Five Sips of Darkness

By Easily Aroused

From the author of the acclaimed blog 'Easily Aroused - erotic fiction by an oversexed Englishman' ... five tales of sensual, chaotic lives and decadent sex, with just a hint of noir thrown in to spice things up a little. Featuring: A Taste for Pain, Reversals, The Surface of Things Watching, The Weight of the Wind

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447565550

Book preview

Darkness

An Introduction

For those of you who already know something of me from my blog, Easily Aroused: the indecent journal of an oversexed Englishman, the following statement should not come as all that much of a surprise.

I enjoy writing about sex.

Hardly an Earth-shattering reveal, was it? But here’s something that you might not have been aware of.

I like writing about the darker side of sex as well.

By that, I don’t mean that I enjoy focusing my writing upon the world of BDSM and all of its many tangents and derivative forms (although bondage and spanking have been subjects that my blog has touched on previously, and is likely to do again). I mean that I like to focus on some of the darker thoughts and motivations that lie behind our sexual imperatives. The desire to seek pleasure is not always born out of the most wholesome of agendas. Yes, as a species, we can be noble and heroic and selfless. But we can be pretty twisted fucks too. Uncaring, cruel and above all, selfish.

That’s a little of what I’d like to explore here. Don’t worry: I still want to turn you on. I just want to make you think a little too.

I hope you enjoy the taste.

~ EA

A Taste for Pain

It should have taken us an hour to reach Heathrow, but Helen got us there in almost half that time. She drove as though she had no idea that her husband’s cherished Jaguar came equipped with first and second gears, or a brake pedal for that matter. She was the only person I knew whose style of motoring entirely encapsulated her philosophy on life.

Checking-in threatened to take longer than the drive to the airport. Helen had coordinated luggage in a variety of sizes, packing light seemingly another concept she had little time for. I was relieved to learn she wasn’t expecting me to haul all of it inside the terminal. It wasn’t out of any concern for my shoulders or my lower back, though: I think she desired the greater kudos of having an airline flunky to do the portering.

A middle-aged man in a blandly neat uniform strode over to the Jaguar’s boot, and began unloading its contents onto a narrow trolley. The small gold emblem stitched into each piece of luggage looked like something I was meant to recognize, but the name eluded me. I pulled the packet of Marlboros from my jacket pocket. I wasn’t here because of my talent for appreciating expensive suitcases.

The porter coughed artificially. The terminal’s a non-smoking area, sir.

I exhaled a tight jet of smoke towards the porter’s face and stamped the Marlboro out on the pavement. I lifted my well-worn rucksack from the trolley and hefted it over my shoulder. Then I smiled.

The porter said nothing. He had three inches in height on me and at least thirty pounds. He looked like the sort of man who longs to kick his dog for pissing on the new hall carpet, but knows that his wife and children are watching. My eyes dared him to draw his foot back.

This way, please, he said evenly.

Helen’s watchful gaze narrowed. You’ll goad the wrong person one day.

Probably.

Do you have a taste for pain, John? Is that the secret you’ve been hiding from me?

I smiled easily. You already know everything about me, Helen.

I do hope not. She turned to follow her luggage. Otherwise, what’s the point in you coming today?

I watched her walk away, studied the measured, elegant flow of her slender legs. The bitch always had to have the last word.

The porter unloaded everything onto the marbled floor in front of the check-in desk. Helen handed him her appreciation. I glimpsed the purple and white of a twenty pound note. I wondered what the normal rate for a flunky was. The porter nodded smartly to Helen and turned to leave. I winked as he passed me, enjoying the flames deep in his tired eyes.

Helen made a minor show of handing our tickets to the attractive airline clerk. The wealthy lady and her youthful toy. The girl behind the desk regarded me knowingly. I held her gaze. There was a time when my cheeks might have flushed, but not any more. When she handed my passport back, I made certain my fingertips brushed against hers. She flinched. I smiled.

Helen shook her head slowly as we walked away. You’re such a tease, John.

You ought to know.

That’s right.

She turned right towards the departure lounge. After five paces, she glanced back at me over her shoulder and spared me a dark smile that made my cock lurch. Her Lazarus smile. Standing in the centre of the terminal concourse, a twenty-two year old unemployed graduate staring at a forty-year-old married woman’s ass, I had again begun questioning what I was doing there. That smile was all the reminder I needed.

Helen sauntered into the bookstore. I went in the opposite direction, towards the electronics retailer. It wasn’t in an effort to be discreet. Helen’s husband still had no idea of his wife’s appetite for young men, but she seemed to have no great desire to shield him from the knowledge. I think it was a turn-on for her, waiting to see if he would notice the clues. Moriarty Complex. She wanted to get away with the crime, but she also wanted someone to know how clever she’d been, to be applauded by her nemesis. How could that happen if she wasn’t found out?

A Canon digital camera in the electronics shop window caught my eye. The price tag put it out of my reach. My wallet contained two hundred and fifty pounds – the total of my meagre savings and a couple of loans from friends – and two credit cards dangerously close to exhaustion. I walked around the bright store, eyeing the merchandise, ignoring the zealous salesmen. Helen would buy the camera for me, if I asked nicely. There would be some new hoops for me to jump through, but that was okay.

It’s incredible how many things are okay if you don’t think too hard about them.

Helen was waiting for me outside. She’d bought herself a copy of The Telegraph, and a thin paperback. Nabokov’s Lolita. See anything you like? she asked.

Aside from you?

Her blue gaze turned flinty. Sycophancy doesn’t become you.

I dipped my head fractionally. I apologise.

She looked past me. What did you see?

A digital camera.

How much?

Four hundred.

She looked away. Would it be cheaper to buy it at Schipol on the way back?

I don’t know. Possibly.

She walked past me, trailing a hand over my right bicep. Then let’s buy it here.

It was just over an hour’s flying time to Schipol. Barely enough time for the cabin crew to serve the regulation KLM coffee and