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 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.

So I’ll meet them in the lobby and bring them to the room, offer them something strong to drink, then bade them to strip and hand them their blindfolds. All the time, you’ll be sitting in the bathroom, listening to them talk, listening to them undress. Your hands will tremble and your body will quiver. But you’ll be wet, as wet as you’ve ever been, and your cunt will ache with the desire to be filled like it never has. And when I tell you it’s time, you’ll emerge from the bathroom, naked, statuesque, and you’ll stride amongst them, trailing your trembling hands across their waiting bodies, and the viscosity of your lust will drip from your flesh and mark your path.

How will it begin? I’m sure you must have your own thoughts, your own fantasies. This is how I imagine it.

You stretch out on the king-sized bed, drawing them to you with your presence, with your whispers. You reach out to one and bring his mouth to meet yours, and then you guide the others to find you, explore you. There’s no time or thought for subtlety – it’s not what this is about. You gasp as hands and mouths baton upon your breasts and your nipples and your thighs. You reach out for the cocks rising to meet you, work them gladly, wantonly, coaxing them to lascivious life. You have need of their hardness. Such need. Such febrile need.

The lips kissing yours withdraw, replaced by the warm aroma of aroused cock. You accept the gift, run your tongue across the smooth glans, allow it to know the soft heat of your mouth. The first of five. And the joy is returned, hands grasping your breasts, moulding them, making the taut peaks stand prouder still, for the lips and the tongues and the teeth that wait to pleasure you, to worship you. Now fingers explore the lips of your sex, plunge inside the velvet. The rough intensity with which the fingers invade you only excites you more. Now you feel hot, ragged breath against you, and you’ve scarcely registered the thought when a stubbled chin grazes your labia as one of the five fastens his mouth upon you. His tongue flickers furiously against your clitoris, then slips lower, until he is fucking you, making you squirm against his face, making you cry out against the cock in your mouth.

You grasp the cocks at your sides harder, work them harder, trying to bring them forth, to bathe you in a shower of salty sweetness. One of them entwines his fingers in your hair, and your mouth is turned from one cock towards another. This one is thinner, straighter than the first, but you accept it all the same as it slips over your tongue in search of its own pleasure.

How long will it be before the first of them fucks you? Until the temptation to be inside you, to know the secrets of your flesh, becomes too strong to resist? Not long, I fancy. Long enough to make you come once, perhaps. Just once. Long enough for your own cravings to grow too powerful to ignore any longer? Long enough for you to spit the cock from your mouth and cry out, “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”

Will you give a damn which of them fucks you first? Will you be already be in that place, that realm where sensation is everything, where it matters more than anything? Loyalty. Love. Life.

How will you sound when the first of them enters you to the hilt? How will it feel to you, knowing that there are four waiting to follow, waiting to know your flesh just the same, each of them dedicated to you?

How will it feel, knowing that I am watching the first stranger’s thick cock moving within you? Will you look at me? Will your eyes hold mine as you’re fucked by the strangers? Will that excite you even more? Will it make your climaxes all the more vibrant? All the more piquant?

Will you ask them to take your taboo place? Or will wait for them, let them take it when they’re ready to, when they desire?

You’ll know that it’s coming though, won’t you? It’s inevitable. And you want it to. You’re anticipating it. You crave it. That moment, when they manhandle you, when they turn you so that you’re lying over one of them. And as you lower yourself to take his greedy cock – is this your second or your third? – you’ll feel one of them behind you, easing your cheeks apart so that he can find you, so that he can bring his cockhead against your tightness, so that he can press forward and invade.

Are you prepared for such extremes of sensation? Is your mind questing even now, trying to imagine the fullness, the intoxicating blend of pain and pleasure? Two men embedded within the tightness of your loins, clasped together inside your flesh, separated by the merest of barriers. Does your mouth water, picturing them moving within you, sometimes together, sometimes opposed? Will having them inside you like that be enough by itself to make you come? Will the cock in your mouth be sufficient to mute your cries of agonised bliss? How will you manage their pleasure, if your own constantly threatens to overwhelm you? Will you surrender to instinct, abandon all rational thought, retreat to the comfort of reaction, of doing whatever occurs to you, whatever feels right?

I’ll watch your pleasure. I’ll watch the marionette as she jerks on invisible strings of pornographic ecstasy. I’ll drink it in like it’s nectar. I’ll watch them too, enjoying you as they’re pleasuring you, using you as you’re using them. I’ll watch them until all five have come at least once, until their seed gleams upon your breasts and your belly and your thighs, until it seeps intimately, dangerously, from your cunt and your ass, until the taste of it in your mouth is unforgettable. How many times will you have come by then? Enough to be satisfied? Enough to have lost count?

That’s when you’ll withdraw from them. No words, no lingering goodbyes. Just return to the bathroom, silent, enigmatic. That’s when I’ll tell our guests to get dressed, offer them another drink, just one for the road, and then show them to the door. Services rendered. Thank you and goodbye.

And once they’re gone, once the door is locked to the world, I’ll strip the damp counterpane from the bed and undress. Naked, I’ll join you in the bathroom, carry you beneath the warm shower and bathe you lingeringly, washing away every trace of the night’s exertions and excesses. Then I’ll dry you with soft, plump cotton and slip you between the bed’s crisp sheets. Finally, I’ll reclaim you, with patience and gentleness that drips in sensuality. And finally you’ll sleep, with my arms about your sapped body, and my spent cock dwindling within your depleted sex.

- – – – – – -

So. A harem of five, just for you.

Do you want to make it an occasion?

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?”


“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.


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.”

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.


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

German efficiency, she thinks.

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

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

And then their meeting. Finally.

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Joyeux Anniversaire

Joyeux Anniversaire

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

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


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

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

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

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

He replies immediately. “Of course not.”

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

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

  1. Excessive traffic
  2. Hosting images

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

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

Sorry again.



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

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

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

Do you?

What are you wearing right now? Tell me

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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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