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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

“Lie down,” she tells him.

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

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

She smiles. “Now we can begin.”

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

German efficiency, she thinks.

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

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

And then their meeting. Finally.

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