Easily Aroused ~ erotic fiction by an oversexed Englishman

Sensual erotica written for discerning women

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


The vibrator lies somewhere between us, flanked by her damp flesh and mine. Its buzz is a distraction to my ears, but not to my sense of touch. Held against the line of my erection by her naked sex, it tingles, invigorates, leaving me with a near irresistible itch. She slides herself up and down the slim, steel phallus, running it between her pouting lips. She gasps each time she closes on the cool tip, and I picture its tiny, concealed motor whirring against the bud of her clitoris, galvanising her. I admire her resolve, the discipline that enables her to keep withdrawing from the stimulus, and then I remember how much she likes to be teased, even when she is the provocateur.

She rolls off me onto her side, dragging me through a quarter of a circle. Now my fingers can reach her properly, and I seize the opportunity, exploring her moist threshold as she holds the vibrator to her clit. I let the backs of my fingers rest against its shaft, and the buzzing transmits through the bony phalanges into the succulence of her lips. She gasps again, the gasp becoming a contented lament as I ease a digit inside her. Her mouth is hard against mine, fiery, demanding. I can savour the red wine on her darting tongue, taste every bit of her passion, of her need. I bring my fingers back to her clitoris and massage one side of its taut swelling as she teases the other with her electric friend.

Her body quivers, as though there’s a wind blowing across the bed that only she can feel.

Her mouth slips from mine. Her teeth pull at my earlobe and then her tongue dips into my ear. I shudder, then shudder again as she groans into the centre of my brain, “Fuck, I’m coming. I’m coming.”

I cup her cunt through her orgasm, taking its pulse. I want to be inside it, to be consumed by it. By her.

Normally, she eases my hand or my tongue away from her sex once she’s come. A chance to recover, for the hypersensitivity to fade. This time she doesn’t. She holds the vibrator in place, circling its tip about her clit. “Fuck me with your fingers,” she whispers, and I comply, easing two inside her, inverted, so I can caress the front wall of her vagina with each stroke. Her second orgasm seems stronger, deeper. Her hips roll on the bed and her pelvis works the muscles in my forearm until it aches as if I’ve done a hundred slow curls. This time she doesn’t groan in completion; she cries out.

My cock pulses and my soul soars.

The vibrator thuds softly as she drops it onto the mattress. She grasps my cock in its place, bringing it to where my fingers are. I feel myself easing past them, the glans dipping inside her wet heat. I should be more patient, but it’s beyond me now. I roll her back on top of me, and as I do so, I ease my length inside her. There’s an afterimage of resistance as I find her depths, and then I’m in her to the hilt.

“Ride me,” I ask her, tell her.

She rears over me, her torso stretching up into the darkness. I reach out and find her breasts, take their weight, toy with the arrogant crowns. Her hips flex back and forth as she uses me. She’s silent, as silent as I can sometimes be, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Am I still me? Am I some anonymous provider of cock, my namelessness adding to her excitement? Or is another man’s face superimposed over mine?

I’ll never know the answer to that question. Never.

She reaches behind herself, draws her neatly trimmed nails across my balls. I shiver and impel myself deeper inside her. “That’s lovely,” I say, and she does it again, just as I’d hoped she would. Then she reaches out to the side, and suddenly the buzzing tip of the vibrator is against my balls, then my perineum.

The stimulation is delightful.

Is this something like what she experiences, when she holds it to her clitoris? Akin, I conclude, but about a million times less. Maybe a billion. Not for the first time, I find myself envious of her capacity for orgasms: the number, the duration, the quality.

Play the hand you’re dealt.

Now it’s her turn to be consumed by a lack of patience, by naked greed. She teases me for what – from my perspective – is a perfunctory amount of time, then draws the vibrator back to her clitoris. She holds it against herself, rising and falling over my length as the toy – the tool – pleasures her in ways I never could. She plunges downward as she comes for the third time, teeth sunk into her bottom lip, eyes screwed tightly closed. She falls forward over me, her breasts damp against the hair on my chest. I grasp the cheeks of her arse, pull her wide so that her clitoris is exposed to my pubis, and fuck her savagely so that she has to bite my shoulder to stifle her rising scream. I feel the surge of my own climax approaching and I thrust harder, emptying myself so completely that my cry sounds like one of agony, even to me.

She goes so far as to ask if I’ve broken something.

“I’d be screaming much louder than that, if I had.”

She lies atop me in silence, until her breathing is easy once again. “Does it have any bones to break?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How does it get so hard?”

“Will power.” I laugh. “And inspiration.”

She laughs too, before nimbly dismounting me and tip-toeing into the bathroom. My flaccid cock falls back against my belly, spent and sticky-slick from us both. My mind is still awash with baroque sexual imagery, but now I must wait for my body to draw level once more. She could lie back and take a decuple of men, a hundred of them, if she were of a mind to.

A part of me always wishes that she were.


The Sun and the sea.

Two elements that combine to create a compound ever capable of turning my mind to sex. No matter what else goes on about me, the combination of heat and light and saliferous water is fatal to any train of organised thought I try to preserve.

I thought of you on your knees this time, your hands reaching back to grasp the long heels of your shoes, clutching at them as my tongue explored you, as my cock invaded you. I imagined your knuckles white with tension, your long fingers gripping as tightly as they ever have. I pictured your mouth as an o of ecstasy, pressed against the pillows, against the damp, rucked cotton, against the mattress’s recoil. I saw glistening diamonds of perspiration lining your spine, pooling in the hollow above your buttocks. I smelt the rich spices of your lust. I heard your rapture.

I thought of you leant naked over a high-backed chair, your wrists bound to the front legs, your ankles to the rear. I imagined you shivering as you felt the tail of my belt hang passively against your arse, felt it trail across the pouting lips of your sex. I pictured your body tauten as you heard the soft whoosh of the leather cutting the air. I heard your cries – part pain, part pleasure – as the impromptu whip smacked against your flesh. Once, twice, three times. I saw the roseate stripes bloom across your milky skin, saw your cool blue gaze thaw into a sea of tears. I kissed the salt from your face and then took your cantic form with voracious strokes. I beheld your utter submission, and the gratitude that accompanied it.

I thought of us in the surf, the blood-warm water washing over us again and again. I imagined our fevered kisses, our frenzied hands on each other, tearing at the flimsiness of our bathing suits. I pictured us rolled naked by the waves, giving and taking in equal parts, oblivious to the eyes and the mores of the world. I saw you taking me inside you, both of us too far gone to give a damn about the salt and the sand, discomfort only binding us together more tightly. I felt your heat, a thousand times hotter than any sun, and my orgasm, droplets of liquid fired into an inferno. I heard the breath leave you as you received my come, felt your teeth at my shoulder, your nails on my back.

I thought of us in that anonymous hotel room, high above the city, both of us masked and the curtains cast wide so that the world could watch us fuck with animal abandon. I imagined you riding me, your slenderness rearing over me as you took me deep, as you took your time. I pictured your elegant face contorted by a dozen shuddering orgasms. I saw you milk me with your hand and your mouth, saw your look of bliss as my seed rained upon your flesh, saw you rub my essence into your skin like precious balm. And then I imagined us stealing out into the night, merging with the libidinous world, and I saw your serenity, your satisfaction, at the knowledge that the world could smell our fucking wherever you strode.

The Sun and the sea. And thoughts of sex.

And you.

Should I have expected anything else? When the oceans occupy three-quarters of our world, and the Sun holds almost all of our star system’s mass, and the promise of your wanton sensuality has clouded my judgement for so long?


A harem isn’t always necessary. Only on occasion. That’s what you said, isn’t it?

So … let’s make this an occasion.

Five. Five men, and all of them for you. That’s the number that you specified. Five. So that you’re filled as completely as possible, with something for both of your hands to do as well.

Five men. And me, watching from the sidelines. Watching raptly.

- – – – – – -

A hotel room will be the venue. It has to be. In the heart of the city, so that we can lose ourselves in the hustle, in the cacophony of sounds of traffic and sirens and revellers. Your cries of pleasure will be lost, swallowed, in the midst of so much glorious, tawdry hedonism. But though the windows of our room will reach from ceiling to floor, the curtains will be drawn. This will not be a tableaux for sharing with the eyes of others.

There’s a blindfold here, lying on the desk as I write. Will you don it? Will you surrender yourself to the darkness, even as you surrender yourself to a quintet of strangers? Will that help you to overcome the apprehension, the fear? Or should it be them we consign to the darkness? Yes, I think that’s the way. Limit their access. I don’t want them to see you. They’ll only know your body through the sweep of their fingers and their lips, the flickering of their tongues, the thrusting of their cocks. They’ll know you from the inhalation of your secret fragrance, and the sounds of your ecstasy. That’s all they can have of you. That’s as much as I’ll permit them to have.

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Stronger Than Bullets

Kinkly logoThe folks over at Kinkly are compiling their ‘Best Sex Bloggers‘ list for 2014.

So if you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read here at ‘Easily Aroused‘ during the past nine months, can I ask you to consider voting for the site by clicking on the link at the bottom of this post?

Ti ringrazio tanto.



Update: 30th October 2014

‘Easily Aroused’ was ranked #16 on Kinkly’s Top 100 Sex Blogging Superheroes of 2014. My thanks to all those who nominated the site.

The Seamstress

On Her KneesIt’s a little after eight when he hears the rattle of a diesel engine pulling up outside the house. A succession of noises tells him that his wait is finally over: the slamming of a car door; the squeal of the garden gate that’s been waiting patiently for the Three-in-One oil since the end of summer; the rapid double-click of a woman’s heels making their way up the slabbed pathway to the front door.

The doorbell rings.

He shivers, and then thinks, Idiot! She’s here to do a favour for a friend.

Despite the self-reproach, he can’t stop himself from checking his reflection in the long mirror before he steps forward and pulls open the door.

“Hello,” she says, smiling up at him. He’s forgotten how diminutive she is, only a few inches over five feet even in her heels, and so slight, he could scoop her into his arms with barely an effort.

“Hello there,” he says back, trying to portray a cool detachment he doesn’t feel.

“Sorry I’m late.” She’d told his wife that she’d be there by seven-thirty.

“No need to apologise.” He steps back, holds out an arm to invite her inside. “You’re the one doing me the favour.”

“I would have been on time,” she says as she passes him. Her perfume is light, evocative of citrus and sandalwood. Jasamber? In her right hand, she carries a cumbersome-looking bag that he assumes contains her sewing kit. He holds out a hand, but she doesn’t see it or chooses to ignore it.

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Show me that line.

The one that points due south, that shows the way to the Promised Land. The slender row of soft curls that crosses the rise of your smooth, denuded flesh. The singular striation of your womanhood, of your desire.

Permit me to touch it.

Slowly, softly, with just a fingertip, or the pad of my thumb. Let me stroke your secret mane, have it next to my skin, yielding and resistant all at once. Let me stir your flesh by remote, from one-step removed.

Permit me to kiss it.

I want to pay homage; to brush it with my lips, my warm breath stirring the diminutive hairs as I pass. A hundred tiny kisses for a hundred tiny curls. Let me lose myself in your forest, the musk of your excitement rising about me.

Permit me to taste it.

Feel my tongue, its damp tip questing, discovering a dozen winding paths through the nascent swirls. Feel my wetness on your skin, cooling even as it heats, as it makes your temperature climb, as it makes your body quiver and your logic quit.

Permit me to mark it.

Finally, my cock: the burnished head and the underside of the shaft, thrusting slowly, softly against your dark delineation, until you can’t bear the suspense or the denial any longer, until you are compelled to slip me down, down, down, until I enter you, cleaving your silken flesh until I am immersed in your sultry depths. And after I’ve fucked you, after your pleasure and your orgasms have left my shaft glistening, I’ll withdraw and surge my seed upon your line, and then watch enrapt as your fingers stir my come into hair and skin alike.

Permit me to capture it.

The camera, tripod mounted, set to burst mode, clicking swiftly, remotely, as I explode. Lens and film capturing my seed as it arcs through the air to find your body, forever preserving the staccato stirring of your desirous hands.


The four lengths of rope are in her bedside drawer. She takes them out slowly, one at a time, making a show of the act. He watches intently as she places a single length in each corner of the bed’s brilliant white sheet.

“Lie down,” she tells him.

He’s already naked, having swiftly divulged himself of his clothing at her soft command. He stretches himself out along the centreline of the big bed and rolls on his back. His confident expression does nothing to mask the uncertain darting of his eyes.

She sits down on the edge of the mattress to his right, and picks up the rope nearest to her. She fastens it about the post, fashions a slipknot and eases the loop of hemp over his hand. She tightens it about his wrist until satisfied that his hand is securely restrained. She pivots fluidly and performs the same actions to his right ankle. Then she walks to the other side of the bed, and within a couple of minutes, her target is spread eagled and lashed down.

She smiles. “Now we can begin.”

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car-exitShe slips into the back of the Audi saloon and allows the driver to close the door for her. “Heathrow,” she tells him once he’s back in his seat, and gives him the terminal number. He flicks the indicator stalk with his left hand and pulls out into the traffic, accelerating smoothly away from the hotel. The leather seats cosset her as the car slips through the summer air. The big petrol engine is little more than a low purr, even when her chauffeur drops a gear to overtake a mid-afternoon laggard.

German efficiency, she thinks.

As she speeds towards the airport and the flight home, she thinks of one man somewhere behind her and wonders what he is doing. She regards the back of her driver’s head. The profile is similar. Even the skin tone, lightly tanned with dark stubble showing.

She thinks of the taxi ride she took to the airport the first time she travelled to meet him. The anticipation she felt, the almost girlish glee that the adventure was finally happening. The window on the 737, looking down on the clouds and the slate-grey sea as she silently urged the pilot to fly faster, butterflies in her stomach and her panties so damp with excitement she had to fight the urge to squirm in her seat. The hotel, her hand trembling with adrenalin as she signed herself in, and then her delight when she saw how utterly perfect the room she’d chosen was.

And then their meeting. Finally.

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Joyeux Anniversaire

Joyeux Anniversaire

  • Astonishingly…*
  • Incredibly…*
  • Remarkably…*
  • Surprisingly…*
  • …it’s nine years since ‘Easily Aroused’ first hit the Wor(l)d Wide Web.

(* please feel free to choose an adverb from the list above, or to add one of your own in the comments)


More than a year since they last met, since they last fucked. Four hundred days of drought, of carnal famine. Both of them are ravenous, driven to the edge of delirium by months of teasing, by all the succulent possibilities of future flesh. He feels drunk with the prospect of all they might do together, and is sure from the careful words she shares with him that she feels the same.

And then, two weeks before they are due to meet, she messages him out of the blue:

“Would you be disappointed if I said I just want naked, raw, animal, sweaty, thrilling, tear-off-clothes-and-go-at-it sex? I don’t want nice, mannered, measured, thinking or thoughtful. I want to fuck, desperately and wildly. I don’t want to think anymore. I just want to DO.”

How could he be disappointed? He’s being offered a ringside glimpse inside the crater of Vesuvius as she erupts, as she detonates. And yet, deep inside him, something feels crestfallen, thwarted, as the more imaginative possibilities of their encounter dwindle back into the recesses of his imagination.

He replies immediately. “Of course not.”

He types it with a clear conscience, because the thought of her volcanic passions unleashed upon him still makes him hard in moments.

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My apologies to all my readers for the recent disappearance of ‘Easily Aroused’ from the Interweb, due largely to circumstances out of my control. My webhosts of the past few years decided that I was in breach of their Accept Usage Policies for:

  1. Excessive traffic
  2. Hosting images

and abruptly suspended the site. Things weren’t helped by the company’s steadfast refusal to even allow me access to my backups, which left me facing the possibility of having to resurrect things from cached versions of the site stored elsewhere around the web. Fortunately, after two weeks of simply ignoring all of my many requests, a more reasonable person at the company finally forwarded me a link that allowed me to download my data.

I’ve encountered a few teething problems in bringing the site back to life, but everything appears to be working normally now. If you do encounter any issues, I’d apprectiate it if you pointed them out to me.

Sorry again.



Erotic-DreamsDo you ever let your thoughts stray to me? In the daytime, when you find yourself alone and your mind unoccupied? In the nighttime, when the soft shadows fall across your bed, across your languid, supine form?

Are there nights when I slip into dreams that have no business being?

Confess: are you tempted to caress yourself in those moments – public, private – when I find a way to invade your thoughts? Do you ever yield to that temptation?

Do you?

What are you wearing right now? Tell me

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