Easily Aroused ~ erotic fiction by an oversexed Englishman

Sensual erotica for discerning women

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

Lines of Communication

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

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

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

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

He feels himself stirring.

He clicks on ‘reply’ and begins to type:

“Tell me: did you come? Hard? More than once? Are you still aroused? Are you still wet? Would you like to feel a hard, thick cock easing its way inside you right at this moment?”

He reads his words, the cursor hovering over the ‘send’ button. He thinks he should be less direct, begins to recompose the words in his head and then clicks the send button anyway.

A few minutes pass before another email from her appears.

Yes, I came, hard. It was just the once, but it went on and on… I am still very aroused. I’m meant to be doing some reading for work, but I can’t concentrate. I keep thinking about you, imagining myself touching you, tasting you. Yes, I would very much like the feeling of being filled right now. The thought of how it would feel, how you would feel … it sends shudders through my body.

He types again:

“Are you alone now? What are you wearing? Are you touching yourself languidly, randomly, as your thoughts take you away from work and towards more pleasurable sensations?”

He sips more beer, waiting impatiently for her response. It would be easier if she would text or use some sort of instant messenger, but she’s steadfast in her preference for email. Just when he thinks that she’s had to leave, her reply arrives.

Yes, I’m still alone. I’m wearing a light cotton dress, but no underwear. I love the way the material feels against my bare skin. So light, so smooth. I love the feeling of being smoothly shaven too. Does that sound bad? I’m gently stroking my freshly bare skin. It’s a lovely sensation.

The words are thrilling to him.

“Take off your dress. I want you naked.” His fingers tremble lightly as he types, forcing him to backspace more often than merited by the length of the sentence.

This time, her response arrives in seconds.

Okay.

“How much longer will your solitude last for?”

Not sure. Half an hour, maybe longer. Normally I get a text to say he’s on the way home. I usually have fifteen minutes from that point.

His swelling cock is becoming painful, trapped within his briefs and his suit trousers. He checks his watch. Will his own solitude last long enough? What the hell, he thinks. He unzips his fly and awkwardly pulls out his cock. He can smell himself, an aromatic combination of heat and excitement. He strokes his foreskin slowly back and forth. The sensation is pleasurable, but nowhere near as much as it would be if it were her fingers manipulating him. Is it the same for women? he wonders. It must be. The familiarity with one’s own touch must dull the experience across the genders.

He types, “We shouldn’t waste time then.”

Waste time? What did you have in mind?

“What I have in mind is you naked and touching yourself. Are you?”

Yes. Does the thought of that turn you on?

“Very much. So much so, I’m stroking my cock between messages.”

I would enjoy stroking it for you. Feeling just how hard you are.

“I’m very hard. Tell me what you’re stroking right now.”

He has to wait a few minutes for her answer, and the delay makes him nervous, nervous that her connection has dropped out, that she’s been caught, that she’s been offended or – worse still – become bored.

And then her words come:

I’m stroking my clit. It’s still soft with the oil, and very smooth.

He squeezes himself hard, and a clear pearl appears at the very tip of his cock. He smears it across his glans with the pad of his thumb, then licks his thumb clean before he types again.

“Is it making you gasp, touching yourself like that?” He tries to imagine what she sounds like when she’s being pleasured. As much as he likes to see, to watch, he is an auditory creature, and a woman’s moans always make him throb, always send ripples of pleasure and anticipation coursing down his spine.

Yes. Very much. My nipples are so hard; they’re aching to be sucked. I want you to suck them for me. And I want to suck you. I would so enjoy running my tongue along the length of your cock. Would you enjoy that?

“You know I would.”

He stops. His fingers hover over the keys as the idea percolates in his brain. He looks at his wristwatch again. A real risk, but his good sense is being consumed by his lust. He suspects he could stop himself if he wanted to, if he really wanted to … but he doesn’t.

He types:

“You said he’ll text when he’s nearly home. Does that mean your phone is to hand?”

Yes. Why?

“Give me your number.”

He’s never asked for it before, waiting for her to make the offer, to make the first move towards the next level. He reads and re-reads the message, consumed with excitement and regret.

The silence stretches out as he waits for her reply. Just as he’s given up hope, an email with a single line of eleven digits in the subject line drops into his inbox.

Without waiting – stopping to think might be fatal – he pulls out his phone and stabs the sequence onto the smooth glass face. He holds the phone to his ear, hardly daring to breathe. He listens to the ring tone, once, twice, three times, four-

“Hello?”

He swallows. “Hello there. At last.”

“Yes, at last.” She laughs, a little stridently. “I … I take it you’re alone too?” She sounds flustered.

She’s as nervous as I am, he thinks.

“For the moment. Like you, I have one eye on the clock.”

“So this isn’t the most sensible of things for either of us?” Her voice is softer than he’d expected, younger.

“I suppose not. Do you want to me to go?”

She says nothing. He can hear her breathing, shallow and quick. Somewhere behind her, a clock chimes. He knows from their communications that she’s well off. He wonders about the grandeur of her home. It multiplies her risk. Perhaps he should take the decision out of her hands.

And then she speaks.

“No. No, I don’t want you to go.” She sounds calmer, her tone huskier, sultrier. How he’d always imagined it would be. The ripples course down the centre of his back like a boiling river, like lightning. Fuck.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to tell me what to do.”

He lets his breath out through his nostrils, a dragon’s long exhalation.

“Switch your phone to hands free, and then put it down somewhere close to you.”

The quality of the sound changes, and he knows that she has done as he asked.

“Okay,” she says.

“Cup your breasts. Describe how it feels.”

“They fill my hands. My nipples are extremely hard. I’m brushing my palms across the tops, because they’re almost too sensitive to touch any other way.”

“Do you still want me to suck them?”

“Yes. Oh yes.”

“Lick your thumbs and forefingers, and then roll your nipples between them. Make them glisten for me.”

The light gasp tells him that she has complied.

“How does that feel?”

“It feels good but…”

“But?”

“…but it’s not enough. It makes me want more. It makes me want your fingers, your mouth, your tongue.”

“Just those things?”

A pause. “No.”

“Good. Choose a breast to keep teasing, but use your other hand to stroke your belly, the outsides of your legs, the insides of your thighs. Let your hands go to where your body calls them.” He licks his lips to moisten them. “But don’t touch your cunt.”

Her voice comes low, barely more than a whisper. “Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

She groans, and his cock lurches against his belly.

The microphone on her mobile is high-quality: he can hear her hand as it strokes her skin. He wonders if she’s drawing the tips of her manicured nails across her flesh, setting tiny fires along her nerve endings. Every so often, she gasps. Are the responses for his benefit, exaggerated to arouse him? Or is her excitement genuinely getting the better of her?

“Can I touch myself now?” Her voice is lower still, guttural.

“You are touching yourself.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes. But I want you to say it. I want you to spell out for me.”

“Can I touch my pussy?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you didn’t ask in the right way.”

Another pause. “Can I touch my pussy … Sir?”

“I don’t need you to call me Sir,” he says. It’s difficult to keep his strokes calm, measured. “I just want you to speak to me honestly. To use honest words.”

“Can I touch my … my cunt?”

“Yes.”

Immediately she cries out, softly but forcefully. The dichotomy is exhilarating.

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me how you feel.”

“I’m very wet, and I’m very warm, and I’m very swollen.”

“I wish I could see you right now. I wish I could touch you and taste you.”

She continues as though she hasn’t heard him. “Oh, I’m so fucking wet. I want to come for you. I want to come for you now.”

“Come for me then. Think of my tongue flickering against your clit. Think of my cock filling you.”

“Will you come for me too?”

“Yes,” he says, knowing that the challenge will be holding himself in check until after her orgasm.

She cries out again. “I’m being firm with my fingers … that’s how I think yours would feel.”

He doesn’t contradict her, but he thinks of the times he’s been complemented on the lightness, the sensuality, of his touch. Perhaps he’d be a disappointment to her in the flesh. Perhaps this is as far as things should ever progress between them.

“I want you between my thighs now,” she half-says, half-whimpers. “I want you to fuck me … I want to feel you coming deep inside me.”

“God, I want that too.”

“Fuck!” But it’s not an expression of lust, this time; it’s an exclamation of panic, of fear.

“What?”

“He’s back already. Shit!”

And before he can respond, the line goes dead.

* * * * * * *

Her email arrives at lunchtime the next day, but he makes himself wait until he arrives home before reading what she’s written. Again, the driveway is empty. This time, his walk through the house feels flat, mundane. He doesn’t take a beer into the study.

He sits down at the computer and opens her message.

I am so sorry for having to leave you so abruptly last night. I heard the car coming and knowing I had to slip my clothes back on, I had no choice but to go. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to make you come, and to hear your moans of pleasure. I know I would have come with you; I was so turned on talking to you. Your voice has something about it that just buckles my knees.

My apologies if I sounded flustered to start with, you really took me by surprise. You were the very last person I expected to talk to yesterday, but you were the very nicest too.

I hope you came hard for me, imagining all the things I would have done with you, done for you, if I’d been there. I promise you this: I would have left no traces – except in your mind. X

He re-reads her words. In his heart, he knows that this is a path that will only ever lead to more frustration, to greater and greater angst, for both of them. And yet…

He remembers the sound of her pleasure, and the aphrodisiac sets to work on him at once. He grasps his stiffening length through his trousers, and then clicking on the ‘reply’ button, he begins to type.

Invocation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Audible

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

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

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

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

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

The attachment is an MP3 file.

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Red Lights

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

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

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

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

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Countenance

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

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

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

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Wet Dreams

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

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

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

Opportunity knocks and then departs, never to return.

Doesn’t it?

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Transpiration

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

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

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

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

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

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The Wrong Idea

The writer Erica Jong once said:

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

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

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

Past is Prologue

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

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

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

Joy Be The Consequence

It’s audience participation time!

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

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

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

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

Over to you!
 

Which photograph would you like to inspire a new story?

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

Total Voters: 260

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Nocturnal

spooningHe is here.

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

He hears her say something.

“What?”

“I asked, ‘Are you ok?'”

“Yes. Did I wake you? Was I snoring?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ripper

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?”

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