Secret Romance: Part 1
Over the past five years, my wife and I have resided in a modest abode in a bustling urban region, nestled within a calm neighborhood just southeast of the city's core, close to a notable and crowded park that attracts numerous tourists. Our love is so deeply entrenched, stronger than ever before. My darling is a local resident on our street, only 100 yards away from our residence. Her name is Zahra. She arrived in Europe with her family from the Middle East when she was still a young girl, now age 27. She speaks much better English than I ever will.
I, on the other hand, hail from the Balkans. I consider myself a Bosnian. Although it's been many years, declaring my ethnicity continues to stir controversy. I'm the third child in a so-called interfaith marriage. One parent derives from a Muslim family, while the other hails from an Orthodox Christian background. This situation is further complicated by the fact that one of my grandmother's grandfathers was a Sephardic Jew. During the socialist Yugoslavia era, interfaith marriages were relatively common, but now we live in a system enforced upon us by major world players, where each individual "must" belong to one of the three constitutionally recognized groups. I refuse to make the distressing choice between my mother and my father. If I call myself a Bosnian, people know that my father and mother originate from different religious denominations. Luckily, my parents are a loving duo and Democratic Socialists (Bosnian version of those who revere Jean-Paul Sartre), as well as Sejdić-Finci-Komšić supporters (do a Google search for details), so my upbringing was largely contented, in spite of the fact that many disrespected me based on my Muslim surname or my Christian first name.
After graduating from a classical gymnasium in our country's capital, I relocated to an ex-industrial area in the east to pursue a master's degree. I endured little to no attack or even mockery due to my multicultural lineage, but beyond leftist social circles, my conversations with compatriots were often difficult, as I was typically the "other." When I discovered that a PhD opportunity existed in a Western European nation, I submitted an application to the British Council. Their approval led me here, to a gentle street teeming with cottages, alongside a "pure" English spouse.
Being in a country where individuals with mixed ancestry are widespread was liberating for me. Naturally, there were those who abhorred immigrants, but they were few and far between. In academic circles, I discovered an ease in talking with individuals from all parts of the political spectrum and every continent. Following my PhD, I capitalized on a postdoctoral opportunity, which culminated in a permanent position as a lecturer (lucky me, my predecessor retired) at a smaller educational institution nearby.
I encountered my beloved wife during the first month of my doctoral studies at the university's library. She was born into wealth, stands tall, possesses blue eyes, and her hair can reach her shoulders. Her demeanor mirrors that of a hippie from the Woodstock era. There's a song from my land titled "Bitanga i princeza," telling the story of a love affair between a scoundrel and the daughter of a wealthy man. My lady was in the midst of composing her PhD paper in the field of computer science and was planning to wed a man in the metropolis to the south. I invited her for a cup of coffee, which lasted an impressive four hours. She was enamored with my Balkan stories and inquired if we could meet the next day for a meal at the university's canteen.
During our initial lunchtime rendezvous, she inquired about my ability to keep secrets. Indeed, coming from such a place, I'm well-versed in discretion. In wealthy nations, people don't have enough sex and chatter excessively about it, while in less fortunate areas, we have lots of sex but keep it to ourselves. She was curious if we could form a union such that none of her friends would be privy to our relationship. Wow, things escalated swiftly in my nation of complex history. I was eager to partake in the adventure. I was astounded by her courage, which stood in sharp contrast to our Bosnian perspective of western women.
She posed another crucial inquiry: Did I have significant experience with women? I confessed that during my undergraduate years, I had but one girlfriend and a handful of quick encounters with women in their thirties who were tired of sex in the privacy of their own homes. She sought to understand how we would navigate our newfound romantic venture, and I immediately concocted a plan. I advised her to meet me the next day at the bus station near our neighborhood's park's southern entrance at 9:00.
The girl always arrived on time, born and raised with manners and class, typical of civilized English ways. We exchanged friendly kisses before I told her about our quest - finding a book essential for our relationship longevity. Multiple bookstores nearby sold used books, so we casually walked, hand in hand, past the popular noodle shop.
Upon entering one, I asked a lady behind the counter where we could locate books about sex. Her complexion altered from pale white to blush, as we appeared to be a bit crude, discussing sex as though we were discussing cooking recipes. Before the fall of the empire, natives preferred delving into topics of mass killings, like in Srebrenica, rather than average sexual positions. Professionally, she directed us to the appropriate shelf, still blushing.
I spotted a perfect book at once. It was about combinations of sexual positions and could even help me practice new techniques. The title, "365 Sex Positions," interested me as it promised a book filled with images of a couple enjoying various grapples, like when describing cooking recipes.
I glanced through the pages to confirm my assumptions - indeed, the book boasted 365 illustrations of coital encounters. I handed the book to my new companion. Instead of blushing, she grinned, amused by the subject. We moved to a small coffee table, and she sat, staring at the photos in varied scenes (named humorously, such as pumping oil, for example) of the couple making love.
…
"And now?"
"For at least a year, we'll be fucking like rabbits until we've covered all the positions."
"Every day different? Or just once a day?"
"No, hour-long sessions aren't satisfying - trust me."
Do you enjoy your boyfriend's lovemaking?
[..]
(Quietly)
"Not really."
"Alright. We'll start tomorrow. My place is private; it'll be safe. It's small, with a bathroom, showers, and a kitchen to make tea or prepare snacks. Alternatively, we could order Chinese food or even go out."
"Really?"
"Yes. If you're game, we'll engage in nonstop lovemaking until we've conquered this book."
"You enjoy Leonard Cohen?
"Yes."
"Me too. Let's choose his "Danse me" as our theme song. I guarantee you'll experience at least one climax before he completes his track."
"Big talk from such a tall man."
Then confront him with your suspicions of never witnessing a woman's genitals.
- Let's go to my place. I'll demonstrate to you how we Balkan men savor their peaches, if you dare.
- Blah, blah, blah.
- Will you let me try before dinner perhaps?"*
She nodded her consent, so I carried the book with the cover image fully exposed (called "365 Sex Thrills") to the counter. The girl inquired if I needed the book wrapped. I declined as I enjoyed riling up moral conservatives and flouting civilized behavior.
A pair, hand in hand, on the path to the bus stop, took the bus, switched again, and made their way to his space. Many eyes glanced their way, uneasy murmurs could be heard, yet her reaction revealed her excitement.
Upon arriving at his home, I considered whether she was genuinely interested in this rapid escalation.
Are you still keen on a physical relationship?
How so?
Do you really want oral intercourse to orgasm levels?
- Oral sex?
- Sucking nectar from your peach, you see.
- Sure. Should I strip first or second?
- No, we'll shower together. In my homeland, it's believed: "If you're clean, you're ready to fuck!" But have you ever showered with your fiancé?
- Not...really. You're so different from him.
Once upon a time, there was a moment for a game of truth or dare. I dared someone to strip and join me in the shower. Jokes aside, I like the thought of us showering together, but the decision is theirs. We could either shower together or separately.
They picked the option to shower together. However, they made a request, asking if we could keep the lights off in the bathroom.
I agreed and instructed them to undress first, while turning off the lights in the bathroom. After dressing, I tentatively opened the shower doors and stepped in, careful not to turn the lights on.
I asked playfully, "Are you still comfortable with this? Will you be okay if I touch..."
They replied confidently, "Just keep going, I trust you."
So, I turned on the water and began washing their hair with my hands. I paused to ask, "Are you sure you're alright with me touching your..."
They reassured me, "Yes."
Her voice betrayed her courage a bit, but I continued, turning the water back on to rinse out the shampoo. Once done, I asked her to turn around towards the wall. In the dim light, I worked the shower head up and down their back, then carefully down to their toes. Turning the water off, I instructed them to turn around, revealing their pristine body completely naked. I squeezed shampoo into my palm and washed their chest and stomach.
My hands briefly touched their breasts, and I could feel that their nipples were hardened in anticipation as I continued washing their pussy lips. I wanted to ensure they were ready and comfortable with the experience, so I quickly moved down to their thighs and then towards their feet.
I declared, "You're clean now. Enjoy!"
They stayed in the position, waiting for me to leave the bathroom. I headed towards the bedroom and closed the shutters on the windows, plunging the room into darkness. I joined them on the bed, and they were trembling with excitement.
I asked, "What do I do now?"
They said, "Just stay like this."
I left the room and turned on my laptop to play a song by Leonard Cohen, aligning it with our previously discussed bedroom activities. I went back to the bed and began kissing them gently, moving up from their lips, to their earlobes, then their neck, alternating between each nipple. They bit their lower lip in an attempt to suppress any loud moans.
Pausing, I walked over to the computer and clicked "play" on the song. I rejoined her on the bed, and we continued to kiss, working our way down to her thighs. When I reached her groin, she noticed my hands and pressed them harder against her thighs, guiding me towards where she desired. I complied and began showering that area with my lips and tongue, their breathing rapidly increasing in pace. I sensed they were close to climaxing, so I performed the "Bosnian pussy licking move."
This technique worked, and their response was very strong and audible. The song continued to play, and upon finishing, I returned to the bed and we held each other for over 15 minutes, eventually turning off the computer and snuggling under the blanket.
They complimented me, "You taste delicious."
I asked, "Is it a compliment or just a nice sentiment?"
They responded, "It's true, or at least I think it is."
Of course it's true, hasn't he ever told you about this?
We've never done it; he finds it disgusting. It is, isn't it? A bit dirty at least. What did you end up doing in the end, which was definitely dirty. Only a barbarian would do something like that.
You're completely mistaken. It's a true joy for a man to lick the juices of a freshly-washed, aroused pussy. The taste is fantastic. It's just a fact of life. You and your boyfriend are just wrong. Well, never mind. Are you feeling alright?
Yes, I'm okay. I had no idea sex could bring such pleasure. I guess I should thank you.
You seem confused by what just happened, which pushed you over the edge. It's called Bosnian pussy eating. Even Woody Allen said that sex is dirty only if it's good, or something like that. I understand your feeling, I think.
That's how you described it? Rosebud? Really?
Yes. The entrance to the realm of anal pleasures. I'm sorry if I'm exaggerating, but I couldn't help myself. I desperately wanted you to experience an orgasm that day, and it seems you can achieve one with this technique. We won't do it again, don't worry. I promise I won't do anything anal in the future. Let's go to the shower.
Together?
No. I want to watch you if that's okay.
Sure. I'm sorry for being uptight, but I'd prefer if we could have sex without you putting your fingers in my back door in the future.
- So you think I ruined it for us? I mean, was this our first and last sex?
- No. I'd love to learn about sex with you and if possible, just no anal stuff. Will that be okay?
- Sure. Let's go to the shower and then out to eat.
(For those who don't know about eastern secrets of lovemaking) Bosnian pussy eating consists of using peach (or pussy) juice and saliva to lubricate the female's rosebud (the asshole), gently insert the tips of three middle fingers for about one inch inside her love tunnel (the pussy), gently insert the tip of the pinky finger past her rosebud (in her ass) and lick her clitoral area with a circular motion. The pinky finger becomes your orgasm detector, as an orgasm will trigger the rosebud's strong muscle contraction. Try it out and you'll understand what I'm talking about.
So we went to the student canteen, where we sat apart from each other in case any of her friends saw us. We agreed, though, that she would visit me the next day at 2 p.m. She was on time, as always.
Welcome back, hippie princess.
Hello, pussy eater.
I object. I'm a velvet tipper.
I don't care. I like the phrase. Velvet tipper. Just the tip of my tongue drinking nectar from your love cup.
You Bosnians are just bigmouth talking about shit.
Full of shit? Did I not deliver yesterday? I said I'd make you moan, and I did.
- True. What are we going to do today? Something from the book you bought, I imagine?
Yes. Every time you visit me, we'll open a new OpenOffice spreadsheet and use its random generator five times to come up with five numbers between 1 and 365. The book will tell us in a few minutes which five positions to do today.
- I see you have your laptop ready. And the book, too.
Computer spat out the sequence 13, 184, 223, 252, and 351. It's not possible to explain what exactly we did without photos, but our lovemaking involves 5 positions, namely Soap on a Rope - The Straddle Cuddle - Pull the Pony - Lunar Launch - and The Newton. Sounds good, doesn't it, dear reader? We still keep the book and a piece of paper on which the random numbers chosen decided how our first penetrative sex would look like. We studied these positions in the book, and first tried them one by one while we were still dressed, then put the book away. I moved to the laptop, I opened YouTube, I started The Best of Leonard Cohen Collection. We went to the shower together, both already aroused. First, I washed her body from her hair to her toes and then let her wash mine. She finished by washing my fully erect penis for almost five minutes. We went to my bed without drying our wet bodies. All five drawn positions were engraved in my mind. While I was putting a condom on my cock, I got the final idea of the pattern we'd more or less follow for the next three years.
I opted for velvet tipping, instead of the commonly used term "pussy licking," while performing edging. If she became too loud, I'd suddenly pull out and allow her to wait a minute before resuming. After a lengthy pause, I'd go down on her, slowly moving my tongue along her pussy lips while delicately sucking her clitoris. When she was close to climax, I'd pause and encourage her to change positions. This routine was repeated four times.
During our fifth position, I stopped restraining my orgasm and ended the session a tad early, not giving her enough time to follow suit. I swiftly grabbed the condom and, without spilling any semen, removed my penis. I then quickly tied up the condom and placed it on the floor. I gently guided her head down to the sheets, transitioning to a variant of the doggy position known as Newton. I began gently moving my tongue in a circular pattern on her clitoris, causing her to climax in less than a minute.
She fell onto the bed afterwards, exhausted. I snuggled behind her and we spooned for about 10 minutes.
- This was absolutely incredible. The best sex of my life. You're outstanding in bed and beyond.
- I'm sure you tell that to all the girls.
- No, I don't. In high school, I had only one long-term girlfriend whom we both lacked the experience to have passionate sex. Since then, my sexual encounters have been short-lived, only lasting up to two hours. You're a superior lover than all of them combined. (she then kissed me passionately)
- I'm the superfuckerman.
*- You can call me "bitanga," if you'd like. I'll call you "princess." It's a song about an unlikely couple engaging in passionate lovemaking. "Bitanga" means a rascal, an individual exhibiting improper behavior, or someone who doesn't adhere to polite society. Here's how it works: a bitanga has sex with his princess.
- Bitanga, so what are you going to do once I'm gone? Sleep with another woman and satisfy her sexually?
- No, you're the only princess in my bed right now. I don't need to count my conquests and brag about my sexual successes. My one-night stands were never meant to be a way to avoid long-term relationships or marriage. These encounters happened organically. In England, I've not yet engaged in any amorous activity. You are my first bed partner, not just physically, but emotionally. It's as if we're just beginning our relationship, similar to my early years with my first girlfriend. Although it's still early, I'm falling in love with you. I hope you feel the same way. If you come tomorrow, we'll be a bonafide couple, and I'll be 100% devoted to you. If you want this to be just intermittent acts of pleasure and parting ways graciously, I'm okay with that too.
- Are you telling me you love me?
*- I do. I truly do. I'm unsure how to reconcile this with you having a fiancé in London, however. Your intentions?
- To tell me I love you, lock eyes with me, and unwaveringly affirm it.
- I love you. I genuinely do. I don't know how this will impact the situation with your London fiancé, but hopefully, we'll find a way to make it work.
- If I return tomorrow at two, can we continue like this?
- Absolutely. I love being in charge of our physical interactions. I'll serve as the director of this affair.
By 4:00 pm, she had left. She made a surprise return the next day, and the day after that, and so it continued for more than a year. Except for weekends, we spent Mondays through Fridays working on our respective degrees from 8:00 am until 1:00 pm. While I was free, she typically joined me in my apartment. She even showed up during her period, at which point we did not engage in any sexual activities, but there were always interesting conversations to be had.
We were both dedicated to our studies, so sometimes she was too busy to join me. In those instances, I would visit the university's pool. From age 7 until 18, I trained five times a week in my home country and competed for a club in the capital city. During my studies in the eastern region of our small country, I continued to practice daily and compete for a local swimming club.
Upon receiving a grant from The British Council and arriving here, I couldn't practice daily, so I didn't join any of the English clubs. I no longer participated in competitive swimming, but I would swim for at least an hour twice a week. Before the start of our relationship, I usually went to the pool on weekends. However, I later changed this to early afternoon sessions because spending four hours alone in my room became unbearably lonely. It would've been nice if my future wife shared my love for swimming, but attending the pool wasn't her cup of tea. Weekends were also lonely, so I focused on my work, which led to faster progress in my thesis than I had anticipated.
I never asked my future wife to break her engagement, but it ultimately happened. After a year and a half into our relationship, the inevitable occurred.
- What are your plans for tomorrow?- You're heading to London, and I'm going to write a few pages for my thesis.- I'm not going to London.- I see. So... We'll stay here and have nonstop sex for 48 hours.- No. We can do other things. We can go eat out, rent a car, and go to Wales. We can do many things.- So you don't mind if people see us together?- No. It's over. I want to spend every day with you, starting tomorrow.
Thus, we became one of the many campus couples. She kept her rented apartment for work but slept most of the time in my studio. I stopped going to the pool and started accompanying her to the movies, concerts, and theater. This meant letting go of my favorite hobby and embracing hers. Our sexual encounters didn't change in nature (me being in charge, trying different positions from our 365 sex Bible), we just started making love more frequently, almost every day, except during her period.
Three years into our then-secret relationship, we both completed our studies, raising numerous questions: postdoctoral positions or industry jobs, staying in our original town or moving, and living together or with an amicable goodbye. In the end, these challenges were resolved by an external factor. Her wealthy parents owned a small house in the Southeast London and offered it to her in case she decided to return, married or not. Within a month, it appeared as though everything was like in a fairytale: once upon a time, the Princeza and Bitanga got married, moved to London, where he secured a position at a nearby college, while she found a well-compensated role at a global IT company. They even acquired a place to live, seemingly happy together forever.
I'm unsure what exactly went wrong, but... After five years, I'm in love with our Persian neighbor, and I suspect my wife is having an affair with someone from the corporation where she's employed. I've experienced this situation before: couples with separate workplaces that increasingly consume our time, less frequent sex, and dwindling shared interests. In fact, our relationship was on "steroids" due to our prolonged student lifestyle in the first three years. After completing our PhDs, we stepped into the realm of working married people without first determining how to navigate this unfamiliar territory. There's more to it than just a dilemma of swimming vs. high culture; I'm talking about political views, different tastes in music and movies, different social backgrounds, and more. The saying that opposites attract each other is true, but for a successful marriage, this is, in my opinion, a big no-no. While the princess turned into a lady, Bitanga remained Bitanga, just a few years older. As a poet once declared years ago: 'Bitanga i Princeza par, ne ide to' (rascal and princess are not compatible). Regrettably, I heard this song but failed to fully appreciate its message for a long time. In life, we challenge some classic wisdom, but most of these attempts likely end in failure.
There's one thing I know for sure. Before meeting Zahra, my marriage was already a failing endeavor. Honestly, I don't mind if my wife works long hours or uses it as an excuse to do something else behind my back. Additionally, I began frequenting the local swimming pool three times a week for two-hour sessions. If she wanted us to go somewhere, I wouldn't stay home or accompany her to visit friends or attend a classical music concert. While I like Brahms, Smetana, and Dvorak, I prefer not to listen to them during my swimming sessions. Simply put, my life and my wife's life exist, but our shared life has fizzled out. If I hadn't met Zahra, I would have found someone else. The same logic applies to my wife - I hope she's found her soulmate too and we can remain friends after this whole mess gets sorted out.
Now, who is Zahra, aside from our secret lover?
Read also:
- Is It Worth the Risk?
- Courtney Cuckolds: Gentle Seductions
- Brenna at The Academy Chapter 2
- Chapter 4: Text Analysis and Processing
Source: www.nice-escort.de
