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


She tells him what she wants him to buy for her: the size, the shade, the denier. She even specifies a make, and a particular product within the brand.

He considers departing from the script at that point. He wants to exhibit a degree of independence, of control. But in the end, he acquiesces. She has exquisite taste in lingerie, and a knowledge that goes far beyond the surface aesthetic.

Why fly in the face of expertise? he thinks, as he hands a twenty-pound note to the woman at the lingerie checkout. She’s attractive, too young for him by about two decades, and desirable to him on both counts. He smiles at her as she counts out his change, but keeping a check on the most lecherous of his thoughts is not as difficult as it might ordinarily have been.

His mind is already counting down the hours until his rendezvous.

* * * * * * *

They arrange to meet at a pub in Hammersmith, one right next to the Thames. It’s picturesque enough, and, above all, reasonably discreet for both of them.

He takes the District Line to Ravenscourt Park and walks the rest of the way. The late afternoon sun is more summer than spring. He loosens his tie and slips off his jacket, opting to carry it in his free hand, rather than slung over his shoulder like a poseur.

He arrives first. He orders himself a double gin and tonic and takes it outside. The view from the pub’s garden is across the Thames to the low sprawl of St Paul’s School. For a location with so marked a history in his country’s chronicles of education, he knows hardly anything about it, and cares even less. Bored, he switches his gaze to a passing boat.

“Hello,” she says, in that breathy low voice that always catches him off guard.

“Hello back.” He looks her up and down. Her sleeveless dress is black, stopping just above the knee, with a modest square neckline. The heels on her black leather shoes are so low that the top of her head barely reaches the middle of his face. Her long curls are luxurious, auburn glinting in the sun like embers. She looks willowy, elfin-like. Her legs are bare, just as she’d said they would be.

She arches an eyebrow at his inspection. “Do I take it that Sir approves?”

“He does. Very much.” He tilts his glass towards her. “What can I get you to drink?”

“What’s in that? Vodka? Gin?”

“Gin. And a little tonic.”

She takes the glass from his hand. Her fingertips brush his as she does so, and a low current skitters down his spine. Her eyes hold his across the rim of the glass as she sips his drink. The ice clinking against the inside of the glass breaks the silence.

“I’ll have the same.” She offers him the glass back.

“Keep it,” he says, and turns back to the pub.

He returns with two glasses. He’s only been gone a few minutes, but now there’s a man standing next to her, talking with her. He’s tall and well built, his looks rugged and masculine. His soiled clothes suggest that he does more of his work with his hands than his brain. The stranger gestures broadly with the half-full pint glass he holds in one oversized hand whilst pointing across the water towards St Paul’s. The stranger laughs, and after a moment, she laughs as well.

He comes up on the opposite side of her to the stranger and hands her one of the glasses. Most of the original drink he’d bought is gone. She tips what remains into the new glass and puts the first down on the ground. The stranger takes blatant advantage, staring down the front of her dress as she leans forward.

His rival smiles to himself, but says nothing.

The stranger looks back up and regards him with ill-disguised antipathy.

“I hate seeing a beautiful woman standing alone. So I thought I’d come over and … keep her company.” He says it as though he thinks an explanation was expected.

“I’m sure she was grateful.”

Her warm, faintly lascivious smile takes them both in. “She was. She is.”

The stranger’s expression is warm when he regards her, but his gaze narrows when he switches his focus to the other point in the triangle. “I guess you’d like me to leave now.”

“That’s for the lady to decide.”

The stranger turns on what he evidently believes is his most disarming smile. “Would you like me to stay?”

She places her hand softly over his powerful forearm. “On any other day, I’d love you to. Just not today.”

The stranger considers her answer for a moment, and then nods. He takes her hand, bows his head to place a chaste kiss against the back of her knuckles, and releases his hold on her.

“Until next time,” he says.

“I look forward to it,” she responds.

With a final glare at his rival, the stranger turns and retreats into the pub.

She watches his broad back until he’s gone from sight, and then lifts her glass. “Here’s to us.”

“I liked your friend,” he says, careful to keep his tone pleasantly neutral.

“You heard what the man said. He saw me looking lonely and came over to keep me company.”

“I wasn’t gone long enough for you to feel lonely, let alone to need company.”

She looks up at him from under her eyelashes. “But I’m a needy girl.”

“I should have remembered.”

She smiles. “I’m glad we’re agreed that it was your fault.” She raises her glass again. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” he says.

They drink in silence. The sun is lower now, and the wind is picking up. The surface of the river is a billion glittering fire diamonds. He watches them until his eyes water. He doesn’t trust himself to look at her right now.

She steps close to his side. He still doesn’t look at her, just keeps his gaze fixed ahead. Staring at the river is vaguely hallucinogenic. She moves closer to him, pressing the outside of her left arm against his right. The contact makes him want to shiver, but he controls it, keeps looking straight in front of himself. He inhales, and breathes in her perfume, the juniper and quinine of her drink, and the underlying faint mint of toothpaste.

“So? Have you brought them for me?” she asks, in her low, breathy voice; the one that she knows makes his balls quiver and his cock unfurl.

He nods.

“Can I see?”

He sets his glass down on the nearby table and opens the battered briefcase at his feet. He holds out the flat parcel, wrapped in dark blue tissue paper.

She laughs delightedly. “You had them gift wrapped!”

“I would have had to wrap them myself, otherwise.”

“That I would like to have seen.”

“Maybe next time.”

She regards the parcel in his hand. “Are you planning on letting me have them?”

“I suppose I should.”

“Hard for us to play, otherwise.”

He passes her the parcel, but when she tries to take it from him, he keeps his grip tight.

“Child,” she says facetiously.

“But in a man-sized body.”

Now it’s her turn to look him up and down. “You have that much in your favour.”

“How fortunate.”

She snorts, wrests the parcel from him and walks inside the pub.

He’s about to finish his second drink when she reappears. She looks the same, except now her slender calves are sheathed in seven denier barely black nylon.

“Do you like them?” she asks, pirouetting neatly on the spot.

“Lovely. What did your new friend think of them?”

“How do you know I showed them to him?”

“I remembered that you’re a needy girl.”

She laughs. “As it happens, he liked them too. Enough to ask if I’d reconsider sending him away.”

“And did you?”

She smiles enigmatically. “No. Not yet, anyway.”

He laughs, but it sounds harsh to his own ears. “I admire your brutal honesty.”

“And my consistency?”

“Yes, let’s not forget that.” He finishes his drink. “Do you want another?”


“Will you be devastated if I suggest we go somewhere else?”

“A little. But only because I’m enjoying seeing your jealous side. Green brings out the hazel in your eyes.”

He puts down his glass, drapes his jacket over her shoulders because it’s getting chillier, and grabs his briefcase in one hand and her palm in the other. They saunter past the pub. He’s tempted to look through the sash windows, to try to spot his rival, but he resists the urge. A street brawl with a borderline Neanderthal will achieve nothing worthwhile.

But as they leave the pub behind them, he can feel the angry heat in his blood, the adrenalin of annoyance and resentment coursing through him.

She says, “You’re gritting your teeth, you know.”

“Am I? Sorry.”

“Is something wrong?”

He shakes his head.


“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Was it him?” She regards him carefully. “Are you jealous?”

He forces himself to laugh. “Why should I be jealous? You’re not mine. I’ve no right to you. If you’d rather be with him, or any other man, that’s a choice you’re entitled to make. I understand that I wouldn’t be able to stop you, even if I wanted to. I accept our circumstances. Jealousy doesn’t come into it.”

“You’re right,” she says, her voice flat calm. But is it a flicker of disappointment that crosses her face as she looks away? It’s too fleeting a moment for him to be sure.

* * * * * * *

She decides that she wants to eat Greek. He hails a cab and takes her to a place he knows in Shepherd’s Bush. She orders the souvla; he has swordfish. They wash their meal down with retsina and a bottle of Nemea. Several times, she slips off her shoe and toys with the back of his calf. He politely ignores her advances and keeps his own limbs to himself.

They emerge from the restaurant into semi-darkness, onto a high street of ethnic convenience stores, supermarkets and eateries. The array of lit signs of all shapes and colours makes him think of the river’s fire diamonds. She pulls a thin woollen cardigan out of her shoulder bag and slips it on. She rubs the outside of her arms through the wool.

“Where to now?” he asks her.

“To be honest, I’m not sure. I came here hoping you were planning to fuck me. Now I’m not sure that either of us wants that.”

“It’s not too late to head back to the pub. Your new friend might still be there.”

“Yes. He might be.”

He looks at her, waiting for her to make her choice. She regards him silently. Suddenly, he feels tired, exhausted, no energy or inclination to deal with life’s bullshit.

She taps her heel against the slabbed pavement. “Well?”

The tiredness comes in rapid waves, one after another. He longs for her to make the decision for him. He’s not sure that he cares what it might be.

He turns and nods towards the east. “The tube station is five minutes that way.”

“The tube home?”

He shrugs.

“Great,” she says, and starts walking.

He catches her and matches her pace. They don’t speak. They enter the station and climb the staircase up to the southbound track.

“Where are you heading?” he asks.

“Why do you care?”

She boards the first Hammersmith and City line train to arrive. He considers letting her go. It would be easier. Probably for her, certainly for him. But at the last moment, he steps through the closing doors. He remains standing, gripping the overhead rail. There’s an empty seat next to her, but he doesn’t even consider taking it. He watches her as the carriage bounces and clacks. She looks straight ahead. To anyone watching, they are complete strangers to one another.

Hammersmith is two stops south. End of the line. “Mind the gap, please,” an automated man’s voice intones. She walks quickly out of the old red brick station and around Broadway, headed for the District and Piccadilly Line terminus nestled at the base of a new office block. He follows ten feet or so behind her, feeling like a stalker. She doesn’t look back at him. He’s not even sure if she realises he’s still with her. She enters the station and descends to the platform for westbound District Line trains. He keeps a respectable distance. She glances once in his direction and then ignores him again. She gets on the first train that stops. This time, he doesn’t hesitate getting on behind her, but he still doesn’t try to sit beside her.

She gets off at the next stop.

Ravenscourt Park.

Capricious bitch, he thinks.

He follows her off the train. There’s little light left in the sky, just a thin strip of cyan close to the western horizon. Overhead is inky blue, becoming black. They descend to street level and stroll out of the station. There are a few other people around, all of them heading left, towards the main thoroughfare. She makes to follow them, but he grabs her hand and pulls her in the opposite direction.

“What are you doing?” she asks. Her voice is calm. He’s never known her to panic. Not yet.

“Taking you somewhere.”

They cross beneath the bridge that carries the tube lines. There are houses on both sides of the tree-lined road stretching ahead of them, all fenced in with neat bars of black wrought iron. Tall streetlights edge the left hand side of the road.

Instead of walking on, he pulls her into the mouth of a brick-lined alleyway to the left.

“Where are we going now?” This time, there’s edginess to her question, a note of anxious insistence.

“The park,” he says, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What have you got in mind?”


“Not biology?”

He says nothing, just leads her further into the darkness, away from the light.

The park is still. With no moon, the only light is that cast from the surrounding streets. He can hardly see her. He leads her into the trees that border the southeastern edge of the closest tennis court, and backs her towards a broad trunk.

“I don’t like it here,” she says quietly.

“It’s empty. The place closes at dusk.”

“If we’re in here, others probably are too.”

“Sounds logical.”

“So let’s go.”

“Where? Back to your friend?”

She looks at him with genuine hostility. “I never thought you were the jealous type, let alone-”

He silences her with a kiss. Her mouth is cold to begin with, refusing to co-operate. She doesn’t try to turn away from him, though. He cups the nape of her neck in one hand, slipping his fingers under her cascading tresses until they discover her bare skin. He strokes her there, his thumb resting against her cheek. He draws the pad of his thumb lightly across her ear lobe and she shudders, and then she’s kissing him back, eagerly, hungrily, her clever, greedy tongue seeking his.

He slips his free hand onto her hip, runs it up her body and onto her right breast. She arches her flesh into his possession. The dress’s material is thin enough for him to feel that she’s braless beneath. The peak of her nipple nuzzles into his palm, making him want to tear the dress from her body so he can have her nakedness. He presses his swelling cock against her loins so that she can feel what she’s done to him. She writhes against his hardness, and her mouth slips away from his. She gasps against his ear.

“You’re a fucking pain. You do know that?”

“You’re not exactly painless.”

“I know,” she whispers, and she bites down on his earlobe until his nerve endings can’t take any more.

He pulls her mouth from his flesh. She touches two fingers to the tip of her tongue, and he knows it’s because she’s tasted blood.

“Bitch,” he says, and kisses her again.

The finesse is gone; it’s all about hunger now, about sating a never-ending greed, one that’s simmered for so long. Their tongues clash again and again, as their hands roam across each other’s bodies. She grasps his cock through his trousers and squeezes until the sensations straddle the line between pleasure and pain.

“I want this inside me,” she whispers.

“You’ll have it.”

He reaches down her dress and grasps the hem. He draws it upwards, baring her thighs to the night. His fingernails crackle against the nylon as he explores her. He slips one hand towards the waistband, planning to slide it inside her pantyhose, to plunge it into her moist sex.

“No,” she gasps. “Tear them. Tear them.”

He descends her body, his mouth rubbing her through her dress. He brings her hands onto the skirt, has her hold it up for him. He runs his palms over the slenderness of her nylon-sheathed thighs and feels her tremble. Even in the darkness, he can see that she’s not wearing panties, can see the narrow column of dark hair that points across her mons veneris to the beginnings of her sex. He rubs his face against her mound, his beard catching on the nylon, filling the air around them with static. She groans, grasps at his head with one hand, forcing him against her. He can smell her sex musk, can feel the heat of her lust through the gossamer weave. He wants it to burn him, to mark him forever.

He pulls at the front of her pantyhose, holding the sheer material taut, and then tears at it with his teeth until he’s ripped a hole large enough to get his fingers inside. He strains, grunting as the fabric tears. He holds the hole against her skin and touches her wetness through it, licks her through it. She gasps again, then grabs him by the collar and pulls his mouth back to hers.

“Fuck me,” she orders him between kisses. “Fuck me.”

She breaks away from his mouth, turns around, plants her hands against the trunk and pushes her buttocks out towards him. He lifts her dress and tucks the back of the hem into the waistband of her pantyhose. The convenience amuses him.

He draws his zip down slowly, straining it to one side so that the noise of it unfurling is exaggerated.

“Tease,” she says.

With some difficulty, he draws his fully erect cock out through his fly. Stepping up behind her, he licks his fingers and smears saliva across his glans.

“You won’t need that,” she tells him.

He takes her buttocks in his hands, moulding the softness to his grasp, relishing the firm muscle that lies beneath. His fingers stray inwards, following her curves, stroking the skin of her inner thighs through the sheath of nylon. He finds that the opening he’s rended doesn’t extend far enough back. Griping the sides of the hole, he wrenches it wider, creating the access that he craves, that he needs. Each tug makes her body flutter, makes her whimper.

He slips his hand inside the hole and finds her sex. He cups it, relishing its warmth, its wetness, its pulse against his palm. He draws his hand back and his fingers slip inside her as though they were warm steel and she was oil.

She cries out, and he clamps his free hand over her mouth to silence her. She bites at the flesh of his palm, hurting him again, but he leaves his hand in place as he fucks her with two fingers.

He delights in the way she writhes against the trunk.

“You like that, don’t you?” he whispers close to her ear. He thrusts his shaft back and forth against the back of her thigh. The friction of the nylon warms his skin, burning him gently. It’s appropriate: fire is the element he most closely associates with her.

“Tell me,” he urges her.

“I like it … but I want your cock. I want it inside me. I need it inside me.”

He draws his fingers from her, stroking himself so that the copiousness of her juices is transferred to his shaft. He moves so that he’s standing right behind her. She faces the tree, not looking for him, content to feel.

He feels her heat radiating before he nestles his cockhead into her succulent cleft.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes. Now.”

He presses forward, slowly, more slowly than he would have thought himself capable. He focuses on their growing union, fixated upon every millimetre of her flesh as it parts to accept him, as it grasps at him to pleasure him and take pleasure from him, to hold him in place deep inside her.

When he’s in her to the hilt, all that he’s capable of saying is, “Fuck.”

He begins to thrust. She’s so tight, and the sensation of her silken flesh sliding over his is intoxicating, utterly addictive. She’s been his drug for so long. He knows in that instant that he will never be free again.

He holds her about the waist, trying to keep her still so that all of the movement comes from him. She resists his efforts at constraining her, though, tries to force herself back to meet each of his thrusts. He sees her fingers grasping at the trunk, her nails digging into the bark.

Just as he drew her into the darkness, now he is propelling her towards a special kind of madness.

Now he begins to regret his choice of location. If he’d been patient, if they were in a hotel bedroom now, some anonymous place close by, they’d be able to take their time, draw out every moment until it was something…religious. But that’s not possible here. Lingering risks discovery, either by police or security, or by some other interloper who might not be nearly so pleasant. None of these possibilities is appealing.

He takes hold of her by one wrist, brings her fingers to her mouth.

“Make them wet,” he orders her.

She does as she’s told. He guides her hand down the front of her body and places it over her sex. He can feel the tips of her nails against the top of his shaft as he fucks her.

“Make yourself come for me,” he tells her. “I want you to come all over my cock.”

She doesn’t need to be told a second time. She strums her clitoris with little finesse, urging her body to respond to the stimulation.

“Fuck … yes … fuck. Oh yes, yes!”

The sound of her panting only increases his ardour.

Climax renders her incapable of being quiet. He clamps his palm across her mouth again as he buries himself in her spasming cunt again and again. His own orgasm is close now. He can feel it in his belly, in the flesh between his anus and his balls. He welcomes its familiar approach, precursor to the waves of pleasure that are so vital and yet so fleeting.

The ultimate irony.

As the first jet of his seed spurts inside her, he bites down on the side of her neck, just above the clavicle. Right where a vampire seeking sustenance would bury their incisors. Sex and death, indivisible from one another. Immortality through illusion.

She cries out and thrusts her arse against him.

No wonder ‘Twilight’ was such a hit with women.

The insanity passes quickly for both of them. He withdraws his now-wilting flesh from hers, steps back from her, passes the back of his hand across his fevered brow. He feels ridiculous with his slick, naked cock sticking out of his trousers.

“Fuck,” he says again.

“Fuck,” she says, half-smiling in the dark. She regards her ruined pantyhose. “I’m glad that you paid for them.”

“Worth every penny.”

She laughs softly. “I wish I’d left my panties on.”

He scans left and right. He detects nothing moving between the patches of coal blackness, hears nothing beyond the drone of traffic two hundred yards to the south.

“Do you want to put them on now?”

“No.” She fiddles with the waistband of the pantyhose until she has them arranged as she desires. “This will have to do.”

“Until when?”

“Until we get to a hotel. You’re not planning on sending me home like this, are you?”

He shakes his head.

They leave the park by the same route that they entered. A tube train rumbles by above them, the carriage lights illuminating them intermittently as they negotiate the alleyway. It occurs to him that they’ve been lucky, that they’ve taken a hell of a risk and gotten away with it. It makes him feel sick and elated all at once. He wonders if that’s the reason for her half-smile, for her reticent laugh.

He relaxes a little when they finally reach the end of the alleyway.

Back in the light, they make their way down to King Street. Safe in the middle of civilisation, he turns to her, but before he can say anything, she speaks.

“You took me in there to fuck me because of that man, didn’t you? Because you thought that was where I was going – to try to find him. Because you were jealous and angry.”



He looks away.

She regards him for long, silent seconds. Her gaze is accusatory.

He tries to think of something conciliatory to say, but the words won’t come. Instead, he looks up and down the road for sight of a taxi.

“I think it would be best if I got you home.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t get off that lightly. Take me to a hotel and make love to me. Then I want to go to sleep, so you can wake me up in the middle of the night and make love to me again.”

He looks west. “There’s a hotel two minutes’ walk from here. It’s not-”

“I don’t care what it is or where it is. Just take me there.”

As they start to walk, she hooks her arm inside his and snuggles into him.

He looks down at her. “Were you on your way to look for him?”

She pulls herself tighter against his arm. She looks up at him, from under her eyelashes.

“I suppose we’ll never know, now.”


10th-anniversaryApril 25th, 2005. I made my first ever erotica post writing as ‘Easily Aroused’, using a long since defunct gateway called ‘Indecent Blogging’.

April 25th, 2015. I’m about to post my latest piece of erotica to my web site.

Ten years.

When I started this, I’d no expectations about how long it would go on for. I certainly didn’t have any idea that I’d still be doing it a decade later. I’ve come close to pulling the plug on a number of occasions, and I’ve taken several extended ‘sabbaticals’ along the way. I’m always lured back, though. The siren call of the blank page, of the waiting keyboard. The satisfaction at seeing the words unfurl before my eyes. The rush that comes from hitting ‘publish’ and waiting for the first comments to appear.

My appreciation for those things has never wavered. I’ve always enjoyed the creative process. I’ve always craved the positive reactions of my readers.

Comments have always been something of a sensitive issue for me. According to WordPress, I have over 130 people subscribing to my site, receiving updates by email, and hundreds of visitors to the site each day … and yet at the moment I have less than a dozen regular commenters. It’d be nice to have a few more. The stories are free, and I think they’ve maintained their quality over the years.

I’m still shaking my head in wonderment that it’s really a decade since all of this began. I don’t think I’ll be carrying on for another decade, though. How much can one man have to say about sex and sexuality though the medium of fiction? Not that much, I’ll wager. I’m not suggesting that I’ll be calling it a day next week, or even next month. But next year? Well, we’ll see.

But in the meantime, to all of the people who have taken the time over the years to read my work and to share their thoughts, I’d like to say a sincere thank you. Thank you for being my audience.

Bien des choses à tous



“Are you sure?” he asks her.

She’s kneeling on the bed, arse high, head down, the side of her face pressed against the rumpled sheet. They’ve fucked once already, in feverish desperation born out of long famine. Even before the door unlocked, their hands were scrabbling at their clothes, fingers seeking smooth skin and damp flesh as their mouths tangled and collided.

Their route from the door to the king size is still littered with their abandoned attire.

“Are you sure?” he asks her once again.

“Yes,” she says, this time in a voice much quieter than the one she used to urge and demand and beg him to fuck her, to make her come, to let her feel the warm cascade of his seed.

He crouches behind her, trailing his fingertips across her flesh before filling his grasp with her cheeks. He eases her apart, prising open the luxuriant petals of her sex. She is scarlet and roseate within, the colours of conch, of exoticism. The fringes of her flower already glisten with her lustful nectar. He breathes in deeply, drawing her musk inside himself with the appreciation of a sommelier.

Her clitoris is a diminutive pearl, waiting patiently for his ministrations. He licks it once, very slowly, very lightly. She gasps. So simple a sound, yet one that thrills him like little else. Before they ever met, she told him how sensitive she was, how she needed to be pleasured with patience and delicacy at the outset. His attention to detail and his willingness to always learn have stood him in good stead through the years where new lovers have been concerned.

He licks her clitoris again, as slowly as the first time, but with a fraction more pressure. He begins circling it with the tip of his tongue, not quite touching the crown of the bud, grazing its slopes instead. Stimulation by association, he thinks. Licking her in this position means that his end of his nose is pressed into the valley of her sex. The smells and the sensations only serve to feed his hunger, to make him yearn for immersion within her flesh once more.

She gasps again, and again, and again in response to his feathery touches. To his ears, the sounds she makes blend into one another, becoming an evocative symphony. If he could hear just one noise for the rest of his life, it would be that of a woman being sexually pleasured.

Now his focus moves away from her clitoris. He draws his tongue through her moist cleft with agonising deliberation. She doesn’t gasp now: she groans; once, twice, three times. At the same instant, she presses herself against him. It’s a delicate movement; the result of her rocking her hips backwards fractionally … but at the same time, it’s as subtle as a rock hurled through plate glass.

Do that again, it says. Do it now.

But he goes beyond mere repetition. Holding her as wide apart as he gauges comfort will allow, he presses his tongue deep inside her, licking slowly around the corolla of her cunt.

Her groans become cries.

“Fuck, yes!” She urges her sex against his mouth with far less subtlety than before, writhing against his face as his tongue explores her, fucks her.

“Oh fuck, yes!”

He doesn’t carry her to orgasm. She’s already come three times, the last time about his thrusting cock as he neared his own climax. No, this is about preparing the way for her to explore new ground.

Instead, he pulls back from her, wipes her slickness from his lips and beard and then transfers the glistening residue to the tight rosebud that peeks shyly from between the cheeks of her arse. He repeats the action several times, until the crinkled flesh glistens as much as her labia.

Now he applies his tongue to the forbidden place with the same deference with which he worshipped her cunt. The taste of her is subtly different.

She shudders, and emits the faintest mewl. A feline noise, one that might accompany sensation that is unexpectedly and undeniably pleasurable.

He doesn’t tell her, but she’s the first woman he’s ever done this to; the first woman who’s ever permitted him such access. He knows from her own confessions that her experiences of such sensation, such pleasure, are limited too. He feels privileged at her compliance, giddy with the decadence of violating taboos, of exploring her in ways that few others have. He tongues her again, and this time, as he does so, he presses the pad of one thumb against her clitoris. He strokes her in synchronicity with his tongue, his touch light and deft in both places.

In his mind, he perceives her potential for pleasure as a curve, arcing upwards, ever upwards; at any moment, he tries to visualise where she is upon it.

His cock is fully hard again, because of what he is doing to her, because of how she is writhing and whimpering at his touch. He feels her juices dripping onto his hand, running across his skin like oiled rain. It conjures a surge of prideful arrogance in his veins.

Now he eases a finger inside her, followed quickly by a second; he fucks her with a steady rhythm as his tongue continues to tease her illicit flesh, swirling about its circumference, flickering across the tightly sealed portal.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Oh my God.” She says it as though she’s ashamed of the pleasure, but can’t give it up, not for a second.

Behind her, he grins wolfishly.

He withdraws his finger, dripping with her lust, and touches it to her anus. She doesn’t try to stop him, doesn’t try to pull away. He presses, and his finger begins to slip inside her. He feels the strength of the first ring of muscle, feels it fighting him, trying to forbid his entry. Slowly, he presses past it, to the first knuckle on his finger, then the second.

“Would you like me to stop?” he asks.

She says nothing, just shakes her head against the bed. He looks round her body, so that he can see half of her face. Her skin is damp, glittering in the low light. Her expression is lost.

He reaches out for the final part of his design.

His fingers close around cool, smooth steel. Shaped like an acorn, the plug tapers to a narrow shaft, which, in turn, flares into a flanged base. A red jewel glitters in the underside.

He liberally smears it with lubricant, then brings it to her. She shudders violently when the chill of the tip presses against her anus, but she doesn’t recoil, doesn’t try to draw away from him. He doesn’t ask if she’s still sure. Now he’s certain that she is.

Pressing slowly, he eases the plug into her, until she is gasping in pain and pleasure, until she stops breathing as the widest part of the steel slips through her, until the rings of muscle inside her clamp down upon the shaft and she gasps with relief because it is done.

He doesn’t try moving the plug within her. Instead, he allows it simply to be, snared by her flesh, part inside, part out. He’s read that just the sensations from having one’s sphincter closed tight about the base of a butt plug can be enough to send the wearer to heaven.

He hopes that is so.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

He hears her swallow. “Different. Full.”


She waits before answering cautiously. “A little.”

“Have patience. Trust me.”

She nods.

He kneels behind her. She looks so vulnerable, so available. His cock is a lance, ready to thrust, to pierce, to invade. He brings his burnished glans to her flesh, nestles it into her, guides it as he presses. He doesn’t stop pressing until his length is completely hers.

Now you’re full,” he tells her. He’s not sure whether she hears him, though, so loud are the cries of her delight.

He fucks her with composure, with long, fluid strokes that explore the capacity of her sex. He paces them with reference to her moans, her cries, her screams. She comes about his cock, and he rests his thumb against the jewelled heft of the steel plug as her flesh quivers about it. Their first joining was about hunger, desperation, the release of long-capped energy. Now they can take their time.

He can take his time.

She comes again, her cries bordering on screams. He hopes their neighbours are aroused bys the performance.

He closes his eyes and imagines the curve of her pleasure.


Ever upwards.


women-kissingThe lover smiles.

She hovers in the dark, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. The bed beneath her is soft and welcoming. It cradles her naked body, holding her prisoner, sapping her strength, rendering her incapable of doing anything but yielding to its indulgent grasp. The beat of her heart is steady and relaxed, and her breathing is gentle, almost silent. Life support on minimal.

She floats in a nether world that is warm and safe and free of consequence.

The door to her bedroom is ajar. She left it that way deliberately, an open invitation to either – to both – of her hosts. She had slipped between the crisp sheets hoping that at least one of them would accept the invite at some point in the night. That was why she left the cream chemise she’d brought with her folded neatly in her suitcase.

For a time she had lain in the dark, staring at the door, willing the footsteps to come. Eventually, she had turned her back on the maddening gap and closed her eyes.

Sleep did not come for her, though.

Her wanton thoughts refused to relinquish their hold on her. The softness of her breasts and the hardness of his cock; the taste of his come mixed with hers as she feasted upon the woman’s freshly fucked cunt. After a while, the lover had had no choice but to surrender to the restless whimpering of her body. Curled into a foetal ball, she gently stroked herself as she ran the film of the evening’s events through the cinema that existed within her mind. Every few minutes, she grabbed the lips of her sex more tightly, imagining that it was his mouth upon her, sucking on her flesh, pulling upon her succulent labia.

With little warning, another climax approached.

How many is that?

As she’d orgasmed, she’d couldn’t help but wonder if her new friends were fucking quietly on the other side of the wall; whispering to one another in the dark, reliving the delicious depravity the three of them had conjured. The temptation to return to the bedroom where she’d already taken – and given – so much pleasure was nearly overwhelming.

But instead of giving into her desire, she’d rolled onto her stomach, buried her face into the suffocating pillow and tried muting her cries of completion as she tugged feverishly upon her clitoral hood.

The flames of the first orgasm had barely subsided before she was greedily fanning the flames of a second.

How many is that?

She had pressed her face into the pillow more firmly, and as she groaned her pleasure, she wondered if she shouldn’t have vented it nakedly, brazenly, allowed the vocalisation of her climax to pass through the lath and the plasterboard; a siren’s call, beckoning to the desirous, to the sexually enthralled.

Too late, she’d thought. And perhaps too much.

She was all too aware of how greedy she was when it came to sex. Truth be told, she was all but insatiable. Her husband knew only too well, which was why he countenanced her periodic adventures. She thought she understood why.

If you grab a tiger by the tail, sometimes, you have to accept that you can’t hold on, and you just have to hope that it won’t tear you apart when you let go.

That was when she closed her mind to the life she’d temporarily stepped out of. There would be guilt later; there always was, along with something that verged on mourning for the fresh excitement that had passed through her world so fleetingly.

Stop it.

Exist in the moment. There was no choice. What was the point of all this otherwise?

But her cunt still cried out for attention. She turned her fantasies back to him, imagined that he had heard her cries of self-induced pleasure, that he had been unable to resist Ligeia’s beckoning. She pictured herself rolling over to face the door, seeing him standing inside the threshold, stroking his hardness as he watched her writhing against her hands. Then he had flung back the duvet, stretched out beside her, entered her slickness from behind as she continued to grind her clitoris against her fingers and her palm. He cupped her breasts, gripped her waist, and fucked her until she panted wildly and her heart raced wildly and the orgasms drowned her, one after the other, endless waves crashing against an unquenchable beach.

The perfect crescendo to her quest.

And finally, she had slept, exhausted and sated, her hand still pressed comfortingly between her thighs.

Now, floating in that netherworld between sleep and wakefulness, the lover becomes aware of movement in the hallway outside her door. Her eyes remain closed, but she is rousing now, and despite the lethargy, she is certain she senses the presence of another person in her room. The double bed shifts under the weight of someone behind her. She feels a ripple of excitement as she is catapulted into total, wakeful awareness.

Which one of them has finally come to her?

A delicate hand softly strokes the lover’s upper arm. She hears the woman whispering, “I wasn’t sure whether to come in. I didn’t know whether or not to wake you…”

The lover rolls onto her back. The woman is kneeling on the bedroom floor, her left elbow resting on the bed, palm propped beneath her chin. She still wears the pink pyjamas that she’d been wearing as the three of them had said goodnight to one another in the hallway.

No late night sex, after all, she realises, somewhat disappointedly.

The woman’s smile is warm and inviting, though. The lover feels her cunt pulse.

You greedy, greedy girl.

“I’m glad you did wake me,” she says quietly. “In fact, I can’t think of a better way to be woken up.”

She wants to draw the woman’s face to hers, to kiss her softly, slowly. But she is conscious of her breath, fearing that it is too pungent for so delicate and beautiful a moment. The woman laughs as the reason for the lover’s awkwardness becomes evident. She strokes her hair.

“You are silly.”

And then she gives the lover the same, wicked look she’d given her the night before, while the two of them sat together on the sofa, and the woman slid her hand up inside the lover’s skirt just before they kissed for the very first time. The woman leans closer, and the lover’s sex pulses again at the prospect of what is to come. But then the woman stops and whispers, “He’s still sleeping in there with a dirty smile on his face … are we going to give him something else to smile about?”

The lover swallows and then she smiles. “Yes, I think that we should … but first, I really have to brush my teeth.”

The woman laughs as the lover slips from beneath the covers and skips naked into the ensuite bathroom.

The lover stands before the large wall mirror, suddenly aware of how wet she is already. Kaleidoscopes of past and future intermingle in her mind, a whirl of decadent, provocative imagery. Her sex pulses with delectable anticipation.

Oh fuck.

She brushes her teeth in record time.

When she opens the bathroom door, the woman is standing right in front of her. She is completely naked too. The sight of her makes the lover’s cunt lurch. In the days and weeks to come, she will still experience a rush of excitement whenever she recalls this unexpected moment.

The lover takes two steps forward and they are face to face. Their nipples brush together, sending another bolt of electricity through her, through them both, if the woman’s expression is to be believed. The lover puts her hands about the woman’s waist and pulls her into a kiss that’s slow like molasses. The woman rests her hands upon the lover’s shoulders, and the lover responds by running her hands up and down the centre of the woman’s back. The woman trembles and groans softly into the kiss.

The lover is getting wetter by the second.

She slides her hands onto the softness of the woman’s arse, pulling her even closer. She tries to slip one of her thighs between the woman’s, but the woman breaks their kiss and draws back, smiling sweetly. The lover flits between panic and excitement. Has she moved too fast? Are they about to climb into her bed, to share one another without the distraction of cock? She doesn’t mind. She’s been on heat for both of them, but right now, all she wants is the intense sensuality of femme-to-femme sex. The woman came first. The man can wait his turn. Perhaps he’ll hear their pleasure and come to see them managing without him. Perhaps they’ll let him join them. Perhaps they’ll make him watch. Perhaps they’ll lock the door with him still outside. The lover doesn’t mind any of those scenarios. She just wants to feel pleasure, and to give it back and see the splendour of its effect.

And then the woman takes a step; not towards the bed, but towards the bedroom door, and as she does, she holds out her hand to the lover. The lover finds the gesture even more exciting than the prospect of the two of them alone in bed. She accepts the woman’s hand, allows herself to be led the short distance to the couple’s bedroom.

Another wave of arousal engulfs her as she sees the man’s motionless form, his back towards them, his tanned skin vibrant against the brilliant white of the sheets, his broad shoulders tapering down to his waist. Her cunt quivers.

You are so fucking fickle.

The woman drops the lover’s hand and turns to the door. The lover is gripped by a moment’s uncertainty, and then she realises that the woman is only closing the door behind them. The lover takes the opportunity to drink in the beautiful curve of the woman’s bottom, and then the woman comes back to her, kisses her tenderly upon the mouth, and with the same wicked smile, slides into the bed and holds the quilt open. Just as the lover’s door had been.

The lover wastes no time in accepting the invitation. In all her wanton adventures, she cannot remember ever feeling so aroused. She slips back into the woman’s arms, renewing their slow and sensual kiss. The softness of the woman’s breasts against her own is wonderful, intoxicating. She slips a hand between the woman’s splayed thighs and discovers that the two of them are equally as wet.

On the other side of the bed, the man stirs, probably hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. The lover wonders when he’ll detect the presence of another person in his bedroom, in his bed. She wonders how he’ll respond. She thinks she has a good idea.

The lover smiles.


cars-and-stockingsYou know that it’s me when I pull up at the kerb. The time is what we’d agreed – midday – and I’d told you what I’d be driving. But still you lean forward at the waist to peer in through the passenger side window, shielding your eyes against the brilliance of the sun overhead.

And then you smile.

You get in. The door thuds shut beside you with satisfying solidness. You draw your seat belt between your breasts and lock it into place as I pull out into the dense traffic, the blare of an angry horn sounding behind us. I rev the engine, snap changing through the gears to get away from the heckler as quickly as possible. I don’t think either of us is in the mood for road rage.

You turn to look at me.

“Hello,” you say, in that low, slightly breathless voice, the voice that makes my stomach roll and my balls tingle and my cock begin to swell.


“Finally in the same place, then.”

“So it would appear.”

You watch the road ahead for a few seconds. “You know that if you weren’t driving, I’d kiss you?”

“If I weren’t driving, I’d let you.”

That makes you laugh.

“So … coffee then?”

“That’s what we promised ourselves.”

“You have somewhere in mind?”

“Not really.”

“Good.” You smooth your black skirt over the fronts of your thighs. “Do you remember what else we promised ourselves?”

“How could I forget?”

Your slender fingers grip the hem of your skirt and begin to draw it towards your waist. It hisses against your stockings. I ponder on whether the skirt is lined, if the stockings are nylon or silk. The traffic still crowds us, and I can only risk occasional glances downwards. Your legs are as alluring in the flesh as they are in celluloid, as they are in pixels decrypted from a throng of zeros and ones that hurtle around the world at something akin to light speed.

I chance another glance downwards. The hem of your skirt has reached the midpoint of your thighs. Your perfectly painted fingernails draw parallel tracks across your stockings, from your knees towards your loins. The noise they make is the crackle of electricity. The car’s interior is climatically controlled, but I shudder as though an Arctic wind has caressed my neck.

“This is what we talked about, isn’t it? What we fantasised about?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Good. I didn’t want to go off script.”

“There’s nothing wrong with improvisation.”

“No, no of course. But that’s for later. Right now, I want the script. Just as we wrote it. Don’t you?”


Your fingers slip into the space between your parted thighs and you sigh. I feel my cock uncoiling, struggling to find the space it needs to unfurl.

“I’m wet,” you tell me, in a voice even lower and softer than usual.

“Are you?”

“Yes. In truth, I was wet waiting for you to arrive. I’ve been wet on and off all morning, thinking about this, about sitting beside you, smelling your aftershave as I pulled up my skirt, feeling your heat radiating next to me as I slowly caressed myself. Are you hard?”

“I’m getting that way.”

“God, I want to see your cock, to touch it, hold it, stroke it, rub it against my face, slip it between my lips, swirl my tongue about its head, slide it down your shaft. Do you still want that?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

The gaps between the vehicles ahead are growing. I look down, and now your skirt is bunched around your hips and your stockinged legs are spread as wide as the space at your feet allows, just as you foresaw. Your fingers are caressing the naked flesh above the stocking tops. I’m staggered by the contrast between your alabaster skin and the black nylon.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask.

“Very much.”

“Are you going to?”

“No. Not yet.”

You smile. “You like this script too, don’t you?”

“I helped write it.” And this time when I look sideways, it’s at your face, at your high cheekbones and your pouting mouth and your brilliant, glittering eyes.


“Yes, you did.”

You look ahead. The traffic thins some more, permitting me to increase our speed. I turn south, heading away from the city.

“What happens next?” you ask.

“You touch yourself through your panties.”


“You know where.”

“Say it. I want to hear you speak the word.”

“You touch your pussy.”

“That’s not the word. Say the real word. Say the word we use.”

“Your cunt. Touch your cunt. Do it now.”

You gasp at my utterance of the illicit noun. “Yes, Sir.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see your hands pressing up towards the tops of your thighs. I curse my decision to drive, my conceited boast that I could easily retain control despite your presence, your wanton ministrations. Will I end up killing us?

You gasp again. “Oh, you should feel me now. I’m so hot. So wet. Even my panties are damp. Actually, they’re sodden. Wringing wet. And all because of you. Would you like to check for yourself that I’m being truthful?”

With that, you reach out and cover my left hand with your right. You leave it in place as I continue to steer. Your palm is soft and smooth, your skin warm, reassuring. I fancy that I can feel the dampness of your sex transferring from your fingers to mine.

I swallow. “Yes, I would.”

“But you’re not going to, are you?”

“Not right now.”

You take your hand back. “You’re a pig, Sir.”

“Because you want me to be.”

You study my profile in silence for a while.

“Now what?”

“When did you last orgasm in a moving car?”

You snigger. “I don’t remember the last time. It’s been so long.”

“I’d say you were long overdue, then.”

I look at you and you smile. “Yes, sir.”

It’s hard to drive safely when a beautiful woman is masturbating in the seat next to you.

You’re a foot away, two at most, and in spite of the noise of the engine and the surrounding traffic, I can hear everything: the rustle of your clothes, the way your breathing becomes shallow and rasps, the wet sucking of your sex as you plunge your fingers inside yourself, as you strum your clitoris with abandon. The car is relatively low slung, and I wonder who else suspects what you’re doing, can see what you’re doing. You don’t seem to care. After a while, neither do I.

When you come, the sounds that escape you are more stirring than the most sweeping symphony I will ever hear.

“Oh God. Oh God, that was good,” you say, once you’ve caught your breath.

“I’m glad.”

You close your eyes. “I can imagine how scarlet and plump my sex is now. Can you?”

“I can imagine. But I want to see for myself.”

“You do? How badly?”

I dwell a marching pace before I answer. “Badly.”

You look about us, craning your neck to read passing road signs. “Do you actually know where we’re going?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Are we nearly there yet?”

I smile knowingly. “Yes, we’re close.”


And with that, you press down with your feet, lift your hips from the grip of the sports seat and slide your panties down your legs.

With my peripheral vision, I watch as you ease them over the long heels of your shoes and raise them to your face. From what I can see, the fabric is as just finely woven as you promised.

I hear you breathe in, sigh, breathe in again.

“I think I smell lovely. Intoxicating. Here, try for yourself.” You reach across, straining against the seatbelt so that you can hold your panties to my nose, my mouth. I inhale your rich musk, taste it faintly as I drag my tongue across the scanty cotton. I’m conscious of how ridiculous we must look to the people around us, you leaning over to blow my nose, and don’t give a damn. You’d asked me if I would hunger to taste you through the panties, or if I’d crave to bring my lips and tongue to your throbbing cunt. You have your answer.

“Are you hard?” you whisper.

“Find out.”

You sit back in your seat, drawing your panties away from me. Your hand finds my thigh, grips me through my trousers, your fingers kneading, relishing the heavy muscles. Your palms slips inwards, over my groin and you gasp again as you grasp my hardness.

“Oh my,” you say.

“Unzip me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

You tug at the zip with one hand, but after a few fruitless seconds, you give in and half-turn in your seat so you can use both hands. The zip descends and your hand snakes inside. Your wrestle with my cotton undershorts is brief. It’s my turn to gasp as your fingers find me.


Brazenly, you draw me out into the light.


You begin to stroke me.

“Slowly,” I tell you.

“Yes, Sir.” And you’re true to your word. You ring my shaft with your thumb and your forefinger and work my foreskin back and forth as though it’s been dipped in molasses. I gasp again as you run your thumb about my cockhead, glossing my glans with my precum.

“Fuck,” I say through gritted teeth.

“What was it you said about seeing whose concentration lapsed first?” And with that, you slowly lower your face towards my lap….

The blare of multiple car horns jolts me out of my reverie, back to awareness. I look up and see that the traffic signals have changed. The green lights mock me. My eyes flick to the rear view mirror and I see a taxi driver gesticulating at me. I can easily make out what he’s mouthing at me.


I glance to my left, at the empty passenger seat. I laugh. I put the car into gear and pull away just as the lights are changing from amber to red. I make it, but the black cab driver has to stop at the thick white line. He continues gesturing in my direction. I laugh again. And then I stop, because I can see you, standing at the kerb two hundred yards away, just outside the entrance to the underground station. Just as you’d promised you’d be.

Just as we’ve scripted.


the-glory-holeI escort her into the confines of the dimly lit cubicle, kissing her neck as she shuts and locks the door behind us. She turns to face me, and I smell the alcohol on her breath … but I’m the one who’s intoxicated. Intoxicated by her nervous laugh, by the glittering excitement in her eyes, by her willingness to take this step into the unknown.

She looks down at the circular hole – four inches or so in diameter – cut into the partition separating this cubicle from the next.

“That’s it, then,” she whispers, her eyes fixated.

I nod.

“Now what?”

I run the tip of my tongue along the side of her neck up to her ear, bite gently upon the soft lobe as my hands glide up over her belly to capture her breasts. I press my erection into the luscious swell of her behind, and I am rewarded with her gasp.

“Now you wait.”

She doesn’t have to wait long. Noises from the neighbouring booth announce the presence of a visitor. There isn’t enough light to see what’s going on next door, but then a man’s right hand reaches through the opening. The strong fingers are curled into a semi-fist, but it is a relaxed gesture, not an angry one. The forearm is hairy, heavily muscled, and a plain silver band glints at the base of the thumb. It belongs to a man who has clearly tasted life.

“What does he want?” she asks in the same whisper.

“To touch you.”


I smile reassuringly. “Wherever you want him to. Wherever you want.”

She looks at me for a few seconds longer, and then she slowly crouches down on the tiled floor. Her simple black dress has a wrap-around front, and I know from watching her getting ready that she is completely naked underneath. She hesitates, and then she draws one-half of her dress to the side, baring her left breast. The nipple is already taut, a darker pink than normal because of her mounting excitement. With a final glance up at me, she guides her breast into the stranger’s grasp.

I shiver with something that is part agony, part ecstasy, as he cups her soft flesh. His fingers flow over her, drawing inwards, upwards, towards the hard crown. He takes her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling gently upon it. Repeating the caress, he eases her forward until her breast is partially pressed through the glory hole.

She looks up at me, and smiles. “He’s kissing and licking my nipple. Now he’s sucking it. Oh!”

I swallow, sick and aroused all at once. Her mouth falls open and she gasps with real pleasure, and the sickness and the arousal intensify. My mind swirls. She sweeps her long hair back from the side of her face closest to me and tucks it behind her ear, so that I can scrutinise her expression more clearly. Her eyes close, her head goes back and she smiles contentedly. There is no doubt that – whatever this man is doing to her on the other side of the partition – she is enjoying it.

Her reaction is everything I had feared, everything I had hoped that it would be.

She remains there for what seems like minutes, and when she finally moves back and stands up, I see that her nipple is flushed red and glistening wetly. I can’t help but wonder what made the wetness.

She turns around and unfastens the belt that binds the two halves of her dress together. She slips the garment from her shoulders and lets it slide down her body to pool at her feet. I am staggered. Events are diverging from the timetable my fantasies fashioned. I know that I can stop things progressing further, but I also know that to do so would irrevocably damage the unwritten contract between us. There would be no repeat visits, no more journeys along this shadowy passageway of experience, of debauchery. Never again. So I will myself to remain silent.

It is less difficult a task than it ought to be.

The man is back. Now it’s his cock – average in length, thick, almost fully erect – that protrudes into our cubicle. A pale-hued condom is rolled all the way down the engorged shaft.

Her back to the dividing wall, she moves to meet him. In my fantasies, I envisaged her taking a stranger into her mouth, sometimes whilst I gripped her buttocks and licked her sodden cleft, other times whilst I fucked her with slow strokes, careful not to let my excitement get the better of me. I never dared to imagine her accepting the stranger into her cunt … wanting him in her cunt.

She presses her rear towards his condom-clad cock. I crouch without thinking. With her dress gone, I can see everything. I look down the line of her body as she strokes her clitoris playfully. His glans reaches out for her, desperate to have her dark wetness engulf him, sheath him.

Bastard, I think.

She looks me in the eye, as if daring me to say, “No!” or “Stop!” Am I being tested? Does she want me to halt things before they go any further? Time crawls through molasses as I scrutinise her face, and I realise that even if I do tell her to stop, she won’t. Not now. No more prevaricating. Ask and it shall be given you. This is going to happen, and if I find it more punishment than pleasure, so be it. For whatever a man sows, that shall he also reap. But it’s more than just that. She’s pushed herself past the constraints of the norm, and her desire is ablaze. At this point, stopping might not even be an option for her.

The stranger’s glans brushes her sex for the first time and her body quivers. Her gaze narrows fractionally.

You wanted this, her silent look reminds me.

Not this, a part of me whimpers.

Liar, the darker slice of my psyche spits back.

She eases back until her buttocks press against the smooth partition. The stranger’s cock juts between her parted thighs, a centimetre below her cunt. She reaches down and cups him from the front, pulling his shaft against her heat. She groans softly, releasing him so she can lick two fingers and transfer the wetness to the opening of her sex. She takes hold of him again, and now I can’t breathe as she guides his cockhead between her lips and into her. She gasps as he enters, her breathing rapid and shallow. She holds onto the underside of his shaft as she guides him deeper, then holds herself open as she works to get him all the way inside. Eventually, she moves her hands away, and for the first time ever I have an unobstructed view of another man embedded within the most intimate flesh she possesses.

I’ve no idea what her expression is like, because I am transfixed by the sight of the stranger’s cock insider her. I’m bewildered how we got here, seething with jealousy and betrayal, trembling with excitement.

She holds her position, allowing him to thrust. He pushes forward so far that his balls partially press through the glory hole. But the barrier between them seems to prevent him from thrusting with the vigour he surely craves. Perhaps realising this, she takes pity on her unseen lover. She begins to ease forward and then presses back along his length, enabling him to move as far forward as he can and remain stationary. I stare as she fucks the stranger, as he disappears and reappears repeatedly. She is trying to dampen her groans, but there is no mistaking the sound of her enjoyment. She is taking pleasure from a man who isn’t me. Just as I’d always told her she could. Just as I’d always feared, and hoped.

The stranger’s condom is creamy slick, glistening with her lust.

She’s moving more quickly now, and for the first time in minutes I look at her face. The booth is warm, nearly airless, and her forehead and cheeks gleam with perspiration’s first dew. Her eyes are half-closed and she is gently biting down on her bottom lip. After a moment, she realises that I am watching her, not merely the point of their coupling, and she gives me a wanton smile. Her hands reach for my face and she pulls me into a delicious kiss. Her lips are soft and warm, her tongue passionately supple. She groans into my mouth as he fucks her, as she fucks him. I cup her softly swaying breasts and let the taut nipples drag back and forth across my palms. Above the warm scent of her perfume, I can smell her arousal.

She breaks the kiss. “Stand up,” she whispers.

I do as she asks. She reaches for the waistband of my jeans, releases the thick leather belt, the button, the zip. The jeans slide down my thighs and she eases my cotton shorts down to meet them. My cock is as hard as the stranger’s, harder perhaps. She rolls my foreskin back and sees how wet with precum the glans is. Her wanton smile deepens, and then she guides me towards her mouth.

Her tongue swirls about my cockhead and then I am inside her too. Her mouth slips back and forth along my hard flesh as her cunt – beyond both my sight and my control – slips back and forth along his. We have achieved a sinful synchronicity with the stranger, a harmony beyond the most licentious of my fancies, and I both applaud and abhor its implications.

She steadies herself with a hand against my waist, and her nails claw absently at my abdomen as she is fucked harder and faster. Her mouth matches the pace of her fucking, trapping me on the same thrilling trajectory that has already captured her and her unseen lover. They drag me behind them, upwards, upwards. My flesh muffles her cries of pleasure, but I know from their crescendo that she is going to come soon.

She drags my cock from her mouth. “Come with me,” she implores, her voice driven beyond a whisper as she spits out the words before she swallows me once more. “Come with him.”

But I can’t. Our synchronicity is not quite good enough.

She quivers, pressing herself backwards so that her buttocks make the partition creak against its brackets. He responds in kind. I hear his thighs thud into the laminated chipboard as he fucks with urgency. She has afforded him all the access to her he needs. She has given herself to him completely.

Her teeth rake my flesh as she sucks me hard, as she gasps and cries about my cock, as her body quivers with her climax. And then the thudding against the partition ceases, and I hear the stranger’s groan and I know that he is orgasming inside her. I am staggered by another wave of irrational excitement blended with scolding regret. The two feelings are indivisible. They feed on each other. Ouroboros. She looks up at me, sluttish hunger in her glittering eyes, and the sight of her face – make-up smeared with perspiration and raw with lust – triggers me, carries me over the edge. She swallows me greedily, her hands gripping my hips, holding me in place as she drains me of every opalescent drop, all the time with another man still inside her.

The intensity of my pleasure wanes, as it always does. Spent as well, she stands upright and steps away from the partition; I see the stranger’s cock still hangs through the glory hole, as depleted as my own. The condom has served its purpose, though, corralling his ejaculate. After a few seconds, the cock withdraws to its own side of the divide.

Within a minute, I hear the stranger’s door unlock and open. I wonder if he – whoever he is – will loiter outside in the hope of catching a glimpse of the woman who gave herself to him. I hope not. Perhaps she wants to satisfy her curiosity too. My heart quickens at the prospect. The logistics of fantasy rarely present such consternations.

She retrieves her dress from the floor and slips it back on. After she’s fastened it, smoothed it down over her body and straightened her hair, only the smudging of her make-up and the light sheen across her face hint at what has just taken place. I’ve already tucked my cock back inside my jeans and fastened them.

“All right?” she asks me.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

She smiles. “You can if you like. It’s not necessary, though.”

I try to fathom the cipher to her words, if there even is a hidden meaning. In the end, I give up. I unlock the cubicle door and step outside, eyes questing left and right. I see no men lingering. She follows me, head held high. We work our way through the maze of corridors and back out into the night. Car headlights and neon signs and the sounds of traffic and sirens remind us that the world has gone on happily without us, has not so much as skipped a beat in our absence.

I offer her my hand. She takes it after a few seconds.

“Are you all right?” I ask her.

“I’m fine. Better than fine. What about you?”

“I’m good.” I try to keep my expression relaxed, on the contented side of neutral.

“Are you sure?”

I stop so that I can look at her. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“And was it what you wanted?”

I hesitate, only for a fraction of a second, but it may as well have been for an hour. She tries to walk away, but I stop her easily.

“It was beyond my wildest dreams,” I tell her truthfully, and then I kiss her, letting my lips say what I seem unable to.

When I stop, she’s smiling.

We walk on, headed for the car. There’s a bar around the corner from where we parked, and I figure we’ll get a drink there before we set off for home. She probably needs one. I know that I do.

Every few seconds, I sense her inquisitive gaze on the side of my face. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, but all I can see is her head going back and her contented smile as he suckled on her breast, her clutching his cock against her cunt and then feeding it inside herself. A garbage truck rumbles by, but what I hear is her gasp as he sucked and licked her nipple taut, her barely muffled cries of pleasure as he made her come.

My hand tightens about hers for a moment, and then I force it to relax again.

The recollections are excruciating now, almost too painful to consider, let alone confront. That doesn’t stop me, though. I’ll keep rummaging through them in my mind, even though it’s rubbing salt in the wounds … the same way you pick at a scabbed injury, or work at a loose tooth with your tongue.

My consolation is the knowledge that soon the memories won’t be painful. Quite the opposite. Soon they’ll make my pulse race and my cock hard. Soon they’ll make me yearn to do this – or perhaps something even more extravagant – all over again.

Things I Crave – ‘Excluded’

lesbian-sex…Arriving home unexpectedly early, only to hear sounds emanating from above me, from the master bedroom. Unexpected sounds at this time of day. Sounds of joy and delight, of sexual ecstasy. Sounds that are oblivious to my presence. Sounds that exist regardless of my existence.

Setting my briefcase quietly upon the tiled floor, unlacing my shoes, loosening my tie as I stealthily ascend the stairs towards the noise. Pressing open the bedroom door, just a couple of inches, just enough so that I can behold the vista within. Her creamy nakedness stretched out upon the Emperor-sized bed, her eyes closed in bliss, her thighs splayed with abandon. I don’t recognise the nude woman between my lover’s legs, the woman whose mouth is teasing my lover’s clitoris, whose fingers are inside my lover’s sex, pleasuring her so intensely, so exquisitely. And they are pleasuring her. I see that in my lover’s expression, in the way her fingers are entwined within the stranger’s long, wild hair. I hear it in the whimpers and sighs and cries that escape her lips.

The air is heavy with the fragrance of female arousal. I reach for the door frame, absently run my fingertips back and forth across the smooth gloss and imagine that it’s her slickness. Their slickness.


She comes so readily, again and again and again, and I watch with slitted eyes as she is finally permitted to kiss the bestower of her pleasure with tender gratitude, as she savors the piquancy of her own lust from her lover’s lips, as she urges her naked cunt against her lover’s, drunk on orgasms and yet greedy for more. She grinds another climax out against the woman, and then she slips from beneath her, turns her so that their positions are reversed. I watch as my lover presses her lips to the woman’s sex, and now I watch and listen to the stranger’s delight as she is propelled into ecstasy. My lover’s vulva gapes and glistens invitingly, wantonly. It would be so easy to push back the door, cross the room in three strides, plunge my aching cock into her sultry depths.

I should be angry at the betrayal, jealous that she is taking and giving such pleasure with someone other than me. A part of me is angry, is jealous. And yet these emotions are trivial, dwarfed by my feelings of arousal. Arousal because she lies naked with another woman … and because she has acted out of lustful selfishness, out of a need for satisfaction discrete from my own.

And so I watch them in impotent silence, in unfulfilled secrecy, trying to sear the tableaux into my synapses, like an everlasting brand.


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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