, but still made it.
“Aren’t you a clever girl?” I observed, once she’d confided and I’d consoled and she’d brightened up no end. “There you are, miserable and distraught – and ‘course it is upsetting, him being horrible to you. But unlike most people who slam the door and storm out in a state after a domestic – and then wonder which friends they’re going to go and disturb – you’ve got someone already waiting; someone who adores you……ready to commiserate and say nice things……”
“I know, I know,” she said; “it did occur to me that it was a bit of luck! And don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
Anyway, once she was thoroughly cheered up, she went on to show me her appreciation. And it occurred to me that she’d got an added bonus out of an evening which had begun so inauspiciously. Back home, Bugger-lugs had been left to stew in his own juices. She, on the other hand, instead of moping about miserably, had had her spirits restored by supportive and convivial company – and could now return to the old meanie to collect an abject apology from him, smug in the secret knowledge that she’d just had an extra helping of someone else’s cock to serve him right.
She’s a one, isn’t she? I’m not sure there was much luck involved.
On this occasion, the darling girl had arrived more or less on time and in good form. I now told her how I wanted her: I’d bought some lingerie and needed to see her in that. She’d actually complained she had nothing to wear a couple of weeks’ before – so of course I’d had to put that right, asap. I’d been astonished and ashamed to have a woman of mine tell me she was running short of saucy kit! (This is another good reason for a hotel room: not only can you give the woman presents which are going to make you a very happy man; she also gets the chance to try them in the bathroom, adjust make-up etcetera; so she’s confident she looks good enough to have you gagging for it.) A Reger one – which had looked fetching on the hanger - was a bit of a disappointment and we rejected it. Lingerie’s like that – (a) you can’t tell til it’s on, and (b) clothes are deliberately (?) sized flatteringly, while lingerie sizes are accurate, even small – so that’s why, if you’re a man buying it, a few alternatives (from a shop which takes returns!) always makes sense. Paradoxically, a cheaper la Senza one-piece in satin and micro-mesh was the business. It pushed her breasts up nicely, and she thought the satin panels on the front flattered her (admittedly trim) stomach, while I liked a little ruff of tulle, which formed the hem just above the arse and mons. Since the whole thing was too short to cover anything, this was a very rude effect indeed – ruder than nakedness – which is, of course, the point of the exercise.
In or out of sexy gear, what is it about her that’s so damned hot? I’ve given this quite a lot of thought. Although I might say she isn’t conventionally pretty, (I might, but I could get big tears or a smack), I must stress that she’s gorgeous in her own way and she is ‘fit’. Even so, that doesn’t add up to hot; though it’s definitely a good start. As I’ve said, she gives an impression of total acquiescence, at times – you feel anything will be permitted, nay encouraged – and more than likely, will give her intense pleasure. That gets a tick. She’s full of dirty little tricks, which leave you gasping. Another tick. She’s eager and responsive and demonstrative, easily aroused and often quick to climax (tick); and when she does, she’s noisily overwhelmed by her orgasm, in a way that’s both exciting and oddly affecting. Actually, sod it, I don’t have boxes – for my sins, I simply adore the woman – but if I did, she’d tick the lot. Then there’s something else – the X-factor - a quality I’d never have thought of looking for, and yet which, once found, is a sure-fire winner……. She seems to want cock – very very badly. This, I think, is the hottest thing of all. Better still, she seems to really really like mine.
Sweet thing that she is, B even sends love letters to my cock, by email, like this one:
“No.”
(thanks Drew's Script-O-Rama – mad, but great work)
Anyway, back to me - I’m in that hotel room, still waiting. And then, lo and behold, I get the call. She’s late – married lovers are always late – get used to it. And yet she says ‘sorry’, so very sweetly, once she’s in the lift and kissing me, I couldn’t care less if I’d been waiting for hours. She’s no pushover – she’s a termagant when wronged – but the way she says ‘sorry’ sometimes is so-o acquiescent, it’s almost dirty. ‘Christ!’ you think to yourself, ‘what on earth could she possibly have done to be that sorry – gone several rounds with my best friend?’
(Her ‘Hello’ on the phone has a similar effect - it feels like she’s just put her tongue in my ear. Does she practice this stuff?)
The other thing she says, once we’ve had some chat and a bit of fondling and she’s down to her smalls, is:
‘How do you want me?’
Girlfriends, partners, lovers, wives - I can only suggest you try this little phrase at home. Perhaps you already do, or something similar; but some of you might not have attended the same Training School for Sluts as my Sweet Pea, so it may be worth mentioning. Saying ‘sorry’ in a manner which suggests you feel so guilty about some recent act of depravity you’d not only consider it completely reasonable, but actually welcome being spanked silly, as expiation for your crime: that’s on the advanced course and probably quite a difficult skill to acquire (though after all, any apology is never going to go amiss). But saying ‘how do you want me?’ in a waistressy, air hostessy sort of way, that’s not too hard, is it?
Sometimes, as Robert Burns famously noted, things get messed up by contingencies; however much planning you do. Domestic or work problems can cause a last-minute cancellation – and then I’ll find myself sitting on my own, with only a brief and apologetic text to ease my misery. You’re both married, so you aren’t going to have a nice long chat on the phone instead, or an arrangement to meet later – you’re on your own, so get used to it. Is there anything worse, I wonder, than waiting in a hotel room, full of anticipation, and then getting that message from your lover, to tell you she won’t be coming? I doubt it. Perhaps that’s why her apologies are so abject, so freighted with regret - because she really knows how it can feel sometimes.
On another occasion recently, she was very late, after a blazing row at home, but still made it.
“Aren’t you a clever girl?” I observed, once she’d confided and I’d consoled and she’d brightened up no end. “There you are, miserable and distraught – and ‘course it is upsetting, him being horrible to you. But unlike most people who slam the door and storm out in a state after a domestic – and then wonder which friends they’re going to go and disturb – you’ve got someone already waiting; someone who adores you……ready to commiserate and say nice things……”
“I know, I know,” she said; “it did occur to me that it was a bit of luck! And don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
Anyway, once she was thoroughly cheered up, she went on to show me her appreciation. And it occurred to me that she’d got an added bonus out of an evening which had begun so inauspiciously. Back home, Bugger-lugs had been left to stew in his own juices. She, on the other hand, instead of moping about miserably, had had her spirits restored by supportive and convivial company – and could now return to the old meanie to collect an abject apology from him, smug in the secret knowledge that she’d just had an extra helping of someone else’s cock to serve him right.
She’s a one, isn’t she? I’m not sure there was much luck involved.
On this occasion, the darling girl had arrived more or less on time and in good form. I now told her how I wanted her: I’d bought some lingerie and needed to see her in that. She’d actually complained she had nothing to wear a couple of weeks’ before – so of course I’d had to put that right, asap. I’d been astonished and ashamed to have a woman of mine tell me she was running short of saucy kit! (This is another good reason for a hotel room: not only can you give the woman presents which are going to make you a very happy man; she also gets the chance to try them in the bathroom, adjust make-up etcetera; so she’s confident she looks good enough to have you gagging for it.) A Reger one – which had looked fetching on the hanger - was a bit of a disappointment and we rejected it. Lingerie’s like that – (a) you can’t tell til it’s on, and (b) clothes are deliberately (?) sized flatteringly, while lingerie sizes are accurate, even small – so that’s why, if you’re a man buying it, a few alternatives (from a shop which takes returns!) always makes sense. Paradoxically, a cheaper la Senza one-piece in satin and micro-mesh was the business. It pushed her breasts up nicely, and she thought the satin panels on the front flattered her (admittedly trim) stomach, while I liked a little ruff of tulle, which formed the hem just above the arse and mons. Since the whole thing was too short to cover anything, this was a very rude effect indeed – ruder than nakedness – which is, of course, the point of the exercise.
In or out of sexy gear, what is it about her that’s so damned hot? I’ve given this quite a lot of thought. Although I might say she isn’t conventionally pretty, (I might, but I could get big tears or a smack), I must stress that she’s gorgeous in her own way and she is ‘fit’. Even so, that doesn’t add up to hot; though it’s definitely a good start. As I’ve said, she gives an impression of total acquiescence, at times – you feel anything will be permitted, nay encouraged – and more than likely, will give her intense pleasure. That gets a tick. She’s full of dirty little tricks, which leave you gasping. Another tick. She’s eager and responsive and demonstrative, easily aroused and often quick to climax (tick); and when she does, she’s noisily overwhelmed by her orgasm, in a way that’s both exciting and oddly affecting. Actually, sod it, I don’t have boxes – for my sins, I simply adore the woman – but if I did, she’d tick the lot. Then there’s something else – the X-factor - a quality I’d never have thought of looking for, and yet which, once found, is a sure-fire winner……. She seems to want cock – very very badly. This, I think, is the hottest thing of all. Better still, she seems to really really like mine.
Sweet thing that she is, B even sends love letters to my cock, by email, like this one:
“I have never wanted cock like I want yours. God, I fantasise about it. I love you taunting me and teasing me with it as well as fucking my brains out. I love it when you wank it in front of me. And when you talk about it on the phone. When you told me recently on the phone how it felt fat and heavy it was all I could do to stop myself from putting my fingers inside my knickers, which were already dripping wet.”
Now, quite apart from any other sexual activity, my regular partner is very amenable to it, too. In fact, the noises she makes when I slip her a length assure me that not only is this something she’s been quite eagerly anticipating for at least the last half hour or so; but also, that she’d like me to carry on giving her some, in no uncertain manner, and for as long as it takes. A mouth full of it, when I’m toying with her - say, when I’ve been deliberately keeping her teetering on the edge with my middle finger - will push her over, every time. And this is all very satisfactory – no complaints there. Yep, once she’s up and running, the wife has a reasonable enthusiasm for the various pleasures of sex, nowadays – and amongst other things, she appreciates what my cock can do for her at such times. I’m not sure she’s quite as keen on the thing in itself, though; if you can appreciate the distinction.
Here’s an anecdote, by way of demonstration….. I used to have a really great cat. And for a laugh, now and then, we’d fill a sock with catmint, tie it up, and give it to him. The poor little beggar would get himself in a pitiful state. He just could not get enough of that sock. He’d rub it, clutch it, sniff it, lick it, bite it, lie on it, hump it, inhale it, roll around with it, lick it some more, and finally clutch it in his paws and rub it all over his furry little face until he simply blissed out, legs in the air, and went into some sort of cat coma for about half an hour.
And that’s how B is with cock.
Where she’s concerned, my cock can do no wrong. Seeing it turns her on (even before I get it out), touching it turns her on, rubbing it and wanking it turn her on, licking it turns her on. It more or less goes without saying that sucking it sends her into orbit - but that’s an entire topic in itself. Get this: even that squishy clicking noise of me wanking it, anywhere within earshot, has her panting. I can do anything with it and it’s a turn-on: I drag the swollen head of it across her supine face, just beyond the reach of her tongue, and she’s beside herself. I push the greased end of it up the crack in her arse, blindly nuzzling the opening, and the woman’s in paroxysms. I may hold it, poised, ready to enter her cunt, but tantalisingly withhold it, and she gets crazy and confused; eager for one of us to make her come immediately, yet wanting to hold on to the feeling and begging me to fuck her. Or I’ll smear the whole heft of it in lube and press it against her, so that her own eager movements make it slide over her clit. Sometimes I stay still, poised above her (I knew there was some purpose to all those ‘core’ exercises at the gym), and just lend it her, like some sort of organic sex toy, for as long as she likes; so that she can nudge and rub her clit with the blunt, sticky end of it, while taking the Lord’s name in vain. And she’ll do this thing, which I can’t even describe, it’s so hot; touching herself with my cock and her own fingers combined, so that we both risk premature dementia. Basically, all I need is twenty or thirty minutes’ self-control and a teasing attitude and she’s a spent wreck, like that dear long-lost moggy of mine.
Precious little time for taunting and teasing this time, though; because it’s been a while. It’s a very eager and intense session. Nothing fancy – we just can’t get enough of each other – and we can’t get it soon enough. Forget any build-up – a few minutes in and she’s rubbing the head of my lubricated cock against her pussy, the dirty way she does, and I’m almost laughing out loud it feels so good, while she’s whining and squirming under me, beside herself. Then I’m at her side, one hand under her, a finger to the little pucker of her arse, and her back’s arched off the bed, cunt pushed against my other hand, while I chivvy her clit towards climax and she starts quivering like a whippet. (But more attractively, I feel I ought to add). She comes sounding tearful, a whimpering flood of release.
When I fuck her – and all I’ve been wanting is to get my cock into her again for a fortnight – I lift her legs up, pulling her onto my cock, and after we’ve been fucking a while and we can tell we’re both in the zone, she starts to do that wriggly thing which drives me crazy – it’s like having a mermaid on the end of it (I don’t know, obviously, but I imagine it’s like that). I tell her what a hot, dirty bitch she is, how she’s driving me crazy and I can’t help myself. This only serves to encourage her and she does something devastating; an irresistible coup de grace. I’ve got the backs of her calves against my chest and her arse off the bed and the little minx reaches around under us and wraps her right hand around my cock. Oh Lordy! Have you had this done to you? When I thrust I feel like I’m fucking the deepest, tightest cunt in Christendom, and when I’m pulling back, I’m still in it! There is usually a very limited amount of time I can take that kind of total stimulation without coming like a whale – and she knows it, which makes her more and more excited. She starts to carry on like a woman possessed. Not only does she get to feel my cock sliding through her fingers and into her cunt, but each thrust also presses her own fingers against her pubis, pushing her to some new peak. When she comes again, her ‘Ohhh’ is a sustained wail. It sounds full of regret – presumably for the loss of self-control, it occurs to me in a wandering, stray thought, before everything turns to pure sensation - but it’s probably because our climax is also an ending.
Although it’s urgent, the sex seems to last so long, that I glance anxiously at my watch beside the bed. It’s nine thirty. I cannot believe so little time has passed – by my estimate, what seemed to go on and on for ages lasted a mere ten minutes. It turns out, we entered a time-warp together: when I tell her the time, she doesn’t believe it either.
“Phew, that was frantic!” I observe, still breathing hard; “it was like a couple who’ve been apart, who haven’t had sex for a long time.”
“We have been apart,” she reminds me gently; still a little resentful of a recent holiday I took with my family, which inevitably caused the separation
And though she doesn’t say it, I can complete the other correction myself – we are a couple – and we both know it. The companionable people back home who share the everyday business of our existence; they get our commitment: but they don’t get to share this passion, lust and love. They don’t get the excitement and romance of it; not even the constant dialogue about every aspect of lives, which we conduct by phone and email, by word and deed.
I love this time – in bed with her in the afterglow - sipping wine, caressing one another, sharing laughter and confidences. She’s utterly endearing in these moments. I didn’t mention this before – that’s because it’s not a hot quality, exactly – but it is a remarkable phenomenon, nevertheless: my cock is like a magic wand, where she’s concerned. No, really: the psychological effect on her of spunk is profound and magical. Spunk not only changes her mood, it changes her personality. She’s a feisty little madam at the best of times – she’d hardly be having adulterous sex in a hotel room, otherwise, would she? And before she gets some, she’s often full of her usual spark and vim. After a tough day, she can sometimes be acerbic, or bossy, or quick to take offence. After you’ve got some cum into her or onto her, you wouldn’t think it was the same person.
Now, quite apart from any other sexual activity, my regular partner is very amenable to it, too. In fact, the noises she makes when I slip her a length assure me that not only is this something she’s been quite eagerly anticipating for at least the last half hour or so; but also, that she’d like me to carry on giving her some, in no uncertain manner, and for as long as it takes. A mouth full of it, when I’m toying with her - say, when I’ve been deliberately keeping her teetering on the edge with my middle finger - will push her over, every time. And this is all very satisfactory – no complaints there. Yep, once she’s up and running, the wife has a reasonable enthusiasm for the various pleasures of sex, nowadays – and amongst other things, she appreciates what my cock can do for her at such times. I’m not sure she’s quite as keen on the thing in itself, though; if you can appreciate the distinction.
Here’s an anecdote, by way of demonstration….. I used to have a really great cat. And for a laugh, now and then, we’d fill a sock with catmint, tie it up, and give it to him. The poor little beggar would get himself in a pitiful state. He just could not get enough of that sock. He’d rub it, clutch it, sniff it, lick it, bite it, lie on it, hump it, inhale it, roll around with it, lick it some more, and finally clutch it in his paws and rub it all over his furry little face until he simply blissed out, legs in the air, and went into some sort of cat coma for about half an hour.
And that’s how B is with cock.
Where she’s concerned, my cock can do no wrong. Seeing it turns her on (even before I get it out), touching it turns her on, rubbing it and wanking it turn her on, licking it turns her on. It more or less goes without saying that sucking it sends her into orbit - but that’s an entire topic in itself. Get this: even that squishy clicking noise of me wanking it, anywhere within earshot, has her panting. I can do anything with it and it’s a turn-on: I drag the swollen head of it across her supine face, just beyond the reach of her tongue, and she’s beside herself. I push the greased end of it up the crack in her arse, blindly nuzzling the opening, and the woman’s in paroxysms. I may hold it, poised, ready to enter her cunt, but tantalisingly withhold it, and she gets crazy and confused; eager for one of us to make her come immediately, yet wanting to hold on to the feeling and begging me to fuck her. Or I’ll smear the whole heft of it in lube and press it against her, so that her own eager movements make it slide over her clit. Sometimes I stay still, poised above her (I knew there was some purpose to all those ‘core’ exercises at the gym), and just lend it her, like some sort of organic sex toy, for as long as she likes; so that she can nudge and rub her clit with the blunt, sticky end of it, while taking the Lord’s name in vain. And she’ll do this thing, which I can’t even describe, it’s so hot; touching herself with my cock and her own fingers combined, so that we both risk premature dementia. Basically, all I need is twenty or thirty minutes’ self-control and a teasing attitude and she’s a spent wreck, like that dear long-lost moggy of mine.
Precious little time for taunting and teasing this time, though; because it’s been a while. It’s a very eager and intense session. Nothing fancy – we just can’t get enough of each other – and we can’t get it soon enough. Forget any build-up – a few minutes in and she’s rubbing the head of my lubricated cock against her pussy, the dirty way she does, and I’m almost laughing out loud it feels so good, while she’s whining and squirming under me, beside herself. Then I’m at her side, one hand under her, a finger to the little pucker of her arse, and her back’s arched off the bed, cunt pushed against my other hand, while I chivvy her clit towards climax and she starts quivering like a whippet. (But more attractively, I feel I ought to add). She comes sounding tearful, a whimpering flood of release.
When I fuck her – and all I’ve been wanting is to get my cock into her again for a fortnight – I lift her legs up, pulling her onto my cock, and after we’ve been fucking a while and we can tell we’re both in the zone, she starts to do that wriggly thing which drives me crazy – it’s like having a mermaid on the end of it (I don’t know, obviously, but I imagine it’s like that). I tell her what a hot, dirty bitch she is, how she’s driving me crazy and I can’t help myself. This only serves to encourage her and she does something devastating; an irresistible coup de grace. I’ve got the backs of her calves against my chest and her arse off the bed and the little minx reaches around under us and wraps her right hand around my cock. Oh Lordy! Have you had this done to you? When I thrust I feel like I’m fucking the deepest, tightest cunt in Christendom, and when I’m pulling back, I’m still in it! There is usually a very limited amount of time I can take that kind of total stimulation without coming like a whale – and she knows it, which makes her more and more excited. She starts to carry on like a woman possessed. Not only does she get to feel my cock sliding through her fingers and into her cunt, but each thrust also presses her own fingers against her pubis, pushing her to some new peak. When she comes again, her ‘Ohhh’ is a sustained wail. It sounds full of regret – presumably for the loss of self-control, it occurs to me in a wandering, stray thought, before everything turns to pure sensation - but it’s probably because our climax is also an ending.
Although it’s urgent, the sex seems to last so long, that I glance anxiously at my watch beside the bed. It’s nine thirty. I cannot believe so little time has passed – by my estimate, what seemed to go on and on for ages lasted a mere ten minutes. It turns out, we entered a time-warp together: when I tell her the time, she doesn’t believe it either.
“Phew, that was frantic!” I observe, still breathing hard; “it was like a couple who’ve been apart, who haven’t had sex for a long time.”
“We have been apart,” she reminds me gently; still a little resentful of a recent holiday I took with my family, which inevitably caused the separation
And though she doesn’t say it, I can complete the other correction myself – we are a couple – and we both know it. The companionable people back home who share the everyday business of our existence; they get our commitment: but they don’t get to share this passion, lust and love. They don’t get the excitement and romance of it; not even the constant dialogue about every aspect of lives, which we conduct by phone and email, by word and deed.
I love this time – in bed with her in the afterglow - sipping wine, caressing one another, sharing laughter and confidences. She’s utterly endearing in these moments. I didn’t mention this before – that’s because it’s not a hot quality, exactly – but it is a remarkable phenomenon, nevertheless: my cock is like a magic wand, where she’s concerned. No, really: the psychological effect on her of spunk is profound and magical. Spunk not only changes her mood, it changes her personality. She’s a feisty little madam at the best of times – she’d hardly be having adulterous sex in a hotel room, otherwise, would she? And before she gets some, she’s often full of her usual spark and vim. After a tough day, she can sometimes be acerbic, or bossy, or quick to take offence. After you’ve got some cum into her or onto her, you wouldn’t think it was the same person.
She admits this herself:
"Your spunk has a calming effect on me. You see - if I could just pop round, say every couple of days and get fucked, or have you spunk on me, it would be fine."
Suddenly, she’s the very sweetest, most pliant, most loving woman on earth, adoring and adorable. You wonder where this angel has been hiding. Of course, this strange and moving transformation doesn’t make it any easier to part…….
Oddly, if time was lengthened during the minutes when we were actually fucking, it seems strangely foreshortened during this luxurious, tender and delightful spell, as we chatter and laugh together afterwards. In no time at all, it’s suddenly ten and even though we’re severely tempted, there’s no time for further frolics - we’ve got to leave Planet Love and get suited and booted, ready for re-entry to Earth. Despite the brevity of this session, it feels as though we’ve been through the whole gamut of human emotions – anticipation, despair, elation, love, ecstasy, and sweet sorrow – all in one hour flat. And by half-past ten, we’re both back in our own homes, on our respective sofas, giving our respective partners the benefit of our companionship for their kind of evening. The last thing anyone expects from what the red tops call a ‘love cheat’, is that they should be home before the pubs close. When people imagine unfaithfulness in a partner, I think they often presume it will be with someone younger – or at least someone single. And they presume that, in order to get that other, possibly younger, singleton into the sack for a bit of unfaithfulness, their errant partner will need to be out for the entire evening, wining and dining, trying to recapture their own youthful days of singledom, and creeping home again guiltily in the wee small hours.
Not true – not if you’re shagging someone else with similar commitments and a matching shortage of time. In my experience, you can have unprecedented amounts of very dirty and illicit fun in a lunch-break, or a spare hour during the afternoon; in twenty minutes after collecting someone from work in the car; on a Saturday morning, when you should be shopping; during the time it would take to attend an evening or exercise class, or go to the supermarket. (The trick being, of course, to do all the important verbal foreplay of chat, sweet-talking, or talking dirty on the mobile beforehand. “I’m so sorry you can’t make it until later,” I might say to her. “Of course, it wouldn’t matter at all if I wasn’t so in love with you / if you weren’t so goddam gorgeous / if I didn’t desperately need to give you some cock,” etc etc etc - I’m sure you get the idea.)
Such fragmented time together can be frustrating; but what people don’t realise, is that it also eroticises your whole world. Any absence from home, however brief, may mean a romantic tete a tete on the phone. Any routine journey or chore can lead to a meeting, or a sexual encounter. Everything has a new significance. I think John Updike (that accomplished chronicler of adultery) captures this very well, in a number of different stories. And I don’t want to quote it, and get a big bill from his publisher, but I’m thinking especially of the ending to “The Lovely Troubled Daughters of Our Old Crowd” (in Trust Me, 1987); where he talks about seeing your lover’s car parked in a petrol station or in a convenience store parking lot when you didn’t expect it, and how it makes your Saturday, the world suddenly exciting again; your pulse racing and your heart swelling with an upsurge of hope, which connects you again to your deepest feelings, and to life.
Of course, you don’t really need to meet at all: nowadays, it’s become easier to have a lot of adulterous (and anonymous) fun, using those handy modern inventions, the mobile phone and the pc, without even leaving home.
But that’s another story……………………………
Suddenly, she’s the very sweetest, most pliant, most loving woman on earth, adoring and adorable. You wonder where this angel has been hiding. Of course, this strange and moving transformation doesn’t make it any easier to part…….
Oddly, if time was lengthened during the minutes when we were actually fucking, it seems strangely foreshortened during this luxurious, tender and delightful spell, as we chatter and laugh together afterwards. In no time at all, it’s suddenly ten and even though we’re severely tempted, there’s no time for further frolics - we’ve got to leave Planet Love and get suited and booted, ready for re-entry to Earth. Despite the brevity of this session, it feels as though we’ve been through the whole gamut of human emotions – anticipation, despair, elation, love, ecstasy, and sweet sorrow – all in one hour flat. And by half-past ten, we’re both back in our own homes, on our respective sofas, giving our respective partners the benefit of our companionship for their kind of evening. The last thing anyone expects from what the red tops call a ‘love cheat’, is that they should be home before the pubs close. When people imagine unfaithfulness in a partner, I think they often presume it will be with someone younger – or at least someone single. And they presume that, in order to get that other, possibly younger, singleton into the sack for a bit of unfaithfulness, their errant partner will need to be out for the entire evening, wining and dining, trying to recapture their own youthful days of singledom, and creeping home again guiltily in the wee small hours.
Not true – not if you’re shagging someone else with similar commitments and a matching shortage of time. In my experience, you can have unprecedented amounts of very dirty and illicit fun in a lunch-break, or a spare hour during the afternoon; in twenty minutes after collecting someone from work in the car; on a Saturday morning, when you should be shopping; during the time it would take to attend an evening or exercise class, or go to the supermarket. (The trick being, of course, to do all the important verbal foreplay of chat, sweet-talking, or talking dirty on the mobile beforehand. “I’m so sorry you can’t make it until later,” I might say to her. “Of course, it wouldn’t matter at all if I wasn’t so in love with you / if you weren’t so goddam gorgeous / if I didn’t desperately need to give you some cock,” etc etc etc - I’m sure you get the idea.)
Such fragmented time together can be frustrating; but what people don’t realise, is that it also eroticises your whole world. Any absence from home, however brief, may mean a romantic tete a tete on the phone. Any routine journey or chore can lead to a meeting, or a sexual encounter. Everything has a new significance. I think John Updike (that accomplished chronicler of adultery) captures this very well, in a number of different stories. And I don’t want to quote it, and get a big bill from his publisher, but I’m thinking especially of the ending to “The Lovely Troubled Daughters of Our Old Crowd” (in Trust Me, 1987); where he talks about seeing your lover’s car parked in a petrol station or in a convenience store parking lot when you didn’t expect it, and how it makes your Saturday, the world suddenly exciting again; your pulse racing and your heart swelling with an upsurge of hope, which connects you again to your deepest feelings, and to life.
Of course, you don’t really need to meet at all: nowadays, it’s become easier to have a lot of adulterous (and anonymous) fun, using those handy modern inventions, the mobile phone and the pc, without even leaving home.
But that’s another story……………………………
