Until fairly recently I'd never really been involved in contrived or non-spontaneous sex. Whilst I was younger and with my husband, we had messed around with me dressing up, both of us tying the other up and some other stuff like that, but most of what we did was spur of the moment. We didn't usually think up new things, plan them and act them out in a calculated manner. That just wasn't us. When we wanted to fuck we did and to hell with plans and procedures.
True, when he'd persuaded me to do glamour poses for him to photograph they had to be arranged and occasionally I would dress up for him and surprise him when he came home from work. Sometimes I became a little aroused during the day and would greet him dressed in sexy undies. I had a special set for that. Black bra, panties, a waspie with suspenders and long seamed stockings. The classic erotic lingerie. What was special about it was the sizes of the bra and waspie. The former was a whole cup size smaller than my 35 d and the waspie was a tight 23 waist and 34 inch hips. My body really requires 25 or 26 inches for my waist and 36 for my somewhat bulbous hips. Thus, the gear made me, as he described it the first time I wore it, 'deliciously overflowing from my underwear.' It also made him want me and usually he'd have me there and then, before dinner, often in the hallway against a wall or on all fours. A bit like an aperitif really.
The idea, however, of hoods, leather, rubber or latex gear, butt plugs, acting out dominatrix and sub scenes and the various other acts associated with such slightly deviant practices never really appealed. Not that either of us had anything against mild BDSM. No, we were both quite adventurous and in the right circumstances we probably could have been persuaded to indulge. However, the circumstances never came about and doing such things by ourselves struck us as faintly ridiculous. I'm sure we'd have gained more fun and laughter from him in a latex thong or me brandishing a cat o' nine tails than we would have found sexual stimulation.
After we separated amicably so I could return to London to follow my career that had taken me back there and he stayed in Copenhagen my eyes were opened, a lot. I was a thirty something year old on the loose. Being born and raised in the sexually free thinking Danish society I was used to all types of sex being freely available. I had never really thought about it that much for along with most of my contemporaries, both male and female, I looked at sex as something to be enjoyed when and with whom it took my fancy. Us Danes have a totally different concept of faithfulness than the Brits or Americans. I have experienced both societies first hand for having been born in Copenhagen I was reared in both the US and the UK and had a large number of my sexual experiences in those countries. That said, the basic conditioning of a sexually very free society never leaves one, as is the reverse I imagine.
After we separated I still went 'home' to Copenhagen most months and we then did what married people are supposed to do, fuck like rabbits for two days.
Alone in London and with the dreaded forty approaching at an alarmingly fast rate I knew I had to build a new life, and quickly. Fairly easily I made myself a new circle of friends, well acquaintances I suppose, both in the cyberland of chat rooms and in the harsher one of reality. I developed an active social life and started dating. In fact it all probably worked too well as, for a year or so I was rushed off my feet with my social whirl. The being rushed off my feet often, meant off my feet and onto my back! That wasn't a good thing as far as my relationship with my husband was concerned, but then c'est la vie!
Whilst in Copenhagen nothing would have been thought of my behaviour over the next year or so, it did raise eyebrows amongst some of my female friends in London and may have well raised other things amongst the male contingent! In Denmark it would be treated as the norm and totally socially acceptable to as it's termed in the UK and US to sleep around. Over there it really is 'if two people are attracted to each other and want to fuck, they do.' In London, New York and most other cities everything is so much more complicated. At first I tried to be a Dane overseas and act and behave as if I was still in my home country. That didn't really work.
In that year I was too easy. I slept around. Maybe it was necessary. Possibly I needed the excess to find and appreciate the norm. Chatting to men, and women come to that, on the net widened my sexual outlook considerably. I exchanged views on aspects of sex that I knew little about and certainly had never experienced. It made me even more broad minded and acceptable of sexual '"different strokes for different folks.'
After that first mad year I settled down. I found the equilibrium, the balance between leading a Danish and a British lifestyle and between getting the sex I needed and being overly promiscuous.
It was during that year that I met and started going out with Adrian. A widowed advertising executive in his late forties he had two children, both boys, who were away at boarding school. He lived in a rambling town house just off Hoxton Square in Shoreditch, East London. The area, which had been depressed for years, was making a strong comeback with everywhere being gentrified and at that time was rapidly becoming the trendiest area in all of London.
We met at a dinner party, where I think we were set up as blind dates. We dined together a few days later, got on well, went on two dates then slept together. He was good, well more OK really, in bed. The first few time we had sex there was something just a little wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on what. There was a sort of edginess on his part. Sure, he took his time and made sure that I was suitably aroused by fairly lengthy foreplay. But that was all a bit mechanistic and almost as if he was making love to me by following instructions from a manual. Despite that he produced the appropriate reactions from me, multiple and satisfying orgasms.
He was a well-built guy in his mid-forties but, slightly embarrassingly, he was a couple of inches shorter than me. Good looking with a full head of hair Ade, as I usually called him, had very bad eyesight and had to wear thick spectacles, as his particular stigmatism prevented him wearing contacts.
A few weeks later I arranged to spend the weekend with him at his house which was just three miles from my Docklands flat. We had dinner on the Friday night at a Vietnamese restaurant in Kingsland Road, walked to his house, slightly tipsy holding hands and stopping to kiss every few yards in doorways and dark places. In one he slid his hand in my blouse and then in another he scooped my breasts from my bra. On the remainder of the short walk through the crowded streets of Hoxton we were heavily aroused, very excited and totally tuned into sex, especially as both of my breasts were out of my bra and the extended nipples were making large outlines in the thin top.
He fucked me in the hallway of his house. He fucked me just like they did it in The Thomas Crown Affair, the second one I mean with Piers Brosnan, half way up a staircase. He didn't undress me but merely pushed my leather skirt up, tugged my panties down round my thighs and fucked me like that. And it was great. It was exactly what the circumstances and our mood demanded. A hard, fast, raw and dirty fuck with no edginess. Perhaps it was more satisfying because his instruction manual didn't cover how to fuck half way up a staircase!
We drank more and then went to bed and there he didn't fuck me. No there, in his very masculine bedroom we made love. We made long, lingering, tender and pretty satisfying love. We'd taken the bottle of wine to bed with us and after we'd both climaxed, well with me it was after several climaxes, I was leaning back against his outstretched legs sipping my wine totally satisfied and fully at peace with life.
"Can you reach the bottle Michaela?" he asked, adding. "It's a little difficult for me, as I have such a lovely lump leaning on me."
Smiling I turned towards the bedside table but saw that I wouldn't be able to reach. I rolled over so that I lay across Adrian's lap, my legs bent with his thighs pressing into my tummy. As I stretched to pick up the bottle so I felt his hands on my bottom. He stroked me murmuring.
"Mmmm that's a lovely sight Michy."
I didn't reply or move but lay there enjoying his touch on that part of my body that has always been very sensitive.
"Very, very nice" he went on running a finger along the crease between the cheeks that he continued stroking with his other hand. "Is that nice?"
"Mmmm" I sighed probably slightly wiggling it a bit as I revelled in the lovely feelings his hands were giving me.
He had a lovely, light but nicely enquiring touch and I was just getting used to his gentle yet persistent touch when suddenly I firstly heard, 'thwack' then felt a sharp pain on my left cheek as he smacked me.
I cried out and was just about to ask what the hell was going on, for I thought more were on their way, when I felt his hand pressing softly and gently caressing me right where the blow had landed.
"I just couldn't resist it Michaela" he said huskily adding. "You have the most smackable bottom."
As it happened, I then had a call on my mobile so nothing more happened that night along those lines.
