Easily Aroused ~ erotic fiction by an oversexed Englishman

Sensual erotica for discerning women

Easily Aroused ~ erotic fiction by an oversexed Englishman - Sensual erotica for discerning women

Risqué Abstracts #47

I’ve finally gotten rid of everyone who could want me for the next hour or so. So if you still want me…

~You know I still want you.

I’d forgive you if you’d given up on me today.

~That hasn’t happened. What are you doing?

Lying back on my bed.

~With your laptop, I presume?

My Macbook, yes.

~And what are you wearing?

I still have on my black work dress. Would you like me to remove it?

~Not yet. Is your phone to hand?


~Take a photograph of yourself in your dress and send it to me.

Okay … have you received it?

~Yes. You look fabulous. I want to fuck you.

That makes me smile.

~Wickedly, I hope. Now take your dress off – just your dress – and stand in exactly the same position, exactly the same pose, and take another photograph.

It’s on its way.

~Your dress shows your curves off beautifully.

Wearing it makes me feel elegant.

~That’s because you are. The second photograph’s arrived. Mmmm. That bra. So wonderfully full.

Do you like?

~I like very much. It’s wonderfully feminine. Is that how it makes you feel?

Yes … I love pretty underwear.

~Do you draw admiring glances when you wear that dress?

I’ve noticed the occasional male turn their head.

~And do you enjoy that?

I suppose I’d dress differently if I didn’t.

~I suppose so.

I wish you could reach out and touch me right now … to feel your hands on my skin….

~You know, thinking about it, your bra looks a little constrictive.

It is. Do you think I should remove it?

~I think you should. And you should document its removal whilst holding the same pose.

Your wish is my command.


Would you prefer video to a photograph?

~Now that you’ve offered it, I want both: video of it coming off and a still image of you unconstrained.

Certainly … there you are.

~I’m stunned. You look delicious. And so wonderfully fuckable. My cock is growing hard from looking at you, and thinking about all the things I’d like to do to you.

I’m pleased I have that effect on you.

~Something’s wrong, though.

What is?

~Those panties … they’re looking a little constrictive too. I think you ought to lose them as well. Now. And then send me another still of yourself in that same pose.


~And when you’re done, you can tell me whether or not you’re feeling excited.

Excited? Yes … but very vulnerable too.

~You’ve no reason to feel vulnerable. You look fabulous. Any man would find you desirable … and quite a few women would have their heads turned by you too, I suspect.

If you were here now … where would you kiss me first?

~I’m looking at you naked as I think. Your mouth first. Then down your neck and onto your shoulder. Then I’d kiss down the swell of your breasts, left first, then right, not quite making it as low as your nipples. As I kissed you, I’d be running my fingers down your back, over your hips, across your belly, along the fronts of your thighs.

Yes, please.

~Then I would cup your breasts, one in each hand, gently raising them as I lowered my head to take your nipples between my lips, one at a time, kissing their peaks very delicately. I’d suck softly on your nipples in turn, flicking the tip of my tongue across them, slowly to begin with, a little more quickly when I heard you begin to sigh with pleasure. Then I’d circle them with my tongue, round and round, grazing your flesh with mine. And then I’d kiss your mouth again, and while I did, I would take each of your nipples between my thumb and my forefinger and squeeze lightly.

~Would you like that?

I would.

~Are you touching yourself now?

Yes. I’m circling my nipples. They’re very hard.

~Is that the only place you’re touching yourself?

Why? What else would you like me to do?

~Whatever feels good to you, whatever gives you pleasure.

No. Today, I’m only allowed to do as I am told.

~Very well. I want you to wet the index finger of your right hand with your tongue … make it nice and wet for me. Then use your left hand to ease the lips of your sex open, so that your clitoris is completely exposed. Now I want you to lightly run your moistened finger across your clit – very lightly, so lightly you can barely feel your finger’s passage.

Oh fuck!

~Is that good?

Yes and no. It feels good, but it makes me want more. I’m aching for more. Please let me have more.

~You’re only allowed to do as you’re told. Remember?

I remember.

~Good. Then we’ll go at my pace.

No. Yes. Oh fuck….

Lines of Communication

He pulls into the driveway, relieved to see that it’s empty. He lets himself into the silent house, drops his briefcase in the cool hallway, grabs an ice-cold Michelob from the kitchen on his way to the small study at the rear of the property. He sits down at his laptop, sipping the beer while he listens to the hard drive whirring into life, idly thinking about switching to a solid state drive.

Once the screen is finally ablaze, it takes him less than a minute to log into his webmail service. He’d sent her a message at lunch time – “I do hope you’re making the most of having the house to yourself” – and this is his first chance to see if she responded.

He smiles to himself: her reply is waiting for him. He doesn’t notice that he holds his breath as he waits for it to open.

Yes, thank you. I worked in the garden all morning, but now I’m bathed, cleanly shaven, oiled all over and thoroughly de-stressed. I think you’ll know what I mean by that.

He feels himself stirring.

He clicks on ‘reply’ and begins to type:

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Think of my hands, caressing your body as you stand naked before me. Think of my gaze, drinking in your nakedness, your vulnerability. Think of my cock, growing harder and harder at the sight of you, at the promise of you; reaching out to you, greedy for your touch, for the heat of your flesh.

Is that a thought that excites you? Is it a prospect that sends pulses of electricity running through your body, dancing along your nerve endings until you quiver with anticipation?

Close your eyes. Sense me standing close to you. Feel the warmth of my body radiating against your skin, my heat adding to your own.

I imagine your nipples would be hard if we were there like that, made taut by the air’s embrace, by the sweep of my hands, by your anticipation of all the pleasures that were to come. But are they hard now, as your eyes flicker along my words? Do they tingle? What are they most eager to feel? Tell me. To be brushed by my palms? To be taken between thumb and forefinger and gently squeezed? To be kissed and licked and suckled upon until they glisten? Imagine it. Feel the pressure of my lips, the ceaseless drumming of my tongue. Does it make the breath catch in your throat? Does it make your sex swell, leave it full and ripe, chafing maddeningly, deliciously, against your underwear; yearning to be touched, to be pleasured, to be taken?

Confess: how long until your imaginings make you wet? How long until you ache in earnest to be fucked, until you can no longer resist the siren call of your flesh?

Tell me how you want it: how you want me to fuck you. From behind? Over the edge of the bed or the back of a chair, with my hands gripping you about the waist, holding you in place, keeping you exactly where I want you? Will that feel good to you? To be taken in such a way, to be fucked hard, no teasing, no guile? Just the greed of my cock, hard, thick, relentless, cleaving your wet flesh, seeking the centre of you, over and over again. Will you want it harder? Faster? So that your heart races and your cries of pleasure become unending? Are you imagining thrusts that make your legs weak, that leave you trembling on the edge of balance, at the edge of control, barely conscious of my shaft throbbing within you, my seed erupting deep inside you?

You can whisper them to me if that makes you more comfortable: the secret words you will invoke to urge me on, to make me assume the role of puppeteer, so I can make you my wanton marionette.


She picks up her iPad from atop the bedside cabinet and turns it on. The red circle in the top-right corner of the mail icon contains the number ‘one’. She touches the glass over the graphical envelope and the application opens for her.

A single new email, from the address that she has come to associate with him. There is nothing in the subject line, but she sees that the message has brought her an attachment.

It’s early, but she has the bedroom to herself. She listens. Silence. The rest of the family have already departed for the day. Not just the bedroom to herself, then, but the whole house. She considers indulging herself, taking the iPad through to the bathroom, a long soak amidst creamy bubbles while she reads whatever morsel he’s sent her, stoking the fires within until she can no longer resist the siren call of her own flesh.

But she’s too impatient. She touches his message, forcing it to open.

There is a single word in the body of the email. “Listen.”

The attachment is an MP3 file.

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Red Lights

The bulbs in the bedside lamps glow red. They can produce a kaleidoscope of colours, can transition effortlessly from one hue to another. Tonight, though, they are locked to scarlet. Red was the one colour he had in mind the day he purchased them.

Before him, she writhes nakedly along a diagonal of the big bed. Egyptian cotton burns around her, its once starched crispness obliterated by her fervour. The wrinkles in the sheet cast shadows that reach for her skin.

He smiles. His lips and beard still shine with her lust. He licked her to one orgasm, and then gripped her waist when she tried to push herself back from his tongue, holding her thighs wide with his shoulders as his mouth brought her to another shuddering climax. Her cries have dissipated now, but the rhythm of her breathing is still frayed. The bulbs’ light camouflages the redness that bloomed in her cheeks and across her chest as she came. The opulence of her musk assails him.

She rolls over onto her front, rubbing the side of her face against the bed. He knows what’s coming, knows it as surely as if it had been scripted.

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Which of my fantasies am I permitted to confess to you? Are there scenarios you refuse to countenance? Is there a line beyond which I must never, ever go?

What about the fantasy where my lips and the tip of my tongue toy with one of your taut nipples while I watch my wife’s mouth paying the same deference to the crown of your other breast? While our palms glide over your arms and your belly and your hips and your thighs? While our fingers tease the lips of your sex until your body undulates, desperate for deeper caresses?

Does reading those words repulse you? Or do you find what I’ve just described a delicious prospect? Do your nipples tingle at the possibility of experiencing our mouths in unison? Have I freed the butterflies within you?

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Wet Dreams

I’ve never made love in a swimming pool, never coaxed a woman to climax as she floats luxuriantly in balmy waters, never experienced the thrill of a weightless orgasm.

But I want to. I crave the eroticism of the experience.

Long ago when I was travelling, I met a woman staying at a villa with a pool. She swam as well as I did, and we frolicked in the water together … but it was the most delicate kind of foreplay, because we had just met and were at the beginning of discovering of one another. We did fuck – oh, how we fucked – but never in the pool that waited at the end of her garden like an oasis.

Opportunity knocks and then departs, never to return.

Doesn’t it?

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At the last minute, he decides to take the day off work.

He has no intention of wasting the day curled beneath the duvet like a contented sloth, or lounging before a stream of mind-numbing television. He’s going to work up a sweat, tend to the chores he’s neglected for months. The office has devoured his home and social lives, tilted his work-life balance so far from equilibrium he’s begun to wonder if it will ever be regained.

Yet again, he’d woken half an hour before the alarm clock’s shrill. He’d rolled onto his side and stared at the glowing numerals, listening to his wife slumbering obliviously beside him. He doesn’t remember the last time he rose refreshed from a night’s sleep, the last time he looked forward to the coming day with anything close to enthusiasm.

He’d watched the crimson digits mercilessly advance towards the inevitable with a growing sense of dread.

That was the moment he decided. Fuck it. Time to redress the balance, tip it back in my favour. If only a little. If only for a day.

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The Wrong Idea

The writer Erica Jong once said:

Fame means millions of people have the wrong idea of who you are.

Now I’m not famous, and there are billions of people out there who have no idea who I am. But the very nice people over at Kinkly kindly invited me to be their sex blogger of the month for July, which meant publicly answering ten questions about my time as a writer of erotic fiction.

If you’re interested in reading the answers to those questions, you can find them right here.

Past is Prologue

So, the audience has spoken, a total of 260 times. As a result, the photograph below is going to be the central inspiration for a new piece of erotic fiction:

My thanks to everyone who took the time to vote in the poll. If you were amongst the 70% of readers who voted for one of the other images … I’m sorry that you didn’t get your choice, and I hope that you’ll still enjoy the story that’s inspired by the winning selection.

And if you were one of the 78 who did vote for ‘The Possessor’ … congratulations. And watch this space.

Joy Be The Consequence

It’s audience participation time!

Quite a few years ago (it’s still slightly unsettling to be in a position to say that with a straight face), I posted a poll consisting of five photographs, and asked readers to choose the image they wanted to be the inspiration for a new piece of erotica. ‘Concessions’, and the winning image that inspired that particular tale, can both be found right here.

Given how long it’s been since I conducted that little experiment in audience participation, I thought it might be time to resurrect it.

So – for your visual delectation – here’s a gallery of seven erotic images. Click on any of them to see the full image in a slideshow that you can control. Your task is simple: vote for whichever photograph you’d most like to see a story written about.

Simply select your choice in the poll below. The poll will close at just after midnight (British Summer Time) on July 1st. And if you want to try and accumulate some bonus points for your selection, leave me a comment telling me why that image appeals to you.

Over to you!

Which photograph would you like to inspire a new story?

  • The Possessor (30%, 78 Votes)
  • The Feaster (19%, 50 Votes)
  • The Devourer (13%, 34 Votes)
  • The Demonstrator (11%, 28 Votes)
  • The Seductress (10%, 25 Votes)
  • The Anticipator (10%, 25 Votes)
  • The Watcher (8%, 20 Votes)

Total Voters: 260

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spooningHe is here.

He stares up into the darkness. Remembers where he is.

He hears her say something.


“I asked, ‘Are you ok?'”

“Yes. Did I wake you? Was I snoring?”

“No.” Her voice is sleepy. “You started suddenly. As though you’d been surprised in a nightmare.”

He scans his memory, but it’s blank, like the pitch-black room.

“If I was dreaming, I don’t remember what it was about.”

“Go back to sleep,” she says softly, and rolls away from him.

Instinctively, he rolls next to her, snuggling against her back. He’s naked except for cotton shorts; she wears a cotton vest and pyjama trousers. His loins press against her buttocks quite naturally. It’s not a sexual gesture, but at same time, it is.

He feels her press back to meet him. It’s a tiny movement, scarcely discernible. But his senses are hyperaware. He’s surprised. A moment ago, he was unconscious. Now he’s alert, and focused. Focused on one thing.

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