Road Trip

cornfire

You can reach me at:

or:

eonserotica@gmail.com

Had to share this one, since it’s a quickie, and it made me laugh.
It’s good to be reminded that sometimes sex is ridiculous, awkward, and embarrassing.
Laugh it off, though.  There will be other opportunities!

Anonymous writes:

Hi Eon!

I have spectacular semen.  It’s pretty incredible stuff.  For example, I wrote this letter with it.  Neat, huh?  It can work like glue, too, and fix rust spots on the car.  I once used it to spackle a hole in the wall after a crazy house party I wasn’t supposed to have when my parents were away, and they never even noticed the repair!  A quick wank against the wall, spread that mysterious mud around, and voila!

But I’m not writing to brag about all the amazing things my special splooge is capable of.  Use your imagination, and you could probably think of a few things I haven’t even tried yet.  No, I’m writing because as wonderful as my lovely lava is, it’s gotten me into trouble a few times, and I’d like to tell you about one time in particular.

It was the summer after grad, I was single, and like most of my generation, feeling pretty apathetic about finding a job or pursuing more schooling at a college or university.  I decided what I really needed was a roadtrip, so I got some buddies and some beer together, and over the course of an evening by the lake I outlined my plan.  Everyone was into it, an epic hitchhike across the country, see the sights, live a little, experience life, you know?  But surprise surprise, over the following weeks it all sorta fell apart.  This guy couldn’t afford it, that guy couldn’t get permission, blah blah.

But wonder of wonders, one girl stuck with the plan.  Just me and this one girl.  She said, “Let’s do it, man.  I wanna live a little before I gotta start college.  I don’t wanna feel like I’ll be in school forever.”

So we did it.  We left notes for our folks, and just took off into the wild blue yonder.  Following our thumbs to our destiny, wherever it might be.

Well, the beauty of hitching with a cute redhead is you never have to wait long for a ride.  The problem is, you get picked up by some real sleezebags.  I’d make a point of sitting in the middle, if I could, to keep between her and the scum, or taking the front when she could have the back to herself.  She noticed what I was doing, called me a gentleman, and the third night into our trip, sitting on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, nothing but cornfields for miles, she pulled me off the road and she showed me her appreciation.  “Hey, let’s have a quickie in the cornfield!” she said.

Hers was a spicy appreciation, I’ll say that much.  Piquante!  Now, I’d never made it with a redhead before, so it was the first time my special brand of sauce had interacted with eau de roux.  So picture us there, in the middle of a cornfield, stars sparkling in the sky, her knees around her ears and me thrusting away like an olympic fencer.  We reach that climactic moment, the theme music from A Space Odyssey is playing, here it comes, dunnn, dunnnnn, DA DAAAA!!!  I whip it out to shoot my load on her perky little tits.  Only I’ve pulled a rainbow dragon out of her cootch, and it’s shooting bolts of indigo lightning.

The cornfield catches on fire, whoof, and she’s scrambling for cover, and I’m clutching Puff The Magic Dragon and trying to aim him at the ground.  He wriggles out of my grasp and takes to the starry skies.  I’m beginning to think something I ate is disagreeing with me.  There’s some psychadelic stuff going on here.  Never mind my cock flying away, little red is hopping around like a bunny, and our clothes have all stood up like they’re full of people made of air and run off into the cornfield.  Which is still on fire.  The heat leads me to believe that much is real.

Well, what can ya do?  I toss the girl over my shoulder and make for the highway.  There are sirens in the distance, but it’s going to be a while before they get all the way out here.  Probably wise to take cover somewhere and lay low until things calm down.

There’s a little stand of trees a mile down the road on the opposite side, the kind farmers put in the middle of their fields for some reason.  It’s a bit of a strain carrying this crazy ginger so I put her down and ask her if she can make it there.  I promise her carrots.  Man, that girl can hop!

From the cover of the trees we watch the firemen do their thing.  The blaze glows some strange colors before it’s contained, but contain it they do.  So now we have to figure out how to get back my penis, find new clothes, recover our gear, and get on with the roadtrip.

Part one turns out to be pretty easy.  My little dragon comes back before too long all on his own.  He crawls up my butt and pokes his head out the front and bam, just like that, he looks more or less normal.  Okay, clothes.  Well, I can’t see any other solution, so I whack off a wondrous wad and start weaving.  It ain’t going to look like much, but it’ll do.  While I’m at it I spill some seed on the ground, and a few carrots sprout.  Funny bunny seems content to stick around and snack.

By the time we’re dressed she’s acting a bit more normal.  The sun’s on its way up, and we have a long hike ahead of us.  This isn’t a busy road.   Our gear is where we left it.  Thankfully the fire didn’t spread much, and we were doing our thing a ways from where we dumped our stuff.  We change out of our (incredibly cumfortable; this stuff is really amazing!) clothes into something more appropriate for walking.

Now, I can’t explain what happened, but my theory is it had something to do with redhead girl-squirt having a strange effect on my otherwise very beneficial and easily controlled magic mixture.  My lady friend had recovered enough by this point to wonder when I had managed to slip her some acid.  Suspicious looks from a redhead can actually burn, did you know that?  That’s free advice, so look out!  Anyway, it didn’t take long for her to decide she was catching a bus back home, so long and thanks for the delicious cum carrots!  I tried to convince her it was my mystic mojo that made the midnight madness happen, but she wouldn’t believe it, even after I pulled out my magic wand to show her what I could do.  Matter of fact, that’s when she screamed and ran.

Well, fine.  I was determined to enjoy my roadtrip, alone if I had to.  There was bound to be companionship somewhere on down the line.  Just not redhead companionship.  I think I would hold off on the redheads for a while.  A little too fiery, too unpredictable.  Blondes, now, blondes are nice.  A bubbly bundle of fun.  Brunettes, too.  Bold and beautiful.  But standing there, contemplating who I might meet, the adventures I might have, I was sad to see that gorgeous little redhead go, and maybe a little bit frightened.  It’s a great big world out there, and it can be daunting to go it alone.

So that’s my story!  You’ll be pleased to know it’s 100% true.  By way of proof I’ve included a small jar of my pearly penis power, along with a single silk-wrapped pube from a redheaded hooker I paid $10 to let me pluck one out.  Mix at your own risk, but don’t forget the safety goggles!

Still travellin’,
Anonymous

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Hi there.  As usual, you can reach me at:

 

For those of you who have begun following my blog after such a short period of time online, thank you, a million times thank you.  I’m honored.

Now, my long hiatus from work is coming to a close.  Wage slavery will be taking up a good portion of my time, so this is what I plan:
Read correspondence throughout the week, and write as it inspires me, as usual.
New posts will be added Monday and Wednesday, when there is enough content to make it viable.  Bonus posts on other days of the week, time permitting.

Thank you for your patience, and your kind attention.

Until next time!
E.

Giddyup!

horse-6

You can reach me at:

or:

eonserotica@gmail.com

This titillating tidbit comes from Hannah, who says she discovered what the funny little button down below was for while learning to ride a horse at the tender age of twelve.  Up until that time she hadn’t thought about her vagina much, and she hadn’t considered that her crotch might be a source of pleasure.  If anything, she thought her private folds “were sort of gross.  Growing up in a conservative, Christian household will do that to you.”

Horses terrify me, so it never fails to impress me when someone displays mastery over such a majestic and powerful beast.  When I was a wee lad, annual visits to my grandfather’s farm would usually result in tears as my siblings and cousins were all taught to ride, and I, quaking in fear, would do everything in my power to escape my grandfather’s huge workman’s hands and the horrifying horse ride to follow should he manage to get a grip on me.  I wasn’t always successful, but more often than not I would wriggle my tiny body into one hideaway or another, and they would be forced to give up the chase.  A favorite escape was beneath the cattle grid.  No one else was small enough to fit between the bars.  If I managed to escape behind the barn, and followed the ditch in a running crouch, I could circle behind everyone and dive for cover beneath the cattle grid at the end of the driveway while they were all searching elsewhere.  I spent many long afternoons laying there in the weeds, staring at the big blue sky and daydreaming, seeing shapes in the clouds, chewing on stalks of grass, and thrilling at the occasional sudden rumble of tires as trucks or tractors passed overhead on their way to and from my grandfather’s farm.

I learned to masturbate there, touching myself through my overalls.  I’d wake from an afternoon nap in the shady groove below the cattle grate and find a little tent had been pitched in the front of my denims.  My imagination being what it was (and still is!) I would picture red skinned Indians setting up camp, erecting a teepee below my beltline.  I would stealthily walk my fingers along, the brave settler with his rifle, coming to evict the evil Injuns from his acre of land.

(I read one too many adventure stories as a kid, maybe.  These days I’d think, ‘Let them stay.  My acre was theirs to begin with, and my government had no right to give it to me.’  But that’s a topic beyond the scope of this blog.)

So my hand would walk down the length of me, ambushing and shooting Indians along the way, until the final confrontation with the chief, who had heard the shots and dying screams of his tribe from the teepee, and stayed hidden within in terror.  As the settler bursts into the teepee, the chief disarms him with a sudden chop of his tomahawk!  Ha ha, so it would be hand to hand!  Undaunted, the brave frontiersman grapples with the Indian chief, attempting to choke the life from him.  My arm plunged down the front of my overalls, I would grip my erect penis and shake it about, enacting that final battle.  I don’t know how many times the settler fought the chief before that particular struggle became something else.  Certainly the first few times, the chief would fall down and lie dead, and I would be flushed with a feeling of triumph and glory as the hero reclaimed ‘his’ land.  But was that just the thrill of victory in an overactive imagination, or actual pleasure, the rush of endorphins presaging orgasm?

At some point, though, the chief vomited violently as he died, and such a surprising rush of pleasure wracked me that I cried out loud, sitting up abruptly and bopping my head on the heavy metal bars above me, more than a little afraid that I’d broken my dink and my skull.  My hand came out sticky and smelling strangely, that pungent and not altogether unpleasant odor we all come to know eventually.  I wiped it in the grass and dirt.

I was rather embarrassed over the wet spot on the front of my overalls, and took great pains to sneak back into the house to clean myself up and change.  I remember soaking my overalls in the creek afterwards, getting them all muddy, then going back to hand them sheepishly to my grandmother and feed her some line about falling in the pond.  They came out of the laundry good as new; my relief was a palpable thing.  Over the next few days, when my penis seemed to behave normally, my fears subsided, and I began to experiment to see if the strange (and pleasurable!) event could be made to repeat itself.

That poor, fate-cursed Indian chief…

Hannah writes:

Dear Eon,

By my third month of riding lessons, I was feeling more confident in the saddle.  At last I could let my mind wander as I rode, instead of concentrating feverishly on not falling off the horse.
Constellation was a beautiful horse.  She got her name from the pattern of white stars down her left flank.  She was gentle and dainty, always moving as though she was concerned for the comfort of her rider.  Chestnut brown, except for her markings, with a gorgeous white mane and tail that I spent hours braiding with pink ribbons for derbies.
Well, one day, autumn, the leaves changing colors and drifting down around us as we rode, my mind drifted off with the falling leaves.  Thinking about everything all at once and also nothing much at all.  That’s when I noticed a strange sensation of warmth spreading up through my tummy.  As I began to focus on it, it became more pronounced.  My legs were warming up right down to my knees.
Just then we reached a place in the trail where a small log had fallen across the path a few weeks before.  It was still there, no real challenge to traverse.  I lifted slightly in my saddle and Stella (that’s what I usually called her) hopped the log with ease, taking special care with me on her back.  As I resettled myself in the saddle I felt the rub and response in my vagina for the first time, and realized where this feeling of heat was coming from.
Without further direction from me Stella settled into an easy walk.  For a time I just swayed on her back, wondering at the pleasure I was feeling.  I have always enjoyed riding, but this was clearly different.  I’d also been warned against the sin of touching myself.  I was smart enough to put two and two together.  So I wondered, and I worried.  How could this feeling inside me be bad?  It didn’t feel bad at all.  It felt good!  Delightfully good, perfectly good, like… well, like a hug from Papa when he would pick me up and whirl me around, or when Tommy tried to hold my hand, and I let him, just for a minute, before I pretended to be shy.  It felt… safe.  Exciting and safe at the same time.
Constellation was happy to run when I urged her forward.  We galloped along the mossy trail, the colorful leaves of autumn falling all around us, the upright, bright white trunks of birch trees flying past on all sides.  I let myself go to the sensation building within me and even urged it along, just like I was urging my horse.  I could cling tighter with my legs, reducing the rub.  I could press forward, canting my hips to increase the pressure, or lean back to tease my perineum.  I used the gait of the horse and the movement of my own pelvis to bring myself to the shuddering edge of climax before reining Stella in.  I was afraid this new sensation would sweep me away.  I might get hurt riding through the woods alone half-addled with this strange new joy.
So I dismounted, looked all around to be sure I was quite alone, and then wandered off the path into the forest.  At a good distance, but still able to see my horse, I lay down in a fiery carpet of fallen leaves and I used my hands to finish what the saddle had begun.
The first touch of my slick labial folds surprised me.  The wetness, the slishiness of it.  I sniffed my slippery fingers and even tasted them, experimentally.  When I inhaled deeply, my senses were awash in the smell of my secret self, what I would eventually come to know as the arousing musk of sex.  It only heightened the urgency of the moment.  I had to know!
I forced both hands down the front of my jodpurs, struggling to get my wrists past the tight waistband.  Sliding my fingers along the length of my lips, top to bottom and back again, sent shivery pleasure spiralling through me.  The feelings were like the curlicues on fanciful calligraphy and I was the page.  I could write my desires with my fingers using the ink of my own juices.
I thought of Tommy, I thought of my Papa, I thought of the immense penis on the workhorse, Job (Papa named him after the Bible’s Job and I sometimes had to groom him).  My fingers swirled and rubbed, prodded and tugged, and everything I did brought new feelings of ecstacy to glory in.  I knew in my heart that this was one of God’s greatest works and that He made me this way so that I could feel His touch.  I had never felt so close to Him or so safe.
Masturbation has always made me feel safe.
When I discovered my clitoris, well, you can imagine the fun I had!  I had no need to penetrate myself then, there were so many other places to explore.  I brought myself to a shuddering orgasm, soaking my panties and leaving me breathless.  Constellation came over to investigate and did a horsey whuffle of my crotch that made me squeal.  Her snort was concerned.  She was saying she thought I was behaving rather strangely, but she stayed by me.
I spent all afternoon lying in the woods, touching myself, exploring my body.  I squeezed my nipples, tracing their shape with my fingertips.  It made me shake and wiggle with happiness.  When I ran out of other places to touch, I put a finger into my vagina, marvelling at the squishy sounds and the lovely feeling as my whole body tightened before I came again.  I even put a finger into my anus… slowly, cautiously, remembering Sunday Bible studies and fearing God’s wrath, but somehow knowing it wouldn’t come.  He loved me, and He would never strike me down for enjoying His gift of my body.  His wrath didn’t come, but I did, again and again, as I rolled over onto my tummy and rode my hands, gasping, all the way to Heaven’s Gate and back.
It was only when I realized that it was getting dark, and that I would be in a lot of trouble for riding in the woods at night, that I gave up my explorations and made my way back to the stables.  I walked Stella most of the way, not wanting to risk an accident in the gathering darkness.  I felt I was brimming with warmth and satisfaction all the way down to my toes.

I’m 44 now, and masturbation is still my safe place.  It’s where I go when I’m sad, or lonely, or hurt.  It’s where I go to be alone with God.  I see no disparity between my beliefs and my actions.  Jesus said to love ourselves and to love one another was the most important thing, and I know it is true.
Don’t be afraid to love yourself, for God loves you.  The more you love yourself, the more you are able to love others.

Many blessings,
Hannah

*Image from internet*

The Beast Within

wolf

You can reach me at:

or:

eonserotica@gmail.com

This excerpt comes from Christina, somewhere in Canada.  She is a single mother of a teenage boy, and has always striven to keep her private life separate from her parenting life.  But a woman has needs, and sometimes these needs must be satisfied.  As a result, she often finds herself in strange situations, taking her pleasure where she can get it, and hoping she’ll be home again in time to see her son off to school.  She has sent me a number of stories over the years, but this one was particularly vivid.

Christina writes:

I’ve been tied to the bed for more than an hour now.  My skin prickles with goosebumps.  The breeze that whispers through the room is not warm, and it lifts the edge of my barely-there negligee as much as the lacy white curtains of the four poster on which I lay.  When those curtains billow I can sometimes glimpse squat and shadowy shapes in the dimly moonlit room beyond.  The massive wardrobe.  The bedside table.  The divan.  Like perverted old gods, hunched over their phalluses, intent on my spread-eagled helplessness.
There is a clinking sound.  Ice cubes in glass tumblers?  Chain links rattling?  My host is in another room of the house somewhere, preparing a surprise.  He promises I will like it, but by now I’m cold and numb.  This is beginning to feel less like risque play and more like risky business.  My nipples are chafing painfully against the fabric of my sheer nightie.  They’re frigidly erect, and have been for a long time.  At first I was thankful for what little warmth my thin panties and thigh high stockings had to offer, but they’re no real protection.
The red silk ropes that bind me to the bed look black in the moonlight and are very thoroughly tied.  I gave up trying to wriggle free half an hour ago.  I watched him tie me up and marvelled at his strong skilled hands.  At his knowledge of knots.  His broad palms and long, dextrous digits.  The clever way they moved.
I thought, he’s so good at this… I can’t wait for him to have his way with me… I can feel myself moistening already… he’s so beautiful, the way the light plays across his dusky skin and stern features… please, please, stop playing with that rope and play with me!  Touch me you cruel patient man!  Take me!
Maybe I should have been concerned.  Where did he practice these things?  On whom?  I knew him fairly well, at least I thought I did.  But how well do we really know anybody?
He hadn’t been in town more than a few months.  He worked with some people I knew, odd jobs, construction, carpentry, finishing work, some cabinetry.  He was capable and efficient and pleasant, in a quiet, reserved sort of way.  The rumor was that he had money, and oodles of it.  Playing the stock market, something like that.  His choice of car, his home and clothing, all spoke of tasteful wealth.  Nothing ostentatious about him, nothing alarming.  Just a slow, deliberate self-assuredness that had me fantasizing about him within moments of meeting him.  Some highschool meet-the-teachers function or something – his daughter is my son’s age, but doesn’t live here.  I think he was checking out the school on the off chance his daughter decided to move in with him; I gather the ex-wife is a bit of headcase.  His daughter, Macy (short for Intimacy!), was visiting around that time, and she seemed like a charming young lady, if a bit sharp-edged.  One of those pretty kids who ruins her natural beauty with gothic getups and enough black eyeliner to be mistaken for a raccoon, though she was free with her smiles.  She wasn’t there when I met him, I met her later, but he was there.  Of course he was, but I mean… he was there.  Present.  So totally present, in a way none of the others attending were.  He drew the eye, the attention, like the sun exerting a pull on planetary bodies.  Everyone there orbited around him.
When I drew near him that first time, the first thing I noticed was the way his voice resonated inside my body.  A deep, oceanic voice.  Just by speaking he made my clitoris vibrate.  Not his fault, actually.  I had it pierced a few years ago… but the effect was startling, to say the least.  Incredibly arousing.  I wanted him to speak more, but he was so self-contained.  Concise in his speech.  Polite, sure, but he said much with few words.  It wouldn’t be enough to get me off, and frankly I was hornier than a bull elk.  So I tried to draw him into conversation, tried to get him to pleasure me with that vibrating voice, without letting him know it.  The more we spoke, the more I noticed the way his firm muscles moved under his skin.  This was a man who worked out, or practised martial arts.  And his skin!  Oh, my goodness, such a beautiful, dusky brown.  I couldn’t place his race, but I’d hazard South America somewhere.  He was broad-chested and slim at the waist.  His trousers were well-tailored and accentuated his firm bottom nicely.  Naturally I wondered about the bulge in front.  It seemed more than enough to make me happy, but was he a show-er?  Or a grow-er?
That clinking sound again.  Come on, C!  Get a grip.  Keep your head in the game.  What is he up to out there?
“Reg?” I call out.  “Reg, honey, it’s cold!  Come keep me warm!”
Does he want me to beg?  I’ll beg, if that’s what he wants.  I will kneel and worship every last inch of him with hands and mouth and spread wide any hole he asks, but I can’t do that if he’s out there.  I’ve got to make him come back in the room.  I’ve got to get him to untie me and pleasure me or let me go home.  I can’t take any more of this.  I thought I was adventurous, but I’m just bloody cold.  This isn’t what I wanted tonight.
“Reggie!” I shriek.  “Reggie, there’s an animal in the room!  REGGIE!”
I hear his hurried footsteps and the sinister sound of chains rattling.  The door flies open, making the curtains billow.  They scrape across my frigid skin.  Any other time the soft fall of lace would be erotic.  Now?  My skin is so icy the touch of the curtains is painful.
Backlit in the doorway, Reg is a monstrous silhouette seen through thin white fabric.  Something is wrong with his head.  It’s shaped funny, it’s like…
He pushes the curtain roughly aside and the light from the next room stabs my eyes.  Before they can adjust he’s straddled me on the bed and put his face right next to mine.   Something cold slithers across my throat with a quiet rattle.  Is he wearing a leash?  He’s too close and it’s too dark to make out all the details, but he’s wearing a mask.  A panicked glimpse of fur.  Yellow eyes.  Canine snout.  Lolling tongue.  Sharp teeth.  His cock is a thick line of fire from my belly button to my breasts.  Omygod, it’s huge!  He growls menacingly and I can’t help it, my body arches under him.  My clitoris shakes in terror as his bass drum rumble rolls through me.  Fear and pleasure race along my veins in equal measure.
“Did you just lie to me, little girl?” he growls.
His voice is warm cinnamon chocolate poured over my vanilla icecream skin.  Goosebumps prickle my body in waves.
“N… no.  No,” I manage, “I thought…”
Reginald throws back his head and howls.  Not like a man imitating a wolf.  Like a wolf struggling to burst free from a man.  I scream with him, all the impatience and tension and fear of the past hour let loose at once.  I’m taking a breath to scream again, scream like my life depends on it, when he bounces away, laughing this crazy infectious little boy laugh.  I’m so startled I hesitate, and that’s when he reaches up and grabs a rope hanging in the shadows and he pulls.  My bonds stretch taut and then slide up the four posts of the bed, stretching my limbs and lifting me into the air.  I’m suspended, spread wide, straining.  He loops the rope around my waist a few times and deftly secures it, supporting my middle.  It takes a little of the pressure off my burning arms and legs.
“Reg, I don’t, I can’t,” but that’s all I manage before the silk slides between my teeth.  He ties off the gag as quickly as he did the ropes, then crouches low beside the bed.  No amount of desperately turning my head lets me see him, but I can hear him.  He’s crawling around on all fours, snuffling loudly.  The chain of his leash drags on the floorboards.  He pauses at the foot of the bed, panting like an animal.  I feel the mattress sag as he puts his hands (front paws?) on the foot of the bed.  A dog, sniffing.  Curious.  Is this a bitch in heat?
Oh god, I am.  I think it was his jubilant laughter, but I don’t fear for my life anymore.  I’m still terrified, I still don’t know if I can trust him, my heart is hammering in my chest, my breasts are heaving as I gasp for air, but… I think… I think he will listen if I say the safe word.  Sunflower.  I sag in relief when I recall it, as far as the ropes will allow.  I’d almost forgotten in my panic.  But: I have the safeword.  This is just a game.  I can say the safe word and he will go back to being Reginald the gentleman.  So I can wait a little bit longer, and see what happens, can’t I?  Oh god, no I can’t.  He just gagged me.  Nobody knows I’m here, maybe I should…
He’s snuffling around the four-poster again.  I’m beginning to panic, pushing at the gag with my tongue, frantically trying to work it down over my lower lip. The gag is slowly coming loose.  He didn’t tie it tight.  I latch onto this fact like a drowning woman grabs at her saviour.  He gave me an out.  This is a game.  It has to be a game.  Maybe it is, but I’m still on the verge of hyperventilating.
Reg finishes a slow circuit of the room before making his way back to the foot of the bed, sniffing and panting.  He lifts his head as I lift mine, and the creature that stares back at me is like a werewolf.  I can’t see his body in the shadows, just this dog’s face at the foot of the bed.  A whine escapes it’s throat.  The tongue lolls out as he pants.  He sniffs closer.  This horny dog smells pussy, and he wants it.  He begins to climb onto the bed, slowly, cautiously.  Like a dog who knows his master won’t like what he’s about to do.
With a last push of my tongue, the gag falls free.  I gasp a ragged breath and shout at him.
“NO!  BAD DOG!”
I think it surprises him.  He withdraws for a moment, then moves to climb onto the bed again.
But two can play at this game.
“BAD DOG!  DOWN!”
He thumps to all fours and whines piteously.  His leash rattles.
Such a sensation of sensuous, feminine power rushes through me that I nearly come with the electric shock of it.  My cunt throbs and drips.  My clit is swollen with magic.  I have never, ever, done anything like this before.  The thrill of it fills me and reassures me.
He’s my bitch now.

Ow, ow, awoooooooooo!
Thank you for that, Christina!
Leave your comments below.
Shall I share more?

*Image from the internet*

Homework Assignment!

stoya

You can reach me at:

or:

eonserotica@gmail.com

The other night my wife and I were discussing ideas for an erotic project,
(We like to share these things, fantasizing and teasing each other, encouraging imagination)
And we got onto the subject of mementos.
What interesting things do we keep to remind us of past love and lust?
A ribbon from her hair, perhaps?
A bottle of perfume left behind that you just can’t bring yourself to throw away?
Perhaps he forgot his sweatshirt in your flat, and you still curl up wearing nothing else on stormy nights, thinking of the way his big warm hands could communicate such strength while touching you so gently.

I love receiving letters, and my favorite mementos from past lovers are those words of love that they have left me, written by hand, often on fancy and decorated stationery.  They were written at a time when every syllable of longing was penned with emphatic sincerity, when each adoring word was so spontaneous and heartfelt it transcended truth.  The feelings that motivated those love letters have transformed or fallen dormant or ceased, but the truth of that love is still right there in those gushing, enthusiastic, rambunctious words.  Those letters have always been a touchstone for my romantic soul when a cruel world threatens to leave me jaded.

My wife read one or two, marvelling with a perfectly arched eyebrow at the fervor and affection I once inspired in the women (and occasional men) I somehow managed to lead astray.  She mocks but I know she wishes her first language was English so that she could express herself even half so lustily, so she could give tongue to this, my mother tongue, with just such abandon and glee.  That’s when inspiration struck, and she got a wicked gleam in her eye.

“Fuck me,” she said.
“Right now.  Put aside these dusty dead letters and take me like an animal.”

With characteristic relish I complied, but she did an unexpected thing:
She took my journal, lying on the bedside table, and she took a pen, and as the lusty animal she so imperiously summoned pushed its blunt snout between slick jungle leaves, questing for that deepest of drinks to quaff its roaring thirst, she began to write.

I could read it over her shoulder:

He wastes no time.  I have commanded he transform into a beast and rut with me, and he cannot resist my sorcery.  I am picturing myself being mounted by a lion, or perhaps a wild boar or stallion, as I roll onto my knees and thrust my buttocks in the air.  My quim quivers in the room’s chill.  It makes the heat of him all the more delicious.

I stop reading.  What care have animals for the scrawl of man or woman?
She scribbles furiously as I lose myself in her.  She pauses often to moan, to writhe beneath me.
I have the feel of this game now… my task is to push her to the brink, to make her gradually lose control of herself and her pen, so that her pleasure is transfered onto the page in the hurried tilt of a line, the lurch of a word, the sudden gap and gasp in the paragraph before continuing with another thought entirely, another description of the sensations she is experiencing.
After a time, when she has written a generous mess of pages, we come together, the slippery friction of our sweaty bodies too much to bear any longer.  The waves of ecstasy deposit us dripping and delirious into the pooling oasis of bedsheets.  There we bide a time until our breathing slows.

Later I will read it all; sometime when she is away, and I miss her furiously; when touching myself can’t hope to match the rich reality of her.  This thing she has left me is a spontaneous gift, and it moves me in a way I can’t describe.  To have her words, her pleasure, spelled out before my eyes, the incredible nearness and now-ness it… this is pure eroticism.

So here is what I propose:

If you have a lover, corner him or her.  If not, find one, if only for a night.  Offer to go down on your partners if they agree to write about the experience as it happens.  Provide the pen and paper (they’re doing us a favor, after all!).  Take your time.  A half hour to an hour of oral pleasure will give them plenty of opportunity, with lots of pauses to enjoy the moment, to describe it all in glorious, erotic detail.  If you like, and it makes sense to you, have your lovers write in the present tense, to intensify the immediacy.  You are licking your lips, she is wanton, I am touching you, we make love…
Have your playmates describe, in their own words, the sensations you invoke in them as they feel them.  Encourage them to let the writing itself show as much as the words… do they speed up and scribble more as the intensity of the pleasure increases, trying to capture it all?  Do they write with more pressure as their muscles spasm, making them squirm?  Do the lines wander as their body distracts them with sensations?

Then trade places, and try it again from the other point of view.

And, of course, if you happen to send a copy of these homework assignments my way, I’d be delighted.

Love,
E.

*image from internet*

Peppermint Tease

lips

You can reach me at:

or:

eonserotica@gmail.com

Tonight’s offering comes from J.E. in California.  J.E.’s enthusiasm for his tale, his complete return to that time in his life, comes through in his enthusiastic scribbling.  Kudos to you, J.E., for capturing all the ardor of teenage passion.

J.E. writes:

Eon,

The smell and the taste of peppermint has always done it for me.  It’s Cheryl’s fault.  She loved peppermint and always had a peppermint candy to suck on, peppermint tea to sip, peppermint gum to blow bright green bubbles with.  She was the first girl I ever kissed, first girl I ever made out with.  She gave me my first blowjob, too, but I’ll get to that.

When I was 16 I went to one of those dumb highschool dances and I was really awkward in my tux, pretty much the only guy who bothered dressing up.  In a small town like mine that makes a dude stand out.  Especially since I spent the whole night standing off to the side watching everyone else dance.  Cheryl kept looking at me throughout the night and I would blush like an idiot and quickly look away, never thinking for a second she was checking me out.  A popular girl like Cheryl, looking at me?  One of the hottest girls in school?  Short and blonde and stacked and just way too perfect for me.  Probably just couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw the skinny dork in the tux.  Everyone else was too cool to wear one but my mom had insisted.  It was almost enough to make me skip the dance completely, but… well, I was hoping magic would happen.  I’d heard ZZ Top’s ‘Sharp Dressed Man.”  You never know, right?

The magic didn’t happen until the next day, though.  I wore the stupid tux and didn’t get a single dance.  I spent the whole night watching other guys go off into the bushes with girls, or just stand there tongue-wrestling in the dark corners like they didn’t give a damn who saw.  One of the girls even took Mr. Hyden by the hand and did a long slow grind on him on the dance floor.  I guess he’s a handsome guy.  He might be the youngest English teacher we’ve ever had, but he was still 10 years older than her.  It was definitely causing a stir in the other chaperones, but nobody stopped it.  I even watched Tyler put his hands up Lea’s shirt and feel up her massive tits.  She didn’t look like she enjoyed it, but she didn’t stop him, either.  Lea might’ve been a bit on the chubbier side but her boobs were bigger than my head and I would’ve traded my tux in a second to be in Tyler’s place.  Was there something in the water?  It seemed like everybody was horny and scoring but me.  I was having trouble hiding my boner by then so I said, “Fuck it,” and I left.

So the next day I’m tired and kinda down on myself.  Obviously I didn’t get any action and I’m feeling like an idiot cuz why the fuck did I think last night would be any different?  I’m tall and skinny, my front teeth stick out, I have a big nose, too many zits.  My hair is curly and dull brown and impossible so I just jam it under a hat or a toque most days.  Top it all off, people keep making stupid comments at me about the tux.  Haha, yeah, I stole it from my grandad.  Very funny.  Had to dig him up first, though.  What’s that?  Who died?  Yeah, yeah, tuxes are for weddings and funerals.  It’ll be your funeral next, wise guy.  I’ve just about had it.  This awful day has dragged by and I cannot wait to get the hell out of there.

Suddenly the bell rings and I’m home free.  I grab my shit and jet before anyone can get between me and the door.  That’s when it happens.  I’m in such a fucking rush I run right into Cheryl just outside the door to the classroom and knock her flat on her ass.  Everyone’s piling out of the classroom around us and they crack up.  Way to go, klutz!  Smooth moves, dipshit! Someone smacks me across the back of the head.  I’ve dropped my books and scattered my homework everywhere but all I can do is stare at her.  She’s so beautiful, so incredibly gorgeous, her mouth is so sensuous, and yes, she’s sucking on another mint and she’s all red in the face like she nearly choked on it when I knocked her down.  I can see down her shirt.  Tight white cotton.  All that pale skin curving down into soft, mysterious shadows.  I would never in a million years dream of touching this girl but no one else has offered her a hand up yet so I just reach down and haul her to her feet.  And I mean haul.  I’m so pumped on adrenaline I practically throw her into the roof.  She’s pressed up against me now, her breasts soft and warm against my chest, her breath hot on my face.  Peppermint.  It’s all I can smell.  In that moment I realize I have my arm around her waist to keep her from falling over after manhandling her back to her feet.  My junk is rubbing her stomach.  If I wasn’t so bloody terrified I think I’d probably have a massive hardon right now.

She doesn’t pull away.  She goes, “Hey, aren’t you the guy in the tux?”
I mumble something like, “Duh… pretty.”
I don’t know what I actually said, but she smiles up at me, searching my face, only inches away, and says loud enough for everyone to hear, “Well, I thought it was cute,” and kisses me right on the mouth.

I can’t even think.  I can’t react, I can’t kiss her back.  I’m stunned.  I’m drowning in peppermint.  My instant erection nearly knocks her over backwards.  Everyone around us hoots and hollers.  My face is burning.  Fuck me!  I run.  I don’t know what else to do!  I’m so embarassed.  I can’t figure out what just happened!  Cheryl just kissed me.  In front of everyone!  I just pitched a tent.  In front of everybody!  Am I high on some crazy drugs?  Is this for real?  Am I dreaming?  What the fuck just happened?

She catches up with me down the street from the school.  I left my bag and books and everything when I ran.  She hands them to me.  I take them in silence and just start walking again.  She walks with me.  I can’t look at her.  I’m fucking terrified.

She says, “I mean it, y’know.  I’ve heard the things people have been saying all day.  But you were the only one who went to that dance last night who actually gave a shit.”  (Like I’m going to tell her my mom made me do it.  No way.)  “None of the guys in our school know what dressing up really means.  They figure they just put extra gel in their hair and wear a shirt that actually got washed recently and they’re good to go.  But you wore a tux, and it looked good.  Didn’t you see me looking at you all night?  J, are you even listening to me?”

She grabs me by the arm and stops, turns me to face her.  I can’t help but look her in the eyes.  Blue eyes.  Earnest.  She knows my name.  She must have asked someone before she chased after me.  She’s begging me with her eyes to understand.  She wasn’t making fun of me.  She really meant it.  As it slowly dawns on me this amazing girl actually thinks I’m cute, she drives it home with another kiss.  This time our tongues touch.  I lose my breath.  The world disappears.  I’m in heaven, and it smells and tastes like peppermint.  Time stops.
When she finally pulls away she smiles at me shyly.  Her!  Shy!  I can’t believe what I’m seeing.  Like she doesn’t know if she crossed a line or something.  I’m about to tell her she can cross the line as often as she likes when I realize I’m sucking on her peppermint, and we both burst out laughing.

Just like that I’m as comfortable as I’ve ever been with anyone.  Cheryl and I are suddenly a thing without officially being a thing.  She’s popular and her friends think she’s weird for hanging out with me but she deflects their questions and shrugs off their comments.  Sometimes she even jumps to my defense and tells them how great I am.  They roll their eyes and change the subject.  But I don’t care.  She says I’m a sweetheart and that’s just how she likes me.

The thing I remember most though is the peppermint.  She would be drinking peppermint tea.  We’d kiss and that taste would cool my tongue.  It would make me salivate.  It was like her kisses stayed inside my mouth.  I remember getting her peppermint lip gloss for her birthday.  She put it on right away.  Her eyes went wide.
“It tingles!” she laughed. “It’s making my lips numb!  It’s really minty!”
Then she pushed me down on the couch.  Went straight for my belt buckle.  I felt like a chump but I actually stopped her.
I said, “Are you sure?”
She just giggled and said she wanted to know if it made my thingy go numb, too.

The moment the head of my penis slipped inside of her mouth I lost all control.  I started to pant and moan.  Cheryl’s lips and tongue wrapped my cock like fire.  A slow, tingling coolness began to move along the length of my shaft as she worked her mouth up and down.  She spread her lipgloss right down to the root of me and back up again, gently sucking.  The warmth and the wetness and the pressure all combined were like nothing I’d ever imagined.  She was clumsy at first, but improving moment by moment.  Her fingers tickled my testacles, scratching lightly with her nails.  I could feel my balls tightening.  Shit, I was going to shoot my load.  I couldn’t finish in her mouth, she’d never forgive me.  I couldn’t think straight.  It felt so good!
“Cheryl!” I croaked.  Too late.
She squeaked in surprise as my cum flooded her mouth, but she did the damdest thing.  She clamped on tight, locked her lips around the head of my cock, swirled her tongue around, and sucked.  It actually hurt, she sucked so hard, but the pleasure was so intense I didn’t even consider making her stop.  My hips bucked and my cock throbbed and Cheryl held her breath, held on, until finally I stopped spasming.  When she took her mouth away my cum stretched from her mouth to my cockhead, like a little bridge, then broke and splattered over her lips and chin.  She gave me a small smile, embarassed and suddenly shy.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she said sheepishly.  She got up and got a towel from the bathroom.  I could hear her rinsing her mouth out and spitting into the sink.  When she came back, she watched as I wiped myself off.  I was apologizing all the while for getting off in her mouth.  I babbled about it being my first time and I didn’t know what to expect and it caught me off guard and then she stopped me from talking with a deep kiss.  I could taste my cum, mixed with peppermint.  It probably would have been far less pleasant for both of us if it hand’t been for that lipgloss flavoring everything.

It was Cheryl’s first time, too.  Suddenly, we were both endlessly curious about everything sex had to offer.  We hungered for knowledge.  We explored each other again and again, making new discoveries, sharing all of our firsts.  In my memory, all of it smells and tastes like peppermint.

In the end, we didn’t last.  She had to move away.   We tried to keep in touch, but we were teenagers.  The rest of the world was waiting.  But for that semester and the summer that followed, we were too high on teenage love to care.  To this day I get hard at the smell of peppermint.  I still sometimes order her favorite drink, peppermint mocha, and sit alone at a coffee shop remembering the whirlwind crazy bliss of it all.  So many sharp bright moments, and so much that’s blurry and out of focus.  I’m sure I’ve idealized her in my memory, but so what?  My first love was a peppermint angel, a pure white creature of candy canes and lip gloss and bright smiling laughter.  That’s how I will always remember her.

Yours Truly,
J. E.

Well, here’s to you, Cheryl:  Tonight I’m drinking a cup of peppermint tea in your honor.  Here’s to all of the warm-hearted, perceptive women out there who take the time to look a little bit deeper and see the man underneath.

*Image from internet*

After Long Darkness

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You can reach me at:

or:

eonserotica@gmail.com

  Today I received a confession from a woman calling herself Ing.  Written on thick, creamy paper, the scent of lavender spills from the envelope along with a few dessicated purple flowers.  Immediately, I’m intrigued;  lavender reminds me of Soli, who would always carry a sprig in her pocket.  Soli was a lonely, heavy-set girl I knew in highschool.  I remember drawing circles around her nipples with those sprigs of lavender, making her gasp and giggle nervously.  She’d never been touched like that before, and she wasn’t certain if I was making fun of her or not.  Could he really like me?  I could see the question in her eyes, along with a desperate hope that my attraction was real.  It was, Soli, I can promise you that.  Gods, all that beautiful flesh – breasts like full moons.  I was Neil Armstrong taking his first steps in a place no man had ever ventured.
Her body was an epiphany.

I’m a beast.  I never understood it then.  Neither did poor Soli.  I don’t even remember how I talked her shirt off.
But I’ve always had a way with words…

Ing writes:

Dear Eon,

When my husband Andrew left me eight years ago, without warning or reason, I was a ship lost at sea.  I was adrift and rudderless on cruel tides.  My whole life fell apart, wrecked on the merciless shore of reality.  My children grew ever more distant as the mother they once knew as joyful and vibrant grew pale and frantic with grief.  Perhaps it’s my fault; perhaps I pushed them away.  My beautiful children, my gorgeous, painful reminders of the perfect man I married.  I couldn’t stand the sight of them anymore.

  Oh, how I missed Andrew!  How I needed to feel his love again!  His desire!  Three years of frantic masturbation since he left me and not once had I managed to orgasm!  I could chafe myself raw with fingers and toys.  I could rub helplessly against furniture and pillows.  I could fuck the stick-shift of the sports car Andrew left behind.  It earned me nothing but tears and frustration and such terrible, howling loneliness.
In desperation, I appealed to my few remaining friends.  Concerned and caring girlfriends would touch me, gently, fingers and tongues, trying to help me find pleasure and with it a measure of hope.  Nothing.  They didn’t love me like Andrew had loved me.  My male friends I broke, one by one.  I would ride them to exhaustion, emptying endless bottles of lube, never ever getting wet myself.  Never climaxing.  Eventually the lube would dry up and they would give up and I would be left right where I began.
After three years, I still longed for Andrew with an ache beyond emptiness.  I felt like I might fall into the hollowness within if I didn’t find some way to fill the space my husband left behind.

  Three years of bleakness and despair.  Three years of depression, and then therapy.

  My therapist (I shall call him Troy) was an eager, fresh-faced boy, of an age with Julian, my youngest son.  At 15, Troy graduated highschool.  At 16, Troy had completed his courses at college and moved on to university.  His brilliance catapulted him into a psychology degree by 18 years of age, with none of the life experience necessary to remain professionally aloof in his chosen career.

  Enter Ing.

  Troy wouldn’t have known a seduction if it had walked up and dragged him home by the tie, and that is more or less exactly what I did.  Aside from being of an age with my Julian, they also look similar:  Strong jaw, sandy hair, intense green eyes.  Wide shoulders and a narrow waist.  Julian was the spitting image of his father.  Troy was the spitting image of Julian.

  I was speaking of therapy:
The moment I saw Troy my clitoris tingled back to life.  Electricity shot through  me.  My stomach fluttered with warmth.  After three years, the dam broke; my cunt flooded with wetness.  I knew I had to have him.  I craved him like a drug.  I saw the startled look in his eyes as our gazes met and I knew he felt my hunger.  Our first session was not like a dance.  I did not play coy.  He was not deft in deflecting my advances.  Troy fought bravely to maintain his professional distance as he’d been taught, but he’d never even had sex.  All through school he had been so focused on his studies and on his achievements he had never had time to flirt.  My obvious lust for him made him so deliciously nervous, I almost felt as if I raped him that first night.  I felt guilty even as his beautiful penis entered me.  But I couldn’t stop.  He filled me completely.  I felt guilty when he lost control almost immediately.  The poor virgin, so ashamed and apologetic.  Terrified as he spent himself inside me.  The guilt washed through me like a wave, along with the pleasure, filling the dark spaces, washing away the grief and loneliness.  Replacing it, if only briefly.  For a moment – just a moment – I was whole again.
And then the guilt consumed me.  It did not drip out of me with the rest of his deposit.  It stayed.  I berated myself endlessly.  I told myself I wouldn’t go back for our next appointment.  I swore I wouldn’t continue taking advantage of this… this boy!
And I didn’t.  His secretary left messages.  He never told her what had happened, feeling at least as guilty as I.  But I couldn’t see him again.  I knew I wouldn’t be able to help myself.  He was them!  And I needed them so badly!
It was the guilt that finally made me go back.  I felt I needed to confess.  Tell him all.  Explain myself.  Absolve myself of the sin.  I was so damned tired of feeling dirty and low.  I told myself that Troy was a shrink, of course he would understand!
Our second session, over a month after the first, we made love again while he gently explained how I made him feel like a whore.  He didn’t want to accept my money for therapy while he gave me sex and affection and worshipped me instead of helping me with my issues.  I whispered that he was helping.  He was.  My tears flowed freely.  I had never felt so alive!  His erection sliding in and out of me, skin caressing skin, drove home the words that caressed my soul.  With every thrust he went deeper inside me until I felt my center, my idea of self, had been pierced.  He took his time and thoroughly, completely satisfied me.  Body.  Mind.  And heart.
I could hardly believe this was the same boy who lasted all of three strokes a few weeks before.  He held me like I was the child and made me feel safe again.  Again, he came inside me, once again washing away the debris of my past.

Five years later, we’re still together.  I’m more than twice his age.  I sometimes still feel guilty.  But you know… Andrew never understood me the way Troy does.  Andrew never truly got inside me, not the way Troy gets inside me, in every single way.

  Thank you for reading, Eon.  Please share my story.  I want your readers to know that there is always hope.  Always redemption.  It may not always come in the form you imagine, but if you stay strong, if you stay brave, and you open yourself to the wonder of being alive, it will come.

  May you find what you’re seeking,
Inga M.

*Image from Internet*