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.
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.