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

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.

He slips an arm over her, cups her left breast in his hand. It doesn’t have to be taken as a sexual gesture. It’s up to her. It’s always up to her.

She doesn’t try to shrink from his touch, to shrug him away, to remove his hand blatantly.

Her nipple is unruffled, but even as he cradles her, he feels it beginning to rise against his palm through the thin cotton of her vest. He presses his loins against her rear fractionally harder, and feels her pressing back just as modestly.

With those two instants, he knows that they’re going to fuck, that she wants him as much as he wants her.

He slips his hand onto her flat belly, lifts the hem of the vest to expose her bare skin. He draws his nails across her flesh, feels it flutter at his passage. She reaches back, finds his naked torso, scratches him lightly.

His hand slips lower, inside the elasticated waistband of her pyjamas. His fingers brush the uppermost fringe of her pubic hair. He tickles her until she groans lightly and pulls away.

He’s fully hard now. It’s been weeks since they fucked. He wills himself to be controlled. He doesn’t want to be consumed by his hunger, to be overtaken by his need.

He pulls at her pyjamas and she helps him to ease them down her legs. She kicks them away, and he hears them land softly on the carpeted floor. He strokes the outside of her uppermost thigh, then the backs of both thighs, always working upwards and inwards.

She gasps as his fingers brush across her sex.

He opens her with the care of an orchidophile.

She’s barely moist inside her labia. He licks his fingers, generously coating them with saliva. He works the liquid over the outside of her soft, plump lips, stroking her lightly, sensuously. He coats his fingers with more saliva, this time opening her fractionally so that he can moisten her cleft. She sighs with every caress, presses fractionally towards him, growing greedier for his touch. He lubricates his fingers a third time, and now he seeks out her clitoris, rimming it slowly, occasionally tracing its proud arch. She quivers.

He strokes her clit softly, building a steady rhythm she can lock onto, that she can lose herself in. But she edges herself away from his touch, and he understands that she craves penetration, yearns to feel his fingers inside her. Perhaps more than just his fingers.

She’s moist with excitement now, but still he licks his fingers, to make certain their passage is effortless.

He eases his index finger inside her heat. He penetrates her slowly, but he doesn’t stop until his digit is completely immersed within her. He rolls his finger around her, caressing her inner silk. She groans softly. The bedroom window is ajar, and he imagines someone hearing her, becoming aroused at her arousal. The thought excites him further. He withdraws his index finger as slowly as it entered, and presses his middle finger inside her in exactly the same fashion, with inexorable deliberation.

She works herself against her touch. He can’t do much, other than roll his finger around her insides. His wrist aches. His cockhead feels ready to rupture.

She reaches back, grasping his cock through his shorts. Her gasp tells him what she wants now.

He eases his finger from her flesh and pulls down his shorts. As he raises his hand to his mouth, he can smell her aromatic lust. He tastes it, shivering with pleasure. He smears saliva across his cockhead and along his shaft. He feels so hard, so thick. He feels smug, knowing how much more she will feel after the relative thinness of his fingers.

He eases his cock between her thighs, until his glans presses against her clit. She cries out softly, loud enough to turn his mind towards their imaginary eavesdropper once more. The thought of listening to her being fucked by another man, by a woman, by a couple, by a group, makes him shiver again.

His shaft fitted against her cleft, he fucks her clitoris with a measured pace that belies his near-frenzied need to be deep inside her cunt. He’s fucked her to orgasm like this before. Sometimes, she leaves the work to him: allows him to guide her body into the right position, to set the pace, to apply the right amount of force and keep her wet. Sometimes, when his rhythm is at odds with hers, she’ll take over, grasp his shaft between her thumb and forefinger and strum his glans across her clit until she gasps and shivers, until she cries out and bucks within his arms.

Whichever route she opts for, he knows that when she does orgasm, she’ll guide him inside her as soon as the waves of pleasure begin, prolonging her climax, or perhaps triggering a second.

Tonight, she takes matters into her own hand.

And as she begins to orgasm, she pushes his cockhead downwards, somewhat inelegantly in her haste, and suddenly there is no resistance to his compulsion to move forward.

His groan of pleasure meets hers as – finally – he slides inside her. A semi-intelligible “fuck” is all that he can utter once his full length has been absorbed within her.

They begin to fuck in earnest.

“I love your cunt,” he whispers to her. It’s true. He would worship her yoni day and night if she’d permit him, but opportunities to genuflect at her alter are too infrequent for him to be truly devout. The guilt is sudden, black flecked with red.

She doesn’t respond to his words. He’s never sure if they serve to arouse or annoy her, though he suspects and fears it is almost exclusively the latter. Not for the first time, he wishes that she would be more vocal in their lovemaking, that she wouldn’t hold back, share whatever wanton thoughts filled her mind’s eye as he thrust into her. In his heart, he is certain there is nothing carnal she might picture that would shock him, offend him, bring him stuttering to a halt with either resentment or jealousy. He just wants to know the secrets inside her, the imagery that she conjures – consciously or otherwise – when her cunt is drenched and her body on fire and her desires given full rein over her being.

After two decades of wishing and waiting, he knows his hopes are futile. And yet he still clings to them.

He feels the first, familiar beats of orgasm in his belly. He takes hold of her wrist, brings her hand to his mouth, licks the tips of her fingers. Then he draws her hand down, until her damp fingertips rest against her clitoris.

“Make yourself come for me,” he says to her in a low voice.

It’s not a request.

At first, the movement of her hand is lax, tepid. But the embers of pleasure still glow brightly inside her, and it isn’t long before her fingers are a blur, before her body is trembling and her hips are lifting off the bed as she coaxes herself to catch him, as she propels herself towards the finishing line.

“That’s it,” he says. “That’s it. Come for me. Come all over my cock.”

She does, beating him to the punch line in spite of his fears. Her orgasm is all but done when he experiences the first, deep throb. He draws back, so that she feels his come surging along the length of her cunt.

He begins to spurt uncontrollably

“Fuck!” he says again, loud and clear enough to be heard and understood by any eavesdropper there might be. She turns her face towards him. His vision has grown accustomed to the gloom, and he can see her eyes widen as she feels the potency of his lust as it pulses inside her.

“Fuck,” she says, quieter than he, but just as earnest. She reaches down to cup his balls tenderly, stroking them as if to encourage them to give her every last drop.

Spent, he settles back and glances at the glowing numerals on his Seamaster. Almost two-thirty. Four hours until alarm time. He closes his eyes contentedly.

He holds her as they lie together, the two of them breathing in the scents of their lovemaking as their hearts slow and their bodies relax. His cock is diminishing, but she still holds him inside her, reluctant to let him go. Her warmth and softness is comforting beyond words.

If only it could always be like this.

He corrects himself. Often like this.

He feels himself slipping back towards the abyss from which he’s only just emerged. He doesn’t try to fight. He doesn’t think he’ll wake her with any more sudden starts this night.

“Are you falling asleep?” he hears her ask.

“Uh huh.”

“Go back to sleep.”

He hardly hears her. Staring into the blackness inside his eyelids, his thoughts an incoherent, languid swirl of unclaimed lusts and untested desires, he loses his grip on the world, forgets where he is.

He is gone.


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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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.

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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.

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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