I used to write diaries until my early twenties, but the habit dwindled, and I somewhat regret not having documented my exceptionally ordinary life. However, at my ripe-ish age of 38, I shall have to make a new entry.
To be clear, my husband and I are very happy together. I wouldn’t want to lose him for the world. Our married life isn’t traditional by any measure, and I’ve often admired some polyamorous (and swinging) couples while believing I would never a) have the energy for it, and b) stand the idea of my partner with another woman. In fact, I used to be so insecure that any pretty face was a threat, but years of therapy have brought me to a point where I’ve been able to discuss opening our marriage just by an inch (well, maybe a few!). The precise terminology was “occasional fun on the side with no emotional attachment.”
Now, I’m notoriously difficult and prudent when it comes to constructing any relationships, be they friendly or romantic. Therefore, while I’m reasonably attractive and social, I didn’t expect anything to come from this newfound freedom.
So anyway, something did!
My husband and I joined the local kink community a couple of years back, and slowly, I found my place. He’s much more withdrawn, so I’ve been going to most events on my own just to enjoy the vibe and have a reason to go out. And, among the people I now call friends is a young man with whom we hit it off almost right away.
It’s hard to explain how and why one gets along with someone, especially when they’re not yet a friend, but not only was he funny as all hells right from the start, but we often got each other on an almost cosmic level. We shared a few interests, and our sense of humour was a near-perfect match. He’s an extremely fast talker, but I never felt left out or that he was intentionally trying to outsmart me.
He was first in a semi-exclusive, then a polyamorous relationship with his impressive partner, whom I also liked. Over the past year, we didn’t meet all that often, not even once a month, but he definitely made an impact (and I’m not talking about floggers here!). I also teased him a couple times, playfully slapping his buttocks and running off like a schoolgirl. So, when we found ourselves gravitating towards each other at a recent munch, it wasn’t a surprise.
We talked and laughed for what felt like hours, getting gradually drunk with the contents of my hip flask (a lady always comes prepared!), and even more so with each other’s company. For the life of me, I can’t remember how, but it got to a point where I asked him (through yet another throaty laugh) if he wanted a kiss. He agreed enthusiastically, and I touched his lips with mine, very chastely – and a little later, we did it again. We went on talking about anything and everything, and at one point we kissed “for real”, tongue and all. And it was wonderful.
Although the details of our conversation have beclouded, I remember how we very clearly concluded that alcohol had merely sped things up and that we’d eventually have reached the same point sober. We ended up staying at the pub long after everyone had gone and left only when one of the barmen came to tell us they’d closed fifteen minutes earlier.
On the way to the Underground station, we again stopped to kiss, and I convinced him to ride with me since we live vaguely in the same direction. The kissing went on until he had to get off, and I went home buzzed and only a little guilty.
Over the next days, we exchanged some long messages, establishing the lack of regrets. Later that week, his partner invited me to an evening at a bar, and I agreed gladly, after which she sent me a mischievous “my partner’s coming, too ;)." She was evidently in on the “joke." Contrary to my husband. I hadn’t been able to tell him anything yet, in great part because I wasn’t used to it, but also because he’d given me the freedom to do as I pleased.
I won’t say I wasn’t nervous to see my friend again, wondering how we’d interact sober. When his group eventually arrived, he and I cheek-kissed, and I did find him a little awkward. Maybe he was gauging my reaction as much as I was gauging his. However, we quickly went back to our usual banter and even added more than a few references to our private moments. The evening was fun; we drank (just a pint for me since I was driving), talked, laughed, and danced with the rest of the group, and I got the chance to meet some lovely and interesting new people. But I had an eye on him throughout my stay at the bar.
My bedtime was getting near, and when I started showing signs of leaving, he sprang into action. He came to stand very close to me and cheekily asked if I wanted a kiss. We were in view of some of our mates, and I felt a bit self-conscious, but I agreed almost without hesitation. Although our teeth bumped together a few times, it was just as breath taking as the time before, and not awkward in the least. His hands also wandered all the way to my buttocks and back up to one of my breasts before I playfully told him to stop. Afterwards, he looked a bit sheepish and admitted I was having quite an effect on him.
We stood like that for a long time, hugging and kissing, until I had to leave once and for all. In the car, my playlist sent me a plethora of songs about the shortness of life and seizing the day, which made me laugh out loud. At home, I confessed “the” kiss to my husband, and his only outward reaction was to remind me of our “no-strings” policy.
Over the next two weeks, my friend and I messaged a lot, switching from long form to a more conversational means. We kept flirting, but I also told him any further physical contact would probably be hard since I didn’t want to hurt my husband by going too far too fast. I had also gotten way more than I could ever have dreamt of, so I was strangely satisfied. We agreed to continue our sexual banter and make the most of it.
At the end of that second week, we found a plan to go out again, this time to a Munch and Play. My friend was exhausted after an intense night out but eager enough to see me. We did talk about boundaries beforehand (notably, no sex, and that I’d initiate since I was the one with limits), but by this point, we might as well have been talking out of our arses.
I dressed in fishnets, a double-slit skirt, and a low-cut top, took my car, and went to collect him in front of his building. Our meeting was once again slightly awkward, and the poor man looked about to pass out from fatigue, but we did talk about our flirt in the car.
I was insanely attracted to him from the start. We got to the venue, ordered drinks, and spent ten minutes wandering around and meeting a few people. By this point, his presence was already radiating in my direction so that I’d begun to wet my thong just from being near him.
We managed to remain platonic-ish right up to the point where we found ourselves alone in a dark corridor, where he launched into the most passionate kiss yet. I teasingly reminded him I was supposed to say “when and where”, and to his credit, he retreated – after which I kissed him right back with unparalleled hunger.
He led me upstairs to the dungeons, and in one of the tiny cubicles, we started devouring each other’s faces. He pushed me against the wall and fondled my breasts through the clothes. Through a laugh, he remarked this was almost like being a teenager again, to which I remarked we both fortunately had more experience and self-confidence. I proceeded to free my breasts, and he went on to pursue his wonderful, torturous nipple play.
At about that point, one of the event organisers (who knew him) came by to close the cubicle “door”. It was only made of metal bars, so there was little privacy, but this made my slight exhibitionistic tendencies very happy.
Now, we’d been joking about “accidents”, like me falling to my knees, and, in so doing, landing at “just the right height”. As we kept on passionately kissing and touching in the dungeon, he told me he’d like to see what happened if I did fall – and I complied so fast I didn’t even manage to find a comfortable position for my long legs. At no point did I feel pressured, except maybe by my own urges, and when I finally freed his cock and enveloped it with my lips and tongue, it was amazing. He fit in with ease while filling my mouth just right, his skin was soft and hot, and precum had all but soaked the front of his underwear.
Despite my unfairly strong gag reflex, I gave him my all from the start. He was splendidly verbal and a little rough, and almost without understanding it, he was giving me exactly what I craved. At one point he took out a small vibrating toy, which I attached to my thong, but I didn’t even need it to experience intense pleasure. Just having his cock deep in my mouth and his fingers entwined with my hair was enough – and then he proceeded to give me the greatest gift of them all.
The blowjob went on for a long time, with him hardening and softening in my mouth, and finally, he asked where I’d want him to cum. I hesitated but quickly chose my mouth as the lucky target. He grabbed my hair with more purpose and started moving me in the right rhythm. He later admitted he’d been so aroused he’d had to reign himself in to avoid frightening me, but I could’ve taken more. I choked and gagged at least a dozen times, including close to his orgasm, but I always went back to it.
When he finally stiffened and cried out loud, releasing a hot, salty stream onto my tongue, it was ecstasy. I swallowed every drop, then kept on sucking him for a short moment, and as soon as my mouth was free, I actually thanked him. No one had ever managed to cum directly while fucking my face before, so it being a first already made it memorable in itself. He told me he’d had difficulties doing it before, but that he’d learned to relax and just “let go”, and that doing it with someone who actually loved it (as well as having her hair pulled) just made it all the easier.
Unfortunately, I was too nervous and buzzed to manage to cum myself, even with his toy and his patience. He was already so tired, and I didn’t wish to make him wait for ages while I tried to grind my way into an orgasm. I promised to touch myself later and think of him, and he only asked how I usually did it. I explained I had to lie on my belly and hump my hand (or a toy, or anything really), which he found both arousing and hilarious. I thanked him for minding my pleasure, to which he said “oh yeah, like I was gonna zip up my trousers and just leave you here alone.” He also expressed his eagerness to start again and told me I’d now know how it was to feel like a good little slut that evening, then go back to my happy life with my husband – just as he’d go back to his partner.
On the way back home, he kept stroking my leg while I drove, and we shared one last passionate kiss once I’d parked in front of his building. As I stepped back on the gas, I exclaimed aloud and through a bark of a laugh: “Oh fuck, I have a lover – what a cliché!” I went on back home, stayed a while in the parking lot to make myself cum, then joined my husband and said nothing at all. I didn’t wish to remain untruthful per se, but I was sure he’d feel threatened if he knew how fast my friend and I had progressed. I was also ready to accept that this might’ve been our only opportunity, and I’d already gotten way more than I could’ve hoped for.
