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My ‘affair’ with Emma was short lived. But it was intense, educational and life changing for me. It ended after just a couple of months because she got a job in the US and relocated to California. As I lay naked in her arms the day before she was leaving I had to smile when I said. “So I lose out to California do I?” She smiled too and then took my nipple back into her mouth, put her hand between my legs and fucked me for the last time.
I was confused after she’d gone. It had taken me some time to become accustomed to the fact that I was bi and enjoyed sex with women. After all if a woman goes from puberty to her forties without an inkling of her bisexuality and then has a highly sexual affair with a woman twelve years her junior, there is bound to be some trauma. I had plenty, but had adjusted to it after a few weeks. The incongruity of our situation was that almost as soon as I accepted the new sexuality of my new world then the centrepiece of that, my lover, was taken away from me.
We had a tearful farewell in my marital bed.
In the weeks after she had gone I felt lost. Of course we kept in touch and what with the phone, yahoo messenger and our cams we ‘saw’ a lot of each other; and by a lot I do mean frequency and bodily. We became fervent cyber lovers!
I enjoyed my times on cam and the phone with Emma, but after a month or so the frequency between our ‘chats’ increased. Although we still ‘met’ and mutually masturbated we were both becoming attuned to the limitations of electronic sex. It became something that happened occasionally and not a part of our lives as it had been when she first left England.
Oddly, in some ways it was that, which confirmed to me my bisexuality and my need for other women. I missed sex with Emma so much. I found myself wondering if and how I could find other like-minded women. I acknowledged that I needed more lesbian experiences, but how the hell I would get it and where I would find it totally bemused me.
As I more and more missed her as the frequency of our virtual fucks diminished so, strangely, I was not drawn back towards my husband; I didn’t turn to him for more sex, he didn’t become the substitute for my lesbian lover. But that was not because I had become lesbian for I still yearned for sex with other men. Yearned isn’t quite the right word, for I had no appetite for an affair or a one night stand; I’d been there and they are far too messy and complicated. No, the more apt word is fantasised. When I masturbated, as I did most days, I was often fucked by a number of men at the same time or individually by a young tennis coach or an even younger golf pro. That is, of course, in addition to having fantasy sex with Emma, and sometimes the two young men as well; yes I do have a vivid imagination.
I wouldn’t say that this desire for lesbian sex became a driving force in my life, but it certainly did entertain my mind a great deal. This was particularly so when I was alone when Richard, my corporate lawyer husband was working murderous hours in London or was away on business as he was approximately half the time.
I started to look for it. It made me feel awful when I was at the tennis club or having golf lessons or when I was at the gym, and I realised I’d looked at women, some I knew quite well, and wondered whether they would be up for it or not. I also racked my brain to think of women I knew who had reputations, but I couldn’t recall any who I was still in contact with. Just what the hell I would have done if I had thought anyone in the first group was up for it or if I still knew anyone from the second, I had no idea. I couldn’t imagine me trying to ‘pull’ or seduce anyone.
I looked on the net of course and found loads of opportunities, but they were mainly from what appeared to be lesbian hookers, something I had no idea existed. I checked the ‘lonely hearts’ pages in the quality newspapers and posh magazines and that was more interesting. I was surprised by just how many ads there were for ‘Women seeking women.’
As this was going on over a few months, so my life was also going along its typical path.
Alone a lot, but keeping myself busy playing tennis, working out at the gym, attending golf and bridge lessons, I did have concerns over my future. Both children were at university and although they came home at vacations and the occasional weekend, they had gone and I knew they would never to return, they don’t do they? I had the huge, horrible Victorian pile of house that had been in Richard’s family since it was built in eighteen eighty, to run, which was by no means a labour of love. Try as I might I couldn’t get him to even discuss the idea of downsizing so we rattled around in the six bed-roomed monstrosity.
When Richard was home we entertained regularly both at London restaurants with clients and at home with friends and we had a reasonable social life through his golf club and my tennis club.
But I wasn’t happy. I couldn’t see where my life would go other than downhill. I didn’t feel my marriage was secure and I had lost my children. Where the fuck I would be in, say, ten years time when I would be in my mid poker oyna fifties, I couldn’t imagine.
I was very aware and had, pre Emma, thought that I could cope with the inevitable traumas of a mid forties life for a woman. I was now starting to doubt that I could and that scared the life out of me. Was that, I wondered, the reason why I let Emma seduce me or, was it because of my affair with her that I was thinking this way? What a fucking conundrum!
I did reply to a few lonely heart ‘women needing women’ ads, and almost met someone, but in the end I didn’t. I don’t know why for after writing to six or so, getting replies from four, eliminating two because they were fat, ugly and totally unfanciable and exchanging photos and phone numbers with two and having several conversations with one, I nearly did. She was a little older than me and in a similar position, married, with grown up children, had a little experience with another woman and wanted more. We talked several times on the phone and discussed meeting, but as she lived in Somerset, some one hundred and fifty miles away, the logistics were difficult and in the end defeated us.
I was, of course, still having sex with my husband, but it had lost its spark; the truth be known it had lost that some time ago and it was only largely down to our ‘hobby’ that we had moments when we rekindled the spark. That hobby was him taking photos of me. Photos in various stages of undress including, if we got that far before giving into temptation and fucking each other, me naked.
I had resisted his suggestions for some time, but after a year or so of pressure I eventually agreed and we set a time; strangely he could take that afternoon off work, an almost unheard happening.
I was incredibly nervous waiting for Richard to arrive home at 1.00 pm. Several times, I thought of calling him and changing my mind and numerous times I hoped he would call me. But almost dead on one, he arrived.
He called after he had left the office.
We chatted a bit and then I asked. “What do you want me to wear?”
“Well I could say nothing, but we’ll leave that for later. Just a nice dressing robe and bra and panties would be good to start with.”
I hunted around and found a matching thong and bra. Black and lacy, they were both see through and very delicate. I didn’t wear them often for the bra was so thin that under most tops my nipples would poke through. It was a little tight, but I got into the D cups quite snugly. The thong reared up my stomach to circulate my hips. As I looked over my shoulder I saw the slither of lace plunging down and vanishing between the rounded cheeks of my bum, which hadn’t yet, as it was bound to soon, fallen; it looked good. I had a deep red, silk, floor length robe that I also didn’t wear that often and that seemed prefect for the shoot, as I was now beginning to refer to it.
After Richard got home we had a couple of drinks. We talked about this and that in a rather stilted manner and he explained that he would put the shots onto my PC. “We can then link that up to the TV and look at them together, even in bed” he advised me. The idea of seeing myself naked or in my underwear on a fifty inch screen was quite unnerving, but nevertheless also exciting.
“Shall we start, are you ready?” He asked.
“As I’ll ever be” I replied adding. “Richard do we really need to do this?”
“I’m sure we don’t need to, but I certainly would like to,” he retorted in his legalistically precise way of speaking adding. “I’m sure darling that once we get going you’ll love it too. Ready?”
Now I did feel nervous. It was one thing being photographed on the spur of the moment, as he often shot on holidays and the like, but in the cold light of day in a planned and calculated manner, it was a different thing.
“Er no, I’m not sure.”
Smiling he said. “Not sure about starting or whether you’re ready?”
He is so quick with words and often makes me feel inadequate and rather stupid.
“Well both actually?
As it happened, it didn’t matter.
“Not going shy on me are you?” He asked pointing the camera at me. He fired off a few shots quickly moving the focus or the zoom maybe. I smiled again when I realised that I preened at the camera. I ran my fingers through my shoulder length ash blonde hair. He walked round behind me.
“Look at me over your shoulder, Cat”
I did, he snapped away.
“Lovely, that’s great, the hair looks fantastic.”
He was saying all the right things, I could feel myself responding.
“Turn and look at me Cat.”
I did; more shots.
“Open the robe a little.”
I did; more shots.
“A little more, grab the lapels, show some cleavage.”
I did; more shots. It was getting to me.
“Undo it completely.”
“Oh fuck that’s great, touch your tits.”
I did; more shots.
And so it went on with more and more directions, which I followed, after which he fired off more shots.
“Let’s lose the robe?”
“Turn away; let me get some from a new angle, your bum.”
“Stand canlı poker oyna up.”
“Push your tits out.”
“Put your hands in your hair, ruffle it up, push it so it falls over your face.”
“Undo your bra, but keep it on.”
“Take your bra off for me Cat.”
“Show me your tits; show the camera your tits.”
Now I was gone. I’d had it. I was over the top. The posing had got me, the camera was devouring me, eating me up, it was fucking me and I was fucking the lens.
“Lay down on that rug.” He ordered pointing to a Persian, silk carpet that had cost over two thousand pounds.
Richard seemed to know exactly what to say, at precisely the right time in perfect accord with the camera. We were becoming a hugely intimate threesome; him, me and the lens.
“Hold them Cat, play with them, squeeze them, pinch your nipples. You do want to don’t you?”
Laying on my back, being caressed by the smoothness of the silk carpet as he stood over me shooting away, at that moment there was, nothing I wanted more than to do as he asked: other, perhaps, than to be fucked by Emma or, as a substitute, my husband, but as that seemed quite likely, I pinched my nipples instead.
“Stroke your body,” he told me.
‘Stroke my body,’ I thought, what an expression, what a phrase, what a thought? An odd term, but a wonderful one. I did that, I did exactly as he asked, I stroked my body, my chest, my arms, my tummy, my thighs and my legs.
It had to come, he had to go further, the instructions had to be given. It was inevitable. They poured forth, one after the other. I responded, willingly to each one.
“Touch yourself through your panties”
“Slip your hands inside.”
He was now kneeling beside me, his shirt had several buttons undone, his erection was obvious. He kept photographing my every action.
“Rub your clit.”
“Keep one hand in there and hold your tits with the other”
“Push them down, not too far, just enough so we can see what you are doing with your hand.”
I did that. I rolled my knickers down so they were just beneath my pussy, so that they were down far enough to let, my lover, the camera see what I was doing to myself.
I was in a terrible state. So aroused, so turned on, so out of control, so under the influence of him, but more so, the camera.
“Show us your cunt Cat,” was the over the top, defining phrase that turned this from a photographic session into a fuck. That request, demand, suggestion or whatever, did it. Richard’s order to me to “show him and the camera my cunt,” caused me to be able no longer to satisfy myself by being photographed. That made me want more, need more, demand more. Yes, the power of the camera, of posing for it and being photographed had removed every single vestige of my inhibitions. I had become a camerachick, a lens slut, a focus fuckgirl. And that meant I wanted and needed just one thing. I reached out for Richard. He pushed himself forward, he offered himself to me and I took it.
His cock was in my hand, I was kissing it as we tore his clothes off. It was in my mouth. I was sucking him, licking him and slurping at his thick, sturdy and blisteringly hard prick, as I murmured, possibly nearly incoherently, but sincerely and so pleadingly.
“Make me cum Richard, please make me cum.”
I didn’t show the camera my cunt on that occasion, for then he fucked me. More to the point, we fucked. Even more so, the camera, Richard and I fucked.
Over the years we’d had numerous sessions that were similar to the first one and I can vouch for the fact that photography does work as an aphrodisiac; for I don’t think we finished one session with out ending up making love.
I had stored all the photos on my PC and I’d told Emma about them. One of her and my most momentous sessions was when I showed them to her. I linked the PC up to the plasma in the master bedroom, put the PC on ‘slideshow’ and then let it show the two hundred or so shots of me as Emma and I made love. It was absolutely sublime.
I was still searching for another adventure, an extension of my affair with Emma, a further pushing out of my sexuality boundaries, yes I was looking for more fucks with another woman.
It was evident that the personal ads in the quality papers were not going to work so I racked my brain for other ideas; thank goodness for google. I used that to search for ‘lesbian contacts,’ but again they were either hookers or seriously downmarket. I came across a site advertising lesbian and gay bars and clubs. ‘Did I dare?’ I asked my self. ‘Would have the nerve to go to one?’
A few evenings later I was in Brewer Street in Soho, near The Griffin pub. That had been publicised as ‘A meeting place for gay and lesbian lovelies.’ I had never seen so many scruffy, tattoos and pierced women in my life as I sat in a café opposite the pub. I didn’t have the nerve or inclination to go in.
‘The Lipstick Lounge’ was how it was advertised. ‘A discrete bar, lounge and club for discerning bi and lesbian ladies’ was how it described itself. The reply to my email advised that the place internet casino was open from mid-day to two or three in the morning seven days a week and that lipsticks were particularly welcome; I had learned from Emma that was what we are. The website had a slide show and it did look quite nice.
After a couple of weeks thinking about it I found myself getting the tube from Kings Cross to Charing Cross and nervously approaching the club. It was smart and not at all seedy. I sat at the bar and cautiously looked round. There was quite a few fat dykey types, all cropped hair and jeans, but as far as I could see few fellow lipsticks. I wandered round, peeped into the restaurant and the dance area, the small cinema that was showing lesbian porn films and several other bars, but all to no avail. I was approached a couple of times, but as the women were not at all attractive and it was all too come on, I left and went home slightly deflated.
With Richard away on a two week visit to the west coast of the USA and the kids at university, I had decided to attend a tennis convention in Spain. This was part lessons and part a conference. I had been a pretty good player in my teens, almost making Wimbledon and had kept in touch by playing at a club and representing it in various tournaments county and national competitions. I had once had some coaching training so when I was asked if I would help out, I thought why not? It was a woman only set up
On the third night a group of the coaches had dinner together and I found myself next to Jane, one of the leading tennis coaches in the country. I knew her vaguely and guessed she was her early to mid fifties. She was extremely fit, had a slim, boyish figure, cropped black hair and an angular, but not unattractive face. She had big eyes and high, prominent cheekbones that were attractive, but her rather large nose and thin lips meant she was not beautiful by any means.
We hadn’t chatted very much up until then, but she was very attentive asking me loads of questions and making appropriate comments and little jokes. She was surprisingly easy to talk to and I found myself a little in awe of her and the fact that such a senior person in the sport was bothering with me.
I drank quite a bit as I thought everyone had and was laughing and joking at her witty and rather sacrilegious views on the tennis governing body the LTA. She told me about herself, without boasting and how her coaching and the videos she sold enabled her to have a house in Hampstead, an apartment in Marbella and to drive a Porsche. I had heard rumours of her possible lesbian tendencies so when her attention became a little closer than with a straight woman I was not only not quite interested, albeit a little concerned, but really was flattered by her interest. So maybe this is what I have been looking for since Emma I thought, wondering what my reaction would have been pre Emma?
When she rested her fingertips on my wrist a couple of times or placed her hand on my shoulder to emphasise points I didn’t flinch or move away. I may even, I suppose, have looked rather lingeringly into her stunningly green eyes as she made those gestures. I didn’t know for sure whether they were attempts to check me out for they were only fleeting moments so I just ignored them and did nothing to overtly indicate whether I would be interested or not. In any case, I thought, she probably wouldn’t be interested in a nobody like me when all the more well known tennis ‘celebrity dykes’ were probably at her beck and call. In all probability, I thought, the touches were her just her being a bit lovey and touchy feely as many in sport can be. But when she leaned back and let her hand fall on the seat of my chair so that it brushed against my bottom I wasn’t quite so sure.
Dinner broke up and we all adjourned to the very small bar. I was in a corner at the end of the bar sitting on a bar stool when Jane and a crowd of seven or eight came in making the bar even more crowded. She stood at the bar and bought everyone drinks edging a little closer to me as people picked theirs up. When the serving was finished she stood half in front of me leaning back against the bar her body shielding my legs from the others view. I was wearing a white, scooped front, short sleeved tight top that showed lots of cleavage and a black silk skirt that had ridden well up my thighs so quite a lot of my legs were on view. Being in warm Spain and having a tan, I wasn’t wearing tights or stockings, so my legs were bare. I was probably ‘flashing too much flesh’ I thought to myself, feeling rather tipsy. Everyone was talking and laughing and having a roaring time when I felt something on my knee. I looked down and saw her hand moving away. Another accident or an overt gesture, I wondered?
It happened again a few minutes later and then a third time. What she was doing was seemingly accidentally just letting her hand fall down so that if we wanted it could be seen as an inadvertent gesture. A mistake I suppose. But what I felt was becoming clear was that they were not mistakes. Especially when on the fourth time the back of her hand ran up my leg from the knee to the hem of my thin, silk skirt. A little panicky I looked around to make sure no one could see but was reassured on that for Jane had, if anything, moved more in front of me blocking my legs completely from anyone’s view.
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