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

Heat

bound-and-claspedShe pulls onto the driveway at 6.00pm, as she has more or less every working day for the last six years. Even with the Volvo’s air conditioning turned up to maximum, the heat pawed at her skin during the drive home. Opening the car door is like stepping into an oven.

The house is quiet, cool compared to outside.

“Hello?” she calls. There’s no answer. John’s car is parked in the driveway as well. She wonders if he’s gone for a run, perhaps a ride on his bike.

She walks into the kitchen, drops her bag onto the farmhouse table that takes up most of the floor. The big station clock that he bought for her at some auction ticks solemnly as she opens the refrigerator and takes out a carton of mango juice. She half-fills a wide tumbler and then greedily swallows the chilled, slightly viscous liquid. As she closes the refrigerator, she sees the note, written in John’s looping hand.

In the garage.

It puzzles her. She doesn’t recall him mentioning that he was expecting a delivery. She finishes her drink and walks down the narrow hallway, her heels clicking against the varnished wood. No doubt he’s surreptitiously taken possession of some new tool to add to his collection of toys, and now he wants to show it off to her, to explain its true value before he admits the damage to their credit card balance.

The garage has a plain white roller door, powered by an electric motor. There’s no handle, and without the small remote control to hand, she has to knock on the metal. The door resonates hollowly, and then there’s the whir of the motor and the door begins to curl in on itself.

The garage is his environment, and it’s always immaculate. “A place for everything, and everything in its place” was what he told her when they first moved in together, and the garage is the ultimate expression of that philosophy. It’s perfectly befitting of someone with such a neat and tidy mind. She watches the bottom edge of the white door slowly rise. She used to resent this place; now she simply accepts it as being his diversion. She has her own.

The roller door makes a solid clunk; it’s gone as far as it can towards imitating the Ouroboros. Against the brilliance of the day, the dark interior of the garage challenges her eyes’ ability to adjust to the change in contrast. She squints, peering into the gloom. The overhead strip light is switched on, but even though the garage is only thirty feet long, there’s no sign of her husband. She takes a step forwards.

“John?”

Her husband is conspicuous in both his silence and his lack of presence. She takes another step forwards, scarcely aware that in doing so, she has crossed the threshold from her world into his.

“John, are you in here?”

She walks forward, five feet beyond the doorway, now ten. On both sides of her, tools that hang from wall-mounted boards glisten in the flood of light coming from behind her. Where there are tools missing, yellow outlines mark their absence, like shadows scorched into brickwork by the searing heat of an atomic fireball.

The air is warm inside, heavy with the smell of oil and paint and metal. They combine to form an infusion that she’s associated with masculinity all her life, since the time she watched her grandfather tinkering with a succession of old lawnmowers that he repaired for neighbours in the rickety shed he virtually lived in once he had retired.

“John?”

Behind her, the electric motor whirs into life again and the garage door begins to uncoil. She whirls, taken by surprise. The door is already halfway to being fully shut. She watches the gap beneath the edge of the door narrowing. For a few ridiculous seconds, she pictures herself down on the linoleum-covered floor, rolling beneath the descending metal, escaping back into the light like some Hollywood heroine. Then she remembers the two-button switch – one green, one red – that John mounted on the wall just inside the door, and she admonishes herself for her girlish lack of nerve.

A foot of daylight remains as she walks forward. At that moment, the double strip lights overhead go out.

The bottom of the roller door hits the floor and the motor stops. She is in almost total darkness, the only remaining light a thin square outline that marks the extent of the door. Her eyes struggle to see anything else.

“Shit.”

Reaching out for the wall-mounted switch that will raise the door once again, she edges forward across the floor. She’s hardly moved when a pair of strong arms entwines around her from behind, binding her own arms to her sides.

Her panic is instant, as is her response. She lashes out with a heel, instinctively aiming for her attacker’s shin, whilst jerking her head backwards in the hope of crashing it against her attacker’s nose.

“Calm down,” her husband says, his voice right beside her ear. Through the adrenalin, she remembers the note on the refrigerator.

“John, let me go. Stop messing around.”

“Be quiet,” he tells her abruptly. He doesn’t shout the words, but the steely command in his voice has the same effect. She can’t recall the last time he spoke to her like that, if he ever spoke to her like that.

His grip around her tightens and he picks her up as though she were made of wadding, turning her around so that the door lies behind her. He carries her forward into the centre of the garage, walking with confidence, not shuffling as she had when the lights went out. She wonders how he can see so well in the blackness. Perhaps it’s simply that he’s adapted to his environment, like a blind person moving effortlessly through a room that they know like the back of their hand. He ought to know this place at least that well.

He puts her down. At once, his hands are on her forearms, gripping them almost painfully. She’d forgotten how strong he is. Before she can fathom what game he’s playing, he pulls both of her arms upwards, so that they’re raised straight above her head.

“John, I don’t like this.”

“I told you to be quiet.”

Something hard and metallic brushes the back of one hand. It’s the sound rather than the sensation of the handcuff’s bracelet ratcheting shut about her wrist that she recognises. As she realises what he’s doing, the second bracelet snaps into place about her other wrist.

John releases his hold on her, but her arms remain extended above her head. She tests the resilience of her steel bonds, and realises that her flesh will give out long before the handcuffs or their anchor point will.

She senses her husband moving away from her.

“What are you planning to do now?” she asks. “Tickle me? Flog me?”

“I found your emails,” he says. His voice and his footsteps circle her slowly.

She freezes, her heartbeat seemingly doubling its rate in seconds. She knows which emails he means. Even so, she can’t stop herself from asking the question.

“Which emails?”

“The ones in the secret folder on your portable hard drive.” His voice is cool, controlled. “The ones you sent to your lover. The ones telling him how much you want him, how much you yearn for him to touch you, lick you, fuck you. The ones telling him how you fantasise about him tying you up, stripping you, using you for his pleasure.”

She swallows, her mouth and throat paper dry. She feels a sense of outrage and betrayal that at his violation of her privacy, but it’s an emotion which is dwarfed by her feelings of fear. Her husband has discovered a secret he was never meant to. In the perfect world of her fantasies, he was never to have been hurt.

“John-”

He doesn’t respond. Outside, birds sing in the blazing afternoon. She hears the shouting of children at play somewhere close by. A car passes the entrance to their driveway, accelerating away as it passes the edge of the village.

“Do you want all of those things?” he asks, managing to sound incredulous in spite of the black-and-white evidence. Despite the distraction of her anxiety, she hears the sadness in his voice. Guilt adds itself to the emotional maelstrom inside her.

“What … things?” The question is asinine, but, again, she is compelled to ask, if only to avoid the dreadful silence.

“For him to make you feel vulnerable and small before his touch? To make you feel helpless?”

“I….” She stops. She doesn’t know what to say, or how to say it. The heat inside the garage is stifling; sweat runs freely down her forehead and drips into her eyes. She tries to blink the stinging liquid away. Beneath her thin summer dress, her cleavage and her thighs are slick with salt. Her body is alive with sensation, and not all of it is unpleasant.

“Aren’t I making you feel vulnerable and small now?” he asks.

He stands right in front of her. At once, his powerful fingers hook themselves into the neckline of her dress, and with a violence that makes her gasp, he wrenches downwards and outwards, rending the cotton apart. It tears effortlessly. Without waiting, his hands grip the narrow strip of lace that joins the cups of her brassiere, and he pulls savagely, tearing her bra open. It is being hit by a sudden, intense gale. It occurs to her that if she didn’t have her feet upon the ground, she would be swinging from her bonds, her shredded clothes flapping about her like aged and ruined flags.

He grasps one of her naked breasts in his hand. His palm is hot and dry against her slick skin. Her nipple rises almost instantly beneath his touch, and she can’t help but arch herself slightly towards him, increasing the intensity of their contact.

“Don’t you feel vulnerable and small now?” he asks, the same control in his words. “You know how helpless you are. You know that I can do whatever I want to you, and that you can’t do a damn thing about it.”

“I could scream,” she says with a defiance she doesn’t feel.

He laughs, a muted reaction, as though he’s laughing to himself in an empty room. “Yes, you could scream,” he says.

She feels him take hold of the shreds of her dress and the material tears again. He walks round behind her and suddenly a roll of cotton is pulled against her lips, forcing them and her teeth apart. He pulls the makeshift gag tight and then knots it painfully against the back of her head.

He leans in close so his mouth is right beside her ear when he speaks softly. “But not any more.”

Still behind her, he cups both of her breasts, moulding the soft, vulnerable flesh to his grasp. His hands drift downwards, over the dampness of her trembling belly, past her hips and onto the waistband of her diminutive panties.

“You don’t need these, my love,” he says brusquely. He snaps both sides of the waistband, left then right, before pulling the ruined fabric from between her thighs.

Her eyes have adjusted to the gloom now. John walks back in front of her. She can make out her husband’s face now, see the flat anger in his expression … but she sees something else too. Lust. Need. It’s not ideal, but it’s been so long since he looked at her this way. She feels a rush of warmth through her loins, in spite of the betrayal, the discovery, her imprisonment.

John thrusts a hand between her thighs, forcing her legs wider. His greedy fingers sink into the moist silk of her cunt, making her gasp with the abruptness of his invasion.

“You’re soaking,” he says in a low voice. “This *is* what you want, isn’t it?”

After a few seconds, she nods.

He fingers her with what she will think of in the coming days as velvet violence. There is a barely controlled fury in the way his digits plunder her, questing further and further inside her most intimate depths … and yet in spite of the fury, there is a carefulness in his actions, and she understands that his ultimate desire is not to hurt, but to pleasure: to give her the thing he has discovered she craves.

She regards him with eyes filled with both gratitude and regret.

He reaches behind her head and unties the gag, pulls the damp material from between her lips and drops it to the floor. He slips one hand behind her head, grips her hair in his fist and bends her head back, and brings his mouth cruelly down on hers. His kiss is hard, raw, trembling with barely constrained passion. His tongue seeks hers and she meets it frantically, desperately, as he fucks her with his hand.

He breaks the kiss, staring at her fiercely.

“You fucking whore,” he says, enunciating the words so carefully it’s like he’s spitting them at her.

“Yes,” is the only thing she can think to say.

He kisses her hard again … and with a hint of tenderness born of years of togetherness, of mutual consideration. The fingers within her lose a little of their animal insistency, and she presses herself back against his hand, urging her clitoris against his palm.

She cries out into his mouth when she comes.

He steps back from her and begins to undress. In seconds, he is naked. The sight of his thick, jutting cock reaching out for her makes her already sodden cunt run afresh. He reaches around her waist with both hands and cups her buttocks in his palms. He grips them tightly, almost painfully, his even nails biting into her pliant flesh. The underside of his erection presses against her belly.

She gasps in surprise when he hoists her into the air. As he lifts her, his grip draws her open, so that she feels the dry air against the glistening heat of her sex, so that she feels his smooth glans probing between her labia. Her thighs hook around his hips as he seeks her out. Outside, some of the playing children shout triumphantly as a bike hurtles from a makeshift ramp, or as a football threads the gap between two untidy heaps of clothes. Sweat drips from her brow onto her heaving breasts, runs down across her belly and pools in her navel, trickles on into her loins. There is the rumble of a diesel engine as their neighbour’s car pulls onto the driveway and stops in front of the garage beside theirs. She whimpers as his husband’s cockhead finds its way between her lips, groans as it begins to enter her, cries out as he lowers her savagely onto his waiting hardness.

She has never felt so utterly in his grasp.

He cradles her arse as he fucks her, his cock unyielding, his powerful thighs doing the majority of the work. Her contribution is to entwine her calves behind his buttocks, fixing herself about him. Outside, their neighbour – Sophie, a legal secretary in her early twenties – is unloading shopping from the boot of her car. She bites down hard on her bottom lip to still the wails of pleasure building inside her, even though she knows it’s a battle she’s destined to lose. Her wrists are sore now, the handcuffs chafing the thin skin and the slender bones beneath, but she’s incapable of caring much, such is the overwhelming nature of the pleasure radiating from her cunt.

“Oh fuck,” she half-groans, half-whispers as she feels her second orgasm bloom.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” he grunts against her ear, punctuating his words with the flickering of his tongue, with the pain/pleasure of his teeth against her lobe, against the side of her slender neck. “Being fucked while you’re helpless? Loving being used for the pleasure of a man?”

“Yes! Fuck yes, yes!”

“And you wanted it with ‘him’, didn’t you? Wanted him to tie you up and take you? Wanted him to ravish you? Wanted him to use you for his pleasure?”

She swallows. Pleasure and guilt roar through her in unending, indivisible waves, each magnifying the other. There is no point in lying to him. “Yes.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes. I wanted it with him.”

“Bitch.”

She doesn’t say that she is sorry. The word is there, sure enough, nearly desperate in its need to burst from between her lips. It’s a word for later, though. It has to be. Instinct tells her its emergence now will shatter a mood balanced on a knife-edge, and with it the encounter she has yearned for.

Her heart might break if he stops.

So she buries her guilt as deep as she can, embracing the pleasure as she embraces the rutting beast between her aching thighs. And as she comes for a third and final time, her husband’s body locks as though it’s channelling electricity, and she feels the shaft embedded within her pulse explosively, feels his seed flood into her, hotter than the scorched air outside, slicker than the perspiration that drips from every inch of her skin.

He holds her in his arms for a minute longer, then lifts her from his wilting flesh and lowers her to the ground. He fumbles in the pile of clothes he so unseemly abandoned ten minutes ago and returns with a silver key that he applies to the handcuffs. Her shoulders and arms ache with freedom, and she gingerly cups her wrists in turn. She bruises quickly, and by morning, the red wheals left by the cuffs will be shaded in vivid purples and blacks. She’ll have no choice but to wear long sleeves, and given the heat wave, her choice of garment is bound to raise questions amongst her colleagues. She mentally shrugs. Perhaps she’ll take the day off. Maybe the rest of the week.

Her husband dresses. He looks weary. She watches as he buttons his shirt, then looks down at the rags hanging from her shoulders.

“I’ll fetch you something to wear,” he says with a hint of remorse.

“I expected you to make me walk to the house like this.”

She means it humorously, an attempt to ward off mutual despair. He says nothing, but the look on his face suggests he had considered the idea.

The clanking of Sophie’s garage door rolling up breaks the moment. Fetching the lawnmower, she thinks, or the garden hose.

John motions towards the back of the garage. “Stand behind the cupboard. She won’t know you’re in here, and I’ll bring your clothes in a carrier bag.”

She nods and walks over to where he has pointed. She regards him from her hiding place. He stands, thumb hovering over the open button. He looks incredibly sad.

“I’ll play your game,” he says eventually.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve sought out your fantasies. Now I’m going to seek out mine.” He motions with his head towards their neighbour’s garage. “I’m going to fuck Sophie.”

With that, he pushes the open button, crouching and bending at the waist so he can escape before the door is halfway up.

She stands there, quivering as she listens to him exchange pleasantries with their attractive neighbour, stunned by his words, stunned by how much her world has changed in less than half a day.

Category: BDSM, Erotic Fiction
Tag: , ,
  • Ms Hansen says:

    Bittersweet sauce for the goose and the gander… xx

    November 21, 2013 at 9:43 pm
    • EA says:

      Such is the way of lust sometimes, Ms H….

      November 22, 2013 at 4:14 pm
  • vicvista says:

    OMG EA! Very well written. Raw…intense. The ending…sad and heart-wrenching!

    ~Vista

    November 22, 2013 at 3:05 am
    • EA says:

      I’m glad that you stirred you so, VV….

      November 22, 2013 at 4:14 pm
  • lunderstand says:

    Shame and guilt are the children of lust; turn the heat up on them and passion will ignite.

    November 22, 2013 at 5:04 am
    • EA says:

      It’s an inevitability….

      November 22, 2013 at 4:15 pm
  • Cammies on the Floor says:

    Oh gosh, this had me leaning forward in reading, had me spellbound and mesmerized and turned on. Loved the twist at the end.

    November 22, 2013 at 10:27 pm
    • EA says:

      Then I’ll consider that ‘job done’, Cammie – thank you….

      November 24, 2013 at 6:14 pm
  • Empress Nympho says:

    You’ve managed to include my nightmare and (one of) my fantasy(ies) in one story….and still turned me on.

    November 23, 2013 at 3:57 am
    • EA says:

      I don’t recall being told I’ve conjured a reader’s nightmare in a tale before – I’m just relieved there was still arousal for you, Empress….

      November 24, 2013 at 6:15 pm

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