Easily Aroused ~ erotic fiction by an oversexed Englishman

Sensual erotica for discerning women

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


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

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

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

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

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

The attachment is an MP3 file.

She listens to the house again. Nothing. She calls out, but there is no one there to answer her.

She swallows, then reaches out a hand to the cabinet drawer and takes out her headphones. Her fingers tremble fractionally as she fits the plug into its receptacle and clicks it home. She presses the ear buds into place, and then touches the attachment to open it.

It begins to play.

She hears a hollowness, an almost-echo. There is a medium-pitched hum, like the droning of machinery. Obvious, but not too distracting. She imagines him placing his iPhone down on his desk, pressing the record button, settling himself in his chair as he prepared to speak. Had he made notes first, or written a script? Did his eyes follow text across paper or screen, or was he assured enough to speak to her off the cuff?

“Hello, Claire.”

She blinks. Not a man’s voice, not his voice. A woman’s. But whose? The answer is obvious, though, not really worthy of the question.

The woman’s voice sighs. “I know this is a little … unusual … to be introducing myself to you in this way. I’d imagined we’d speak on the telephone first, but he … well, let’s just say that he can be very persuasive.” She sighs again. “So here I am. Here we are. And ‘we’ is the right word to use, because he’s here with us too.”

She stops speaking. Claire listens to the hollowness, the hum, waiting for what comes next. She doesn’t notice that she’s scarcely breathing.

The woman speaks to her again.

“Can you guess what he’s doing right now, Claire?” She sighs again, for longer this time, the end of the sigh becoming a soft groan.

Claire feels a rush of adrenalin, and at the same time, the beginnings of a familiar ache in her loins. She’s imagined this woman for what seems an age: imagined what it would be like to touch her and taste her, to hold her soft nakedness tight against her own as their desires merge, two droplets becoming a tumultuous ocean. Those thoughts have come to dominate her sexual mindscape, left her libido teetering on the rim of obsession. Every carnal musing leaves her throbbing, and she’s come to suspect that the people around her on a daily basis can tell, can smell the pheromones of her lust. Why else would she suddenly be hit on by men who had shown no real interest in her in the past?

“Oh,” the woman cries softly. “Oh, yes, yes that’s lovely.” She groans again. When she speaks, the tension in her voice is evident, as is the tremor. “He’s running the tip of his tongue around the edges of my … my pussy.”

“No.” A man’s voice. His voice. “Not that word. The real one.” His voice is deep, cultured. Controlled.

The hollow machine noise returns for a few seconds.

“Say it. Tell her what I’m doing to you. Tell her properly.”

“He’s … he’s running the tip of his tongue around the edges of my … my cunt.”

“Good,” he says.

And then the woman cries out, as if taken by surprise. Claire’s sex quivers at the sound, and her imagination fumbles to conjure the scene. She’s gripped by the thrilling prospect of this being live in the future, of her being there with them both, able to smell the musk of their arousal, able to reach out and feel it – them – any time she wants.


The woman – your lover-in-waiting, she teases herself – does not speak for minutes. Her vocabulary has been torn away from her. Claire listens raptly as the woman’s composure surrenders by degrees, the ebb and flow of her pleasure quickening as her senses are propelled upwards, upwards, upwards, until the pauses between the cries are all but gone, until she screams her completion, a nearly disconcerting crescendo of delight and distress.

Fuck, Claire thinks again.

She has managed to resist touching herself until now, but her nipples are taut and her sex is warm and wet and full. She wants to be licked too. It’s my turn now. She imagines lying next to his wife, their legs spread wide so that their thighs cross, him between Claire’s, his knowing tongue fluttering against her swollen clitoris while his wife kisses and licks her neck and her breasts and her belly. She imagines their tongues colliding over her cunt, and she shudders deliciously.

Almost in a trance, she reaches down her body and touches her naked sex. She is sodden. The gossamer caress of her fingers is a joy.

“Oh, Claire,” the woman gasps, “We don’t want to turn your world upside down. We just want to bring a little adventure into your life.”

She gasps again.

“Oh, I want to suck him, but I’m too impatient to have his cock inside me. It’s so hard, so thick. It’s pressing against me, the tip just inside me. He’s such a fucking tease. Do you want him to tease you like this too? To rub the tip around the edge of your pussy … your cunt … around and around and around, until your body is screaming at you to put it inside you? Until you have to sink your nails into his hips and pull him into you?”

“I want to taste him, Claire, but I want him to fuck me too badly. Oh, he’s inside me … all the way inside me. I can feel his balls against my ass. They’re so heavy. Oh, it feels so fucking good, Claire. Will you taste him when we meet? Will you taste him with me, and then French kiss me? Will you put your tongue out so he can rest his cock against it while I lick the top of the head? Will you stroke his shaft for me while I suck him, and then allow me to do the same for you? Will you ask him to fuck your mouth? Will you lie back and suck him while my mouth is on you, while my tongue is tasting you, while I’m making you come? Will you kiss me and press your breasts against mine, brush your nipples against mine, rub your cunt against mine while he strokes his hard cock and watches us? Will you let him slip his cock from my cunt to yours and then back again, over and over again? Will you, Claire?”

And then they speak as one, man and wife, their words a chant, a mantra, an invitation, a dare.

“Will you?”

The recording stops.

Yes, she thinks. Oh fuck, yes.

She says it aloud, as if to seal the sinful contract.

She tries to still the whirlwind, but she cannot stop shaking. Instead, she fumbles for the iPad and stabs a finger at the ‘play’ button. And as she loses herself in the words and the sounds again, her mind surrendering to the kaleidoscope of carnal images they bring forth, her hand becomes a blur, propelling her into the future.

Red Lights

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Wet Dreams

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

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

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

Opportunity knocks and then departs, never to return.

Doesn’t it?

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

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

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

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

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

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The Wrong Idea

The writer Erica Jong once said:

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

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

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

Past is Prologue

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

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

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

Joy Be The Consequence

It’s audience participation time!

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

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

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

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

Over to you!

Which photograph would you like to inspire a new story?

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

Total Voters: 260

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spooningHe is here.

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

He hears her say something.


“I asked, ‘Are you ok?'”

“Yes. Did I wake you? Was I snoring?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten years.

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

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

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

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

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

Bien des choses à tous



“Are you sure?” he asks her.

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

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

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

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

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

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