Prudence tells all

checklist

2006-12-13T08:38:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Looks like last night was one to remember! Enjoy,
Prudence
= = = = = = = =

From: Jones
To: Smith
Re: Morning-after checklist

Fatigue from turning lights out after 3am? Check.

Low-level hangover, bearable but present nonetheless? Check.

General soreness everywhere, from sexual equivalent of a multiple-set, high-rep cardio workout? Check.

Overstretched tendons connecting inner thighs to torso, from having knees pushed to ears by his shoulders? Check.

Aching thighs, from effort of squeezing out that last orgasm? Check.

Tender girlie-bits, from sheer overuse? Check.

Bonus... Raised welt on skull from whacking head against night table in medias res? Check.

Yep. It was a grade-A night of grade-A sex, alrighty. So when's the next one? Cause I miss it already.

sensimilla

2006-11-29T13:07:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Here's an interesting instant messaging exchange. Enjoy!
Prudence

= = = = = = = =

Smith: Hey. Home alone. Kids in bed. She's away this week, remember?

Jones: That's right! So. Whassup? Surfing the web?

Smith: Was just sitting here thinking about how I'd like to get high with you someday.

Jones: I was more of a vodka girl in my misspent college years. I only got high once or twice. Would the sex be good, under the influence?

Smith: Let me imagine for you what it would be like if we lit up a nice joint filled with high-grade west coast sensimilla. First comes the giggly phase. We'd be groping around, playing with words, having a ball just saying stupid shit that sounds wonderfully funny and smart. Fairly quickly (at least in my case) comes the horny phase. Although granted, when I'm with you, that doesn't require any dope. But with a bit of chemical enhancement it gets promoted from railroad train to Shinkansen-meets-Thalys. Waiting ability probably reduced (time flies when you're high) so soon the clothes are stuck to the walls and ceilings, and you're pinned to the bed or floor or couch with an incredibly enthusiastic erection holding you to whatever surface you're up or down against. Not sure what's going on inside your head, but it's probably making a lot of noise by now, since neither of us is worrying too much about that.

Jones: I hate to think. Beastlike roaring. (Note to self - do this somewhere soundproof or far from neighbors...)

Smith: Not quite sure how long this goes on because the cannabinoids provide serious stamina. We're both sweating like giant minks doused in oil. At some point (probably after you've had a few orgasms, but who's counting?), I get detail oriented and start to explore your body, discovering it all over again. Those nipples require at least a half an hour of detailed looking, licking, sucking, etc. That mighty fine ass requires curve-fitting. Pretty soon it's time for another round of rollicking rambunctious rogering.

Jones: We need to make this happen!

Smith: Maybe London or Amsterdam?

Jones: Can it be done in a hotel room?

Smith: Sure

Jones: Amsterdam is ultra easy for this sort of thing, no? You just saunter into the appropriate establishment and buy what you need, I hear.

Smith: Guess so - never tried it

Jones: One of us even speaks Dutch reasonably well

Smith: You do?

Jones: Ik mis je.

Smith: ik mis je ook. je bent een lekker dier.

Jones: Ik wil met je neuken ;-)

Smith: wat ben jij slim!

Jones: 'Fraid those two sentences were about the extent of my Dutch, except for "please" and "thank you" and the like.

Smith: Let's go to Amsterdam and get high, and I'll teach you more...

a good licking

2006-11-10T19:17:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Jones is one of those women many men dream of: she honestly loves fellatio. Read on to see what I mean...
Prudence
= = = = = = = =

Jones: That was one fine blowjob last night.

Smith: Hey, that's my line! I know why it was great for me. What's your reason?

Jones: Hmm. Good question.

Because when I saw you last night, in your faded jeans and that yellow t-shirt, the first spontaneous thought through my mind was that you looked good enough to eat. I was looking forward to sucking you before we'd even been together for ten seconds.

Because champagne makes me horny.

Because you made me laugh with your sexy teasing in the bar before we went upstairs.

Because that amazing hotel room turned me on.

Because the way you do me makes me hot.

Because you looked so very handsome, so very appealing, lying there on your back.

Because you'd just moments earlier made me come so hard, I was briefly afraid I had hurt you with the clench of the spasms that shuddered through my pussy.

Because I looked up right before I looked down, and your eyes met mine, and your hungry look made my heart pound.

Because your cock is lovely to look at and delicious to lick.

Because your thighs and tummy feel so good under my hands.

Because you cried out as you felt yourself losing control, and I adore hearing that I'm giving you pleasure.

Because you came with your cock deep in my mouth and my hand on your balls, and as a result, I felt every single pulse travel from the depths of you right up into my throat: the most amazing, sensual, pleasurable experience...

Because you taste so very good.

Because I love the way you gasp and groan and writhe under me when I continue to suck gently on you after you've come. I know just what you're feeling: it's too intense to bear, but too good to say "stop"...

Because I felt a pang of regret that it was over.

Because I already can't wait for the next time.

Reason enough?

wrestling

2006-10-13T12:01:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Flexibility, dexterity, balance, stamina, endurance ... all skills that are needed to be a successful wrestler. From the instant messaging exchange below, it certainly sounds like my favorite un-couple had a good hard workout on the mat, themselves, recently. Enjoy!
Prudence
= = = = = = = = = =

Jones: Hey there

Smith: Hey yourself. How are you doing?

Jones: Can't concentrate. Flashbacks to last night. You were a-mazing. Though in a much different way than usual.

Smith: I wondered if you noticed….

Jones: NOTICED? My God, man. I can barely walk this morning. You were a beast!

Smith: I think I just lost control.

Jones: Yes, well, lost control, took control, something. I have always said that sex with you is a splendor of variety - you can be any one of a dozen different lovers in bed, in fact, usually a lovely mix across a night together. But this guy last night was new to me. I could barely keep up. I honestly didn't do anything "active" from the moment I pulled my dress off!

Smith: Blame yourself. You looked so hot in that bodysuit thing and those stay-up stockings…

Jones: Aha, I thought you might like that. Spent some time at the Wolford shop recently. But no kidding, I never had so little control or input. You were throwing me around the bed like an animal in heat, and never into a position where I could pump or thrust or set the speed. It was pretty damned hot.

Smith: You know what they say: the nicest things to put behind a woman's ears are her knees.

Jones: Mmm, yes. Then there was the doggy-style position that quickly became some sort of high school wrestling team move: driving into me from behind, then reaching forward and pulling my arms out from under me...

Smith: Take down, two points! You're my favorite "fish."

Jones: Your favorite … what?!

Smith: My favorite fish! Hey, you brought up high school wrestling. A "fish" is the skinnier guy they let you practice your moves on, so you can get a feel for doing them right.

Jones: Oh, you were doing them right, baby. Considered me "pinned."

Rule #4: Don't enter or leave together

2006-10-06T10:22:00.000+02:00

Rule #4 for Having a Successful Extramarital Affair: Don't enter or leave the hotel together
Reader, there is no need for false modesty between us, correct? We both know that your lovely affair is obviously largely about the sex! Which means that you will find yourselves in hotels with what I hope for you is significant regularity! However, never forget that while it is possible to explain your presence in the hotel lobby to someone you meet there unexpectedly, it is much more difficult to explain your presence and that of your lover standing right next to you! So always, always enter and exit your hotel separately, leaving 4 or 5 minutes of space between your comings and goings.

* * * * *
Jump to Rule #3.

hit and run

2006-09-29T18:35:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
I thought you might enjoy the fantasy I just captured from an instant messaging exchange ...
Prudence
* * * * * * *

Smith: What a week! I can't wait to get out of the office.

Jones: You can say that again. I'm in the mood for pizza and beer followed by fast/rough sex. Me on top. Fellatio to finish you off. No cuddling afterward.

Smith: Hit and run?

Jones: Exactly

Smith: Sounds exciting. Maybe leave the pizza/beer for afterward?

Jones: Even better. Get to the sex straight off. No chitchat, just get to it. You know the kind I mean?

Smith: "Up against the wall bitch!"

Jones: I see that you do know the kind I mean...

Smith: Maybe on the hood of a car. Or the kitchen floor.

Jones: mmm, nice! Semi-public. Potential to be discovered. We'd be riding the adrenaline rush through the rest of the evening...

tree frog

2006-09-20T13:18:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Smith and Jones have just returned from a joint business trip to Los Angeles. I asked Jones to send me one of her lovely detailed descriptions of something they did together while they were there. Luckily, she understood that I was not talking about taking the complementary shuttle bus to the hotel or grabbing a cup of coffee!
Read on...
Prudence
* * * * * * * *
"I don't think we'll be doing the deed again tonight," I had mumbled into his side earlier. He didn't reply. We were in bed, in our underwear, watching a DVD on a laptop.

We'd had sex three times in the past 29 hours; and not calm, tender "lovemaking" mind you, but long, sweaty, athletic sessions of grade-A fucking, covering all four corners of the king-sized bed and several other parts of our hotel room, and resulting in the kind of climaxes they name fruity cocktails after. All this, nine time zones away from our usual abodes, which meant yesterday had started with a twelve-hour flight each to get here. And what's more, sandwiched between the first two sessions and the third was a complete business day at a trade show (think: lots of walking, lots of standing, lots of meetings.)

In a word: I was exhausted. He was in no better shape: his face was drawn and his eyes were heavy and he'd bummed two Advil off of me before we booted up the computer.

When the DVD was over, I crawled on top of him for a pre-sleep snuggle, my legs folded frog-like on either side of him. I laid my head on his shoulder and relaxed heavily into him. I had a passing thought that I should have turned the light off: sleep was minutes away. Or so I thought. But I had gravely underestimated the male of the species when he is in the presence of the female of the species, and I had glossed over this specific male's incredible talent to whip me into a frenzied state of need.

He lifted his arms from where they had naturally looped around me and began to caress my back from shoulder to rump. On his second round-trip, he unhooked my bra, and I wiggled out of it, but instead of taking advantage of the newly-liberated expanse of skin across my back, his fingertips went to the nape of my neck, and then up into my hair, sending shivers through me that I'm sure even he felt. I had my first inkling that perhaps sleep was NOT minutes away when next they ventured to stroke lightly on the ultra-sensitive flesh of my thighs. I lifted my head in surprise and found him laying still, his eyes closed, an unmistakable smirk turning up one corner of his mouth.

What followed was classic Smith: from his easy-access, hands-free position on his back, he put me into a state of absolute sensory overload, deliciously overstimulated and incredibly turned-on. The man is a mighty reigning lord of erotic teasing and foreplay, and this was some of his best stuff.

His hands touched me everywhere; I was never quite sure where they would land next. He alternated velvety-soft strokes with feather-light touches, all while kissing and licking at my ears and neck. The combined effect made it impossible for me to think about anything except the sensations. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure I was even kissing or touching him back: it's possible I was just lying on top of him, twitching and gasping and moaning in pleasure.

From time to time, he would still his hands to take my mouth with his for hungry, eager kisses that would then suddenly become soft and gentle. But not for long.

Nor was he lying there quietly. "What is so funny?" he queried at one point, rather unnecessarily, as he knew damn well that what was so funny was his fingers gently tweaking and prodding every ticklish spot of my sides and tummy, as I giggled and shrieked helplessly. A few minutes later he grumbled in mock-complaint about being in bed with a tree frog: but at that moment, he was spinning a teasing fingertip around my anus, and I kept bucking up and away instinctively -- then lowering my bottom back down to his waiting hands for more of the delicious torment.

Finally I could take no more. Breaking away from his grasp with a bit of a choked growl, I pulled off my panties and then somewhat awkwardly yanked off his jockeys, as he laughed aloud. "I thought we weren't going to be doing the deed tonight?" he teased, one last time, before I lowered my wet, wet pussy onto his cock, and he, too, was lost to sensation.

la rentree

2006-08-28T11:30:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
It's "la rentrée" here in France: the return (to Paris, to school, to work...) after vacation. While French newspapers and magazines analyze the "rentrée politique" or the "rentrée economique," I suggest we all concentrate on the "rentrée sexuelle" of Mr Smith and Mrs Jones, finally reunited (in an instant messaging window, at least) after weeks and weeks of separation. Enjoy!
Prudence
* * * * * * *
Mr Smith: Hi there. Welcome back.

Mrs Jones: Hey! Welcome back yourself. Missed you missed you missed you. Let's talk: give me a call, I'm at my desk.

Smith: Can't talk right now, I'm afraid. I have three minutes before a conference call with Japan that is apparently going to last for hours. Hell of way to start back up after vacation...

Jones: OK, then take a minute and a half to write me a sentence that starts with "I like it when", just to feed my fantasties.

Smith: Only one sentence? After all this time without you, I have a dozen at the top of my mind. How about: I like it when you wrap your legs around me while I'm on top. I like it when you straddle me and very slowly lower yourself onto me, after having driven me crazy with a bout of cock sucking and ball licking. I like slowly taking your clothing off, bit by bit, between slurpy kisses and nipple tickles. I like turning you on your stomach, spreading your legs, and working my way into your already steamy snatch while you buck up against me.

Jones: Holy shit. Nice work. My heart is actually pounding.

Smith: Hate to say it, but I have to go. Catch you later.

(later)

Smith: You still there? I'm finally out of the phone conf from hell. How about a few "I like it whens" from you, to get my blood flowing again?

Jones: Happy to oblige! I like it when you drive me over the edge by stroking my breasts, kissing my ears and neck, and pounding your magnificent cock into me all at the same time. I like it when you push my legs apart and lick me gently, gently, until I explode against you in what is probably a very un-gentle way. I like it when you give me your "Don't look at me That Way in public" look when I accidentally look at you That Way in public. I like the things you whisper to me when we're buzzed and going at it.

Smith: Ahem. I see what you mean about your heart pounding ... though it's more like a throbbing, and it's not my heart...

mistaken identity

2006-08-21T22:10:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Ms. Jones apparently snuck away from her family to leave a voice mail for Mr Smith, who replied to her with an e-mail she won't see for a week... hang in there, my dears, vacation is almost over!
Prudence
* * * * * * * *

Hey there. Nice to hear your long voice mail this morning. I loved your story about the man who came up behind you and tickled you under your shirt, mistaking you for his similarly-dressed wife who was standing nearby. You said you were secretly aroused: I bet he was too. I bet he's still thinking about you.

Your message reminded me of something I haven't told you yet: Do you remember that incredibly hot day at the Saratoga races last year? I had on my white linen suit and that ridiculously expensive Borsalino panama. You had on that filmy cotton dress that drives me crazy -- with not much on underneath, which drives me even crazier. Maybe that explains why we were being a bit daring, breaking many of our own rules by spending a day together in such a public way. Odds were low that either of us knew anyone there, but then again, the reason we've been able to keep this up so long is precisely because we have generally been paranoid about those kinds of things.

But that day, we threw caution to the winds, drove up from New York City in a rented car, checked into a B&B one town away, spent the entire night fucking like minks, and then managed to crawl out of bed, shower and out into the heat to watch the races. Not to mention watching all the other people there - more fun than horses, at least from my perspective.

After a couple of races, we snuck back to the horse stalls and walked along, stopping occasionally to look more closely at some of the particularly impressive animals. They calmly waited their turn to run in the buzzing heat.

One of the stalls was empty, darkly shady in the heat. I pushed you in, closed the stall doors behind us, and shoved you against the back wall, lifting the little white cotton dress over your head and slipping off your thong. The smell of horses and hay enhanced the sweaty, dusty grapple as we hurried to avoid being "surprised". You smelled of hay the rest of the day.

So that's why I reacted the way I did when you snuck up behind me as I stood scanning the starting line-up from the upper observation deck, before the big race of the day. I felt one arm reach around me from the left side, while a hand simultaneously slipped into my right pocket and grabbed my cock. I gasped and whirled around, grabbing for your breasts under your cotton dress while huskily telling you to be careful in such a public place - but you planted your mouth over mine. I was forcibly silenced.

I smelled hay and perfume, but not your perfume. I tasted and felt a dancing prancing tongue in my mouth, but not quite yours. The breasts I held were firm and responsive, but not the way yours are. From the corner of my eye I saw dark brown hair, but not quite like yours. The dress I was grasping through was not smooth cotton but coarse linen. And as I pulled back, a hat that was nothing like yours went flying.

I guess I'll never know her name. She stifled a shriek as she realized that I was not the man she had mistaken me for from behind, the man who stood ten steps away, staring in amazement at us. I was too flustered even to be embarrassed about the bulging erection that was distending the front of my trousers. I tried to stammer an apology - a ridiculous thing to do, of course.

Like a spooked animal, she scanned about until she spotted him, the other guy on the deck wearing a white linen suit and a Borsalino. He was heading towards us now, at a trot. She turned back to me, gave me a deep look for a split second, and then ran off towards the ladies room, one level down from the observation deck, no doubt to find the time to catch her breath and, I suppose, to prepare for an awkward discussion with the man she had come to the races with.

I only had a minute or so myself to regain my composure and reflect on what had just happened when you - the real you this time - appeared from the stairs and the ladies room. You took my arm as you sidled up beside me, took stock of my rumpled and sweaty condition, and looked at my sun-glassed face inquisitively. You asked no questions, and slipped your arm into mine as we turned to watch the start of the big race. Did you ever wonder?

You can tell me when we see each other next week ... probably the craziest thing about this crazy thing we're doing is how much I look forward to going back to work after vacation.

summer

2006-07-23T18:33:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,

Summer is usually the sexiest time of the year ... except for illicit lovers like Smith and Jones! Mr Smith and Mrs Jones usually manage to hook up during business trips: but the French have at least five glorious weeks of paid vacation, sometimes more, and so business slows down in July and grinds almost to a halt in August. Families leave for much-needed vacation time together, often renting beach cottages far from any Internet connection. As a result, our un-couple has always found the two months of summer to be a long dry spell, with much less phone, e-mail and instant messaging contact that they usually enjoy, and no sex (... or at least no sex with each other...). It's a simple fact of life for them, especially after all these years. Read this short chat exchange I just intercepted.
Prudence

= = =

Mr Smith: Hey there. Thought you weren't working today?

Mrs Jones: Hi! Just quickly checking mails from home computer. Racing around like proverbial headless chicken over here. Usual pre-vacation madness. We hit the road tomorrow at dawn.

Smith: Anything I can do to help?

Jones: Fraid not. So: will you miss me?

Smith: No future tense needed. Already do. Gotta love summer, huh?

Jones: It's always been a challenge, hasn't it? I have to go, my husband is too nearby for this sort of conversation...

Smith: Be good, drive carefully, eat your veggies and all that.

Jones: I will. You too. Think of me when you jack off in the shower.

Smith: The causality is inverse. Ciao bella.

Jones: Bye baby.

Prudence in Fleshbot

2006-07-08T08:28:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
I'm honored to announce that my humble blog has been featured in this week's Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot. A special welcome to readers arriving here from that very fine website. Prudence hopes you will enjoy what you read, and come back often.
Prudence

Prudence in Sugasm #37

2006-07-03T17:29:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
I'm pleased to report that my blog has been featured in "Sugasm #37".
Here's the linklist.
Happy surfing,
Prudence
* * * * * * *

SUGASM # 37
This week’s best of the sex blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Want in Sugasm #38? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the linklist within a week and you’re all set.

Announcements
Sex and Porn Events (sugarbank.com)
June Contest (sin.typepad.com/shauna_by_night)
Plea to the Sex-Blogging Community (spiritsex.blogspot.com)

NSFW Pics
Alison Angel and Real Peachez (sensualarousalblog.com)
Red Headed Beauty Jacinta Shot by Abby Winters (iloveabbywinters.com)
Teen Lesbian Rides Her Lover’s Tongue (simply-sapphicerotica.com)
Alison Angel Topless in Jeans (ilovealisonangel.com)
Women in Red (myhotbox.blogspot.com)
15 on 1 (pornzio.com/blog)
Anthony Guerra, Pin Up Artist (eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Cutie Playmate Sara Jean Underwood (thesexbox.com/blog)
Cum on Eileen (movies and review) (internetisforporn.com)

BDSM and Fetish
Welcum Home Daddy (redvelvetropeburn.blogspot.com)
The Making of a Cuckold - J. Part 1 (http://uk.360.yahoo.com/profile-pqPp2dY0bqgI1wN0f COZsxX1lJCR)
Spanked and Reconnected (darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
BDSM Homemakers (alternativealbany.com)
On Belts and Hotel Rooms (spankingwriters.com/blog)
Play Contract, Saturday and the Bondage Chair (everythingoze.blogspot.com)
Concentrate (masterenigma.blogspot.com)
“I Have A Surprise For You, Lil Girl” (lifeashis.com)

More Sugasm…
Join the Sugasm

Sex Advice and Sexy Reviews
Choosing the Right Lube (creamonpants.com)
Kegel Size Me, Baby! (shayssexcolumn.blogspot.com)
Caught Red-Handed (gentlygently.blogspot.com)
How Clothes Make Sex Hotter (4thegirlnextdoor.blogspot.com)
DVD: The Noise (Lupus Pictures) (adelehaze.com)

Thoughts on Sex
Opposing Forces: Laws of Attraction (cuntinglinguist.blogspot.com)
Read My Lips: It’s Vulva, Not Vagina (msnaughty.com/blog)
Ten Ambiguously Gay Game Characters (4thegirlgamers.blogspot.com)
But Never Sexually Dishonest (orgasmcurious.blogspot.com)
Beneath This Conservative Exterior (submissiveinthecity.wordpress.com)
Eating Pussy (caramelvixen.com/vixen-blog)
The Denial (wanklog.blogspot.com)
Racist Caller (radicalvixen.com/blog)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Comfortably Decadent - Part One (theholidaylife.blogspot.com)
Her Surprise (Part One) (aliferestarted.blogspot.com)
Swapping and Smooching on the Strip (taratainton.com)
Stories You Wouldn’t Write Home About: Jekyll, Hyde, and the Happy Whore Place
Lunch at the Fountain of You (andrememberthattime.blogspot.com)
Theatrics (emergingontheotherside.blogspot.com)
My Turn, Your Turn (secretsofadirtygirl.blogspot.com)
Summer Vacation (kingdomofmean.com/sheets)
So Hot, So Hard (lustdemon.blogspot.com)
Loving vs. Fucking (fourstate.blogspot.com)
Two in One Day or “I Want Some Cinnamon” (dontwakethekids.blogspot.com)
Losin’ It (talktovanessa.com)
I Want a Sunday Kind Of Love (designingintimacy.blogspot.com)
The Middle of the Night (the-sensuous-libertine.blogspot.com)
One Plus Two (easilyaroused.co.uk)
Vegas (prudence-tells-all.blogspot.com)
God is Infinitely Seductive (totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
Doin’ tha Dirty Dishes (wetbeyondbelief.blogspot.com)
Vivid Dream (dawnndirty.blogspot.com)
Little Tease (sugarbabyweekly.blogspot.com)
Fade (sexblogthis.blogspot.com)

Vegas

2006-06-25T11:33:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
I had lunch with Mrs. Jones on Friday, and she told me that years ago, she'd caught Mr. Smith staring rather appreciatively at a beautiful young Ukrainian woman with whom they both worked. She was inspired to write him a fantasy story about a threesome with the lovely Svetlana - a story that Mr. Smith apparently found most arousing. She happily sent it to me when I asked: and I'm happy to share it with you.
Enjoy!
Prudence
* * * * * * *
"Is this what I look like?" I asked.

"More or less," he answered, his voice low and sexy. "Every woman is a bit different. Like snowflakes."

He leaned in and licked gently. She moaned quietly. I moaned quietly.

* * *

We had bumped into him in a mall, a few hours earlier: : "Hey, fancy meeting you here!" followed by "Shall we all grab some dinner?" - "Sure! Sounds fun!"

It was not a chance encounter, of course. He and I had scheduled it.

There had been t-shirts and postcards for sale all over the city saying "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!" and indeed, we'd found the place had a deliciously pervasive flavor of debauchery. Naughtiness was easy to arrange, and hard to resist.

Dinner was at a nice steakhouse. The maitre d' put us at one of those corner booths where we were all on the same bench, in a semi-circle. Svetlana was between us. Knowing that inhibitions must be lowered and senses of humor and playfulness heightened, he kept our glasses perpetually full (while limiting himself to half-portions, I couldn't help but notice).

Giggly stories of our adventures trying to buy underwear, our fruitless search for the perfect pair of shoes, set the tone. He was his usual witty self, full of fascinating and funny stories. I teased him about his place-dropping ("Mister 'When-I-lived-in-Montana-Singapore-Melbourne-Rome,' thinks he's sooooo cool.") We easily got Svetlana talking about herself, too.

Then I had the clever idea (if I may say so myself) to launch the topic of "My Wildest Sexual Adventures." A few rounds of "I had sex in a snowdrift at college." "Oh, that's nothing, I once ..." and the whole atmosphere of dinner became intimate and sexy and very playful. "Have you ever kissed another woman?" he asked us at one point. "Not yet!" I replied, carefully avoiding her eyes. "Me neither," she said, just as carefully avoiding mine.

And then, after coffee: "Come up to my room and have some more champagne." A statement, not a question. Chemicals and pheromones were raging: He was wildly horny and she was as helplessly drawn to it as I always am.

When we got to the room, I got glasses out of the minibar and headed into the bathroom to struggle with the cork in the champagne bottle, to let them have a few minutes of "privacy" for a first kiss.

When I came out, his suit jacket was off, and she was measuring the breadth of his chest with long strokes of the palms of her hands. She is smaller and even more slender than I; he was cupping her entire bottom in one hand.

It was she who saw me approach. "I definitely need that," she said with her charming accent, taking the glass of champagne I extended to her.

He kept a hand on her bottom while reaching out to pull my face to his. I had thought he was already lost to his coursing desire, but when our brief kiss ended, we shared a very lucid look of complicity and shared pleasure. My knees were weak with desire for him.

As he kissed her again (...he was understandably more excited by the newer toy...), I came around behind him and nibbled on the back of his neck. He groaned in pleasure into the hollow below her ear. Svetlana was standing, he was pressed against her, facing her, and I was pressed against his back: a manwich.

"Clothes. Clothes off," he choked out, huskily. Rather unlike him, to be so rushed. I decided things were a bit too serious.

"He's rather bossy, don't you think?" I stood on my tiptoes to ask Svetlana over his shoulder.

"He is!" she agreed, with a wink in return.

"I am?" he said, suddenly Mister Innocent.

" 'Clothes off'," I imitated his strangled voice seconds earlier. "That's no way to treat a lady."

"Or two," said Svetlana, arching one brow. It was perfectly placed, perfectly timed, and all three of us laughed.

He took a deep breath. "Aha. You prefer a more gentlemanly approach," he said, refilling our glasses and handing them to us, "Perhaps something like this?"

And then he brought us both to the bed, slowly removed our things, kissing what he uncovered, marveling aloud at what he saw and smelled and tasted.

Soon, we were all naked, and he was lying on his back on the king-sized bed, with me on one side of him, and Svetlana on the other. The drunken playfulness of dinner was still upon us. We poked and pinched and kissed and licked him, laughing with each other about his twitching, and teasing him verbally.

And then, she and I caught each other staring as his very erect penis, which we had thus far ignored. Without warning, the weather changed in the room. It was time to stop playing. In an instant, her mouth was on his cock, and my mouth was on his mouth. As I kissed him, I was aware of his awareness of Svetlana performing wonders further down the bed. It was unbelievably erotic. And then he pulled at the small of my back, drew my leg over his head, sank his clever tongue deeply into my steamy cunt. Lapped and licked and flicked his tongue around until I came with a shudder. The sensations were so intense that I had to pull away.

I used the pause to break in on Svetlana. She smiled at me and spoke a long sentence in Ukrainian, so lost to the moment that she apparently couldn't remember what language to use. She sat back and watched closely while I gently drew his balls into my mouth, one after the other. Then I heard him say a few words to her, and she crawled upward up to run her hands along his chest, and kiss him very deeply. I wanted to watch, so I shifted from mouth-mode to pussy-mode, sliding on top of him and impaling myself on what was a very hard penis. As I pumped slowly up and down, I watched him fondle and kiss Svetlana's breasts in a way that made her cry out in pleasure. I knew just what she was feeling, and the thought of it sent me over the edge again.

When I returned to my senses, Svetlana was looking at me with a smile. "You are now very much ahead of me," she said. I did not understand, until he said, "I think she means: in orgasms."

I smiled. "I know just the man to fix that," I said, but the man in question said to me, "I think you should help."

And in a few quick movements, she was on her back, he was between her legs and I was lying right next to him.

"Is this what I look like?" I asked.

"More or less," he answered, his voice low and sexy. "Every woman is a bit different. Like snowflakes."

He leaned in and licked gently. She moaned quietly. I moaned quietly.

"Now it's your turn," he said.

"What do I do?" I asked.

"You know what to do," he said, in the same calm, reassuring voice he used to give me professional advice.

And I realized I did know what to do. The first touch of my tongue - my first taste of a woman - was strange and unexpected and lovely. With the second touch, I felt her soften under me and purr slightly: very arousing. At the third lick, I felt his lips on the back of my neck and his index finger toying with the edges of my very wet slit. Then I stopped counting and kept licking: She had her first orgasm of the evening before I had my third, but just barely.

He pushed me aside as soon as my climax shuddered to completion and plunged impatiently into her, lifting her legs high and grinding in deep. In no time, as I watched, fascinated, she came again, clenching her arms around him, her head tilted back. I reached out then to fondle his balls but he slapped my hand away, spun around in a wrestling move, and plunged his happy cock into me. Far, far away, I heard him speaking, and then felt his mouth on mine; an instant later, it was her mouth; and his was on my ear. The stimulation was too much for me: I came with a roar and then wilted, suddenly exhausted. They left me for dead. When I wrenched my eyes open again, she was sitting atop him, riding hard. I crawled along side of them and kissed and licked and stroked and fingered everything I could reach. As I played with her nipples, Svetlana began to groan rhythmically, drew a great gasp of air and went stiff and silent. Watching her come with his cock inside and my hands on her tits was his undoing. I saw his face contort in bliss as he pumped his joy into her.

Time slowed down for the rest of the night. At times, we drank (champagne, water, more champagne.) At other moments, we flopped together, a tangle of arms and legs, stroking each other softly and waiting for another burst of energy.

The very early morning found Svetlana on her back; me on my knees, my tongue insistently teasing her clitoris; and him on his own knees behind me, his cock very slowly sliding in and out of me while his fingertips tickled my bottom and pushed gently into my pucker. Indescribably pleasurable: she tasted delicious, and he felt amazing. I never wanted it to end. But as Svetlana's heavy breathing became the groaning of a woman coming, my pussy clamped down in giant spasms of climax around his cock, which immediately doubled in volume and shot hot liquid into me like a rocket. Orgasm, cubed.

An hour or so of sleep later, Svetlana slipped away. I heard a shower running, and then she came out fully dressed, kissed us both deeply, murmured in Ukrainian, and left.

Some time later, I staggered, bow-legged, back to my own room (the bed un-slept-in since my arrival several days earlier) and into my own shower.

* * *

That afternoon, at the trade show, I looked across the stand and saw Svetlana looking in another direction with a small, secret smile on her face: when I followed her gaze, I saw him wink almost imperceptibly at her and then look straight to me with the same sort of smile. I bathed for a nanosecond in the glow of his private glance and then, to close the circle, turned back to where she, of course, was waiting for my eyes.

We worked on projects with her again several times in the future, but after that moment on the stand, we never discussed - or even acknowledged - what we all did that long lovely night.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

* * * * *
Go to the latest post: click here.
Are you in the mood for another extra-naughty one? Prudence is most sympathetic: click here.
Perhaps erotic stories are your thing? Prudence can certainly help! Click here for another lovely bit of fiction.

something in the air

2006-06-02T22:02:00.000+02:00

My goodness, Readers, through we're still waiting for spring to arrive here in Paris this year, something is certainly making Mrs Jones quite warm. Read this delicious mail I just intercepted...
Prudence
= = = = =
Not sure what the hell is in the air here today. I am incredibly horny for you. I dreamed about you all night: kept waking up wet and aroused, having to breathe deeply, take a sip of water, try to shake it off. Right now I keep thinking about stroking my hands down your chest, taking your cock slowly into my mouth, feeling your body hum silently as I touch you and lick you for as long as you'll let me ... and then at some point you'd decide that was enough of being on the bottom and flip us around, drive yourself into me, mmm, sweet relief ... kissing and licking me now, making me crazy with touches everywhere at once, and the feel of you on me and in me, and your amazing wet tongue and the softness of your skin and your coarsely hairy chest and that incredible way you have of touching me, perfectly, in just the way that makes me so turned on, unable to concentrate on anything but what you're doing to me until I just explode ... and then it still doesn't stop: it all feels even better and more intense and you know it, so you keep at it...

soundtrack

2006-05-24T20:48:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Sounds like fun, wouldn't you agree?
Prudence
= = = = =

"I used to wonder where that half-squeal, half-laugh sound you'd hear in the movies and on TV came from…" he said, a propos of nothing, at least from my point of view. He was naked, I was naked, he was lying along side of me, and I could feel his very erect penis pressing into my thigh.

"What?" I asked, and then stopped thinking for a minute while his warm tongue lapped once again at my ear.

"That giggling you hear sometimes on laugh tracks," he continued, pausing only to continue to flick his tongue against the curve of my ear. I had absolutely no clue what he was talking about, but frankly, didn't much care. One of his hands was slowly and gently caressing my tummy and thighs in a way that made me half-crazed with desire, and his lips were pressed against my mouth in a wet, deep embrace. Then, he broke away, and began nibbling his way toward my other ear.

"That sound," he said in a somewhat self-satisfied manner a few minutes of delicious torture later.

I bit back the urge to ask "What?" once again and tried to think. This man was not given to random, senseless utterings.

He made his tongue into a point again and flicked at the shell of my ear.

"Mmm," he murmured sexily, "Very nice. That one had some decent volume to it."

And then I heard it too.

It was a sort of a giggle, commencing with a great gasp of air, ending on a bit of a squeal; perfectly timed to match the rhythm set by the teasing strokes of his tongue.

And it was, of course, coming from me.

= = = = =
To read another post on Mrs Jones' volume-control issues, click here.

bite me

2006-05-03T13:40:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Mr. Smith doesn't write to me quite as often as Mrs. Jones does, but I pestered him recently for a story, any story, about something that happened in bed with his mistress. Nothing like an old lady pleading for a sexy anecdote to free the muse, it would seem. Here is what he sent me. Enjoy!
Prudence
= = = = =

We were cuddled together, our legs tangled, my arms wrapped around her. She didn't used to enjoy this; now she sometimes even sought it out herself. Small victories.

This, however, was not going to be a long snuggle. I could sense her restlessness. I was about to ask her what was up when she bit me. On my bicep. And then again on my forearm. All became clear.

"Feeling a bit oral?" I asked unnecessarily, as she rubbed her lips again the back of my hand.

"Mmm," she said, now against my palm. She wasn't kissing me, wasn't even licking me, really; more like touching me, feeling me with her mouth. She sprung to her knees and I braced myself for what was to come. But instead of the expected assault on my rather ticklish neck, she crawled down the bed to my rather ticklish feet. I screwed up my face and concentrated on not involuntarily kicking her while she brushed her lips around my ankles and bit gently at the fleshy part of my calves. It felt somewhat unpleasant and yet strangely enjoyable; an annoyance and yet a thrill.

It had been a bit surprising the first time it happened, needless to say. Years ago in the very beginning, after a quick round in the sack, she had rejected the warm afterglow and crawled out from under me to nip at my bottom and thighs.

"I get a bit ... oral ... sometimes," she'd said by way of explanation when I'd yelped and spun around, adding almost meekly "Let me satisfy the urge?" I did. And ended up getting a few urges of my own satisfied too. The journey of discovery her mouth makes around my body always finishes at the highest scaleable peak, where oral fixations are always most welcome and appreciated.

This time, however, she was going to find the peak monument closed. We'd fucked four times in the past two days: the mind was always willing, but the flesh had given all it had.

She moved from ankles to knees, where her gentle biting on some ultra-sensitive bits had me calling out her name in what I hoped was a menacing tone. She lifted her head like a gopher popping out of its hole and said "Yes?" with wide eyes and an innocent smile. I felt a stirring in my tropical zone. Amazing.

Now, the hard part. On her knees to one side of me, her ass bobbing in the air in a way that made me dizzy, she bent over my belly, dragged her nipples against my chest and slowly licked my other side from hip to armpit, while I held my breath and recited the alphabet backward in my head. If I stopped her, she'd just start again. Apparently emboldened by her success, she made an attempt at nuzzling the smooth skin that lies right below my armpit; I quickly put a stop to it by plucking her off of me with the superhuman strength of the incredibly overstimulated man.

With an annoyed huff and a pouty look of protest, she straddled me. I could feel the heat of her pussy where it touched my chest, and my spent penis gave another gasp of life. She scooted down a bit and bent over my neck. By then, of course, even the thought of her lips and tongue touching me was enough to make me squirm. When she leaned in to my right side, I turned my head to the right to block her access, and when she made for the left, so did I. It was an old game that we hadn't grown tired of playing; but alas for me, the rules clearly stated that I did eventually have to let her in. I relaxed my shoulders and she milked the suspense for a few long seconds before kissing and licking me there, until we were both laughing.

"Mmmmmm," she said, like you'd say about the first ice cream cone of the summer. She loved this. We played some more. My ears, my shoulders, the hollow of my collarbone. My heart was pounding: an hour in bed with this woman was better cardiotraining than any workout at the gym.

Propped up on one arm, she stared at me until I opened my eyes and then looked rather theatrically downward. I lifted my head. I'll be damned. Junior was up from his nap.

With feline slinkiness, she rose to her knees and crawled south. All the nibbling, nipping, kissing, licking and sucking performed so far had just been a warm-up act for the gusto with which she attacked my very happy member. I felt myself hardening even more inside her warm mouth. Her tongue flickered around the head of my cock in ways I couldn't describe. When she moved her fingers down to stroke my balls, the lights went out. Explosion. Her lips still tight around me. And still more licking, though gentler now, as I shuddered through an aftershock. And then she released me, and set to lapping at me softly, as if to get every last drop. Nothing felt better than this.

When she was done, she crawled up the bed and lay down on the other pillow.

"Get over here," I whispered, hooking an arm around her and pulling her against me. I held her tight for a second or two until she relented and melted against my chest.

The last sound I heard before falling asleep was her soft, contented "Mmmmmm."

Rule #3: Erase your text messages

2006-04-17T14:53:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Perhaps like Smith and Jones, you have discovered the joys of sending and receiving text messages from your mobile telephone. There certainly is an ever-renewed thrill to be able to have private "conversations" in public places thanks to this form of communication.

However, as much as it may be tempting to save some of these messages for re-reading and enjoying in the future, I must strongly encourage you to erase them from your phone immediately – or at least before going home. Which leads us to ...

Rule #3 for Having a Successful Extramarital Affair: Erase your text messages.
Just erase them! The same goes for your incoming and outgoing call logs. Even if you don't have a snooping spouse, it's just much wiser not to leave any trails...

* * * * *
Read Rule #2.
Read Rule #1.

ride home

2006-03-28T10:07:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Sometimes I think Smith and Jones are just TOO cute. Overall they're pretty dry-eyed and hard-nosed about their adulterous affair, but under the mostly frosty surface, they're really pretty mushy. Don't say I didn't warn you as you read on…
Prudence
= = = = = = = =
Driving you home last night was great fun. You were terrific.

Fun.

Funny.

Sexy.

Seductive.

Affectionate (several terms of endearment escaped your lips, and I would swear at least one of them was spontaneous and natural, not sassy)

Proffering a great gift. (Thanks again, by the way!)

Effortlessly stroking me almost to a point of no return.

A whole batch of Grade-A compliments.

Hearing your amazing voice when I can't look at you: I've just decided that driving you around is the upright fully-clothed erotic equivalent of the way you sometimes whisper into my ear when we're horizontal and naked.

A brief moment of endearing self-doubt (and I quote: "You're not getting bored with it, are you?") sandwiched between gobs of your regular irresistible self-assurance.

A very interesting bit of philosophical waxing on the unbelievability of it all.

Enjoyable transcripts from your weekend's home movies.

Beauty tips.

Movie suggestions.

Some thought-provoking "What if" queries (to which answers and follow-up questions continue popping into my head unbidden, I might add.)

A spot of VBI* forward planning, always good for my mental outlook (makes the in-betweens easier to bear when I have an idea when the next one might be)

The general impression that you like what you see.

Just terrific.

You, sir, may have a ride home whenever you wish.

= = = = = = = =
*Wondering what a "VBI" is to Smith and Jones? Click here to find out!

start your engines

2006-03-10T10:49:00.001+01:00

Dear Readers,
Smith is in New York, Jones is home alone in Paris. I just intercepted this text message exchange between them...
Prudence
= = = =
Smith: Greetings from New York. Back at hotel after meeting. Very tired. Jet lag. No gas in my engine.

Jones: Home alone here. Drinking my second glass of wine and watching bad late-night TV. Frisky as hell. Bet a woman loosened by delightful wine into a state of sloppy horniness, lapping at your cock and balls, would rev that gasless engine quite a bit.

Smith: Hmm. Would be interesting to test that assumption.

Jones: There's really no downside. If it works, you're happy. If it doesn't, you fall asleep in the arms of the woman and she reconducts the test in the morning

Smith: Where do I sign up?

Rule #2: Anonymous e-mail

2006-02-24T13:43:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers:
Computers and e-mail are both helpful to your affair, and potentially very dangerous. If you and your lover send each other e-mail (and I'm sure you do!) then I strongly suggest the following...

Rule #2 for Having a Successful Extramarital Affair: Anonymous E-Mail
- Use an online account (from Google, Yahoo, or Hotmail, for example), and do not "POP" your mail onto a mail reader that lives on your harddrive (such as Microsoft Outlook). Read and write your e-mail online -- and only online. That way, there is no trace of your affair on your computer.

- Create for this account a completely anonymous name; indeed I recommend making up a nonsense or random-word name: nothing that might make anyone think of you.

Prudence

* * * * *
Read Rule #1.
Read Rule #3.

roll over

2006-02-14T16:30:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
I recently reminded Mrs. Jones how much I love all the juicy details of her nights with Mr. Smith… and I do, oh, I do!
Read this tasty scene from a night our lovers recently spent together.
Prudence.
= = = = = = = =

"Roll over,'' I whispered.

His eyes narrowed a bit. "Why should I?"

"C'mon, roll over!" I said with a pretend pout and a poke to his side, "I want to play."

He looked at me with still-narrowed eyes, but then unwrapped his arms from around me and rolled over with a dramatic sigh implying endless hardships endured. He was fooling neither of us. Once, early in our thing, I sent him a flirty text message that said I'd like to nibble on him, and he had replied, and I quote, "You should start with the back of my neck. Makes me crazy." I had very happily followed these instructions at the next possible occasion: his self-assessment has been correct.

I let him settle onto his belly, place his head onto his folded arms; and then climbed atop his back, stretching my naked body along the length of his, caressing his legs with mine for a minute. I moved my mouth up to his head and brushed my cheeks against his soft hair. Then I pulled away and looked at the nape of his neck. His shoulders tensed.

"I'm not even touching you yet!" I whispered teasingly.

"Mnmn," he grunted into the pillow. He knew what was coming.

I lowered my head, and slowly, gently, softly, brushed my lips back and forth against him, right at the line where his hair became skin. He tensed up again. Then I kissed him firmly a few times in the hollow right at the center of the back of his neck, a few dry "smacks" in a row. Just as I intended, he relaxed a fraction. I could practically hear him thinking "OK, I can take this…"

Just a few more gentle strokes of my lips against his fragrant skin, and then I slipped the tip of my tongue through my lips. I managed to trace a wet circle, perhaps a circle and a half, against his ultra-sensitive skin before he scrunched up his shoulders with a small yelp. I laughed. Sometimes he can take a bit more, but we'd already gone a round in the ring together. Like all of us, he was much more sensitive after an orgasm than before, and this was "afterplay" -- though perhaps "in-between-play" is a better phrase, considering how things ended up.

"Let me in," I whispered, brushing my lips against his ear.

A definitive "Nnn-nnn!" came from the pillow.

"Oh, don't be such a weenie," I teased him again, "Relax, come on, let me at you…" I went back to brushing my cheeks against his hair.

Slowly, he forced his shoulders down. I brushed my lips against the back of his neck and took several soft nips, and then tried to slide my teasing tongue down toward the side of his neck: this, however, was too much of a nerve-ending hot zone for my deliciously overstimulated lover. He yelped, bucked and turtled his head again, squashing my face in between his shoulder and his jaw. I licked at what skin I could reach for a second or two, until he literally pulled me off of him, flipped me over and growled "Game over! Now it's my turn…"

Rule #1: The Prime Directive

2006-02-06T11:20:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
When I started this blog, one of my intentions was to create a sort of "how-to" guide with tips for organizing your very own successful extramarital affair. I've gotten so carried away relating the relations of Smith and Jones that I've somewhat lost sight of that objective. I intend to start rectifying this from now on, starting with this post.

Rule #1 for Having a Successful Extramarital Affair: The Prime Directive.
The most important thing to remember about having an affair is that your spouse and your family must never, ever find out. Tremendous care and attention must be given to hiding what you're doing from others.

Indeed, most of the Rules that I'll share little by little from now on will be practical applications of this rule.

Come back soon to read more Rules!

Prudence

Jump to Rule #2.

overheard

2006-01-24T21:56:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
I just intercepted this e-mail from Mrs Jones to Mr Smith. Read on -- I'll be back with a question.
Prudence
= = = = = = =

He walked somewhat slowly over to my table in the restaurant and sat down in the chair across from mine. He was easily 75, maybe 80, but when he smiled at me, I saw the handsome young man he'd no doubt been. I smiled back, glancing around the room and wondering to myself if he thought I was someone else.

"No, I'm not senile, my dear," he said presciently, with another smile, "I know perfectly well I've just sat down at a table with a woman I don't know. Coffee?"

He held up the insulated carafe that was on the table between us. I nodded, and he poured me a cup. Then he set to buttering the toast he'd brought with him from the hotel's breakfast buffet against the far wall. He was wearing a shirt and tie with a sweater. The smile hadn't really left his lips. He evidently had something else to say. I took a spoonful of yogurt and waited.

"Lovely old hotel, isn't it? So much more charm than the glass-and-steel things they build in cities these days."

I nodded, again fully aware that this was in no way idle conversation; he was clearly going somewhere with it. A lawyer, before retirement, I wondered?

"Of course," he said, looking up to stare me straight in the eye with a twinkly smile, "These old structures just aren't as soundproof as a decent hotel should be."

A beat. Then another. Then the nickels dropped. Dear sweet Granddad here must have had the room next to ours last night.

"I'm curious: Are you two always that … frisky?" he asked, clearly enjoying himself, "Or was last night more wild than usual?"

I fear I was in a bit of a silly pose, the spoon frozen halfway to my lips, my mouth agape, while my brain analyzed and rejected a dozen different things to say.

"I'm … " I stuttered, clearing my throat and starting again, "I'm sorry if we disturbed you…"

"My dear," he said teasingly, "Please don't make me say something trite and cliché like 'Surely you don't think your generation invented sex.' Come now, you'll never see me again. Make an old man feel young again, and tell me about your night. It's the least you can do after keeping me awake and fascinated…"

I glanced around – at that hour of the morning, we were essentially alone in the restaurant. He was so amused, and so sincere, and most importantly so right about never seeing him again (When would we ever go back to St Louis?), well, I guess I figured: why not?

"We'd been at a … function together earlier in the evening," I ventured, "I mean, my … my friend … and I. A cocktail party. A business thing."

"Ah," he said, somewhat knowingly, "And I assume you aren't, how shall I say this delicately my dear, an 'official' couple? No, I didn't think so. Lovely. Do go on: you were together but not together, and drinking…?"

"Champagne," I replied, "Evidently too much."

"Nonsense! No such thing," he said, "Go on: then you met back here as planned? I refuse to believe this was your first encounter together."

"No," I admitted, smiling back at his naughty smile, "We've… We are… We…"

"I see indeed."

And then, somehow (actually easily in fact) I told him about our evening back in the room – or rather, I filled in some of the details to go with the soundtrack he'd already heard. About how we stumbled, drunk (to put a word to it) through the door of the room and into bed. About your unexpected foreplay technique of holding me down and tickling me everywhere while demanding that I confess to flirting with that accountant just to rile you.

"That explains the shrieking and laughter I heard, my dear," he said, adding "Quite delicious. I imagine your young man must have been rather aroused."

And then I told him how I finally "confessed" -- and how you whispered triumphantly, "I knew it!" releasing me only to pull me to my feet and push me roughly against the wall (rattling the light fixtures on our unintentional audience's wall, it would seem). I told him how you purred at me, "Do you think you need to try to make me jealous to draw me to you?" while biting my neck and ears and pinching my nipples and apparently making me moan in a way that could not be misinterpreted for discomfort. I blushed somewhat, suddenly remembering fumbling at your boxer shorts, and calling out for you to "Put it in me, please, put it in me!" In retrospect, not very elegant; but frankly, by then, I was beside myself with desire for you. I watched this elegant man watch me and smile: perhaps he was thinking the same thing? He had to have heard me.

"You must tell your friend that I admire his stamina," he said then, "I wasn't exactly counting, but he certainly took you to the top of the mountain several times before allowing himself release." I smiled, pleased and proud that you were mine.

A few minutes later, he stood, thanked me for confiding in him, and bade me goodbye.

= = = = = = = =
So, readers: has your night in a hotel ever been enlivened by the sounds of the amourous couple next door? Perhaps you've been in the room next to Smith and Jones!
Prudence

allocation guidelines

2005-12-22T18:32:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
My favorite lovers met at work, and extramarital affair oblige, almost always speak with each other during the week, never in the evenings or on weekends. This means their contact continues to be made from one office-enviroment to another: something which occasionally rubs off on their communication, if only in jest. Take this instant messaging exchange I just intercepted, for instance…
Prudence
= = = = =
Smith: hi. boring meeting here. whatcha doing?

Jones: boring meeting here too. wicked horny. been too long.

Smith: we should update the implementation and allocation guidelines

Jones: a forward-planning for the project needs to be developed, yes.

Smith: i've got an idea for the deliverable...

Jones: hmm. thinking. "allocation guidelines" sounds like something that needs to be done in a User Group, which poses some irresolvable membership issues

Smith: maybe the planning committees should be separated into geographies.

Jones: yes, I see your point: or at least hold separate sessions for the headquarters and for the rest of the world.

Smith: well of course; a global conference is very ill-advised, given the context. there are too many complex governance and process issues to address

Jones: indeed. And we certainly don't have anything resembling consensus among the various users yet

Smith: if I can speak freely: thank god there's no steering committee

Jones: I can understand why would you feel that way. Unlike so many ventures, revenue-sharing has never been called for; it's only time-sharing which remains an ongoing issue; but is generally resolvable with back-channel efforts

Smith: the customer satisfaction feedback suggests we don't need to run in with a band of consultants yet to start any re-engineering efforts

Jones: the project does seem to be meeting or surpassing all quality projections

Smith: ok - so let's focus on the schedule of meetings and the deliverables

Jones: sounds like the way to get the best ROI

(pause)

Jones: metaphor aside: when do we get to see each other naked again?

Smith: hang on, let me pull up my agenda…

special rates available

2005-12-07T09:41:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Our Smith and Jones do love their text messaging. For two busy professionals trying to have a secret affair, it certainly is a private way of communicating at any moment of the day. I just captured this exchange, which must certainly have spiced up a boring meeting or a long afternoon...
Prudence
= = = = = = = =

JONES: All I want right now is to have my twat licked until I pass out from the unbearable pleasure. Which, with you as the licker, shouldn't actually take very long. What would you charge for such a service?

SMITH: First time free. Special volume rates available. Better pricing if you join the club. Best rates if you sign up for two years.

* * * * *
Click here for another text-messaging post.

grumpy

2005-11-04T15:31:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Even when their meetings are few and far between, our two lovers aren't always in synchronized good moods when they find a chance to "hook up". But grumpy sex has a charm of its very own... Hope you'll forgive them the cognitive discord between the chat logs and the emails. Revisionist history at its finest!
Prudence
= = = = =
(INSTANT MESSAGING EXCHANGE)

JONES: sorry to say that all this stress and my husband's recent irascibility has put me into a properly foul mood. shitty timing, as we finally find ourselves at the same airport for long enough to do some horizontal dancing ... you're gonna have to work hard to get me loosened up. watch i don't bite you

SMITH: i see your grump and raise you one foul mood. my boss has just finished driving me crazy and my mother-in-law is spending the weekend. haven't slept properly all week and now i've gotta be mr. romantic in a airport hotel

JONES: poor baby. you can always just sleep

SMITH: yeah. let's call the whole thing off

JONES: or just go see a movie

SMITH: I can do that alone

JONES: now that you mention it...

SMITH: well fuck you too

(A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER)

SMITH: just got into LHR. heading over to the hilton. you there yet?

(ANOTHER COUPLE OF HOURS LATER)

JONES: you still there? plane only just got in after sitting on tarmac for hours...

SMITH: having a nice little snooze. get your ass over here cuz there's nothing decent on tv

JONES: there in 10

SMITH: room 7015, usual drill

A day or two later ...

(E-MAIL FROM SMITH TO JONES)
This last one was pretty spicy, I must say. Didn't have very high hopes, what with grumposity squared. You looked ready to bite me when you finally crashed into the room. "Don't ask" you snarled as you dumped your stuff on the ground, kicked back in the chair, kicked off your pumps.

I could see it was time to follow orders, so sat there quietly waiting for permission to speak. The rant was not long in coming. Anger, frustration, venom all came spilling out of that otherwise angelic face. The laptop broken as it fell during the security inspection. The infuriating call from hubby. The parking ticket. The futile search for a gas station on the way to the airport rental car dropoff. The e-mail from the finance department about the expense claim. The ATM card that doesn't work. The bitch at the airline counter.

Not exactly Mr. Cheery myself, I strive to remain zen and somehow restrain myself from saying stuff along the lines of "Well that's nothing, what about my shitty day? What about my busted ipod nano? What about the turkey who sideswiped my rental?"

An interesting side-effect of your snarly mood is that you are even more unaware than usual of your lithe sensuality. The darts you fire from your eyes alternately piss me off and turn me on. As I shoot a few verbal darts of my own, I feel the nasty mood starting to get watered down by a bit of malicious enjoyment, a sadistic fun in teasing you about your miserable day. Nice grouch-transfer effect.

I pour you a vodka tonic (there's only diet tonic - you hate that). You rant. You drink. You briefly subside into a smoldering stillness. Then, brooding, you stalk around the hotel room like a caged cat.

As you come striding past for the umpteenth time, I stick out my foot and you trip. In a second, I'm on top of you . You shout "You bastard", kick and squirm as I use my weight to pin you down. I bite your earlobe and whisper "Takedown!" into your ear as you struggle to get out from under me. Your elbow catches my jaw and I fall backward against the wall. In an instant you are up, and then you're on top of me, pushing me back, reaching for my crotch as I turn and twist away.

I somehow slip out of your grasp and we both lie back, gasping with the effort. I roll over, get up and pick you up, push you onto the bed, and straddle your waist. You're trying hard to maintain the grumpiness, but the corners of your mouth are turning. "Is that a smirk?" I ask menacingly, and start to unbutton the remaining buttons of your blouse. Token resistance, but the battle appears to be won. Now the war begins.

I can't remember a spicier fuck, all the tension and bite of our respective foul moods transformed into cat-like coupling of an intensity we can only maintain for about 20 minutes. You are even noisier than usual as you come, but the sound is different, more aggressive. I hurt as our sweaty bodies slip, slide, grip, grind, slam, and our usual prudence with regard to bite marks, scratches, rug burns is forgotten.

The red haze starts to recede as I find myself pinned to the bed, what's left of your bra wrapped around my neck. I realize I'm still wearing one sock. Your eyes are closed and a grim look of satisfaction is on your face. Very kissable.

(E-MAIL FROM JONES TO SMITH)
Funny about the bits you remember and the bits you forget. You were the one in the foul mood, all childishly pissed off that my plane was late, like it was my idea or something. OK, I was not exactly thrilled with the situation but I don't think I gave you any reason for the physical shit. I've still got a rug burn on my left elbow and I'm gonna have some 'splaining to do about the bruise on my butt.

Not that I didn't enjoy it. You're right that the sex was pretty hot, but it's strange that you don't seem to remember the bitch-slapping part that continued AFTER you took my clothes off. I was up for giving you a blowjob, but you were a bit rough about it. Not to mention that you took your sweet time for someone holding the back of my head, pulling my hair. I was starting to think about asking for a snorkel, wise guy. And I wasn't the only one who made noise (I had my mouth full so it couldn't have been me!)

You'd obviously been abstaining for a while, 'cause that first shot was pretty copious, and the stress (and vodka) added a nice little edge to the astringency. What I don't understand is that you also seem to have completely forgotten that screech you let out when I jammed my finger up your ass just as you were coming. I think you were having fun, but it was hard to tell from where I was sitting...

You seemed to go away for a little while after that - maybe that's why you've forgotten. I guess I drifted into sleep for a moment too, my head hanging face down off the edge of the bed, but I sure woke with a start when you landed full force on my back. Guess the post-orgasmic molecules had faded from your bloodstream and you wanted another dose, because I was surprised, to say the least, to feel your cock working its way up my ass. Luckily you were still pretty lubed from your previous efforts and I relaxed as much as I could. It had been a while, and there was the usual "This feels good, but then again...?" feeling; until that shifted into "Fuck, this feels really good!" and then a bit of yellow haze as I felt you reaching around, working other bits of me until I took off like a rocket and you along behind. I guess you came again in there somewhere; I can't remember all the details either.

Anyway, guess we managed to get over the grouchy business pretty comprehensively, and when we came to again, I enjoyed the shower. Not many hotels that cater properly to a buddy shower. You did nice work with your tongue. Then I was pretty hungry and the room service was welcome despite the mediocre quality.

Watching a DVD, a bit of canoodling, another nice, slow, much less nasty little fuck, and then sleep sleep sleep. Not a trace of grump in the morning over breakfast: you smirking your head off over your omelet. Could be a good formula to remember for the next time I'm pissed off. You watch it...

* * * * *
Read another extra-naughty one here.

The MSG Test

2005-10-17T21:15:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
I don't know about you, but I just love wondering about the inspiration for the stories Smith and Jones write for each other. Take this delicious tale of a hotel bar pick-up, for example: Did they role-play it for themselves when they met in Hong Kong? Is it a fantasy of one or the other of them, put into words? Is it a fictionalization of a wild night spent in bed this way?
No matter what the source, it's certainly steamy. Hope you enjoy! (If you do, read more of their fiction here.)
Prudence
= = = = = = = =
"Susan, don't worry about it! A sick kid is a sick kid. It's no big deal - we'll celebrate some other day," she said into her mobile phone; but she sighed deeply upon hanging up, disappointed.

She sat with her chin in her hand for a few moments, sighed again, and then lifted her head as if looking for the bartender.

"It's probably none of my business, but I think you should celebrate anyway." It was out of my mouth before I could think about whether saying it was a smart thing to do or not.

She looked to where I was sitting, two barstools away. "Yes, well: Cheers, then," she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, holding up her almost-full glass in a toast. She turned back to seek out the bartender.

"Cheers," I replied calmly, raising my own glass at her with a small smile. "What is it we're celebrating?"

She looked at me in the mirror behind the bar. I hope I looked like the nice guy I like to think I am. I had come straight into the hotel's bar after my day at work, still in my suit and tie, my computer bag on the floor at my feet. Either I passed inspection or she decided there was no reason to ice me out yet. "I just signed my first client."

"No kidding?!" I said, "Well, that IS something to celebrate! Congratulations!"

She shrugged self-deprecatingly, but there was a proud smile fighting to burst past her scrunched-up lips. Too bad about her friend not being able to come: great excuses to celebrate don't come along every day.

"You know, great excuses to celebrate don't come along every day," I said, again surprised by what was coming out of my own mouth. "You only sign your first client once! Please let me buy you a glass of champagne? You really should mark the day!"

She looked at me again: this time straight on, not via the mirror. She looked around the hotel bar, then back at me appraisingly, and then a quick glance at herself in the mirror. "OK," she said, shrugging again and then smiling, "I really do want to celebrate. I'm pretty psyched."

I moved over one barstool and we ordered champagne. We quickly got the personal data exchange taken care of: first name, grew-up-in, now-live-in, here-in-Hong-Kong-until, etcetera etcetera. I got the elevator speech about her just-launched consulting activity, and enough details of her contract with her new client to know that she had every reason to be happy and proud of herself. By her third sip of champagne, she was completely natural and unguarded. She laughed at my stupid jokes and made cleverly funny remarks of her own. She was intelligent, and amusingly caustic, and very comfortable with herself. I was enchanted. We ordered club sandwiches from the bartender and when they came, we took them to the other side of the lounge where there were armchairs and end tables arranged in little duos at right angles. Our knees touched accidentally a few times. I was trying hard to remember that it's impolite to stare at a woman's legs, but it was a challenge: when she shifted in her chair, her skirt slid up and down her thighs. It's possible that the knee-touching wasn't entirely accidental on my part.

She pronounced my name, and I looked up to realize that I'd been caught with my mind wandering and was being stared at appraisingly again.

"I wonder if teenagers today still do 'the MSG Test'," she asked.

"The what?" I replied, confused. Had I missed a key bit of conversation?

"You never did the MSG Test?" Her eyes were flashing, and she was wearing the grin of the cat who had eaten the canary.

Highly intrigued, I told her she was going to have to enlighten me.

"When I was in junior high school, somebody must've read an article that said that eating too much MSG – you know, the stuff in Chinese food? -- could lead to 'MSG Insensitivity Syndrome.' People who contract it lose feeling in their skin surface, little by little," she continued, tossing back a handful of pretzels, "Or maybe even that was untrue and the whole entire thing was made up. Whatever: the result was that thanks to the amazing creative power of adolescent hormones, the boys would try to sell us on the importance of having regular MSG Tests performed. You know – in the back of the bus on the way to the field trip; backstage during rehearsals for the musical, that sort of thing."

"Tests?" I prompted.

"Well, MSG Insensitivity Syndrome was reversible if you caught it soon enough,” she continued, with a twinkling smile and a theatrical air of a sage imparting wisdom. She had kicked off her shoes and put her stockinged feet on my chair. "You had to determine if any part of you had lost feeling."

"Ah," I smiled, "I think I'm starting to see the simple beauty of the idea."

She leaned across the few centimeters than separated us, took my hand, and turned it palm-side up. I had taken my jacket off earlier to eat, and she unbuttoned my shirt and rolled up my sleeve to expose the inside of my forearm. "You were supposed to close your eyes and concentrate on what you felt, and to alert the tester if any particular part seemed insensitive." She looked up and our eyes met, and a fully-charged electrical current raced between us.

I was speechless. Not to mention light-headed, what with all the blood rushing out of my head and into my cock.

She looked down at the inside of my wrist and began to slowly stroke her index finger back and forth, working her way up my arm, a fingertip's-width at a time. It was part caress, part tickle, all erotic sensuality. "Can you feel that?" she asked. Something guttural emerged from my lips in reply.

Her fingertips were slowly reaching the inside of my elbow where my shirt was bunched up. I pulled away, grabbed her hand, and turned it until her palm was facing up. She had removed her jacket earlier, too, and was now in a silky tank that bared her arms to the shoulders.

"Do you ever eat Chinese food?" I asked her. She didn't answer, but reached out her other hand and swallowed two inches of champagne from her glass in one gulp. "I think we should test you, too." I trailed my fingertips back and forth over the skin on the inside of her wrist. She shivered and bit her bottom lip: she was more sensitive than I was. As I slowly passed her elbow and moved upward on the increasingly sensitive pale skin there, she squeezed her eyes shut and began breathing in short gasps. I couldn't hold out any longer: I leaned across the space between us and kissed her gently on the lips. She melted against my mouth with a small moan.

"I guess I don't have MSG Insensitivity Syndrome," she said quietly, staring deeply into my eyes.

"Well, I don't think we can safely say that until we've checked you out completely..." I whispered.

Naked and sprawled out lengthwise on the king-sized bed in my room a few minutes later, I suggested "testing" her small firm breasts, and she laid back and let me, moaning and panting as I stroked my index finger slowly over every inch of both of her tits. Before I'd finished my tactile inspection, she was calling my name and breathlessly begging, "Please, please..."

I guessed she wanted me to stop the game there and fuck her properly, but despite similar requests coming from my rock-hard penis, I was enjoying myself. I pushed her thighs wide apart, flopped my legs over hers to hold them in place, leaned over her belly to still her upper body, and began to stroke two fingertips back and forth up her right leg, from the inside of her knee to the soft hollow where her inner thigh joined her body: slowly, excruciatingly slowly.

"It would be terrible to contract MSG Insensitivity Syndrome here..." I teased.

Her response was somewhat of a strangled moan, an animal sound that worked a scale from mewl to growl and back as I traced my slow path up the inside of her left leg now, toward her pussy, which was soaked with her arousal. When I flickered my fingertips very lightly over the lips of her cunt, she bucked and stiffened and made a loud and extremely demanding sort of noise. I got the message, made rather short work of stroking her to an explosive orgasm, and then immediately rolled atop her and drove myself into her very hot, very wet depths.

It took several more orgasms in a variety of kamasutresque positions for her to regain use of the spoken word -- though the word she spoke remained variations on "More!" and "God!" and "Yes, yes, yes!" for almost as long as I could hold out. By the time I allowed my own massive shuddering climax to burst free, she was sweaty and spent. After a few minutes of heavy breathing, she squirmed out from under me and rolled up in a ball on the far side of the bed.

I hooked an arm around her middle and pulled her back to fall asleep in my arms, my hands stroking her hair, her shoulder, the curve of her hip, still testing perhaps for any sign of MSG Insensitivity Syndrome and finding only warm, responsive woman.

* * *
(More fiction here, here, and here.)

astounding

2005-09-16T12:54:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Mr Smith knows that Mrs Jones often has to travel to Hong Kong for one of her clients. From the looks of this text message, I would have to guess that they are trying to coordinate their schedules to end up in the city built on the Fragrant Harbor at the same time. As she says herself, stay tuned for updates...

Prudence
= = = = =
Smith: Was almost flipped out of bed this morning by an astounding hard-on with your name on it. Are you coming to Hong Kong?

Jones: Working on it. Stay tuned for updates.
* * * * *
Click here for another text-messaging post.

horizontal practices

2005-09-12T10:46:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers:
Another text-messaging exchange from our favorite couple. Enjoy!
Prudence.
= = = = =

Smith: Just landed. Tasty little flight attendant. Winked at me when she gave me my jacket. Even more petite version of you. Having fun?

Jones: Yum, Smith in flirt-in-public mode! Wish I'd been a fly on wall. Never ending meeting from hell here. Now discussing "horizontal practices" - just think of potential KPIs if we worked together!
* * * * *
Click here for another text-messaging post.

Starbucks Kuala Lumpur

2005-09-05T16:12:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
It's been a rather dry month of August for our two lovers – family vacations have had them apart for weeks now. Then, Mr Smith had barely returned to work for a day when he discovered a major client needed him to visit several of their sites in the Asia-Pacific region. He was on an overnight flight last night, with barely the time to leave Mrs. Jones a voice mail about his unexpected journeys. Here is an instant messaging exchange I just intercepted.

Prudence

= = = = =
Smith: you there?

Jones: hey! hi! Didn't expect to hear from you!

S: found a hotspot. I'm in a Starbucks in the Kuala Lumpur airport, of all places

J: speaking of hotspots, mine is none too happy that our summer hiatus is being prolonged by this business trip of yours.

S: I'll grant you it's less than perfect timing. It wasn't exactly my choice, as you may have guessed.

J: From your voicemail message, it seems I'm going to need a world map, push-pins and red thread these next 10 days to be able to track you

S: will transmit my whole travel itinerary to your e-mail in just a moment

J: it's 7:45pm there, yes? When do you take off?

S: 9PM, so gotta hurry

J: I'm poised and ready...!

S: (sends e-mail with his travel itinerary)

J: got it, thanks! Cool: my own little "stalking" file.

S: It doesn’t say but in Hong Kong I will probably be at the Kowloon Shangra-La.

J: ...just in case I end up in the neighborhood with no place to stay?

S: exactly! Mi hotel is su hotel. See you there?

J: you never know. Travel safely!

* * * * *
Click here for another text-messaging post.

bare feet

2005-08-02T21:03:00.000+02:00

Dear readers,
There have been many days of unseasonably chilly weather here in Paris this summer, but Mr Smith and Mrs Jones always seem to know how to keep each other hot. Read this exchange of instant messages I just intercepted...
Prudence
= = = = = = =
Jones: Hi! A random guy sitting next to me in this meeting just leaned in to tell me that he loves when women take off their shoes under the table in the summer (as I have). Whaddya think - Fetish? Flirt? Chitchat?

Smith: Flirt. And I share his tastes.

Jones: Thought so. You like the look of bare feet only, or also shoes off with stockings in winter, too?

Smith: Either way, though I prefer bare feet

Jones: I love sliding a foot up your leg under the tablecloth. Watching you love it and yet wish I would stop...

Smith: I believe the highlight so far for this was in the fancy restaurant in Milano.

Jones: Was just thinking that! Outstanding night in that department. And in others...

Texas hold'em

2005-07-08T12:13:00.000+02:00

My dear readers,

Mr. Smith is always saying that the mind is the most important erogenous zone: seduce the mind, he says, and the body will always follow. The fictional stories that Smith and Jones write for each other from time to time are part of that plan. Built with pieces of reality, they are fantasies of what perhaps might be happening between them in some parallel universe. (Read another one here, and here.)

Are you remembering to seduce the mind of your lover? If writing isn't your thing, how about whispering a story some night?

Prudence

* * *
The hotel I'm in is one of those truly Texan places, sizewise. A hotel for mallgoers, with endless shopping and supersized salads, mojitos and fajitas and enchiladas and fitness clubs and a sports bar.

But don't try to escape - miles of broiling, baking, Texan flatlands surround the place, and you'll never make it to the next town alive.

Not much to do but watch people walk by, mostly supersized human enchiladas stuffed with God-knows-what, wearing the varied badges of the conferences and conventions they are here to attend. Mostly not memorable.

Trying to get the blood moving before hitting the sack, I explored the whole place, seeing nothing of interest until I saw you. Leaning over the railing, looking down at the fake canyon below, your thin cotton dress clinging to your ass, your hair hanging down schoolgirl-like. Alone.

I felt a bit awkward about the idea of chatting you up, searched for a line anyway, and headed your way. You turned, leaned back against the railing, and watched my approach with an appraising look. I smiled a goofy smile and you returned it.

"See anything down there?" Pick-up lines don't get much more vapid than that...

But you kept on returning my smile, and drawled back a very local-sounding "Nope, not much". I could hear LeeAnne Rimes yodeling over the cheering of the bargoers at the tavern behind us. Now for line 2. Blank.

So I leaned over the rail and had a look for myself, considering what to say next, expecting a brush-off. More vapidities flashed through my mind, but the intelligence in your eyes had warned me not to try those, of the "You from 'round here?" variety.

Thought was required, but my throat was dry.

You didn't say much either, until I looked your way and caught your appraising, friendly look. I grinned another goofy grin and said, "You staying here?"

You nodded your head up and down slowly, seemingly puzzled at something you were thinking at just that moment.

"You want a drink?" I tried.

You shook your head and said, "Not here, but I've got some in my room."

My eyes no doubt widened reflexively, you smiled a bit worriedly, turned, and headed for the elevators. I followed like a duckling.

There were two beds in the room. You sat on one of them and took off your shoes, then got up and bent over to open the mini bar, kneeled, and looked at me again. "Want a beer?"

I nodded, dumbstruck. You walked the bottle over, I took it, put it down, and pulled you to sit across my lap. You swung your legs a bit as I put my arms around your waist.

"Thanks," I said. "You are something else."

Kissing was nice. Your lips were alternately soft and hard, passive and aggressive. When your tongue came out to play, it played hide and seek, tag, blind man's bluff, and then got bossy. My hands wandered in the fields, picking flowers and finding surprising things in unsurprising places until you pushed me back on the bed and sat on top of me.

The dress came off easily. My jeans were more of a problem, but you stood back and pulled both legs at once and it was done. Then you stripped down my briefs and lay down on your tummy between my legs, taking my by now reinforced-concrete cock into your hand, playing with it as though it were a Christmas toy. An edible toy, you seem to have decided, because the toy wound up in your mouth, and was licked from top to bottom.

Tired of passivity, I sat up and grabbed you, pulling you up all the way onto the bed, and removing the remaining bits of cloth from you body.

Your body is a fine one, with character and sinews and soft curvatures where curvatures should be soft. I ran my hands around the bends, slipped my fingers into the softest folds, as you lay on your back, arching slightly, like a cat, eyes closed. I kissed your breasts, especially the very soft bit underneath, and then the flowering nipples, and enjoyed seeing the line between tan and less tan from very close up.

But now your mood changed and you once more took matters into your hands, sliding onto me, slipping onto me, so quickly (it seemed) and then I knew I was inside you, a long way, you on top of me, riding hard, hell bent for leather.

I love the view from down here. A woman is made to be seen from this angle. Her ass is made to be held from here, her breasts to be kissed from here. My cock felt particularly happy sliding in and out, slowly, as you leaned forward to receive my attentions.

But my fingers, at play down below, were causing you to lose your cool a bit. You arched back and made a little noise. I reached up and stroked your breasts and you made another little noise. You moved faster and I stopped noticing time, focused only on the feeling of my cock inside you about to explode.

You apparently felt it too because you made approving noises, approving but slightly distracted, as you seemed to suddenly tighten up, squirm a bit, suck in your breath, tighten some more, and then I felt myself rush in like the tide, lifting you up a bit with the recoil.

You fell onto me, and I noticed that we were sweaty. You licked some, and then fell off me onto your side. I wanted to lie there on my back, but then turned and saw you, and wanted even more to lick you dry.

So I did.

* * *

(More fiction here, and here.)

scheduling

2005-06-24T16:18:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
One of the keys to a successful extramarital affair is scheduling time together properly and carefully. Our lovers obviously want to see each other as often as possible, but this frequency must be weighed against the risk of "pushing your luck." Similarly, the stories that are woven to cover absences must seem realistic and yet be just vague enough that they cannot be easily be checked and found wanting.

Smith and Jones have complementary strengths in this department: she is pretty quick with a good fib, and he is great at driving their forward-planning, and making time together happen. This exchange of instant messages I just captured shows how their minds work…

Prudence
= = = =
Smith: I'm looking at my calendar. It occurs to me that I could fly to Madrid on Monday evening instead of Tuesday morning. (And you, too, of course.)

Jones: Proper preparation time before a big event like your customer meeting is important. Hmm. Maybe there's a dry-run the night before?

Smith: Good idea! In fact, maybe I need to be there Sunday evening. To help with set up, to make sure my teams all have their ducks in a row…

Jones: … to get your brains fucked out by your overeager mistress a whole additional night…

Smith: Exactly! Stay tuned for details.
* * * * *
More on the theme of "How to have an affair"

fabric/price ratio

2005-06-13T08:22:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Another witty little text message exchange just in!
Prudence
= = =
Jones: Bought us something this weekend. Standard rule applies of inverse relationship between quantity of fabric and price.

Smith: Hmm. Sounds like a burqa.

* * * * *
Click here for another text-messaging post.

look out below

2005-05-27T08:03:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Our Mr. Smith is so deliciously detail-oriented ... read on to see:
= = = = =
S.,

Spent some lovely minutes last night curled up in bed shivering with flashbacks of our too-brief time together at lunchtime.

No need, I assume, to comment on the "big" moments, which spoke for themselves... or perhaps is that moaned for themselves?

But do allow me to highlight a small moment, one of those moments that define your sexiness and your immense skill at seducing me – I'll tell you about it as if you weren't there, so you can see it through my eyes.

As we set about to getting round two underway, you leaned over me and wrapped me up in your arms and legs to kiss me in that soft, slow, "there's-no-hurry" way that you have when (I suspect) you're actually being very goal-oriented.

On cue, I proceeded to quasi-instantaneously melt into you.

You then focused your attention on my right nipple, giving me an extreme case of tunnel-vision and focusing all of MY attention on those several square millimeters of delightfully ultra-sensitive flesh. (The combination of how it feels and how you look doing it is the sort of happy overstimulation that leaves me light-headed and panting. I love it!)

And while I was completely captured, body and mind, by what you were doing to my breast ... you snuck a hand down around my bottom and used the tips of your fingers to tickle the hot, wet, engorged skin of my completely unsuspecting pussy.

Wow.

Having heard you tease me often enough over the years about my thrashing and squealing, I suspect I involuntarily let you know at the time how good it felt. The flashbacks are quite nice: I can picture myself dizzy and breathless by the feeling of your mouth on my tit, and then WOW, look out below! Gives me a little shudder of pleasure, just to remember it.

More, soon, please!
J.

* * * * *
Read another extra-naughty one here.

sass

2005-05-12T13:58:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Do you find a sense of humor sexy? I know how much Mrs Jones enjoys the sass that her lover serves up. Take a peek...
Prudence
= = = = =
S.,
I suppose that it is almost cliché to say that a man's sense of humor is what attracted you to him, but clichés are so often based on truths, aren't they?

As far as our thang is concerned, let there be no doubt: it was most definitely your sense of humor, your *style* of humor, and your witty wordsmithery that first drew me in for a closer look. (And the rest, as they say, is history!)

Your brand of funny is still an enormous part of my ever-renewed attraction to you. For example, I particularly love the way you weave teasing and sass into our sexplay. It is such a turn-on – a seduction of the mind as you seduce the body.

Tuesday, for instance – a classic moment in the genre. I have smiled and flushed with heat several times thinking of it:

Me: Why don't you go take a shower?

(You make a face indicating that taking a shower is not very high on your to-do list at this point in time)

Me: No, really, go take a shower. You just got off a plane. I don't want you to taste like Air France.

(You now make a neutral face. You are barely paying attention; your mind is already made up on the whole "go-take-a-shower" idea. You are a man with a goal, busy shedding shoes and sweatshirt.)

Me (insisting): Just go take a quick shower, I'll be out here waiting for ...

(I am abruptly cut off, as you push me back onto the bed and immediately lay the length of your body along the length of mine. Speaking is no longer an option, as your tongue is darting in and out of my mouth as you kiss me quite hungrily. I can concentrate on little but the warm feel of your erect penis pressing into my thigh. In all likelihood, a small moan has emerged from deep within me. We are off. I have wrapped my legs around you, threaded my fingers into your hair, and am reaching toward your cock to draw you closer)

You (smirking triumphantly): So. You still want me to go take a shower?

not tonight, dear

2005-04-26T10:50:00.000+02:00

Dear readers,
A mail just in from Mrs Jones...
Yours,
Prudence
= = =
Prudence, I have to tell you about last night with J...

I texted a message up to him when I was crossing the hotel lobby, so that he'd open the door an inch for me. (You know about our unspoken rule to avoid standing in hallways or knocking on doors, to minimize any occasions to be spotted.) When I came into his room, he was lounged on the bed, wearing nothing but black cotton briefs, his hands folded behind his head, watching television.

I returned his greeting by rote, and barely met his look. My damned flight had taken off almost two hours late. It was past midnight. I was exhausted and cranky. I had had a terrible stomachache all afternoon -- something I ate at lunch hadn't agreed with me – and a headache had come along to join later on. Sitting uncomfortably on one of those hard plastic seats in Roissy earlier, I had actually given serious thought to blowing off the overnight and driving home to my own bed; which is saying something, because as you well know, usually there is no other bed I would rather be in than his.

I took a shower –the water as hot as I could bear it – but it didn't even begin to unknot my shoulders or my back. I pulled a filmy black negligee half out of my bag before pushing it back in. Ugh! I was in a state of non-desire -- of anti-desire. It occurred to me that after four years of splendid sex in hotel rooms around the world, J and I were about to have our first "off" night. At the very least, I thought, it will be interesting to see how he reacts, how we get through it. I put back on the white blouse I'd worn all day, and wrapped a bath towel around my bottom and legs. I didn't even have the energy to try to think about what I was going to say to him, or how I was going to say it.

The TV was off when I emerged from the bathroom and poor unsuspecting J was inquiring eagerly after the champagne I was supposed to bring. "Duty free was closed by the time I crossed through to the gates," I mumbled, sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed.

He must've suddenly caught on to my mood, because he instantly closed the space between us and, cliché as it sounds, gathered me into his arms. And Prudence, can I confess something? For a few long minutes, I let myself be pressed hard against him, let my hair be stroked. He felt so warm and so solid. I felt safe and secure in a way that only Darwin could properly explain. Looking back, I suspect the coiled tension in me unwound a quarter of a turn right there. Still, it wasn't really "us," this sort of touchie-moment, so I squirmed out of his embrace, rolled onto my back, and asked him about his day in London.

He made a little grumble that I interpreted as a reluctant agreement to this "talk-about-our-day" plan, but wouldn't let me escape from his touch. When I scooted away, he scooted right along with me. I was lying flat on my back with my arms crossed across my chest. He was pressed up against my right side, with his legs flopped over mine. He started telling me about his day, every detail, with his mouth just a few microns away from my ear.

I didn't actually realize it yet, Prudence, but I was in the process of being seduced. A man who knows every millimeter of my body, a man who could map out my erogenous zones better than I could, was essentially transforming my time-buying request for chitchat about his day into a masterful seduction tactic.

His mouth was right up against my ear, and his lips and his breath were tickling me, sending shivers of excitement through me, and suddenly heightening my senses. I was all of a sudden ultra-aware of his body stretching out along the length of mine, of the warmth he was giving off. There were a few inches of my skin bared near my middle, and the feel there of the rough-soft caress of the hair on his belly as he moved against my side was making me as crazy as the feel of his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

And then, Pru, right in the middle of a sentence, without even breaking his conversational stride, he flicked his warm, wet, soft tongue out of his mouth and lapped at my ear. I suspect I leapt up off the bed a few inches. I honestly never remembered that feeling quite so good before. And the man is no fool, as you know: when he saw what he was doing to me, he kept at it, of course, darting his tongue against my ear while continuing his overtly banal description of his day. The combination of his ultra-sexy voice right there in my ear and the intensely erotic sensations he was making me feel was almost overpowering. All I could do was suck in my breath over and over, and release heavy, half-giggly, half-astonished sighs. Wow. (Would you believe me if I told you I am actually getting a little head rush just writing to you about it?)

I was so amazed at how quickly he turned the entire situation around, how masterfully he played it. And you know, I couldn't even tell you if he set out to seduce me – we got so busy having sex that I never actually got around to telling him I didn't feel like having sex! Maybe he didn't even suspect how I thought the evening was shot.
J.

rain

2005-04-08T16:21:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
It's a dreary day here - April in Paris isn't always what the song makes it out to be. I've just intercepted this mail from Mrs J to Mr S. Now THIS sounds like a nice way to spend a rainy afternoon!
Prudence
= = = =
S.,
You sounded a bit blue on the phone just now – weather getting you down? How about a quick daydream to change your outlook?

Picture a spectacular hotel room, a real five-star joint. We're on an upper floor and there is an amazing view. Hong Kong harbor, maybe? Or the skyline of New York City?

There's a wall-to-wall-to-ceiling window, the curtains are open, and the rain is beating down hard. A tremendous storm is raging.

The room is warm and very dimly lit. We're in the huge bed. I'm more than halfway to naked, and you're wearing nothing but the smile of a man who knows what's in store for him. We're buzzed already, and there's a bottle of champagne in a bucket of icy water on the bedside table.

I'm lying on top of you, rubbing myself gently against your cock, happily paying lip service to the line across your neck where the shadow of your beard becomes sweet soft skin. One of your hands is on my lower back, fingertips stroking me gently; the other hand is softly caressing the back of my thigh. We're in no hurry; no one is expecting either of us. Lightening flashes outside, just as lightening begins to flash inside...

J.

hammam

2005-03-29T13:15:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers: I just got an e-mail from J... read for yourselves.
= = = = = =
Hi Pru. Had a weird experience yesterday, and you're the only person I can tell because it sort of involves S.

I went to the hammam after work; I thought that after all the chocolate and restaurant meals over Easter weekend, a good sweat and a nice sloughing would do me good. The women who work there are all middle-aged and Arab-origined, most of them Hollywoodien stereotypes -- the women you'd expect to see in a casting call for the role of "Mysterious Dark-Skinned Fortune-Teller" or perhaps "Mistress of the Sultan's Harem." Chattering away in high-pitched Arabic, they pass us paying customers along like human batons in a relay race: soaping-up, hammam, shower, back to the hammam, shower again, a lie-down on the hot ceramic tiles, a firm-handed sloughing with a coarse black sponge, a warm-oil massage, another shower, and then back to the locker rooms. Some speak French perfectly; for others, pointing and charades fill their language gaps.

A year or so ago, I went there with T. from work, and K., a friend from high school, who speaks no French. When it was all over and we were dressed again, sipping mint tea in the adjoining teashop, K. told us that her masseuse had tried to tell her something that she couldn't understand; she was nevertheless certain the woman was predicting her future. T. and I had been to the hammam together a number of times with no such paranormal activities taking place. We made doubtful faces and racked it up to an unworldly American who had gotten taken in by the casting-call look of the staff.

But yesterday, I had a strange experience of my own. My warm-oil massage was done by a 50-ish woman with jet-black hair piled up atop her head. Her halter top and shorts were generously filled with pendulous breasts and a full, soft cushion of a bottom. The massage was great: just the way I like them, neither too light nor too rough. She ended it by rubbing my hands with hers, stroking each of my fingers and thumbing back and forth across my palms. Pleasantly drained by the entire experience, I was drifting in reverie; and to be honest, I was thinking of S.

"We're done, miss," she said to me, her hands still clasping mine, "Get up slowly." She pulled me gently to a sitting position on the massage table, her eyes on mine. She began to release the soft pressure of her hands on mine, but then unexpectedly tightened her grasp again, and still looking intently at me, she said: "He is far away."

A statement, not a question.

I didn't move for a brief instant; in fact I felt a tad hypnotized. "Yes," I finally said, "He is far away."

"You miss him." Another statement. I nodded slightly. I do miss him. I had, just moments earlier, been allowing myself to think so.

"It's good to miss him," she said.

I tilted my head, made a "maybe so, maybe not..." face. S and I haven't really decided if we're "allowed" to miss each other. (Being apart most of the time is a defining aspect of our thing, after all.)

"It is good to miss him!" she said again, much more firmly.

She smiled warmly, and I smiled back as a reflex, and then abruptly I felt (for lack of a better word) peaceful. My hands were still in hers.

And then she helped me to my feet and handed me off to the next station.
= =
I wrote back to her:
My sweet J, what a lovely and magical experience!

I think you should listen carefully to the message that was given to you. I'm perfectly in line with your fortune-telling masseuse – I see nothing wrong in missing S when he is far away, or even when he is close by but you cannot see him. Just be very cautious about how you deal with missing him. You know how strongly I agree with your Prime Directive to do nothing that would endanger your happy marriages. Don't let missing S. lead you astray of the caution you always employ. For example - this trip of his is a family vacation, right? Did he request "radio silence" (no text messages, no calls, no voicemail messages) as he often does when he goes away with his family? If so, don't let your missing him cause you to break that radio silence and possibly put him at risk of being discovered.

In other words: always be prudent!
Love,
Prudence

* * * * *
More on the theme of "How to have an affair"

interruptus

2005-03-08T17:32:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Smith and Jones love their "SMS" – short text messages that can be sent from one mobile phone to another, wildly popular here in Europe. Here's an amusing one I've just intercepted: Smith and Jones ended up separating rather abruptly after a night together. As always, to be discreet they left the room separately, but the plan was to meet in a coffee shop down the street for breakfast. Except he bumped into someone he knew in the lobby of the hotel, and had to change the plan! Luckily they both know how to bounce back, and with their usual teasing wit, too. Enjoy.
Prudence.
= = = = =
Jones: Well THAT was total "Goodbyus interruptus!" Make it up to me with a phone call tonight in which you say nice things you only half mean.

Smith: How about half nice things I fully mean? Be good, talk later.

* * * * *
Click here for more text messaging.

morning after

2005-02-25T15:23:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
As I'm sure you've realized by now, Smith and Jones not only stimulate each other sexually, they stimulate each other textually as well. It would seem that Mrs. Jones is even self-aware of the fact that her lover is, in many ways, her writing muse... all the better for me, number one fan of their prose: and perhaps for you, too?
Prudence

= = =
S,
Did I ever tell you I'm thinking of writing a sex manual for men, built entirely around the amazing things you do? One of the chapters will definitely be about "morning-after cunnilingus."

On a pure sensory-stimulation level, there are few things as exquisitely pleasurable as that lazy way you settle your mouth onto my pussy the morning after a night of rocking sex.

Freed from the frantic heat of the needy, greedy first times around, it's easier to savor the tiny little pleasurable sensations that cohabitate with the big punchy ones. And because I'm generally a bit swollen in my nether regions from the way you've hammered me the night before, the sensations transmit differently (in a very good way, need I add). You also often choose these lazier moments to use a more gentle and more teasing tongue stroke. The combined result of all of that is a feeling that I never want to end, and yet is irresistibly orgasmic.

Mmmm!
J.

three-word phrase

2005-02-11T16:31:00.000+01:00

Hello,
My more loyal readers know by now that Smith and Jones are just having a lovely extramarital affair, nothing more – absolutely no promises to leave their spouses and be together, all efforts made to be prudent and properly secretive so no one ever finds out (this is what they call their "prime directive"). But still, it seems that every once in awhile, there's a crack in the wall that separates their private world from the rest…
Prudence
= = =
S,
A short note on last night's spontaneous exchange of three-word phrases.

Everyone knows that drunk, naked, horizontal "I love yous" do not count.

Nevertheless.

I would like to share with you that it makes me feel wildly contradictory -- joyously pleased (it's so astonishingly lovely to hear you say, and to say to you!) and intensely concerned (are we allowed to say that?!) at the same time.

I would suggest, in the interest of common sense and our prime directive, that if verbalizing such sentiment is necessary, that we keep it to an extremely strict minimum. For example; after last night, I think we can check off the box for 2005.

Before leaving this topic: what the heck is it about Brussels?! The other two times the three-word phrase was uttered (I will not embarrass you by mentioning who said it to whom... both times...) it was in Brussels, too! Something in the beer, perhaps?
J.

RER

2005-01-27T17:54:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
More sexy fiction! This one just came in from Mrs. Jones.
A bit long – but worth your time.
Prudence
PS: click here for another fictional story written by my favorite un-couple...

= = = = =

I hate to sound pathetically American, but even here in Paris, I love driving my car, and I hate taking the damn RER commuter train.

But all of yesterday's evening news reports led with films of the angry demonstrators on the airport access road. The locals protesting -- too much noise, unwanted new runways planned, yadda yadda yadda.

Helicopter shots showed kilometers of airport-bound travelers trapped in their cars and taxis, their flights long since missed. Crankiness abounded. Underlying message: don't drive to Roissy Airport.

But I have to be in Washington this evening, and it really is a hell of a swim, so it's off to the airport in public transportation. No choice.

On the crowded quay at Chatelet station, my ear picks up American-accented English (being spoken with that demi-notch of extra volume one must use on cell phones) coming from nearby. I turn to check it out, although apparently not very subtly, because I find myself staring straight at a man who is staring straight at me. We both hold the look an instant too long. Just as I glance away, I think I see the hint of a smile hit his eyes. His phone's a huge bulky clunker from years ago – I wonder what the story is with that. Handsome guy. 35ish, or maybe a bit older, with one of those deliciously pink-cheeked bright-eyed boyish faces that look so damn good on grown men. And what's this? Now speaking French into his awful phone? Very interesting indeed. I venture another glance towards him, keeping my movements studiedly slow and blasé. Great hair, too: thick and blond and tending to loop into curls at the tips. I can't decide if the French is native or not. His face doesn't look particularly American, nor particularly French; he could be either, or neither. He's got a wheeled carry-on bag with a United frequent flyer tag. Maybe he's taking my flight.

A train -- not going my way -- rattles into the station, and Cellphone Man cuts himself off mid sentence to let it pass. His eyes seek me out, and the same hint of a smile crosses his face again; he is pleased to have found me looking back at him. I feel a jolt of lightening rocket through me. Uh-oh. Then the train's imminent-departure buzzer sounds and it pulls away, and he starts to speak French into the phone once again, though I see him clearly take note of the English-language newspaper I am reading. I can't tear my eyes away from him as he speaks into the phone, apparently giving instructions to an assistant. This is crazy. I tell myself I should be careful: it's not because he looks like a boy scout in a business suit that he's not, say, a serial killer who preys on impressionable women by bamboozling them with a hypnotizing twinkly-eyed stare!

Another train clackety-clacks into the station, this one heading to the airport. I grab my wheelie-bag and herd forward with the rest of the cattle. Needless to say, with today's headlines, the car is full, indeed more than full. I'm standing, half straddling my bag, bodies on all sides. Over the shoulder of the woman in front me, I can see a 20-something couple kissing, dozens of little repetitive pecks, each one lasting longer than the one before, each one a half-step softer and deeper. The young man is facing me, and he is glowing, almost floating, with that intoxicating combination of joy and randiness. I'm not much of a public-displays-of-affection kinda person, but for some reason this little show makes me ache with desire.

Suddenly I feel eyes on me, and glance around to find my Cute-Dude-with-Dud-Phone about a body and a half away, looking straight at me with what must be described as amused empathy. Maybe the smoochers were making him horny, too. And indeed, he looks meaningfully at them and raises his eyebrows sort of wryly. I smile back and give him what I hope is an "Ah, youth...!" look.

The train stops at Gare du Nord and even more passengers pile on. There is much jostling, and I am shoved even further toward the back and even closer to the people around me; worse, I lose my grip on the pole that was keeping me upright. The doors shut and the train jerks away from the station and I try desperately to brace myself with my legs, but the wagon shakes and without something to grab onto, I careen helplessly into the people around me until a firm hand on my shoulder steadies me. I turn my head and say "Merci" over my shoulder to my benefactor. From directly behind me, a voice says, "You're welcome." In English. Softly. Very close to my ear.

Uh-oh.

I feel the hand on my shoulder slide gently down my back. I am wearing a black silk t-shirt, the bottom of which lies precisely at the top of my black pants. He puts his hand on just there, thumb on my hip, fingers splayed across the bone that juts out from my lower belly, touching only fabric, but still dangerously close to skin. It feels intimate. It feels good. His thumb strokes me very gently, sending little shivers up my spine. There is no longer any way I can tell myself that this is just some Good Samaritan helping me stay upright in the swaying train wagon.

The train lurches wildly around a corner, and in my ensuing loss of equilibrium, he pulls me a little closer to him. "This is crazy, right?" he whispers, so softly even I could barely hear him. "Tell me to stop."

The rational part of my brain is quite clear: Tell him to stop. Tell him to stop! At the very least someone might see me, someone who knows I have no reason to be letting a man -- or at least this man -- touch me in a train. But I have to admit, I am curious, and intrigued, and more than a little aroused, and besides, everyone is packed in so tightly, no one could possibly see what is going on anywhere below eye level. The train enters another station, and still more people try to squeeze into the wagon. Feigning a desire to shift myself and my belongings around, I turn to face him. I'm not sure what I intend, but it certainly isn't what happens: there is one last pre-buzzer shove from the people on the quay, and I am suddenly squashed against the back wall of the wagon, with Mysterious Handsome Stranger squashed flush up against me.

Our eyes meet and we share a truly magical look, full of silent laughter and slightly misplaced embarrassment. Uh-oh. I feel perfectly safe, which means I am definitely in trouble. He quickly peels himself away from me, though even after he does so, the space between us could still be measured only in microns. Not to mention that the damage has been done: I've already felt the hard bulge of his erection against my crotch. And my crotch has set to doing what crotches have been doing since the beginning of time when they feel erections belonging to attractive appealing men press up against them: taking control away from the brain.

"Is that a cellphone in your pocket...?" I say, my voice a little thick.

"Just happy to meet you," he answers, not missing a beat. His voice is exceptional. I have a thing for voices.

He's got a bag over one shoulder, his hand grasping the strap about mid-chest. We're standing so close that he only needs to lean in a little bit to close the gap between his knuckles and my nipple. I draw in a breath and look up at him, but he is prudently looking to the side into the middle distance, as seemingly unaware of me as he is of any of the three or four other people who are standing just as close to him in the crowded wagon. Except, considering the devastating precision with which he is relentlessly teasing my tit to a firmer, tighter, harder state of existence, I figure I'm safe in assuming that he is, indeed, aware of me.

I'm so concentrated on remaining still and silent despite this highly effective stroking and pinching on my increasingly sensitized breast, that the arrival of the fingers of his other hand on the expanse of skin just below my shirt almost makes my knees buckle in sensory overload. I venture another glance at his face, but while both his left hand and right are making me half-crazy with their complex tango of teasing touches, his face reflects only the blank stare of a bored commuter. It is only his pulse, pounding frantically in a hollow on his throat, that betrays him. I am so close to it, so very close: I ache to lean forward, touch my lips there, taste him and smell him. Instead, below the radar of everyone in the wagon, including him, I extend a hand to his leg, scratch my nails down his thigh toward his knee and back up to lightly tickle his cock and balls through the fabric of his pants. I am rewarded by the sight of his mouth and eyes clamping shut in a moment of edge-of-control agony, a satisfying crack in his blank-stare armor; and then punished with a scampering of his fingers across my belly, his eyes still looking elsewhere as it becomes my turn to summon inner reserves of self-control. He still does not look at me, but his eyebrows rise coyly in a universally-understood gesture of "Two can play at that game, baby." I am dizzy. I want to circle my hand around his shoulders and stroke his hair and neck. I want to still the fingers that continue to tease my breast and nipple before they render me insane. I want him to kiss me. I want him to fuck me.

The train lurches, and his cock -- straining against his pants in an apparent attempt to stretch across the space separating us like a heat-seeking missile -- brushes against my crotch. I am positive that my clitoris lets out an audible yelp, and indeed, a second later, the hand that had been torturing my tit begins to make a casual journey south, while the hand on my waist gently steers me into a slightly different position. I try to imperceptibly shake my head "No," but he either doesn't see or doesn't care.

A handful of brain cells with some functionality left suggest that is perhaps dangerous, or foolish, or at the very least sluttish, to allow a man whose name I don't even know to do what this man apparently intends to do, but luckily for my blood-engorged nether regions, I easily ignore them. Out of the corner of my eye I see his head turn toward me, and when I look up he locks his eyes onto mine and holds them literally captive as he slowly slides his index and middle fingers from just below my navel down the center of my tummy, lower, lower, stopping, without faltering, without hunting, exactly where I want him to. He isn't moving his fingers on me, only pressing them very gently against my clitoris, but the train jostles me against him. I'm already so aroused by the strange and erotic circumstances -- not to mention the skillful stimulation I've been treated to so far -- that the effects are immediate. As impossible as it seems to me, I know that I will most definitely come, right here in an overcrowded commuter train, if this continues. I look around -- surely someone can see? But pressed around us from all sides are only the backs of other passengers. No one is looking.

The hand still on my side tweaks me gently: he wants my eyes back. I oblige, but feel myself flush a self-conscious shade of deep red and quickly look down. But he softly prods my tummy again, and then again, until I raise my eyes to his face. He wears the barest hint of a smile on his mouth, the same look of pleased surprise that drew me to him on the quay in Chatelet. Our eyes meet, and again a bolt of lightening courses through me.

He begins to stroke my clitoris with his two extended fingers. Slow firm circles, and then the lightest brush of his fingers against me, and then firmly again, and it goes on for either ten seconds or ten minutes or I don't even know, until I have to raise a hand to my mouth to remember not to moan, groan, yell, scream, or lean over and kiss him as deeply as I can. The orgasm is small but perfect and very intense, and when my eyes focus again, he is grinning openly, his eyes are shining -- and he is making a "shush" expression with his lips. Ooops.

We are only one station away from the airport now, a short ride during which his fingers continue to stroke me very gently, and he smiles knowingly as I shudder through two lovely little aftershocks. And then we're there. The "back wall" that was behind me becomes the front of the wagon when the doors open on that side. My legs feel like absolute jelly, and I actually take a staggering step when he removes his hand from my hip. I can feel the hot echo of his palm and fingers on my skin as I try to grab the handle of my bag and get out of the wagon before even more people slam into me in their haste. I exit, finally, my bag toppling back and forth from wheel to wheel until it levels itself, the sea of people pushing me toward the escalator. I look around for him, but he is nowhere nearby; only as the escalator begins to climb do I spot him standing right on the edge of the quay, holding his bag somewhat awkwardly in front of his fly, his phone to his ear, staring at me. My own phone rings in my bag and for a crazy second, I think it's him calling me - but of course it's not. How could it be?

And then the escalator arcs up to a point where I can no longer see the quay, and he's gone. I have to take a bus from the terminal where the train pulls in to the terminal from which my flight leaves, but he is not on it with me. I expect to see him at the check-in counter, but he does not appear. And then I look for him in the lounge, and in the throng of people boarding the plane, but to no avail. Despite the tag on his suitcase, he must be traveling on another company today. I embark crankily; disappointed, disturbed, vaguely unhappy, and hopelessly horny.

A week later, back home, while methodically slipping my hand into every pocket and pouch of my carry-on bag as I unpack, my fingers touch the edge of something smooth in a small outside zipper pouch that I almost never use. An intuition (at which I would later marvel) tells me not to take it out in front of my husband, who is sitting on the bed next to me, listening to tales of my trip.

Later, alone, I unzip the pocket and pull out a United frequent flyer tag. Not mine. A name, a mobile phone number and an e-mail address are printed on it.

I actually giggle aloud with an emotion resembling joy.

Uh-oh.

* * * * *
More fiction.

away

2005-01-14T15:41:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Mr Smith has been on a long business trip in Asia for almost two weeks. . .
Prudence
= = = = =
S.,
How are you doing over there? I probably shouldn't say so, but I miss you heaps, despite the lovely amounts of e-mail and text messaging: but it's just not quite the same as being able to be with you. You make me laugh, and you radiate something at me, even just sitting together in a café minding our body language, which does me good.
Take care, be safe,
J.

gift

2004-12-22T21:30:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers
Obeying their Prime Directive (to never let their spouses discover their affair) means our couple can't always do those little everyday things they want to do. Still, it's the thought that counts... as you'll see in the SMS text message exchange I just intercepted.
Prudence
= = =

Jones: Hi. Flipping through the book you gave me. What a great gift! Terrifically "nudge-wink" appropriate. It looks like it's going to be a fun read. I'm very pleased. Thank you!

Smith: Wish I could have written an inscription on the fly leaf . . .

* * * * *
More on the theme of "How to have an affair"

snap your fingers

2004-11-24T18:17:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Mr Smith and Mrs Jones just love instant messaging – and I love that they do, too, because it's quite easy for my little techno-troll friend to spy on their chat exchanges. Look at this one that just arrived…
Prudence
= = = = = =
Smith: Hello. Got a few seconds before a meeting. How're things over there?

Jones: Hi! I'm horny and distracted. I want deep-penetration sex, followed by frisky mink-type behavior where I can crawl over and around you, rubbing as much as myself against as much of you as I possibly can, all while licking everything my mouth comes into contact with. I wish I could snap my fingers and make it happen RIGHT NOW.

S: Um. Could you snap your fingers and help me get rid of the hard-on you just gave me? I have to stand up and walk to a meeting down the hall...
* * * * *
Read another extra-naughty one here.

rumpled

2004-11-09T18:10:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Usually there are enough context clues in the messages I intercept that I don't have any trouble understanding exactly what's going on -- these two most regularly call a spade a damned shovel, and I thank them for it. However this one (below) left me stumped! I do know that Mr Smith has to drive quite near Mrs Jones's house to drop his kids off at school. Perhaps she caught a glimpse of him at a red light? We can only guess.
Happy reading all the same,
Prudence
= = = =

Mmmmm, you looked very appealing this morning, my dear. Running late, were we? Seeing you like that made me want to have you sleepy and rumpled and warm and naked in a bed, so I could crawl on top of you and nibble on your neck and your ears and your lips until you flipped me over and had your wicked way with me.
J.

synchronizing stories

2004-10-26T16:27:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
As you can imagine, successfully managing an extramarital affair requires work! Smith and Jones, you may remember, met while working together on a project for a client their two firms had in common. The project is done and they don't see each other professionally anymore, but they do know a lot of the same people.
This mail I recently intercepted shows how our little lustbirds have to work to keep each other in the same reality distortion bubble. Enjoy!
Prudence
PS: If you like this sort of "How to Have A Successful Extramarital Affair" information, be sure to read "VBI" too.
= = = = = = = =
Hi S,
It seems people are coming out of the woodwork to talk to me about you these days... so far I'm managing not to go red about the cheeks (I'd add "either set" but such vulgar and facile humor would not be worthy of even a smile from someone as consistently funny as you, so really, don't smile, please) at the mention of your name.

As we've pre-planned, whenever asked, I stick to a low-calorie version of the truth: I have recently spoken to you. I know basic details on your life, liberty and pursuit of ... um ... nevermind... of your life and liberty (g). You're doing well. Specifically, I've had this sort of conversation with [Name], [Name], and [Name], and that's just in the past week.

My point is: if people ask YOU about ME, don't deny that we've spoken! Just wanted to synchronize.
See you soon,
J.

* * * * *
More on the theme of "How to have an affair"

parking lot

2004-10-12T16:32:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Not content with turning each other on through torrid mails about their own encounters and fantasies, Smith and Jones will sometimes write each other fictional tales. Here's a great one he just wrote for her.
Prudence

= = = = =

They were either a couple who had known each other for a long time (because they seemed so comfortable, so relaxed with each other) or they had just met and fallen madly in lust (because they couldn't seem to keep their hands and eyes off of each other).

I notice these kinds of things, and spotted them easily enough. They were having a drink at the corner table of the Cafe dello Sport. They paid, she left the table for a few minutes, and then they headed out into the cool summer late night.

I couldn't resist the temptation to follow them, discreetly, as they headed down towards the boulevards. They walked without touching, but seemed intimate nevertheless, striding along but then stopping, from time to time, to look into shop windows. They were going somewhere, but not in a hurry.

He was average looking, unremarkable. She reminded me of the model in the Galeries Lafayette ads, the one with the long black dress. Tall enough, slim, nice ass, well built. Her summery skirt and sandals showed off her legs, and her black cotton tank top displayed her firm, well-proportioned tits.

They slipped through the small park in front of the department store and down the steps into the parking garage. I almost thought I had lost them, not sure which floor they were heading for. I checked a couple of floors and then spotted them in the distance on the lowest level, heading towards a small group of cars on the far end of the largely deserted garage. I slipped into the shadows and watched.

When they reached a small red car, they stopped and talked for a while. They looked around, laughed, and then they were at each other. He slammed her into the side of the car (I could actually hear the impact) and they were clearly no longer worried about who might be around. I moved a bit closer. She had one leg around him, and he was pushing, thrusting her up onto the car. Her hands were running down his back, grabbing his ass, and pulling him in, tearing at his shirt.

I moved even closer - I could see them very clearly now in the slanting, indirect heliarc lights. Her top was up around her neck, and her skirt was riding around her waist. She was wearing black thong panties, but clearly not for long. I heard the sound of tearing fabric and they were gone.

Suddenly she whipped him around and he was the one with his back against the car. She removed his belt and unfastened his trousers, pushing him toward the hood of the car.

When she had maneuvered him into position, she pushed him back onto the hood and pulled his cock out of his trousers, taking it into her mouth with the obvious gusto of a starving woman finding a hamburger. He lay back, watching her enjoy her mouthful, and clearly enjoying it as well.

I was having trouble keeping quiet myself. Then he grabbed her hair and pulled her up towards him, kissing her bare breasts, which were glistening with sweat, and caressing her neck. She cleared away the last remnants of the skirt, grabbed his cock, and climbed onto the car hood, knees on either side of him, and slowly, deliciously, and then frantically lowered herself onto him. They thrashed together on the car hood, her hair first draped over his face and then swept back over her shoulders as she leaned back.

He took the opportunity to slip her back down from the hood and came around behind her, pulling back her shapely ass until her legs were straightened, and then rammed his thigh between her legs. She jumped with the impact, emitting a loud groan. Then he pulled her back and slammed his cock into her cunt, which I could see glistening in the bright garage lights. She held onto the car as he pumped her, grabbing her ass and then reaching around to massage her tits, biting and kissing her ears as she writhed.

Again, she stood up with a shock, slipping him out of her, and turned to face him with that same hungry look. He pushed her onto the car hood again, this time on her back, and entered her again as she wrapped her legs around him, her sandals still on her feet. They seemed to go on forever - I lost track of time passing - and slowly they accelerated their fucking until her legs were around his neck and she was shouting and squealing, leading to a crescendo followed by a long, slow, silent arch of her back as he collapsed, seemingly exhausted, on top of her.

The rest was predictable - a gathering of items of clothing, a few more wet lingering kisses -- and then she was in the car, driving away. He started to walk back towards the exit, adjusting his sweat-stained shirt. As he passed by my shadowy hiding place, he nodded in my direction without actually looking at me and said, "Hell of a show, eh mate?

Bad day, great night

2004-09-28T15:09:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
This e-mail I just intercepted from Jones to Smith doesn't need any comments or qualifications at all. Enjoy!
Prudence

= = = = =

Hi there handsome. You know what I was just thinking about? A night we spent together in London a few months ago. Do you remember? My day had been terrible. My train was late. I didn't even get into the room until almost midnight, and I had to leave on a 6am train the next morning to get back to what was pre-announcing itself as another terrible day. I was not, to put it bluntly, in a good mood.

Worse, I wasn't feeling very sexy.

But I had come all that way to have sex after all; and you were obviously relaxed, and horny, and ready to rock 'n' roll. I felt guilty about feeling cranky. So I disappeared into the bathroom, and put on a black teddy and stockings and a brave face – but unable to bear the thought of being bare just yet, I slipped back into the jacket of my suit, too. I came out of the bathroom chattering nervously, and perched up on the desk in the hotel room with the suit jacket pulled tight across my chest, instead of slipping into bed next to you.

You got up out of the bed and handed me the drink you had made for me while I was in the bathroom, and then you sat in the chair in front of the desk, completely focused on me, but not touching me. Parried the nervous chatter. Poked straight through the chaff to the precise bit of my day that had really troubled me (naturally, I haven't the faintest idea anymore). Made me laugh. Pushed me gently to drink. Every time I lifted my eyes to your face, you were watching me intently. The booze, and the laughter, and the chemical reaction that I remain convinced plays a role in our attraction, all started to have an effect. But mostly it was the way you were looking at me, as you sat in that chair and pulled me right out of the black cloud without even touching me.

(To be honest, I doubt you were acting consciously; I think rather that this was just an instinctive manifestation of your "problem-solving" talents.)

So I ventured a Wolford-clad foot toward you, and you grabbed it gently, and stroked it even more gently, all while keeping me talking about nothing and everything. I could feel, I really could, I swear I could feel how much you wanted to fuck me emanating off of you like heat waves. You got up and walked into the bathroom, and while you were gone I slipped out of my suit jacket, and stretched out on the bed with my head spinning, buzzed on vodka and the thrill of being desired by such a desirable man. And you came out of the bathroom, and S., my God, you audibly caught your breath, apparently at the sight of me. This sort of thing does not actually happen in real life to women like me, and yet, and yet...

And then we fucked for hours, almost all the way through til morning. You were pretty buzzed, too, and very aroused, and very attuned to me, it seemed; and that night you were particularly verbal, too. You said all sorts of silly things that would embarrass us both if I repeated them.

The high was unshakeable. Took me days to come down.

J.

short and sweet

2004-09-17T16:59:00.000+02:00

Readers,
It's rare that Mrs Jones writes only three sentences when thirty could be written instead, but she's just back from a business trip to Hong Kong where she caught up with Smith, and look at this short & sweet e-mail she wrote to him…
Prudence
= = =
S,
I love the look, feel, sound, taste and smell of you. It's a simple as that. You make me laugh and you make me think and you always, always make me want more.
Thanks for 25 great hours in one of the world's most vibrant cities.
J.

suffering alone

2004-09-13T16:41:00.000+02:00

Readers: Oh, the agony of a business trip alone, when one is Smith or Jones…!
Prudence
= = =
S,
Greetings from Singapore. I have an amazing room with an even more amazing view. A gigantic bed. A huge octagonal shower stall, with smooth marble walls, a glass door, and two, that's right, TWO shower heads that run at the same time if one so desires.
Why am I telling you this? Because I so hate to suffer alone ;-)
See you soon in Hong Kong,
J.

beard

2004-08-30T21:00:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
I gave my friend Mrs Jones a call last night to see how her vacation went, and she told me she was in London for business. "On a Sunday night?" I asked, a bit surprised. She replied she had to be there for an early Monday morning meeting, and suddenly, I realized what was probably going on. (Remember this post?). And indeed, look at the mail I intercepted this afternoon. It was the night right before the first day back from three weeks' vacation for Mr Smith, too: an opportunity for something banal for spouses but rare for lovers! Read on…
Prudence
= = = = =
Hi again,

Perhaps you were underselling yourself to keep my expectations low, but considering the way you've always described your beard to me over the years, I was expecting you to be an unattractive, half-yeti, half-lumberjack with a scratchy tangle overtaking his cheeks. Imagine my surprise to see how very handsome you looked! I will grant you that in our society, being bearded does have a bit of a "history professor" flavor to it, but you'd definitely be the history professor that all the co-eds were madly in love with. Another remark: clean-shaven, you have a rather "boyish-faced" handsomeness. Sitting across from you in the restaurant last night, I found myself thinking that the beard "butched up" your face in a very interesting way.

Because of anecdotal evidence provided by girlfriends over the years, I also thought your having a beard would be a greater source of discomfort for me. (I remember a floormate at college who would regularly walk about Saturday and Sunday mornings with a rash of reddish-pink "beard burn" which she ensured us with a wink was not limited to her face and neck.) But this was not the case, not at all – I found it to be coarse to the touch, yes, but not scratchy or irritating. In fact, the feeling of your warm soft mouth on a given spot combined with the rough caress of your beard all around it was very, very erotic and pleasing.

Conclusion: I overall prefer you without, but in order to enjoy the "vive-la-difference" aspects, I absolutely insist that you don't shave if ever we can swing another night-right-after-vacation-but-before-work VBI like we did last night.

Corollary To The Conclusion: I know we've got a nice "don't ask don't tell" policy going about sex with our spouses, but if your wife does not positively savor your vacationtime sex & intimacy for this interesting and appealing variation to the way you look and feel, she is a fool. And I know she's not a fool. So excuse me while I let one of my ultra-rare little waves of jealousy wash over me ;-)

J.

daydream about Oslo

2004-08-06T16:34:00.000+02:00

Dear readers,
Everyone here in France is on vacation - Smith and Jones are each off with their own families, and I'm about to leave town, too. To keep you occupied during the vacation lull, here's a mail from Jones to Smith that I intercepted a while back. She called it "Daydream about Oslo," but I strongly suspect it was more than just idle thoughts -- at the time she was trying to gently persuade him to rearrange his professional schedule slightly to take a trip to Norway at the same time that she would be there.
You may not be surprised to hear that he had his secretary book his flight within hours of reading her mail! Enjoy.
Yours,
Prudence
= = = = = = = =
S,

I'm lying on top of you, my whole body pressed against yours; and with the smallest of movements I lift and lower my hips, drawing your sex in and out of mine, but slowly, gently -- I'm on the edge of explosion but trying desperately to make it last longer, to savor the sensations.

Your fingers are tracing up and down my back and my sides, making my head spin even more and leaving a trail of sizzling sensuality in their wake. I can feel your breath, warm and ragged against my ear, feel your heart pounding against my breasts. You, too, I briefly realize, are fast approaching a point of no return. I'm aching to come, and yet I never want it to end.

Your hands slide lower to grab my buttocks, a finger strays to tease my ass, your tongue darts into my ear, and I realize the sound I hear so far away is actually me moaning aloud from the wonderful sensory overload you're provoking.

I push up with my arms to sit upright, straddled upon you, looking down at you as you look up at me, looking then at where we're joined to marvel at the beauty and how simply amazingly good it feels, when almost without warning the wave crests and crashes over me, and you're pounding into me and I'm lost to everything but how you make me feel ...
J.

* * * * *
Read another extra-naughty one here.

ride home

2004-07-20T16:25:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Our Mr Smith and Mrs Jones are rabid users of "SMS" – the short text messages that can be sent from one mobile phone to another. This medium is very handy for communicating discreetly without anyone else being able to overhear, and the speed at which the messages travel from phone to phone really enable two people to have a "conversation."
My little hacker friend has been retransmitting to me their text-message exchanges for years now. Here's a fun one that came in this morning - Jones and Smith were at a meeting together, and she drove him home afterwards... except they got a bit sidetracked by lust on the way, and ended up parking in a vacant lot and making out like teenagers. Enjoy!
Prudence.

= = = = = = = =

Smith: Hope you didn’t get home too late last night

Jones: No prob. And you? In the dog house for being later than announced?

S: No. Got sympathy actually – "poor boy, all wet from walking from station in the rain"

J: Was awfully wet in my car, too: a rather localized zone of humidity

S: I blame myself

J: As well you should! Actually feeling pleasantly revved.

S: Hope the drive-thru happy meal didn't spoil your dinner

J: The free toy was terrific but fast food like that always leaves me hungry for more...

Body fluids

2004-07-06T17:13:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Rabbit-like eagerness, mink-like insatiability. These are terms that come to mind when perusing the e-mail correspondence of our friends Smith and Jones. I think this next one (from she to he) nicely captures the mood. If you're wondering what the term "VBI" means, click here.
Prudence
= = =

I am so horny right now it's not even funny.

I want to be lying on my back on a bed, watching you strip off your clothes in that hurried way you do when you're eager to be doin' it, with your erection tenting your underwear and that amazing sort of kinetic energy radiating off of you in what I could swear are almost visible-to-the-naked-eye waves ...

The gods alone know why, but I'm always a little nervous during the moments right before our VBIs. The short wait alone in the hotel rooms, the drive to wherever we're meeting: I almost want to use the word "frightened" to describe how I felt! (Strange, huh? And yet true.)

And then you get there, and you're so cool and so sure of yourself and so obviously hungry for it, mmm, it's irresistible; it's infectious. I love the way you touch me when you're like that: a little bit rough, decidedly in charge, goal-oriented. No tiptoeing around the subject; you want to fuck, you want to fuck me, and you want to fuck me now. Very sexy. In fact, I'm making myself light-headed just sitting here thinking about it.

(I remember one time in the office when you just grabbed me by both arms in the middle of some idiotic chit-chat phrase I was making and pushed me up hard against the wall; I thought my legs might actually give out from under me from the rush of arousal and desire...)

Back to my fantasy du jour: no question, it's a tongue thing. I'm just dying to feel your mouth on me. Gently, maybe, at first; you know, it's such a direct sensation of pure pleasure that it's almost frightening in its intensity (finalement, you're a pretty scary guy! ) In my mind this afternoon, I am definitely on my back as your tongue and lips work their magic. But for the record, you remember that one time we did this with me kneeling over your face? Like in your fantasy stories? This method, too, we simply must revisit someday. (So many fantasies to fulfill, so few VBIs...)

When you make me come with your tongue, it is such an intense thing. It's always a wonderfully long, deep orgasm, as if it were doubling back onto itself, perhaps because you're still right there stimulating me even it's beginning to ripple through me. (Can you feel it happening? I mean actually feel it with your tongue or your lips? That is the absolute best part of fellatio, you know: feeling every little contraction and shudder of your cock as you come, actually feeling the shot zoom up your shaft, along the length of my tongue, past my lips and into my mouth. Unbelievably erotic.)

And then, just as soon as I come, I want to feel your body slide up my body and I want to feel you plunge into me. Despite all the "bad press" it gets for being allegedly boring or blah, there is really nothing like the missionary position. I love feeling you looming over me, I love the feel of your chest against mine, I love wrapping my legs around your thighs, I love the sensation of depth, and I truly, truly love the way things line up in the tropic zones. If you ask me, those missionaries sure knew what they were doing. These orgasms are the ones I can savor the best: I have an ever-so-slight modicum of control over them, in the sense that I can really feel it build and if I try, I can hold it off just a little while, give myself a few microseconds of prescient "I'm going to come" bliss. It's also a great position for enjoying your enjoyment, watching your face, and feeling your muscles contract, witnessing the speed and the rhythm you set for yourself; not to mention the pleasure of being able to touch you just about everywhere. And I adore the "collapse" afterwards, the hot, panting, sweaty, heaviness of your spent body pressing me into the bed.

So, there you go. I should be re-reading a press release for my new client and prepping for a huge meeting with [Company] bigwigs on Tuesday, and instead, I'm imagining myself naked on my back exchanging body fluids with someone whose name I don't dare say aloud in the company of anyone in my life, personal or professional! Tsk, tsk...
J.

* * * * *
Read another extra-naughty one here.

VBI

2004-06-22T11:39:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
You may wonder what on earth these two are talking about sometimes. They have certainly created some private vocabulary during the years I've been - how shall I say - "following" their "thing". Since they like words, talking and writing, I guess it's no surprise. But for the casual reader, a decoder ring may be necessary from time to time. I'll do my best to provide clues where needed.

Take, for example, the term "VBI". As any quick whatis.com search will tell you, it means "vertical blanking interval", an arcane computer term for the split second it takes a computer screen to refresh. Our dear nerds have taken this term and perverted it to their own uses, as this cell-phone dialogue from way back in the beginning of their affair (captured by my little tech-gnome's dastardly technology) illustrates. Listen in with me:

= = =
…

Jones - This is just ... I don't know. It just seems really impossible for us to ever be able to see each other.

Smith - No kidding. But that doesn't make me want to see you any less...

J - Yeah, I know, but how do we work around the full-time jobs, the spouses, the children? How will we ever find the time to see each other? Not to mention finding the PLACE. Where will we ever go to be alone?

S - I know. I've been thinking about it too. It's a non-trivial problem....

SILENCE ON THE LINE

S - But you know, our lives are full of little bits of unused, out-of-sight time. Kind of like this idea of network computing, where people agree to allow NASA to use their idle PCs in order to do some humongous intergalactic calculation. And the system sucks up all these idle cycles to do a massive calculation, using little bits and pieces of available time.

UNINTELLIGIBLE NOISE

J – (dryly) Fascinating. Really. But how exactly are NASA's shared computer cycles going to allow us to spend time together without destroying our marriages?

S- (laughing) Well, you're right. It's not really the same thing at all, but still, there's something there - our lives are full of empty moments that we don't use. If we combined them all together, there'd be lots of time!

J - I sure don't feel that way. I mean, when I get up in the morning till when I collapse in front of the TV in the evening, I haven't got a minute of free time. I need a wife!

S- I guess I'm not expressing myself very clearly. What I mean is that there are these hidden moments that no one else needs to be aware of. A bit like a VBI. Know what that is?

J - A what?

S- A VBI. A Vertical Blanking Interval.

J - (audible silence)

S - OK, I know, I know, it's nerdy computer jargon. Pretty specialized stuff at that. But try to follow me on this. Do you know how a CRT works?

J – A what?

S - A CRT, a cathode ray tube, that's what makes TV screens and computer monitors work.

J – Okayyyy…

S - Anyway, a CRT works by drawing an image on the screen very very quickly, so quickly that the eye can't follow. There's a little light beam that scans from the top left of the screen to the bottom right, one line at a time, every fraction of a second. It's amazingly fast, so you can't really see it. It does this hundreds of times per second. Most people have no idea this is happening. But this beam moves from top left to bottom right and then goes back up to the top to start all over again, each time drawing whatever the screen needs to be showing at that instant.

J - OK, so what? I still don't get what this has got to do with the logistics of scheduling a successful adulterous relationship between two busy, overcommitted urban professionals?

S – Stick with me, I'm getting there! The idea is this: Whenever the beam gets to the bottom right of the screen, it takes a quick break, kind of like a carriage return on a typewriter, to go back up to the top left hand side of the screen. So during this quick break, there's a split second, but enough time, for the computer that's drawing the screen image to do something else. Like it's sneaking some of this extra, un-needed time to do something completely different, for example, to send some teletext information. If you don't have a teletext receiver, you have no idea that this stuff is happening. In fact, the whole thing is invisible to a normal person unless they understand how a CRT works. Get it?

J- Hmmm. So it's a bit like invisible slices of time - only people who know they're there can see them?

S- Exactly!

J - OK, nice theory, baby. But help me translate this into how we find time and space to fuck without getting caught?

S - Well, we both lead busy professional and private lives, right? Tons to do. Almost too much for us to keep track of - so certainly too much for our spouses to keep track of. We travel a lot, we have meetings. Flights are late. Meetings run long. So every now and then we make a little VBI, a little bit of unused time, which we use for us. I mean, why not? Your husband thinks you are at work. My wife thinks I am at work. Our bosses and colleagues think we are at a meeting of some kind. And they're all mostly right! We're hard at work meeting each other so we can fuck like minks! And the only people who know is us! THAT'S a VBI. As long as we are careful and don't make stupid mistakes, we won't get caught. Only the paranoid survive!

J - Mmm, nice theory.

S - Oh ye of little faith! Ok, so here goes. I'm going to London next Wednesday. I have meetings all day Wednesday and most of Thursday. Then I fly back on Thursday night. On Wednesday night I'm staying at a hotel near Paddington station.

J - Very interesting. I'm happy for you. But so what?

S - So what are you doing next Wednesday night?

J - (silence) Nothing. Going home after work. Dinner. Watching TV....

S - So wouldn't you rather be having a VBI?

J – Beg your pardon?

S - Wouldn't you rather be on a quote-unquote "business trip" in London (as far as your husband is concerned)? And in reality be getting your brains fucked out by me in my London hotel?

J – (the light bulb is illuminating) So I lie to my husband about going on a business trip to London so I can sleep with you?

S – Exactly! Though I can't guarantee I'll actually let you sleep…

(Short silence)

J – You know (half-laughing) it's not a bad idea! It's true, when I have real client meetings early in the morning in the UK, I always fly over the night before to be there and have time to prepare. It would seem normal. And we always use the mobile phone to call each other – I never even tell him what hotel I'm in anymore.

J – Exactly!

S - There's still the minor problem of getting to London. I mean, what does that cost?

J - Let's have a look. (sounds of keyboard tapping in the background). Look, special deal on Eurostar. 99 Euros round-trip. Plus you'd have free lodging - chez moi. AND I'll buy the food and booze. Such a deal!

S – You know what? This VBI concept could fly! I'll have to concoct a story at home, but that's doable…

= = = = =
So my dear readers, once again you can see that where there's a will there's a way, and of course, where there's a willy, there's a will! No prizes for guessing what happened from here. The term "VBI" was a keeper. It became their code-word for the moments they stole from their busy lives to be together.
Prudence

* * * * *
More on the theme of "How to have an affair"

I wish I were ...

2004-06-08T15:59:00.001+02:00

Readers,
Look what just popped into my in-box! A mail from our Mrs. Jones entitled "I wish I were..."
Yours,
Prudence
PS: Where do you wish YOU were?

= = = =
(I wish I were...)
... on my back, with you on top of me, my legs wrapped around your thighs, my hands on your wonderful ass, my face buried in the space between your throat and your collarbone, being quite rhythmically nailed into the mattress, and just about a microsecond away from exploding into orgasm -- you know, that wonderful instant when it's just about to happen but hasn't actually started yet and you know you're about to take your last breath and think your last thought... mmmmm...
J.
PS: how about you: where do you wish you were?

* * * * *
Read another extra-naughty one here.

Million dollar bet

2004-05-25T16:52:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Aha! Looks like Smith was successful in his apparent desire to have Jones explore some new sexual territory. Knowing these two, a bit of alcohol was involved, as well as some salesmanship and a slice of successfully stimulated curiosity.
Jones' historical reminiscence, sent to Smith via e-mail, gives an idea of the extent to which a bit of good old-fashioned persuasion can lead to discovery. Read on...
Prudence
= = =

I was just thinking – after last night, I owe someone a million dollars.

Let me tell you about a night in 1989 with a guy named David. We were in his room in the frat house, naked, panting, thrusting. He sat on the edge of his bed, and I sat on him, and we moved together. It was our last time making love, but neither of us knew it then.

A strange thing we were doing, I thought, and not for the first time: lovers, suddenly, after three and a half years of friendship. A class together freshman fall, meals together from time to time – a good casual friendship. And then our senior year, in the middle of his fraternity's spring formal ball -- he'd recently dumped his girlfriend of over a year and wanted to go with a friend, not a date -- something came over us. "Senior Scramble" we decided later: the terror of the impending plunge into the Real World and its jobs and its responsibilities and its absence of a warm cocoon where we knew everyone and everyplace. A good meal, a bit too much vodka, a slow dance, and then we were dancing and kissing; and then not dancing at all, just kissing; and then stumbling over ourselves trying to get upstairs into his room.

We didn't even tell our mutual friends for weeks, each of us figuring it would end before making it necessary to tell, both of us knowing that there was no long-term future in it. And indeed, after we stopped going out together (which of course really meant: after we stopped staying in together), the friendship stayed on through graduation without a dent.

He pinched my nipples, and I moaned into his throat, trying to keep quiet. His fingers slid down my back to the crack of my ass, and he caressed me there, up and down, his touch making me burn with desire and need. Then he pulled out of me and laid back on the bed, drawing me alongside of him, kissing me and slipping a hand between my legs from the front. His middle finger drew a few slow circles around my clitoris and I came, riding his hand through the spasms.

I'd coiled into a fetal position, my back to him; he pushed me over onto my stomach, spread my legs, and then pointed the tip of his penis against my anus. THAT shook me from my post-climactic reverie. "No way!" I said, tipping my hips up so that he could access my pussy and pointing, "I've already told you! You want in, you go in here!" Which he did, to both of our satisfactions.

But he brought it up later, after we'd dressed.

"Why not? I know you'd like it," he said calmly.

"No way," I said, half laughing at the ridiculousness of his suggestion, "No. Way. Don't even think about it. Never."

"You will someday," he said, just as calmly, but much more serious, almost sad now, leaning toward me. "Someday, you'll be with someone who really excites you. You and me, we don't have great sex--" shushing me as I protested, "We don't! You just think we do cause you've never had great sex. But you will someday, and that man will make you so crazy with desire, you won't even recognize yourself sometimes.

He'll know how to tap into what I can sense but can't reach in you. And if he wants to fuck your ass, and he will because you have the most amazing ass, you will let him. And you'll like it, too."

"Oh please!" I said, searching for a light tone, finding him perfectly ridiculous.

"I'll bet you a million dollars right here that you'll do it someday, and you'll like it," he said, holding out his hand.

And I shook it.

And it turns out he was right.

On a number of subjects.

J.

cover blow

2004-05-11T16:35:00.000+02:00

My dear Readers,
Keeping an affair like this under cover long term takes some discipline and prudence (if I say so myself!). Poker face in public, watching the body language, no public displays. Our friends have had a few slip-ups in their time, close calls even. Luckily nothing definitive, or this blog would run dry... They call them "cover-blows", understandably. Read on...
Prudence

= = =
S.,
Good lord, I have NEVER come as close to committing a cover-blow as I did there standing next to my car with you after lunch!

You looked so good, so handsome, so sexy, so intensely, immensely appealing, leaning against the rail with your devastating smile and that way you sometimes have of looking at me like I were something to eat and you were hungry... I swear I caught myself with my mouth halfway to yours and my hands in mid-air en route to your chest, like we were normal people who could kiss in the street! (And frankly I'm really not much of a kiss-in-the-street kinda person!!)

My hands and knees were actually, literally trembling in the car all the way back here. Show you what I mean Thursday night?
J.

Slowly, slowly

2004-04-30T16:33:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
Goodness. Methinks Mr Smith is trying to persuade Mrs Jones to venture into new sexual territories.
The following little fantasy he's concocted certainly will have helped to get the juices flowing...
Prudence
= = =

Fantasy time: Feeling you rubbing your crotch against my legs, kissing your erect nipples, licking your delicious belly, I pull your legs towards my face and bury my tongue into your damp pussy, wet like a warm ice cream cone. You arch your back and moan, groan, growl, as my tongue does its work, tickling your clitoris, nibbling at the small bit of skin between your cunt and your ass. You growl as I run my hand, coated with lavender massage oil, up your ass.

Slowly, slowly, you slide your ass back towards my waiting cock, slipping along my chest and belly to your waiting friend, the tension making you quiver.

Slowly, slowly, you maneuver yourself onto the tip, reaching back with an oily hand to position me for a first thrust, which I can't restrain. Again you arch and groan and sit back a bit more, feeling me slide slowly into your taut ass, my hands kneading your breasts wet with sweat. You are growling low like a she-cat in heat, slowly lowering yourself bit by bit onto me, impaling yourself slowly and deliciously.

I slide my hands over your ass, along your damp back, quivering, and we loose our tongues in each others' mouths while you undulate slowly on top of me - now I move my right hand to your clitoris, slowly massaging you as you gasp and arc again, rising and falling, clamping your knees and making mewling sounds as I fell you tense, tighter and tighter, losing control, and I start to feel my cock swell inside you, swelling to a crescendo which is underlined by a gasp as you come, shocking and arching, while I shoot hot semen into you at a million miles an hour.

You can't move for a while, partly because your thighs are locked into cramps from your orgasm, and partly because you are being kept erect by my cock, still standing duty inside you.

You collapse onto my chest, licking the sweat and other juices that have collected there. Finally, after your breathing settles a bit and my resolve starts to soften, you slip off onto your side, nuzzling my neck as you whisper into my ear...

S.

*****
Skip ahead to this post to see if Smith was successful in his persuasion...

* * * * *
Read another extra-naughty one here.

How it all began

2004-04-23T16:28:00.000+02:00

Dear Readers,
I thought perhaps you might be wondering how this affair to remember (or at least to bookmark) got started. S and J worked together on a project for a client their two firms had in common – Smith's consulting firm advised them on hosting a huge customer event, and Jones's agency organized the event and promotion around it. They were thrown together for many, many intense work sessions and then the weeklong event itself, in a 5-star hotel in London. After it was all over, they had lunch together back in Paris. Here's the exchange of mails that followed that fateful meal…
Prudence

= = = =

Hello!
A quick message to tell you that I had a nice time at lunch with you yesterday and as a result I'm suffering from a *ferocious* case of TPFL (Traumatic Post-Fun Letdown), ie: "I used to be on a great project with fun people whom I respected and liked and who made me laugh, and now I'm alone and lonely, surrounded by the dull and the doofuses, boo hoo hoo."

Despite outward appearances, this is not a shot at being the 100th lucky patient to consult "Dr Smith, Job Morale Psychologist" -- but rather as a somewhat backhanded compliment. Enormous professional respect, even greater personal affinity, and a microscopically small yet nonetheless statistically significant dose of never-to-be-acted-upon attraction. What more could you ask? ;-)

Will be checking this mailbox in the coming weeks for news from you.

Stay in touch.
J.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
J.,
Compliments, whether served backhand or forehand, or even lobbed over my head, are always most welcome, if only because they are a reliable sign of life on the other side of the net.

When they come elegantly spiced and written in impeccably literate English, their charm is further enhanced.

But when they are delivered by a charming creature with a sly sense of humor and a hearty laugh, they lose their tennis-ball nature (a nature which demands an immediate and hearty volley at the net). Rather, they are transformed into aerobatic swallows, which by their nature are impossible to "return" or even capture, but rather should be watched in their flight with suitably restrained enjoyment.

Merci et a bientot,
S.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
S.,
Damn! Wow! Absolutely splendid response to an impossible-to-respond-to message. Truly delicious. Mes hommages.
Do us a favor, would you? Think before you ever make me any offers. I am quite certain that no matter what your question, my answer would be yes.
Take care,
J.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
J.,
I promise to be very careful with my requests.
S.

the Look

2004-04-05T16:32:00.000+02:00

Dear readers,
I'm such a terrible voyeur – but I do so love these little glimpses into the secret lives of Smith and Jones. Read these few lines: can't you just picture it exactly as if you were there?
Prudence
= = =

S.,
I have to tell you, I keep flashing back on a look - or rather a Look - that you gave me across the table in Austin last week: "We may have finished eating," it said quite clearly, "but I am still very hungry."
Compared with other men I have known (as well as with perfect strangers on the average French street corner) you are pretty conservative with your distribution of Looks (are you being cautious because of the nature of our thing? Or is this just you?), so the ones you do grant me are all the more savory... and this one was a real winner. Exceptionally seductive.
If I hadn't already been a sure thing for you that night, I would have become one right at that moment.
J.

Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store

2004-03-22T19:44:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
As you know, I've had a computer geek in my acquantaince help me install software that lets me hack into S and J's mail exchanges. Normally their correspondance is rather torrid and steamy, but sometimes, one or the other will wax a bit more lyrical.
Take this mail, for instance: Smith wrote it to her while on a business trip in the USA.
Enjoy,
Prudence

= = = = =

I am in my favorite cafe in the whole world, on the corner of Columbus and Union in SF. I have been coming here since I was 11.

The foosball game is gone, but otherwise it is as cool as ever, the cappucino con vov is as good as ever, the waitresses are as blue-jeans-hip and as delicious as ever. Many, many memories in the air, of the "classmates.com"variety.

Oh yeah, and they have wifi.

And the music is great.

I have some time to kill now, having just finished riding up Mount Tam with W. (a four hour beaut of a ride). Now I understand why mountain biking was invented in Marin County. Glorious day, just a bit hazy. Ravens at the top of the mountain. Now waiting to meet M., the HR guy for [Company]. I've known him for ages. We'll meet at Leung Sap, Geary and 22nd, and have a bowl of wonton soup. Then back to the hotel.

Overdoing it on the mountain bike today nicely took the edge off an otherwise annoying development of horniness pointed in your direction.

That just leaves missing you, then.

Ciao baby.

S.

problem requiring your attention

2004-03-08T16:29:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Mrs Jones sent this e-mail to Mr Smith under the title "Problem requiring your immediate attention."
I suspect this was a problem he was very happy to resolve!
Prudence

= = = = = =

OK, so here's the thing: It is 6pm. I spent all morning in a conference hall listening to boring speeches in French and giving one of my own. I drove back to the office with a colleague. I have spent all afternoon putting out fires of varying degrees of intensity. I have not really had any time at all for lazy thoughts, daydreaming or otherwise thinking about much of anything except the work at hand.

And yet I remain alarmingly hot for you.

What would you say if I told you I don't want to wait until our trip to Seattle next week?

J.

Dream: interrupted

2004-02-23T19:55:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,
Jones has been dreaming about Smith, it would seem -- not very prudent, I fear, while lying next to her husband! I disapprove, but I suppose you can't control your dreams. I do hope she doesn't talk in her sleep though. Remember the Prime Directive: S and J both want to stay married to their spouses!
Still, imprudent or not, it's a yummy text, don't you think?
Yours,
Prudence

= = = = =

You are in bed in the hotel room, wearing a pair of striped boxer shorts and an engaging smile; as I come through the door you swing your legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. I cross the space that separates us in three steps, shedding coat and bag as I stride, and climb onto your lap. My legs are wrapped around you and my fingers are in your hair as we enjoy a bit of lazy, soft, wet kissing, intercut with how-was-your-day, how-was-your-trip pleasantries.

Your hands are under my bottom, where they landed when I came to you. You pull me in a little closer, enough so that I can feel the hard lump of your penis press against the soft warmth of me. Your hands move up then, pulling my sweater out of my skirt and sliding ever upward, most likely en route for the breasts I have been pressing against your chest. However, on their way, your fingertips brush against the skin of my tummy and I am helpless to prevent the quiver and gasp that result. I clutch you tighter and try to draw you back into our kiss, but your face wears an expression of amusement, as if you have discovered a nifty new toy. You proceed to conduct a few brief cause and effect experiments -- all in the name of science, you assure me – and my body happily follows along. I squeak out your name between gasps. I am panting with breathlessness and arousal when your teasing is done. You begin then to caress me very softly under my sweater with your palms. I am vaguely aware of the small descriptionless sounds that are coming from my mouth. My thighs grip you. My skirt is hitched up and I am sure you can feel the heat of my pussy through your shorts. My sweater is gone, my bra cast aside; I will find them in a ball the next morning and wonder which of us removed them. You lift your palms from my skin and put your fingertips in their place, spidering them softly up and down. The small sounds become large moans and I break contact with your lips to bury my face in the hollow where your neck meets your shoulders. I rub myself in little circles against your rock-hard penis and clutch at your back and shoulders. The intensity of my desire to feel you inside of me crashes over me like a wave.

Perhaps your own desire suddenly overwhelms you. Or perhaps I am now begging you aloud to fuck me properly. Whatever the cause, you effortlessly lift me off your lap and depose me on my back on the bed.

But just as you lean over me, the dream ends....

What he does differently

2004-02-09T15:55:00.000+01:00

Dear readers,
One day, way back in the beginning of their affair, I asked J what S did differently in bed than other men. Here's what she replied to me. Hope you enjoy.
Yours,
Prudence

= = = = =

What does he do differently in bed than other men – wow, Prudence, good question!

1/ He enjoys himself. He doesn't just have sex; he has fun. This is one of my favorite things about him, actually.

2/ He has actually said, out loud, in a very convincing tone, more than once, that he enjoys the ride as much as the climax; and that if he only wanted a decent orgasm, he'd jack off in the shower. (Now I can already hear you saying that you thought men didn't like the ride – they don't. Usually. You did ask me what he does differently, remember?)

3/ He very convincingly makes me feel like my pleasure is a very important element of his. (And I believe him.)

4/ He has on an ever-increasing number of specific points, made me change my mind about what I thought I didn't like in bed.

J.

A bit about Mr. Smith

2004-01-19T15:27:00.000+01:00

Mr. Smith is a fascinating man. He's 43 as I write this, just a few years older than Mrs. Jones. His parents are Belgian, though they moved to the US when he was young. He's lived and worked on just about every continent and speaks four languages fluently. His wife, just to add further internationality to the mix, is Australian. They have three teenagers.

Smith is a Managing Partner in a huge consulting firm. He's now based at their European headquaters in Paris, France; but he travels around the globe for client and partner meetings.

I first met him through Irwin Krause, his piano teacher (and mine) here in Paris.

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A bit about Mrs Jones

2004-01-12T15:15:00.000+01:00

Mrs Jones is an American like me. She's been living in Paris for years; her husband is a Frenchman. He is a salesman of some sort (I've never actually understood what exactly he sells, to be honest: we don't talk too much about him, Jones and I.) They have a middle-school aged son.

Jones works for a huge advertising and events management agency, where she's a Senior Account Manager. She travels quite often - to trade shows, to client meetings, to pitch her firm to prospects, that sort of thing.

I met her through a mutual friend: her favorite college professor, who just happens to be one of my favorite former lovers. When Gary heard Jones was coming to Paris after graduating, he called me and asked me to look after her. We met for coffee and croissants at Ladurée on the Champs-Elysées her first week here way back then, and we hit it off right away. I started out as her guide, and evolved into her confidente. We still meet for coffee and croissants at Ladurée several times a year.

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A bit about me

2004-01-05T14:53:00.000+01:00

My name is not really Prudence, of course. But prudence is the name of the game.

This blog is about Mrs. Jones and Mr. Smith -- two happily-married, well-educated professional types who have overall successful careers and overall happy families, and who have been secretly meeting each other for unbelievably good sex and a few laughs for years now.

I’m the only one who knows what’s going on, and after years of selling guns to both sides, I’ve decided that it’s time to share the wealth with the rest of the world. Of course, the names have been changed (you already guessed that), and so have any details that might inadvertently give away Smith and Jones’ identities. My codename isn’t Prudence for nothing! But they are real people. Luckily, Smith and Jones are both pretty good writers, so I think you’ll enjoy hearing about their relationship in their own (occasionally slightly edited) words, within the limits of the media they use to communicate – typically e-mail, instant messaging, and text messaging.

Those of you who think great sex, fun, and a bit of a risk might be a bonus in your already pretty nice lives might use this blog as a "how-to," full of practical “do’s and don’ts” for organizing your very own successful extramarital affair...

For those of you who just want to read about other people’s sex lives and enjoy a bit of electronic voyeurism (Pru might also be short for “prurient”), I know you'll find plenty of steamy bits.

And for those of you who like to add a bit of thought and reflection to your otherwise manic lives, just reading the regular installments will no doubt keep you entertained and stimulated.

Finally – the Prime Directive, priority number one, as agreed between Smith and Jones themselves right from the start: “Family comes first”. While sharing the their story, I will do nothing that risks revealing their true identities or otherwise puts their families and happiness at risk. Frankly, this is why it I haven’t started this blog earlier. At the first HINT of such a risk, I pull the plug on this blog. Of course there’s always a risk that one of you will guess at the true identity of Smith or Jones, or even both! If you do guess, please keep a few things in mind before doing ANYTHING with your guess, think for a minute: There are lots of people like Smith and Jones around this planet – are you SURE you are right?

Enjoy!

Prudence

PS: I'd love to hear from you! E-mail me!
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