Ties That Bind August 25, 2007
As with so many others, her guard dropped as her arousal increased. He found that exciting her was the most effective way to learn more about her. Not about the mundanities of her life - what she drove, where she shopped, who she drank with after work. Such matters were of little if any interest to him. He wanted to know about her. The secret her. The sensual her. The Sexual her. The desires that she harboured, both realised and nascent. The experiences that had pleased her most. The fantasies she hardly dared to vocalize.
In the midst of one phone call, she makes a flippant, insolent remark to him.
“I ought to put you over my knee,” he growls.
There’s the briefest pause at the other end of the line. “And just what would you do with me, if you were to have me over your knee?”
“That’s easy. I’d pull up your skirt, yank your panties down to mid-thigh, and give your bare arse an almighty slap with the palm of my hand.”
“Would you?” Again, the slight pause. “How hard would you spank me?”
There’s something new in her voice, something he hasn’t encountered before. Something quivering and expectant. He sits forward fractionally in his leather chair, senses questing like a predator’s.
“Hard enough to leave the red imprint of my hand across those creamy cheeks of yours. Hard enough to make your skin tingle and burn.”
“Really?”
“For sure.”
“Promise?” There’s a weakness in her voice now, and a need. A fervent need.
He smiles. Another secret revealed.
They talk, for days, weeks, months, stoking their mutual lusts ever higher. The schedules of their everyday lives conspire to limit the expression of their desires to emails and IM windows and stolen telephone calls. The elongation of time frustrates him, infuriates him. Ultimately, his fevered libido can no longer be satisfied by fantasies of vanilla couplings with her. He can’t prevent himself from thinking of all the debauched ways he wants to excite and satisfy her flesh, from conjuring a catalogue of corruption. And when he finally reveals his plans to her, he finds that she’s a more-than-willing accomplice to his decadence.
One day, he calls her in the afternoon, as he’s pulling into the driveway after a day at the office. He knows that his own house will be empty when he steps inside, but he’s taking a chance on calling her at such a time. Disconcertingly, that knowledge excites him too.
“Hello?”
“It’s me. Can you talk?”
“Yes. For a while, anyway.”
He turns the key in the front door and pushes it open. The parcel is waiting obediently for him on the oak floor. His eyes gleam.
“There’s a parcel for me,” he tells her.
“What is it? A present to yourself?”
“Very much so.”
By now, she knows instantly what the tension in his voice means. She can hear the crackling of the package being opened. “Tell me about it.”
“It’s made of black leather, soft and supple to the touch. There’s a collar, about two inches deep, maybe a fraction more. It fastens around your neck, and it’s secured in place with a small padlock. There’s an adjustable strap, a foot or more in length, running down from the back of the collar along the line of your spine. At the end of the strap are two wrist cuffs, positioned one atop the other. They’re fastened into place with small padlocks as well.” He pauses, calculatingly. “Anyone wearing it would be quite, quite helpless.”
“Oh.” The word sounds small and lost. “Is this something you’ve bought for your wife to wear?”
“No. It’s something I bought for you to wear.”
“It is? Really? Honestly?”
He ignores the pleading questions. “First, I’m going to undress you. Very slowly, very deliberately. Then I’m going to place you on your knees in the centre of the bed, blindfold you, draw the collar into place around your neck, and snap the lock shut. And then I’m going to do the same with both of your wrists.”
“Oh, God.”
“You can just kneel there and listen to the sound of me undressing. And then you’ll feel my warm hands on your arse, a palm cupping each cheek, gently moving them apart, opening your cleft to my gaze, to my lips, to my tongue. I’m going to lick you from your clitoris to your rosebud, over and over and over, until you’re squealing and writhing. I’ll have a vibrator with me, one that I bought a fortnight ago, thinking of you. It’s smooth and slender, and I’m going to oil it until it’s glistening and then slowly slide it inside your arse and switch it on. And while it’s buzzing and throbbing inside you, I’m going to flicker my tongue across your clit until you’re literally dripping onto the bed sheet.”
“Oh fuck.”
“And then I’m going to spank you for being such a wanton slut. A fresh hard slap of my palm against your arse for every groan of pleasure, and another for each drop of your nectar that splashes onto the cotton sheet. I’m going to count aloud every single drop I see, and your arse is going to sting and burn each time you hear me speak.”
“Oh fuck, yes! Yes! Please!”
“And then I’m going to fuck you. My pace, my desire. You’re not going to be able to stop me. You’re not going to be able to influence me. You’re just going to be used by me. I’m going to fuck you for my own satisfaction. My cock deep inside your cunt, and the vibrator deep inside your ass. If you should whine, if you dissent, I’ll take the vibrator from your ass and use another one, a thicker one, one that’s at least as thick as my cock. And I’ll fuck you like that until I’m satisfied.” He waits. “Do you understand me?”
“Oh yes. Oh yes.”
“You’ll do as I say? As I want?”
“I will. You know that I will. I’ll do anything.” A brief silence. “Anything.”
“Then all you have to do is provide me with a date….”
Original Article syndicated via RSS from Easily Aroused: the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman
The Gift August 13, 2007
Over time, she permits him glimpses of the details of her life. Her real life. The life on the other side of the emails and the late-night on-line rendezvous and the furtive telephone calls. She tells him about the place she works, the attic storeroom, accessible by a single, narrow creaking staircase. She describes how she sometimes escapes up there, to look out from the single dusty window, across the rooftops to the rolling green of the horizon.
One day, she admits that sometimes, she goes up to the attic so that she can masturbate.
“When was the last time you made yourself come up while you were up there?” he asks.
“Yesterday.”
“What inspired the need for release?”
She hesitates. “It was a customer. An attractive blonde, in her thirties. She came up to the counter, and with the sun shining behind her, I could see the outline of her breasts through her white blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra. When she leant forward to hand me her credit card, her blouse stretched taut across her breasts, and I saw that she had the most beautiful nipples: dark circles, their centres just hard enough to make the cotton bulge. I couldn’t stop myself from imagining rolling them gently between my thumbs and forefingers, softly kissing them and licking them in turn. I could feel myself getting moist. And then she looked up at my face, and she knew. She knew. I could see it in her eyes, in her expression. For a second, I actually thought about reaching out, taking her by the hand and leading her up to the attic, so that I could undress her and make slow love to her in the stifling heat. I so wanted us to lick the sweat from each other’s bodies.”
“And so what happened?” he asks, sounding more eager than he’d intended.
“She paid for her goods, took back her credit card and left.”
He nods, even though she can’t see the gesture. “And so you slipped off to the attic to pleasure yourself while you thought about doing the same to her.”
“Yes.” She pauses. “Does that make me wanton?”
“Very much so.”
“Good.”
Now it’s his turn to hesitate. “Did you undress yourself completely? Were you naked when you came?”
“No. I just kicked off my trousers. I left my panties on. I like the tightness of the cotton against my cunt as it swells and opens, to feel my panties getting wetter and wetter as my excitement grows. It seems naughtier somehow, dirtier … almost illicit. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes … sometimes I like to ease my panties part way down my legs, and leave them around the middle of my thighs. I can feel the fresh air against my cunt, and being part exposed like that … it makes me feel … abandoned. Wanton. Whorish.” There’s another silence. “I love feeling like that.”
“I know you do,” he says softly. And in that very instant, his plan is conceived.
The lingerie store smells of sandalwood. He finds himself torn between the unabashed sensuality of black, and the alluring innocence of white. He wonders which colour will enable her to find the whore inside herself more readily.
In the end, he settles on white. There’s something seductive in the idea of corrupting something ostensibly pure. He chooses a pair of panties that are almost too modest for the purpose he’s buying them.
“Would you like to take them gift wrapped?” the young sales assistant asks him.
“For sure.” His gaze eats her up in milliseconds. The name badge above her left breast says Verity. I’d like to take you gift wrapped, Verity, he thinks. “Would you put this card inside the package first, though?”
“Of course.”
He holds the card out to the assistant so that she’ll be able to read his handwritten note if she glances down.
She takes the card, and her eyes instinctively drop. He watches with pleasure as the colour rises in her cheeks.
I want you to slip these on very slowly. And then I want you to mould them to your cunt, and think of my hand on you, my tongue tasting you, my cock inside you.
Make these panties wetter than any you’ve ever worn before.
And then mail them back to me.
The girl’s quivering hands drop the card atop the virgin panties, and then quickly cover both over with scarlet tissue paper. She finishes wrapping the lingerie, swallows, and asks him for the requisite amount without meeting his gaze. He hands her a crisp twenty pound note from his wallet, picks up his package and turns to leave.
“Sir! You’ve forgotten this!
He looks back over his shoulder to where Verity is holding out his change. He smiles, turns his back upon her and continues towards the exit.
No, Verity. I never forget a thing.
Original Article syndicated via RSS from Easily Aroused: the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman
Risqué Abstracts #20 August 8, 2007
I am so, so wet right now. I always am whenever I speak to you, whenever I hear your voice.
~Are you? Well, it just so happens that I’m very hard.
That sounds so wonderful.
I would love to press myself against you right now.
~Really? Press what against where?
Press my full breasts and my stiff nipples against your shoulder blades.
Push my aching cunt into the small of your back.
Leave your skin wet from me.
~Do you want to make yourself come like that? Could you?
Yes.
Grinding down on you, rubbing myself over you, until I couldn’t bear it any longer. Until I just had to come.
~Will you reach beneath me as you do? Will you stroke me as you bring yourself to climax?
I will. I’ll capture the wetness of my cunt on my fingers, and bring it to your hard cock. I’ll coat you with my essence.
~Mmmmmmm, yes. Stroke me with your juices. Make me slick.
Yes.
Oh God, yes!
That would be so lovely.
I’d wank you, and lean down to you, and whisper your name as I came all over you.
~Please do…
Original Article syndicated via RSS from Easily Aroused: the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman
If August 6, 2007
If I entwined my fingers in your hair…
Spanked your taut arse as I sank my hard cock deep, deep inside your wet and quivering cunt…
Would I please you?
Delight you?
Make you wet?
Make you come?
Original Article syndicated via RSS from Easily Aroused: the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman
Mots de velours de commande July 26, 2007
~Tell me your most secret desires. Tell me about the things you crave in the quiet dark.
You want to know how dark my soul is?
~Yes. I want to taste your soul, darkness and all.
Sometimes I crave to be dominated, to be pleasured, to be satisfied. To be bound and used. Not to be regarded as a young lady, but as a piece of meat, used for the pleasure of my Master. I crave to be treated as a whore. But then sometimes, I crave to dominate, to feel the power in my hands. To command and to hold the key to someone else’s orgasm.
~I’d enjoy both sides of your lust.
I’d love you to enjoy me.
~I should confess that, right now, I’m imagining knowing you as both the dominatrix and as the whore. I’m greedy for both. Very greedy.
So you’d want to feel me take you and then let you punish me for doing so?
~You wouldn’t let me punish you for taking me. You wouldn’t have a choice in the matter. I’d punish you whether you wanted me to or not. For being so wanton.
~What other action could I take?
Bend me over the bed. Hands and feet tied up. Me offering you my round ass.
Oh God, how I want your cock.
~God, I want your round ass. To explore with my fingers, to smack with my hand, to thrust my cock against. To spill my seed across.
~I want to see you like that, bent forward over the bed, your cheeks blushed pink, as you trail your fingers through my come, watch you smoothing it into your stinging flesh.
And then bring them to my lips, sucking them, licking them.
~Yes.
Then bringing them back to my ass, sliding a finger deep inside me, retracing your cock’s steps, fingering myself while I watch you touch yourself.
~As I’m touching myself now?
Yes, the very same way
~I’d love to watch you fingering yourself like that. To listen to your fingers moving against your wet sex, to listen to your gasps of pleasure.
I want you to hear me moaning for you. I want you to hear how loud you make me moan, the pleasure in my voice.
~Now you’re torturing me with things I yearn for, but can’t have.
I want to bend over and slap myself while my other hand is deep in my pussy.
~Then why not do it?
Tell me to do it.
~First … tell me how you’re dressed. I want a clearer picture in my head.
I’m wearing a sleeveless black silk dress.
~It sounds elegant, completely in tune with you.
Thank you.
~And what are you wearing underneath your dress?
I’m wearing dark red panties and no bra.
~You don’t need your panties. Take them off.
Right now?
~Right now.
They’re off.
~Now get on your knees.
I’m kneeling on the floor.
~Pull your dress up around your waist, so that your naked ass is bared to the room.
Yes, Master. Can I call you that? I want to call you Master. I want to be your slave.
~You can.
Thank you, Master.
~Now touch yourself … caress the lips of your sex.
I’m in the position you demanded.
~Caress yourself as you want me to caress you.
Yes, Master … my finger is tracing my wet lips.
~Tell me how it feels.
It’s sending pleasure all over my body … I’m touching it so softly tracing the wet lips, sliding a nail over my bud. It feels delicious.
~Are your fingers wet with your juices?
Yes, Master they are.
~I want you to circle your nipples in turn with a fingertip made wet from your cunt.
Circling my already hard nipples with my wet fingertip while down on my knees for you. It feels so good.
~Are your nipples sensitive?
Yes, Master. Very.
~Take your right nipple between your thumb and your forefinger. Roll your nipple between the pads.
Master, may I slide a finger back over my pussy while I play with my nipple?
~No, not yet. I want you to take hold of both your nipples in the manner I just described. I want you to squeeze them lightly.
Yes.
It’s making me so wet. It’s dripping down my thighs.
~Squeeze a little harder.
God, that just made me gasp.
~A little harder still. And as you squeeze, I want you to pull on them both. Pull lightly. Just enough to make your flesh cry out with the sensations.
Yes, Master … it feels incredible. I love tugging on my nipples.
~Slip your fingers over your sex again. *Don’t* touch your clitoris. Don’t even *glance* it. Make your fingers wet again.
Yes dear, Master.
~And when they’re dripping, I want you to transfer some of that wetness to your right nipple.
Smearing it on my nipple right now.
~And when your nipple glistens with the juices of your cunt, I want you to cup your breast, and raise it towards your mouth, until you can run the tip of your tongue around its hard peak.
~Tell me how you taste.
I taste musky and sweet … it’s addictive. I’m lapping at my hard nipple and I love how it feels and tastes.
~I should be there to taste it too.
You should.
~So that our tongues clash over your musky sweet flesh.
Both of us lapping at my nipple.
~And at each other.
Oh, how I want to lap at you. I’m hungry for all of you.
~Do you want to stroke your clitoris again?
Yes, Master, please. Please let me touch my clitoris.
~How badly do you want to touch yourself?
This worthless slave wants to touch herself so much. I’m aching to caress it.
~Are your thighs apart?
Not right now, Master. Would you like me to part them?
~No. I want you to squeeze them together. Tightly. So that you can tell me how that feels.
If I squeeze too hard I’ll come … my clit is throbbing and my pussy lips pressing against it feels incredible.
~You’re not allowed to come. Squeeze your thighs together so that you’re just on the edge.
Yes, my Master.
~I want your climax close, yet still far away.
I’m squeezing them for you now. Can you smell how wet I am?
~I’m thinking of how your smooth, sweet, wet cunt looks from behind you. Yes, I can smell your arousal, the musky perfume of your lust. I want to lose myself in it. I want to thrust myself into it. I want to drown myself in it.
God … please fuck me, Master. Please, I’m begging you.
~You are so fucking glorious. And I’m desperate to know what it would be like to feel the silken walls of your cunt holding my cock. But I won’t fuck you. Not yet.
~Is your whip close to hand?
Yes it is, Master.
~If you were to glide its handle across your cunt lips, would you orgasm?
Fuck.
Yes.
~Then don’t. Not yet.
Okay.
~I want you to make your fingers wet again.
Yes my dear, Master.
~And then I want you to stroke the handle of your whip as though you were stroking me.
They’re wet again.
~Make the handle wet as you’d make my shaft wet. Pinch your nipples in turn as you wank the handle of your whip. Tell me when it’s glistening.
Can I slide it all over the wetness dripping down my thighs? Make it even more glistening?
~You can.
Sliding it around my inner thighs, on the wet skin, just like I’d slide the tip of your throbbing cock.
~That sounds delicious. Continue.
It’s glistening, Master, and my nipple is painfully aching now because I’ve been tugging on it.
~Now spank your right buttock. Once.
How hard?
~Hard enough to make your skin sing.
God!
~Again.
Fuck.
More.
Please.
~No.
Please!
~Put the whip down. I want you to finger the skin of your ass, where the whip made contact.
Yes, Master.
~Dip your fingers into your cunt again, and smear your wetness across your bruised flesh.
Master, you make me feel like such a slut. If I touch my cunt I’ll come, Master. Instantly.
~Then don’t touch. Lick your fingers instead, then smear your fingers across your flesh as I described.
Yes, Master. I’m spitting on them. It cools down the stinging.
~And is that good?
Yes, Master it feels good.
~Now pick up your whip, and strike yourself on your wet skin.
Oh, thank you, Master!
God yes!!
~Again.
YES, thank you … more please.
~No. Align the handle of your whip with the cleft in your buttocks. I want you to slowly thrust the length of your whip up and down against your anus. I want you to imagine my cock slowly entering you there. Slowly entering you after I’ve licked you and lubed you.
Mmmmmmm … God, Master, you’re so good to me.
~I want to slowly press my tongue into your ass, and then do the same with my cockhead, all the time while you lovingly finger yourself.
What did I do to deserve you being so good to me, Master … my ass is yours to do as you wish while I slide my fingers deep within me.
~I know it is.
Am I your slut, Master? Am I your dirty whore?
~You are my slut … you are my delicious, wanton, gorgeously dirty whore. And I want to take you and abuse you until you can’t come any more, and then fuck you until you scream out in agonised delight.
Oh fuck … I’m going to come without even touching myself. You drive me crazy. Your words are the ones fucking my cunt … making me so wet.
Please let me come for you, Master, I beg of you, my lord. Please let me come all over your cock.
~Are you imagining my cock?
Yes, my lord.
~Do you want it?
Fuck, yes. More than anything.
~Do you want it fucking you, in your mouth, in your cunt, in your ass?
I want it ripping me apart, fucking my every hole.
~I want you so fucking badly. Are you close?
I’m not touching myself but I know that when I do, I’ll explode so hard. Are you?
~Yes.
Drown me in your come, my lord.
~First, I want you to pick up your whip again.
Yes, Master.
~Lightly spank your cunt with it.
Yes, my dear Master.
~And again.
Yes! God yes!
~And again.
I’ll come, oh I’ll come so hard!
~And again.
Oh fuck!
Oh God I came so hard….
Original Article syndicated via RSS from Easily Aroused: the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman
Sugasm #89
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them….
This Week’s Picks
Burlesque
“She performs astounding acts and swirls her perfect ass in circles, like the tassles on her tits.”
Nylon Whispers
“I run my fingers along every bit of my nylon covered flesh”
No Timeless Beauty To Conform To
“While fashions themselves come and go, so do the standards of beauty rise and fall like the heaving breasts of an excited woman.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Welcome to the Redesign
Editor’s Choice
Catalina loves (sex in) Sevilla
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Half-Nekkid and Asking for It
I Feel Myself
Inspiration
Lindsay Lohan Naked Pictures On Internet?
Professional dress code
Time For Tits
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Another Ride
Dirty Lace
A gay lesson
Joining the Half-Mile-High Club San Francisco, part 9
Office Masturbation - part 4
Poker
Postage Stamp Sex
Private Show pt. 1
Rape Fantasies
Repressed
Romance
She Dancin’ with a G
sex News
Find Your Love Match Among Hegre Art’s Models
Thoughts on sex and relationships
BDSM Part II; etymolgy, history, psychology
Can you can can?
Commentators
Fuck Your Fucking Ethics
The Glory That Is Myra Breckinridge
I wish I’d known that…
Lip Service
Panties Tell You What I’m Wanting
“Thank You”
Things I Would Like to See in Porn
Tom made me think
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Featured Fetish - Urophilia (Pee, Piss, Watersports)
Happy HNT - Metal bondage fun and a naughty night with Shasta Gibson
Sick
Singing about spanking
Submissive List
Torrent
Original Article syndicated via RSS from Easily Aroused: the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman
Torrent July 19, 2007
Rain falls, cool and heavy. Ten thousand oblique spheres of liquid assail my face and my arms. The thin cotton of my shirt is already plastered against my torso, and my jeans lie tight and wrinkled against my thighs; the denim is nearly black in the dappled sunlight.
I don’t care.
I lead the way forward, pushing aside and flattening saturated grass with each step of my heavy boots. There’s a path here of sorts, old and forgotten, trodden by so very few people. I can’t help but wonder if the people who last walked this way came here for the same reason that I have.
The tree line is just ten yards away now.
I glance back over my shoulder. You smile. It’s not the same, confident curve of your mouth that you shared with me as we got out of the car, a hundred yards away now, and out of sight behind the dense hedgerow. But it tells me that you’re still with me in desire as well as body. I turn my attention back to the path. Just as well you still want this. It’s your fantasy, after all.
The rain loses a little of its potency as we pass beneath the first branches of birch and hazel. Light and sound take on a subdued quality beneath the canopy of green. Noises separate in the half-light, isolated upon their individual tracks: leaves and twigs crackling beneath our feet; the raggedness of your breath interspersed with my own; the ever present rain as it falls through the leaves overhead, forever bound by gravity to the Earth.
I stop.
Far enough.
I turn to look at you as you come to a stop a few feet away from me. The body in your hair is all but banished; it frames your expression limply, hanging down to your shoulders. Your cream dress adheres as tightly to your body as the shirt does to mine. As I instructed you, you’ve forgone your bra, and your nipples are indecently obvious; twin circles of shadow, their proud centres pressing the wet cotton wantonly outwards.
“Come here,” I say. I make no effort to cloak my voice. If there’s another person within three miles of this place, they’re only passing by. No one else will come here, not when it’s raining like this. We have it completely to ourselves.
Inches between us now. Even in the muted light, your face shines with rainwater. I want to taste each drop, capture them one by one with the tip of my tongue, to see if that will help quench the thirst rising within me.
I already know that it won’t.
“Kiss me,” I tell you.
Your lips are warm after the chill of the rain. No, not warm; hot. Searing. Your clever tongue finds mine, and together they tease and swirl and dance as you press yourself hard against me. I feel your body as though we were both naked: the softness and strength of your belly; the tautness of your thighs; the imperious curves of your breasts and the unmistakable peaks of your nipples. My cock rises, filling, thickening, and even though my jeans are as stiff as calico, your gasp tells me that you feel me well enough.
There’s a tree at my back, a tall birch, two hundred years old if it’s a day. I slowly turn us, so that it’s aligned between your shoulder blades instead of mine.
I press you back against the cold, wet wood.
You shiver, and try to push back towards me. I hold you in place.
“It’s cold,” you say in a petulant voice.
“Stay there.”
“But I-”
I still your voice with a single index finger pressed against your lips. “Don’t make me tell you a second time.”
After a moment, you nod, but say nothing. Your eyes are dark with displeasure and … something else. Something that simmers.
“Reach back,” I say. “As though you’re trying to wrap your arms around the tree.”
You start to say something, then think better of it. You reach back, the insides of your forearms against the gnarled bark. Vague discomfort flickers across your face. I reach into my pocket, and draw out the length of black silk rope. I step behind the tree and wind the rope around your right wrist. A few seconds more, and your wrists are bound together, anchoring you to this immovable post.
I walk back in front of you. “Now we can begin.” I kiss you again, my fingers stroking down the sides of your face, trailing along the outside of your throat, drawing naturally together into the deeply vee’d neckline of your sodden white dress. A glistening droplet rolls down into your cleavage.
“I like this,” I murmur between kisses as I finger the soaking material. “Did he buy it for you?”
“Yes.”
“His choice?”
“Yes.”
I raise one eyebrow ironically. “Really?”
A hint of vexation. “Yes.”
I nod contritely. Then I grip hard and pull down sharply on the front of the dress. The ripping of cotton as fabric tears and buttons separate is shocking in the semi-silence of the woods.
“Bastard!” you spit.
“Yes.”
I stand back to look at you, and for the first time, I experience bewilderment. All the carefully conceived plans dissolve as I drink you in. The sight of your nakedness is devastating. Your rain-streaked body gleams as though lit from within.
“Damn,” I whisper to myself.
“What?”
“You are … glorious.”
“Am I?”
I nod. “Oh, yes.”
And you are. The dress that he bought for you, chose for you, hangs ruined from your shoulders. Yet the violence of my act has not defiled you. It’s freed you. When you slipped into the dress this afternoon, you became a conventionally attractive woman, conventionally desirable. As the rain moulded the fabric to your body, the decadent potential within you began to emerge. And now…
I know that you’re watching the intensity of my gaze, perhaps with a degree of trepidation, but I can’t meet your eyes. Not yet. I’m bewitched. The rain runs over your breasts, across your belly and along your parted thighs in a thousand tiny rivers, and I envy each one of them. Vulnerability and desire come off you in waves. I can smell it so clearly over the musky dampness of the woods. I can almost taste it. You’ve never looked so beautiful, so wanton. This is where you belong. Bound to nature. Bound to me, to my will.
I can’t wait any longer. With a single stride I’m upon you, kissing you passionately, almost frantic in my need to savour your mouth, to draw on your warmth, your desire. Your need seems just as great. My hands resist the frenzy, slowly coming up to find your breasts, to mould them to my insatiable grasp. Your damp flesh is delicately textured from the chill, your nipples deliciously knotted. I draw upon them with my fingertips and my mouth waters even as you gasp.
My palm runs down across your belly. Only my palm. I arch my hand backwards, outwards, so that my fingers don’t even brush against you. And like that, I caress your belly in slow circles, in lazy, meandering paths. My touch leaves a wake upon your skin. The circles slip lower, my palm running over the fleshiness of your mound, sweeping over the slender line of hair that leads my voyeur’s eye to your sex.
The first time you feel my fingertips is when they swoop in swift succession across the taut nub of your clitoris.
“Oh fuck!” you gasp into my mouth, and your body sags against the tree.
My hand slips lower, until I’m cupping your sex as though it were a glass of Cognac. My fingers stroke up and down your full lips, easing them apart so that the cool, damp air can find its way to the secret heat at the heart of your desire. I draw my middle finger slowly up through your cleft. My skin delights in the warm viscosity of your juices, just beginning to flow. I raise my finger to my mouth to taste the nectar, and I shiver at the ocean tang of your lust.
I ease my finger between your labia again, bringing it to your mouth this time. I slowly run the tip around your parted lips, and watch as you lap at yourself hungrily. When our mouths meet, your kiss is even more desperate than my own.
“You make me so fucking wet,” you gasp.
I unzip myself, drag my cock out into the light and thrust the underside of my shaft against your naked thigh. “You make me so fucking hard.”
“Fuck me. Now.”
“No.”
“Please? Oh fuck, please!”
“No.”
I descend along your body, my mouth trailing over your breasts and your belly, the head of my cock drawing a new wake the length of your thigh, your calf. I press my lips to your mound, the insides of your thighs, your labia. The musk scent of your cunt is so potent; it’s as if it’s been nourished by the falling rain. I run my tongue along your wet cleft, through the soft folds of flesh that are meant to hide you, guard you, keep you safe.
Nothing can keep you safe from me now.
My lips suckle on your clitoris, drawing it softly into my mouth. My tongue beats out a rhythm that makes you gasp, makes you writhe against the tree holding you in place. You strain against your rope bonds and force yourself hard against my mouth, until the sinews stand out along your arms and your legs tremble with the effort. I ease two fingers inside you to the hilt; curl them to probe and caress the front wall of your cunt. My tongue lashes you into ecstasy, and my fingers beckon to your orgasm.
I hold you on the brink for a long time. When you finally come, you scream full bloodedly. The echo of your scream is just fading when you come for the second time.
Your third orgasm seems to carry you to the brink of insensibility.
I stand up, stripping all of my clothes away, dropping them to the muddy ground without a glance. I’m oblivious to the rain falling against my nakedness. Nothing matters now. Nothing, except being inside you.
“Fuck me, please,” you intone breathlessly. “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.”
I step back against you, crouching slightly, guiding my cockhead until it nestles within the portal of your sex. Your heat is already staggering.
I reach around you, grip hold of the tree, and then kiss you; slower now, more thoroughly. I roll my hips, stirring my cock inside your labia. “Is this what you want?”
“God, yes. Fuck me now. I’m begging you.”
I smile. “I like it when you beg.”
And I enter you with a single thrust.
You cry out, then still your cry by sinking your teeth into the meat of my shoulder. The pain is sudden and cruel, and I piston my cock into you more vigorously in response, which serves only to intensify the force of your bite.
Vicious circle.
Even without looking, I know that you’ve marked me, perhaps even scarred me. The ground seeded for yet another lie. Another lie for another life, a hundred, a million miles distant. I push the guilt away. The lie will be there when I need it.
I glance at where your even white teeth are embedded in my flesh. You pull back, looking at me with such depraved desire. A thin rivulet of blood trickles down from the corner of your mouth, instantly washed away by the rain. Then you kiss me with such savage intensity, the taste of copper all over your tongue as it presses into my mouth.
You break the kiss. “Now fuck me hard,” you hiss.
And so I take you, ravage you; piston my hard flesh into your greedy, vulnerable cunt as you stand there, lashed to your post, helpless to stop me even if you wanted to. You gasp my name over and over, lift your leg, drape it around my hip; I cradle it in my hand, stroke the underside of your thigh to your ass, grip your taut buttock and open you even more widely to my thrusts. No pausing now. No going back. So many things that I’d planned to do to you. Tying you so that you faced the tree instead, tearing the clothes from your back and then lashing your bare arse with a handful of dripping birch twigs. Having you kneel before me, naked, worshipful at the altar of my cock; my fingers entwined in your wet locks as I fucked your mouth. Being inside you as we rolled across the soaking ground, oblivious to the rich mud coating our skin; locked in our world of licentious sensation.
Of course, our plans rarely play out as we originally envisage them.
In the end, everything is wetness; the rain on our bodies, the juices of your cunt, the surge of my come as I erupt inside you, into the epicentre of your own orgasm. A torrent raging over us, drowning our senses.
We crumple as one, spent, your face tight against mine. The tree supports us. And as I stand there, listening to your breathing as it eases amidst the rain drops, my mind begins to wander. What would someone be thinking if they’d seen us? If they’d followed the path we made, walked stealthily into the semi-darkness of the woods and watched us raptly, quietly from a distance? Would they understand what they were beholding? Not the animal sex. The delicate balance. The intricate ebb and flow of desire and control.
I’m not sure that they would. I’m not sure that they could, because I’m not sure if I understand it myself.
Rain falls, cool and heavy. Ten thousand oblique spheres of liquid assail my naked form. Time to leave soon. I pull back; see the hunger burning in your eyes again.
Yes, time to leave soon.
But not yet.
Not yet.
Original Article syndicated via RSS from Easily Aroused: the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman
Domandarsi July 9, 2007
I’m wondering.
Wondering what it would be like to stretch out beside you while you’re half undressed, supine atop the crisp coolness of Egyptian cotton, adorned in naught but the most provocative of brassieres, the most stirring of panties.
Let me turn you; roll you tenderly away from me, so that I can slip myself in close behind you, my naked body tight against yours.
Feel the warmth of my skin against your own.
Feel the gentle strength of my hands as I cup your breasts.
Feel the unyielding thickness of my shaft as I guide it between your barely parted thighs, as it presses between the febrile lips of your sex. Feel my taut cockhead insistent against the swelling nub of your clitoris.
I want to fuck you like that; slowly, slowly, until you can’t stand your soaking panties being in the way for a second longer, until you can’t stop yourself from reaching down and snatching them aside so that you can feel my cock against you properly, against you, skin to skin, flesh to flesh, cock to cunt.
And I want to hear you.
I want to hear your gasps of pleasure as they meld. I want to hear you whispering to me, telling me not to stop, urging me, commanding me, begging me; begging me to keep fucking you like that, just like that, just like that, until you cry out in deliciously guttural ecstasy, until sweet tears of ravishment stain your cheeks with rivulets of mascara, until your body shudders uncontrollably against mine, and you reach down again so that you can guide me inside you while you’re still coming, so that the mere act of my thick cock entering you impels you into the vortex of a second orgasm.
I’m wondering.
Wondering what you’re thinking about now.
Original Article syndicated via RSS from Easily Aroused: the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman
Risqué Abstracts #19 June 17, 2007
~Meet me. Meet me and fuck me wildly.
I want to.
I want you to take me.
~Arrange to make the visit to your friend’s then. Take the train naked beneath your dress. Suck my cock as we take the lift upstairs. Beg me to come inside you as we fuck in the shower.
Oh fuck.
You know I want you to tie me up as well.
~Oh, I’ll tie you all right. Tie you and spank you and come all over your red, stinging arse.
Oh God yes!
~And then I’ll slowly fuck your ass as we both finger your sex.
~Stroking my cock through your cunt…
Fuck, I want that. I want you.
~Then find a way.
Yes.
I will…
Original Article syndicated via RSS from Easily Aroused: the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman
Pulp Sex #1 - The Third Lust June 11, 2007
The Third Lust is the first in the new ‘Pulp Sex‘ series of short fiction pieces inspired by the covers of raunchy American paperbacks from the 1950’s and 1960’s. You’ll learn more about Pulp sex and about the inspiration for this new series by reading The Beginnings of Pulp Sex.
But would you like a sweet taste of part one first?
Gina’s mouth was so soft, so full, so … delicate. Jennifer’s mind drifted back a decade, to a drunken night in her college sorority, the game of truth and dare, the sweet taste of Monica Swanson. She could feel her body responding as it had all those years ago, but this time, there was no fear of being labelled, of being decried by her peers the next morning.
Again, the twin voices in her head.
This isn’t you, Jennifer.
I don’t care if it is or it isn’t. It feels good. And I haven’t felt good in a long time.
Tentatively, she returned the kiss, closed her eyes, lost herself to the waxing, waning rhythm of their mouths. Gina’s hands were on her hips. Slowly, they began to slide up her body, over her trembling belly, coming up to cup her breasts. Jennifer groaned quietly.
Gina slid her mouth away, pressed her lips to the line of Jennifer’s jaw, to the side of her throat, planting kisses along her slender neck. Jennifer shuddered again. It felt as though a low current was running through her.
“Let’s go back into the lounge,” Gina murmured against her skin.
Jennifer swallowed, and nodded.
And I’m afraid that that’s all the taste you’re going to get. If you’d like to read the whole story, it’s going to cost. Not a fortune, but it’ll take a few of your hard earned pennies to unlock the secrets of Gina’s and Jennifer’s tryst.
And the price? US $3.00, paid through PayPal, will have the story whizzed over to your inbox in PDF format. This will be the only way that you’ll be able to enjoy The Third Lust. It isn’t going to be posted here on the blog six months down the line. The only people who read it will be those prepared to pay.
Don’t worry: Easily Aroused is still a mainly free endeavour. But Pulp sex is an opportunity to recoup some of the costs involved in maintaining this blog.
I hope that those who are regular readers here will feel the price is merited for a piece of my erotica. For those who are newcomers to the place … please, take a stroll through the archives, and make your own mind up as to whether the story is likely to be worth the cost of admission.
In any event, I hope those who choose to buy will enjoy it.
Original Article syndicated via RSS from Easily Aroused: the indecent reflections of an oversexed Englishman | older posts »
