Easily Aroused ~ erotic fiction by an oversexed Englishman

Sensual erotica written for discerning women

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

The 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.

“Through here?” she asks, nodding at the living room door. She nudges the door open, still talking as she walks through. “That useless bastard of mine decided to have ‘one more beer’ with his so-called friends before he brought the car home. I shouldn’t have been surprised.” She pauses. “I ought to pay him back by reporting him for drunk-driving.”

He’s surprised by her venom, and mentally crosses ‘How’s your husband?‘ off the list of possible conversation openers. Even so, the hint of domestic disenchantment is not displeasing. He closes the front door and follows his guest into the living room.

Angela has set down her heavy bag. She shrugs off her coat and drapes it over the back of the sofa. He likes how she doesn’t stand on ceremony.

She turns to face him. “So where is it?”

The suit that he needs altering hangs over one of the dining chairs. He catches the hanger’s hook on three fingers and passes it to her. She takes it from him, and as she does so, her fingertips brush against his. It’s as though someone has injected lightning into his arm. His eyes slip guiltily away from hers, but not before he thinks he sees the same startled look in her expression.

“Do you want to get started, or can I offer you a drink first?” He’s sure he knows the answer. Angela has never refused a drink in favour of work before.

“Do you have any whisky?”

“I have bourbon.”

“Jack Daniels?”

He nods.

“A little Jack Daniels with some ice would be lovely.”

The spirits are kept in the kitchen. While he pours out a single measure of bourbon for her and a double for himself, he listens to the sounds of her unpacking. By the time he walks back into the living room, she has enough equipment to set up a small sweatshop.

“I hadn’t realised we were going into the rag trade.”

“You want it altering properly, don’t you?”

“Of course.” He sits down, and takes a long drink. “I just don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

Angela regards him carefully, and then her smile lights up her face. “It’s no trouble. Not for a friend.”

He’s caught off guard. He thought she was his wife’s friend. It’s the first time she’s ever referred to him in such a way. It fires his guilt. “Well, I owe you all the same,” he says.

“Fine. You owe me.” Angela walks to the chair opposite his and sits down. Her skirt rides up a few inches, and its lining hisses against the nylon sheathing her legs. He can’t help but steal a glance. Her thighs are taut and shapely.

Are they pantyhose or stockings? His quest for knowledge is defeated by the length of her skirt and the level of the lighting.

She takes a long pull at her bourbon. “I’ve needed that since 9am,” she sighs. “I just didn’t realise it until now.”

“Hard day at work?”

“At home, too.”

He gets up, fetches the bottle of Jack Daniels, and makes to pour more into her glass.

“I’ve got to drive home. Remember?”

“Leave the car here. I’ll phone you a taxi. Hayley can pick you up on the way to work, and bring you back here tomorrow. The car will be fine outside.”

A shadow flitters across her expression. “I don’t know.”

He pours more bourbon into her glass. “I won’t take no for answer. Just don’t get so tipsy you end up sticking a needle somewhere delicate.”

Angela laughs. “Now there’s a thought.”

They drink in silence. He realises that he’s seeing someone new: the real Angela. Not the one who is his wife’s friend, who he might wave to outside the offices where both women work, or eat and drink with when the two couples become a foursome once or twice a year. He’s always thought of her as an associate – more than a meer acquaintance, short of an intimate friend. They’ve never spent enough time in one another’s company to relax fully when they’re together. But now he is seeing the woman as herself. Not the socially pretentious affectation, but the Angela who is late for appointments, who drinks to relax. The Angela whose marriage might not be the bed of roses she has described to his wife.

“We’d better get started,” Angela says with a hint of resignation. She gazes at the bottom of her glass, then finishes the last of her bourbon and stands up.

“On your feet, soldier. You’re no use to me on your ass.”

She sets about turning him into a tailor’s dummy. With tape measure in hand, she becomes all business, conducting herself almost sombrely. She notes every conceivable dimension his arms, torso and legs possess.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” he tells her. She is busy scribbling on the suit’s trousers with a piece of tailors’ chalk. “Can I fix you something to eat?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll take another drink, though.”

“Just remember where you’re putting those needles.”

This time she cackles.

He pours two more bourbons, then goes into the kitchen and starts scrambling some eggs. He watches her work while he’s stirring. She looks up and sees his attention. Their eyes lock together for a few seconds before he turns away to dig the heavy skillet from the cupboard where it lives.

He cooks the eggs, butters some toast and carries the plated food into the living room. He sits at the long dining table, and then realises that he’s drained his glass again. She smiles knowingly.

“And it’s a school night, too.”

“I won’t tell teacher if you don’t.”

The words sound more loaded than he’d intended, but instead of reacting frostily, she smiles a sly, wanton smile, and brings her index finger to her lips.

“Your secret’s safe with me, sir.”

He swallows, his mouth suddenly cotton dry.

She works while he eats. They finish at much the same time.

“Ready to try them on?” she asks.

“As I’m ever likely to be.”

“It’s as well you’ve finished eating. I would have made you wear those eggs for insulting my seamstressing. ”

“As if I’d dare.”

She looks at him piercingly. “I’ve always imagined you capable of all sorts of daring.”

He doesn’t know what to say. She raises an enigmatic eyebrow, drains her glass, then goes through to the kitchen and pours herself another measure of Jack. Recharged, she holds out the new trousers for him to try. He looks about the room hesitantly.

She laughs. “Would sir like directions to the changing cubicles?”

“Well…”

“No need to be bashful on my account. Trust me: I’m not likely to be surprised by anything I encounter in the next half-hour.”

A burst of irritated adrenalin flushes away his diffidence.

“As you wish.”

He unbuttons and unzips the jeans he’s wearing, thrusts them down to his ankles and steps out of them. He kicks the pool of denim behind him and holds out a hand for the trousers. His legs are well built, sculpted by years of swimming and cycling. He still feels ridiculous, though, standing before her in just his shorts and socks.

She hands him the trousers. He steps into them. She steps close, walks around him, marks the trousers again with her tailor’s chalk, places pins wherever she feels them needed. The bouquet of her perfume is much stronger now. The thud of his heart is loud in his ears.

She kneels down in front of him, fussing over the length of the cuffs. He can’t help but notice how the front of her blouse hangs forward, displaying her full breasts. The deep vee of her cleavage and the black lace bra beyond are mesmerising. The movement of his cock is involuntary, and he reacts by trying to pivot his mind from the unashamed display of her womanliness, to fill his imagination with the most hideous, distracting things of which he can conceive.

He might have achieved it if he had closed his eyes. But he cannot tear his gaze away from the sight of her soft, bountiful flesh. His cock twitches again.

Angela looks up. She sees that his eyes are locked upon her breasts. He realises that she is watching him watching her. He cannot stop the blush that blooms in his face. Suddenly, he is a teenaged swimmer again, mortified because he has been caught staring at a woman whose swimming costume is tight enough or small enough to leave little to the imagination of a horny, pubescent male.

Resignedly, he waits for the storm.

Instead, she smiles; the same sly, wanton smile she’d turned on him before. His cock lurches for a third time, well on the way to full tumescence now. Perhaps the second had caught the periphery of her attention. Now she fully sees the movement behind the wool.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks in a calm voice.

He swallows, tries to steady his racing thoughts, to consider his options. He decides to gamble.

Carpe diem.

“How good it would feel to have you take my cock in your mouth.”

She studies his face for what seems like forever. He waits for her to stand up, to slap his face, to storm out of the house. She’d be keying his wife’s telephone number into her iPhone before she reached the street. Instead, she reaches up to his waist, undoes the button, unzips the fly, eases his trousers back down his legs. One of her pins catches his skin, but he hides his wince convincingly. He’s terrified that she might stop, might come to her senses if he departs from this ad hoc script for even for a second.

His thick cock is clearly defined by the thinness of his cotton shorts. She reaches out a finger and slowly traces the outline of his erection. He shivers, then watches with delicious bewilderment as she hooks all eight fingers into the waistband of his shorts and eases them down his muscular thighs.

His cock springs forward, eager to know her touch, her kiss.

She accepts the gift, takes it carefully in her right hand and leisurely rolls back the foreskin.

“Nice,” she says, her voice dreamy, absent, as though she’s speaking to herself. “And I said I wasn’t likely to be surprised.”

She draws his cock towards her mouth. The feel of her velvet tongue against the head of his prick is electric. She isn’t a woman giving to waiting, though, and he cries out softly she takes his length into her mouth. She reaches behind him and cups his buttocks, so that he can’t escape. He cannot imagine anything that would make him want to do such a thing.

She draws back, her lips encircling his shaft, sucking on his length as though he were a popsicle. He can’t remember the last time that his wife took him in her mouth. Was it two years ago? Three? His head goes back and he closes his eyes, revelling in the glory of the moment. She moves again, forward, backwards, each pass a fraction of a fraction quicker than the last. With one hand, she cups his balls, cradles them, her fingertips stroking the skin behind. She draws lazy circles around his anus, making him shiver. He rocks back and forth on his heels, softly fucking her mouth, his fingers stroking the softness of her hair. She moans about his hard flesh, a sound of contentment. Even in the eddies of his pleasure, he has the capacity to wonder if there will be enough time for him to return the favour, if she will permit him to pleasure her in as intimate a way. His mouth waters at the prospect of tasting her cunt, of swallowing her rich, copious juices.

He is on the verge of coming when he hears a car pulling into the driveway.

His panic is as sudden and all consuming as the lust that preceded it. He tries to pull back from the sweet allure of her mouth, but she grips his buttocks in hands suddenly made of steel, and her manicured nails bite deep into his flesh.

“Angela! For God’s sake!”

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hesitate. Her only notable response to the danger is to quicken her tempo. It’s still controlled, though, as far from frantic as he is from calm. He realises that she won’t release him until he has ejaculated, until she has tasted his seed. He would have to tear her from his flesh to be free of her now, and he winces at the prospect. He resigns himself to his fate.

Be careful what you wish for.

And there is a part of him, a dark, twisted part, that doesn’t want her to stop. Not until he explodes across her waiting tongue. Not until his wife walks into the room and sees his cock pulsing in her friend’s mouth.

He hears the driver’s door open and close, the click of the central locking as his wife thumbs the remote. The rush of pleasure and terror is immense, indivisible. His wife’s measured footsteps approach along the pathway. He cannot help but picture the sight that will greet her when she comes into the lounge. Divorce will likely be only the beginning of his woes. And yet there is that dark compulsion to be caught, to be afforded the chance to say to her: Do you see? Do you see what you’ve inspired me to? Do you see what you’ve made me capable of?

His pleasure surges, a black river flecked with scarlet. He quickens his pace, pistoning in and out of Angela’s complicit mouth. He feels the familiar shuddering in his belly and his balls, and he groans as he comes in her mouth in hot, guilty spurts. She strokes him hard through his climax, pumping his shaft as though determined to milk him of every drop. She swallows his seed as though it is nectar.

She licks her lips contentedly as she watches him haul his shorts and trousers back into place. They both hear the sound of a key being pushed into a lock. One of Angela’s needles rips into his flesh again. He barely notices.

Angela gets up and kisses him hard on the mouth. The smell of his come is much stronger than her perfume. “We’re going to do this again,” she says in a whisper. “At my house, though. Remember: you owe me.”

The front door opens and closes. “I’m back,” his wife calls. They hear her drop her bag onto the floor. Her footsteps approach the living room.

Angela busies herself with the cuffs of his trousers again. It’s as though nothing has happened. He stitches monotony across his face and turns to watch the now-opening living room door. Inside, he is consumed by the same mix of fear and desire with which he orgasmed. He smiles for the new arrival, wondering what deliciously twisted game he has gotten himself into.

Striation

Show me that line.

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

Permit me to touch it.

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

Permit me to kiss it.

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

Permit me to taste it.

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

Permit me to mark it.

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

Permit me to capture it.

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

Soltado

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

“Lie down,” she tells him.

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

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

She smiles. “Now we can begin.”

She undresses at a leisurely pace. Her patent stilettos go first, and then she unzips her scarlet dress and allows it to slide down her slender form. Even the noise of the lining hissing over her skin is exciting. She reaches behind herself to unhook her bra and bends forward from the waist to let it slip from her arms. She pauses before she slips her thumbs inside the waistband of her gossamer panties, and then eases them down her long legs.

Nude, she studies his eyes, rapt at the sight of her narrow waist, her flat belly, her gently curving breasts. While she watches him watching her, she drifts her fingers over herself. Her skin feels so soft, her body tingling with life. Her sex is already wet.

Not wet, she corrects herself. Soaking. Sodden.

She slides her hands to her breasts, cups their softness, takes their weight, enjoys the marbled hardness of her nipples. Her hands traverse her belly, over the fronts of her thighs, her manicured nails grazing the softer inner flesh. She takes her time. No need to rush. He is hers. And she wants him to ache.

Now she traces the circumference of her sex. The feeling of plumpness, of succulence, grows. She craves hardness; cleaving her, merging with her. She breathes in the musk of her excitement, then fantasises about capturing it against her palm, smearing it across his nose and his lips. No. He’d enjoy it too much. It would be an escape from the torture. He can watch, and no more.

For now.

Her knowing fingers slide into her slickness. She gasps. He groans. His cock is a flagpole, desperate for her to affix her colours to it. She tortures him with her self-teasing, allowing herself to feel the pleasure, but keeping it low, under control. Her wrists tremble with the effort. She explores herself, wanting him to ache as he watches, as he listens to her liquidity.

The slow, intense throb at her core increases until she can bear it no longer.

She returns to the bedside drawer and takes out the glass phallus. The feel of the cold silicate in her grasp triggers a rush of remembrance, a kaleidoscope of orgasmic memories. She fell for it the very first time she used it. She knows this thing so well, and it knows her.

She sits down in the room’s solitary chair and spreads her thighs wide. She brings the glass to herself. So cold and hard. She closes her eyes as she feels its first touch against the outside of her sex, as she slowly, slowly slides its bulbous head inside.

The languid, erotic effortlessness of its entry leaves her panting all by itself.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Fuck.”

She keeps her eyes closed. She doesn’t need to see to know that his gaze is adhered to her. He couldn’t look away now, not if someone ordered him to with a nine-millimetre muzzle pressed against his forehead.

In her darkness, she explores herself, fucks herself. She feels her body grasping at the phallus. Her cunt wants it so badly, so fucking badly; it resists the pull of her hands, refusing to relinquish its grip upon the trespasser, drawing it deeper, deeper, deeper.

The subtle battle within her flesh is utterly thrilling. It is the strongest drug she has ever tasted.

The phallus glides within the oiled velvet, slick and sure. Its coolness fades rapidly, obliterated by her heat. It becomes so hot, so fast. She loses herself in the absoluteness of its presence, of its smooth solidity. It is so unyielding … and yet it is so infinitely soothing, too. She wishes she could share the experience with him, and there is fleeting sadness at the knowledge that he will never know this exquisite bliss.

She concentrates fiercely on keeping the tempo slow. She chants it to herself, a lascivious mantra.

Slow. Slow. Slow.

Forming the words within her literary mind excites her further.

She is so close now. So close.

At the edge of orgasm, she eases the phallus from her flesh. A gossamer strand of silver clings to its glans, refusing to relinquish the contact between them. It glistens as it bows, then snaps. She is sad. She stands up and strides to him. His eyes are burning coals, his face drawn into a snarl of frustrated delight. She runs one hand the length of the glass shaft and then presses her palm against his mouth, smearing her juices. His tongue laps at her skin, and his nostrils flare against her hand as he snuffles desperately, so greedy to have her scent inside him.

Men *are* like dogs, she thinks.

And then she thinks of her need.

She climbs onto the bed, straddles him swiftly and mounts him. He doesn’t have time to thrust to meet her. She simply engulfs his length in one fluid descent.

Where the glass phallus was cool and unyielding, his tumescent flesh is warm, and even though it is rigid, there is softness, a readiness to yield to her secret curves in a way that no silicate will never possess.

There is nothing like cock.

She cries out as she rides him hard. One, two, three, four, five, and then she dismounts. She gasps as their flesh separates, but not as loudly as he does. She half-sits, half-drops onto the bed level with his head. Her cunt is on fire, and it is all she can do to stop herself from climbing back onto him. He looks at her bitterly.

“You bitch,” he hisses.

She doesn’t reply. She sits facing him, spreads her legs, brings her hands to her sex and opens herself so that he can see everything, see into her, as she comes. It doesn’t take her long. She knows her body too well, and her patience, her restraint, is in tatters. One of her hands becomes a blur as she shows him her hard, fast, urgent orgasm.

Her chin drops to her flushed, heaving chest. As the violence of her climax passes, a rivulet of sweat runs down between her breasts and across her belly, finally losing both mass and impetus in her navel. She lifts her gaze to meet his. She sees the lust caged within him, desperate to be freed, to be allowed to rush at her, rending her nerves, cleaving her flesh. She could ride him now, for as long and as hard and as fast and as soft and as slow as she likes. His flesh will not wilt in the face of her desire, and if it does – if she is careless enough to allow his seed to spurt across her or inside her – she knows she can quickly coax him back to tumid life.

But that’s not what she wants. Not what she craves.

She moves to the foot of the bed and releases his ankles. She does the same with his wrists, before walking to the chair. She bends forward, places her palms down on its arms and pushes her derriere out towards him. Then she looks back over her shoulder at him.

“Consider yourself unleashed,” she tells him.

Retrospection

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

German efficiency, she thinks.

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

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

And then their meeting. Finally.

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Joyeux Anniversaire

Joyeux Anniversaire

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

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

Drought

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

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

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

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

He replies immediately. “Of course not.”

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

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Downtime

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

  1. Excessive traffic
  2. Hosting images

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

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

Sorry again.

~EA

Phantasm

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

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

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

Do you?

What are you wearing right now? Tell me

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L’abito

undressingHe told her that he would choose the dress for her to wear at her husband’s gala evening. He selects one in black; strapless, full length, and with a daring slit up the front of her right leg that does not stop until it reaches past the middle of her thigh. He has no doubt that adorning her statuesque curves it will bring her a good deal of attention, something he has divined that she craves, that she needs. His one concern is that some of the male guests will be capable only of engaging in conversation with her cleavage. He reassures himself that there should be a handful of men who know how to look at a woman like men, and not sniggering adolescents. If there are not, he hopes she will feel sufficiently self-assured to cup their chins in her hand, brushing her long, red nails against their cheeks as she lifts their eyes back to hers.

He places his handwritten note atop the black silk before he seals the dress within its elegant box.

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Insane

Clothed Male, Naked Female“Stop,” she pants against the side of my mouth. “You have to stop. We have to stop. This is insane.”

She’s right; it is insane. Everything within me tells me that: my intellect and my instinct, my brain and my balls. Every internal warning bell I possess clangs as fast and as hard as the beating of my heart against the inside of my ribs.

And yet.

And yet.

I ignore her words and kiss her again. This time my hand slides from her hip to the firm swell of her left breast. She arches herself into my grasp, even as she tries to draw away from me. My other hand is flat against the small of her back, holding her against me, pulling her loins to mine. I know that she can feel how hard I am. Am I making her wet? Has she fantasised about my cock the way I’ve fantasised about her cunt? Has she dreamed of what I would feel like in her hand, between her breasts, against the cheeks of her arse? Has she touched herself as she conjured what it would be like to feel my hardness entering her, piercing the sanctity of her veiled flesh?

Does the prospect of such ultimate betrayal appal and arouse her in equivalent measure, as it does me?

Yet at this moment in time, my excitement outweighs my guilt by a magnitude of ten, a thousand, a million, and the sweet emotion surpasses the bitter exponentially with each passing second. For now, guilt is just another word in the lexicon of my given language. Later, it will consume me, sear me, rend me from three hundred and sixty degrees. For the moment, it is the bleating of a newborn lamb in a hurricane.

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The Falls

Waterfall SexHe’d asked her what she wanted for her anniversary. She was touched he had bothered to enquire, but still annoyed that he felt the need to ask. After so much time, she longed for him to be able to read her, to pluck the fervid desires from her mind and make them flesh.

In her free time, she found a measure of solace in written erotica, in allowing herself to be drawn along by the lustful prose of others. She loved to feel her senses coming alive as her eyes flowed over the lines of text, her nerves tingling with the intensity of imagined lovemaking.

She was a woman who yearned for adventure, for a wonderfully dramatic rending of normality’s mundane cloak. She wanted to feel breathless with passion, to feel her heart pounding with wanton excitement. She wanted to be consumed with desire.

She came home one brilliant afternoon and found him sitting at her laptop. She tried to recall if she’d wiped the browser’s history record after her last session online. She didn’t fully understand why she felt the compulsion to cover her tracks. After all, she was an adult, and her tastes were confined to the more literary aspects of the erotica genre. Even so, she still felt compelled to keep her predilections to herself.

“Hello,” she said to him from the doorway.

He turned around quickly, but she couldn’t tell from his face if it was a guilty reaction or simply one of pleasant surprise.

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Sound and Fury

His heart quickens when he sees her email waiting for him, the familiar paperclip beside the subject line signifying the presence of an attachment.

He knows exactly what to expect.

He goes to his desk, opens the left-hand draw and pulls out the pouch containing his B&W headphones. He plugs them into the top of the tablet, positions the headphones’ soft leather pads over his ears and settles himself in his high-backed chair. The attachment has finished downloading. Before he presses play, he switches both of his phones to silent.

“I want to come for you,” her voice says to him in the empty office. “I want to come for you.”

He hears birds singing, cars passing by outside her apartment. She tells him how her mind has become a blur, a giddy kaleidoscope of all the ways she craves to pleasure him, to taste him, to fuck him. He nods without realising that he is doing so, as her words, her promises, echo in his brain. They tease his expectations ever upwards, play his nerve endings like a harpist dexterously picking out the most beguiling of melodies. Already, he is rapt, enthralled, lost.

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