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Meat And Potatoes Sex

Just the basics, ma'am.

Just the basics, ma’am.

In retrospect, the sex was merely average. 

He disliked using my toys, preferred naked skin over anything I’d wear from Victoria’s Secret, and had little imagination in the sack. It wasn’t exactly missionary-position-with-lights-out, but it was rather standard fare.

In the 20-odd years I was B.’s mistress, ours was meat and potatoes sex. I was more in love with the thrill of the affair as opposed to the actual activity. I was in a sexless marriage, so I took from B. what I could get.

Every lover has their own preferences — “kinks” as I like to call them — that define them, brand them. Things you remember them by. B. had two kinks: rubbing his cock across my tits, and having sex with the lights on and the shades wide open.

No, not between my tits, like most guys (and porn stars) might do. Across them. I’m small-breasted, and even trying to smash my girls together so he could push his cock between them was futile; there was still a Grand Canyon of space. How erotic is rubbing a hard-on up and down against a woman’s breastbone anyway? He often said he loved my small breasts, that I shouldn’t get enhancements, that he preferred them as nature intended. He’d position himself above me and rub the head of his cock around and across my nipples, feeling both harden to the attention. It was nice enough for me, but it was a tremendous turn-on for B. Sometimes I’d slick him up with oil or lube and let him go slip-sliding away across my tits, my hands pressing his hot cock against my breasts to mimic the warmth and tightness of pussy, and he’d cum. No “pearl necklaces,” though. Remember, his was a sideways kind-of thrusting.

(And he’d cum quietly. That was another thing about B.: he wasn’t a loud cum-mer. He was so quiet, made hardly no facial contortions, no grunts or groans, it was sometimes hard to tell if he’d finished inside of me or not.)

His other “kink” was fucking with all the lights on or, if we were in a hotel room (our usual place of business), with the shades and drapes drawn wide open. It was the first thing he’d do upon arrival: head right for the window and expose us to the sun and God-knows-who might be watching from an adjacent building. Or he’d turn on all the lights. Maybe it was an eyesight thing; B. has astigmatism and is severely near-sighted besides. But we laid bare our imperfections to the other. Being thus spotlighted never bothered me much other than it was predictable. It was just one of his things. His brand.

B. had a third “kink,” but I eventually got him over that. For the longest time in our 26-year (on-and-off) affair, he wouldn’t — couldn’t? — cum in my mouth. Now, I know I have damned good technique. Plenty of lovers have told me that, so I wasn’t at fault here. After years and years of swallowing him whole only to have him finish up inside of me, I mustered the guts to ask why he never shot his wad into my mouth. I practically had to drag the answer out of him: this was wife territory. Apparently she gave good head, and he saved his stuff for oral with her. Not with me. It was the only thing I was jealous of the wife for. But after they’d separated and he’d moved out of the marital home he apparently decided it was now all right to pop in my mouth. And so he did. Regularly.

Nope, it was never wild sex between us. There was passion and a great need for each other. But no fireworks, bedroom gymnastics, imaginative positions, or exotic locations (well, okay, once we fucked on my kitchen island. On my suggestion.). Now that we’ve parted forever I realize this:

Meat and potatoes may be hearty fare for some, but I seem to have left the table still hungry.

Categories: Affair Affairs Break-ups Relationships

Tagged as:

Exit 4A

A former mistress (26 years, on-and-off) describes the good, the bad, and the ugly of her long-term affair. Conclusion: Affairs aren't necessarily destructive if kept in the correct perspective. Our experience enhanced BOTH our marriages.

That is, until his marriage ended and we began to love each other. When the affair morphed into a relationship, well, that's when it stopped being fun for me. We have now irrevocably split.

Lately I've been writing about the man who took his place in the "off" years of that 26-year-long affair. He was a dynamic sexual partner but we, too, now have irrevocably split.

These are our stories.

6 replies

  1. Even lovers can get into some kind of a rut. I’m sure that’s easy to do over 26 years. I find that very unusual, the not cumming in your mouth thing

  2. Kitchen island. Ouch. An indelible moment from my own affair, at her (their) house.

    This girl/woman had brown skin so healthy that it glowed with a kind of animal sheen. I wanted to see it decorated with gold. We dug around in her jewelry box and found necklaces, an anklet and a belly chain (Nice surprise that last bauble.) I walked into her closet and chose a pair of red high heels — Candies, pixie sexy hot and cute.

    She felt self-conscious putting on all these accoutrements. She was always a little shy until the moment her ample libido fully kicked in. We’d been slow dancing and making out before starting the closet raid. While she was fastening clasps and such, I fetched an overstuffed, high-backed chair from her stylish dining room and placed in front of the huge wall mirror near the stereo in the great room.

    She stepped out of the bedroom wearing a silk robe that barely covered her ass. I guess she couldn’t quite bear to bare so much immediately after emerging from the boudoir. She said she’d glanced in the mirror and thought she looked like a stripper. She sorta did. I liked it. Minor uneasiness aside, so did she.

    We danced for a minute or two, kissing. She removed my shirt and I slipped off her robe. I turned her to face the mirror and told her how incredible she looked. Boy, did she, all that gold flashing against her bare brown skin.

    We both relished performing oral preliminaries, but after a little more dancing and undressing, they struck us as superfluous today. I turned the chair sideways so we could both see into the mirror and she straddled me. She grinded to the music (it seemed; who knows?), came hard then reversed her position and worked it like she knew she was putting a show. Which she was.

    (This is relevant to our host’s post, I swear.)

    She came again and after a few minutes of catching her breath and quelling the little aftershocks, she dismounted. I stood. She knelt. I pushed my cock between her parted lips and she put another show. Soon she could tell that the show was earning rave reviews. She abruptly stopped.

    I want you to come in my mouth.

    No, I said. Not yet anyway. I’m not done with you yet.


    No. I’m nowhere near finished fucking you.

    I pulled her to her feet and bent her over the couch. The high heels brought her open legs to the perfect height. I went at her pretty hard, hard enough to feel it necessary to unclasp her belly chain. I was afraid that my, um, robust ardor was creating sufficient push/pull friction between her hips and the couch frame that the chain might snap. I wanted to keep that chain in the repertoire.

    I spun her around and led her to the kitchen island, told her to clear it off. I dug out one of those step aerobics things from a utility closet. I had spied it on previous visits. I planned to get her on that island one day, and I knew that I’d need a little boost to make our privates align for maximum access & penetration.

    I also grabbed a big white fluffy towel from the laundry room. I spread it over the island, threw her up there and commenced to spread her too. She looked positively, pornographically fabulous laying back on that white towel, open, waiting, glistening with sweat.

    I pushed the head of my cock back inside her, felt her relax and release, then pulled out. She shot me a pissy look, like, “WTF?” Then I dropped down and put my face between her legs, and she wasn’t quite so angry anymore. I licked and sucked her clit until she wouldn’t lay still anymore.

    “Fuck me already, will ya? Please?”

    She didn’t have to ask nicely — or ask at all. The blue-ball ache was starting; my dick had been saluting at full attention since we went picking through her jewelry box. The yellow light was starting to turn orange, en route to green, but hell no. I finally had her where I wanted her and she looked so gorgeous, so thoroughly sexed up, that I was gonna make this last a while. I had my right middle finger inside her pussy and my thumb up her ass, so I had go southpaw in order to grab my dick, which I squeezed very, very hard for at least 20 seconds. It works like a charm 90% of the time.

    I stood up on the step-o-cize thing and as I arranged her legs into a flying V, I noticed that she still had her Candies on. Sweet! But as much as I like her tricked up and turned out, I like her buck naked even better. Off they came; in I went. I gave her a ferocious pounding. I really did. The view was so sublime and the blended scent of her sweat, pussy and perfume was so intoxicating that it was damn near an out-of-body experience. I can see still see myself kind of watching myself. Very odd but very cool.

    The whole time I’m sorta reading her her rights, in electric blue. The PG version:

    You deserve this. You need this. You want this.

    And I do too.

    She employed only three words to reply: “Yes” and “Fuck me.” Three words uttered, whispered, whimpered, gasped and growled about 20 different ways.

    She was in a half-crunch position, on her elbows, watching, when she snapped back her head and loosed a scream. She wasn’t coming, she said later; she said she just felt crazy. “But it was a good crazy.”

    I don’t know if it was because her shout startled me or thrilled me or what, but that was all she wrote. Mission Control had lit the candle and there was no turning back. I suddenly remembered that I had promised to come in her mouth. I definitely wanted to but there’s no way we could’ve rearranged ourselves in time. So at the last nanosecond, I pulled out and striped her belly, tits and neck with one of those Nagasaki explosions that make you damn near pass out from the endorphin rush.

    So that’s my story about kitchen islands. And about coming/not coming in a woman’s mouth. It’s one of the best feelings a man can have, in my opinion, but sometimes there’s good reason to demur. Island fucking is a hell of a good reason. That orgasm was a Spinal Tap. It went to 11.

    1. Man oh man do I really hate it when someone shows me up on my own blog.

      Well done, Mark. (Both this Comment and your woman pal.)

      Here in the blogosphere people hand out awards for this and so. I hereby nominate you for the No Man Is An Island Award!

  3. You are the muse, madame. And milady of the gold, of course. I accept your award in the spirit of all men and to contradict Mr. Donne. He was wrong. EVERY man is an island without a woman’s bell to toll.

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