A story in search of a title.

May 7, 2011 at 4:02 pm (Sex) (, , , )


I was told to undress, told to kneel on the bed, my feet slightly off the side, my knees slightly apart. He slid a pillow under me, pulled the blanket over me, asked if I was comfortable. He didn’t tell me what he was going to do, and I didn’t ask. I just waited.

I don’t remember if he undressed for this. I felt him touch me, slowly and gently stroking over the curve from hip to thigh, then again, moving inwards towards the core. He barely brushed his lips down the center, and I felt his breath as a warm tickle, followed by small kisses – not hesitant, but not urgent. He didn’t probe, he didn’t push inward, just kissed and nuzzled. It was obvious this was not about my pleasure – he did not touch or kiss his way down to my lips or clit. It was only my ass he was interested in.

It didn’t take very long. I heard his breathing change, a catch, an exhalation. He got up and I heard running water in the bathroom. He came back, removed the blanket and told me I could lie down now.

He later explained, in an offhanded way: “Lately that’s the only way I can come.”

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No longer a mistress.

April 20, 2011 at 7:39 pm (Relationship, Sex) (, , )


I’ve been cut off again. Cut out. Severed.

This is, I think, the fourth time in over twenty years. For it to happen again should probably upset me, or at least annoy me, but after the initial surprise wore off, it doesn’t.

He’ll find me again when he needs me. I don’t know if I’ll need him to find me, though.

Most likely, he was careless with an email account and certain messages were seen. Promises were made to his wife. No, never again, I mean it this time. See? I’ve deleted her.

I am, it seems, easily deleted. Easily un-friended. Easily un-collared. Easily un-mistressed.

The first time, it was a mutual decision – we both were getting married to other people, and we knew it was wrong to sleep together. But it seemed like the last chance to do something we agreed we always wanted to do. The second time, he panicked and felt guilty, and couldn’t follow through. The third time, I was just one of several mistresses he swore would never enter his life again.

This time, I don’t know. I was probably the only one. The one, he had told me many times, he thought of every day. The one constant in his life for 20 years. His melancholy nature was suited to pining away after one particular woman too far away to touch. I think he enjoyed the pining, perhaps more than he enjoyed the rare times he was with me.

The funny thing is, the most recent messages we’d exchanged were hardly erotic material worthy of any jealousy. Rather, they contained me delaying plans and making excuses: I can’t get time off work for another cross-country trip, I’ve been sick and stressed and my libido is shot; give me a few months and we’ll see how I feel then. The few months went by and he never asked again, and I never offered. Then is was well over a year. Then it was going on two.  I wasn’t missing him.

I’ll tell a few of his stories, to honor his memory. But I suspect this is truly the end this time, and there will be no more stories about him.

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