The Beast Within II

wolves

Hello, dear readers!
Apologies for the extended absence.  A paucity of quality submissions led me to withdraw from blogging for a time.  This website, I should remind you, will only be as good as the offerings you send in!  So write me; even a quick little note is welcome!

The long wait, I dare say, was worth it.  Christina writes:

I dreamed that Reginald was sliding warm hands slowly up my inner thighs.  His firm grip moved slowly, inexorably towards my center.  His steady patience was seductive, simultaneously soothing and exciting.  Feeling safe and desired, still half asleep, I stretched then spread my legs, allowing him access.  Still he did not hurry.  As the warmth of his long, strong fingers neared my sex, my excitement built up pressure.  I could feel myself getting wetter.  I moaned sleepily, tilting my pelvis in anticipation.

Full awareness arrived as his hands found my pussy and pressed down with their heat.  Raising my hips, I felt no resistance, no weight of hands.  It was enough to confuse me and I swam lazily into wakefulness.  The blankets were a tangled mess, thrown aside sometime in the night.  I muzzily recalled that sharing a bed with Reggie had been very like sleeping with a roaring furnace.  After our… exercise… of the night before, we had both been overheated.  Cuddling had been out of the question.

Reggie, however, was nowhere to be seen.  Those fingers?  Sunlight, streaming in through the windows, creeping slowly over my naked legs.
God, it must be nearly noon!
Ashley!

All I can say in my defense is that my first thought, after full awareness returned, was for my son.  Here I am, lazing in bed in the home of a near total stranger (strange doesn’t even begin to describe him!) after a night of downright freaky animal sex, while my teenage son might be god knows where!  Ash is a sweetheart, but his heart wasn’t in his schooling, and lately I’d been worried he was spending too much time with the wrong crowd.  I had a sneaking suspicion his recent sullenness and withdrawal had something to do with his absent father, but despite how close I’ve always been with my son, drawing him out on the subject was proving nearly impossible.

I jumped out of bed, scrabbling for my scattered clothing.  While I searched, I berated myself.  I was constantly demanding to know where Ashley had been, who he’d been hanging out with, forever insisting he give me more information so I can keep tabs on him.  But look at me!  Vanishing one afternoon without so much as a note or a quick text to let him know I’d be home late.  Or not at all.
I was such a hypocrite!

What day was it?  Saturday?  Okay, at least he wouldn’t be able to cut class and blame me for not getting him out of bed.  Ash regularly stayed out late on Friday nights and slept til noon if left alone.  If I was lucky, he’d still be sleeping when I got home, and simply assume I’d been in bed when he got back last night.

Stuffing the last bit of my lingerie into my purse, I stepped into the en suite and quickly arranged myself.  On my way out the door I nearly collided with Reggie.  His arms were laden with a massive tray of breakfast things.  He took me in with a look, and there was nothing I could say in my defense.  It was obvious I was in a rush to be gone.  Stoic as always, he simply set the tray aside and folded his arms, cocking one eyebrow.  It was like he cocked a bow instead.  His look pierced me just like an arrow, accusing.

I didn’t have the time to explain.  I’ve always believed actions speak louder than words, so I smiled brightly and threw my arms around his neck.  The kiss I gave him was deep and genuinely passionate.  He held me stiffly, at first, then relaxed as it became apparent my ardor wasn’t feigned.  Truly, it wasn’t!  All I had to do was think of last night, and oh my god…
Any dog could follow the scent of that trail.
“I’ll be in touch,” I whispered breathlessly, and left before he could change my mind.
“Good,” he said.  The rumbling thunder of his voice tickled my clit deliciously as I fled.

Reg had picked me up last night, so my car was still at home.  He lived on a rambling old place tucked away behind a heavily forested stretch of parkland.  The nature reserve went on for miles, but it was liberally laced with well-maintained trails.  The time of year was right for a walk in the woods.  The leaves had just begun changing color, and those that had already fallen crunched underfoot as I wound my way home.  I knew these trails well; I grew up in the area and I can take credit for forging some of these paths with my papa, back when I was just a wee mud-spattered little forest sprite with twigs tangled in my hair.

My own home looked out onto the same parkland, more or less.  The forest had been cut back slowly, over the years, to make way for progress, so there was now my neighbor’s yard and a street to cross to get home.  Our town was still small, but it was growing steadily.  The oldsters would sit on the porch of the Post Office Cafe and complain of the traffic, but even they knew we were blessed with serenity here.  They just liked to grumble, and why not blame the tourists and their cars for all the town’s problems?  In a town this small, you can’t go picking fights with your neighbors, or soon enough everyone is involved.

I could see that my nosy neighbor, Rosemary, was home.  She was standing in her kitchen staring out the window.  For a moment I worried that she had been waiting for me to appear out of the trees beyond her backyard fence, but then she turned and vanished deeper into the house.  I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and hastily hopped her fence and crossed the yard.  Her little dog, Puddin’, yawned hugely as I passed the sunny spot where he was napping.  His only acknowledgement as I passed was to huff a disappointed sigh when I didn’t stop to scratch behind his ears.

Finally, home.  I let myself in the front door, quietly, and made my way to the kitchen where I put on a pot of coffee.  While I waited for the percolator to gurgle out some much needed caffeine (I hadn’t slept much last night, after all), I thought about what I might say should my son question my absence.  Nothing came to mind, unfortunately.
I sighed.  It might be time to sit down and have a heart to heart with him.  At sixteen he was fast becoming a man.  More and more I saw his father in him, in his choices and behavior, in the way he valued my input less and less.  I needed him to know that I loved him, that I was doing my best for him… and that I wouldn’t blame him if he decided he needed the guidance and influence of a man in his life.  Just… don’t let it be your father!  Anyone but him, please!
My god, how could I ask him that?
I was having trouble remembering why I hurried home.  It would have been so easy to stay with Reg and forget my own problems for the day.  Ash was a teenager.  He probably wouldn’t even notice I was gone, except to be glad not to have me harping at him about chores and homework.  Was I trying too hard with him?  Was he old enough now to be making his own decisions?  Learning from his own mistakes?  As parents we try so hard to guide our children away from all the foolish trouble we created for ourselves when we were their age, but inevitably… they repeat most of those mistakes anyway.  And all we can do is shake our heads and say, “I told you so,” and hope they pay more attention to our warnings next time.  Is it human nature to ignore well-meaning advice and guidance?  Or is it just human nature that the hard lessons are the ones that stick the most?

The distinct sound of pleasure broke me from my reverie.  The coffee was done percolating, and in the quiet I strained my ears.
Yes, there it was again.  A muffled gasping.  Breathless whispers.
I was making just those same sounds myself not twelve hours ago.
Did Ashley have a girl over?
So he did know I was gone!
Who was she?  He’d never really talked about girls before.  One more thing a single mother has trouble with, raising a son.  I guess his father would have sat down with him over video games and they could’ve grunted out some monosyllabic dialogue:
“So…”
“So?”
“Got a girl.”
“Huh.”
Long silence punctuated by the sound of gunfire and growling zombies, or perhaps the rev of engines.  Some manly game.
“She cute?”
“Heh!”  He’s grinning.
“Niiice.”
“Thanks.”
Another long pause.  They chug cola and stuff nacho cheese Doritos into their mouths.
“Be safe.”
“Course.”
“Good.”
And that would be that.  I could only hope his father would have the sense to remind him to use a condom…
But there I go, being a hypocrite again.  What did I really know about Reginald?  Was last night safe, at all?  It sure didn’t feel that way.  But wasn’t that the whole point?  Wasn’t that the thrill?  We hadn’t used a condom, and he had come inside me more than once.  I doubt they make condoms big enough, anyway…

I couldn’t restrain my curiosity any longer.  Who was she?  How did they meet?  How long have they been dating?  Is she pretty?  Is she polite?  Who are her parents?  What do they do for a living?  Who are her friends?  What are they like?
These things are important!  I couldn’t just pretend like it wasn’t happening!
Cautiously, I made my way out of the kitchen to the front foyer.  There, I stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened.  Faintly, the sound of a creaking bedframe and the passionate couple’s mingled cries of pleasure drifted down to me.
I realized I was still holding my coffee mug and put it down on the bannister.  Slowly, stealthily, I made my way up the stairs.

The sounds grew louder as I reached the hall at the top of the stairs and made my way towards Ashley’s bedroom.  It was at the back of the hall on the left, and looked out over the backyard.  They wouldn’t have known, had they been looking out the window, that I had come home.  Clearly they had been too distracted to hear me open the front door, or to notice the coffee rattling and burping away.
I paused outside the bedroom door.  It was slightly ajar.  I knew, because of the size of his room (it was the largest in the house) and the position of the door, that I should be able to peer through the crack between doorjamb and door and see a wide swath of bedroom, including his bed in the far corner.  Furiously, I debated with myself.  Did I really want to spy on my son having sex?  What would I say if I was caught?
My resolve wavered.  I nearly turned around to go back downstairs.
But then she gasped and cried out, “Oh, Gordon!” and I froze.  Gordon was his middle name.  He hated his middle name!  Curiosity raged through me like a fire and before I could even consider if what I was doing was wrong my eye was pressed against the crack of the door.

He was red faced and grimacing, flat on his back beneath her.  She sat astride him, her back to me, a lithe, milk white girl with the long, coltish legs of youth.  Despite her young age, she had quite a little booty on her, and she was bouncing it vigorously up and down.  The wet slapping of their bodies was punctuated by her whimpering, mewling gasps as she breathlessly begged him to cum inside her.  She raised her slim pale arms over her head and buried her hands deep in her long, luxurious mass of raven hair.  When she arched her back those long black locks brushed the swell of her buttocks, and I took in her large, firm breasts and exotic profile.  Truly, my son had done well for himself, if one were judging purely on looks.  This little vixen was custom built for desire, an energetic, passionate, and sultry little thing.
She squealed then, curled forward, and her hair fell over my son’s face.  It’s just as well.  I had noticed the way his hands gripped the bed covers, rather than her thighs or waist.  I had seen that look of furious concentration on his face.  He wasn’t entirely comfortable with having sex yet, and that was a relief to me.  It meant he hadn’t been sneaking away to have sex very often.  This might even be his first time!  He deserved some privacy for his first time.  I didn’t want to see the look on his face as he spent himself inside her…
Inside her?
Good god, no!
His back arched and he thrust upwards with a groan as I barged into the room.
“Ashley Gordon!” I screeched, “What are you thinking?!”
The girl shrieked hysterically as I dragged her off my son, but the damage was done.  His ejaculate dripped from the compact folds of her bare little cunt (Waxed smooth!  At that age!), and he was too late to cover himself as a final spurt landed on his belly.  He scrambled for the blankets, and I thought he would hide beneath them like he used to when he was small and I was angry with him.
Instead, to his credit and my utter surprise, he stepped from the bed as if I wasn’t there at all and threw the blanket around the girl, who was crouched defensively where I had dumped her on the floor.  He was not quick enough to hide the livid purple bruises that were already rising where I had gripped her upper arms.  Then he stood and pointed wordlessly at the door.  His still-hard cock mimicked the gesture.  With both hands pressed to my mouth to stifle sobs or screams, I know not which, I ran from the room.

At the bottom of the stairs, my elbow clipped my coffee mug and it crashed against the front door, shattering and spraying coffee across the foyer.  In a panic I tore a shawl from the foyer closet and began to blot it up, frantic with embarassment and anger and fear for my son and for this unknown girl.  Didn’t they realize?  Didn’t they understand?  I had been about the same age as her when I had become pregnant with Ashley!  Tony had been a stupid, thoughtless teenage boy when he had knocked me up!  Just like his stupid, thoughtless teenage son!  God, where had I gone wrong?  If she was pregnant, their lives were over, and so help me, I wouldn’t be bailing him out of this one!  He knew what was at stake!  All his life he’d had me as an example, he knew what I had gone through to raise him!  Did he think it would be easier for him, that he would be able to face the hard choices his own father had run away from?

Tears were streaming freely down my face when the pale girl stepped carefully around me and opened the front door.  Ashley maneuvered himself between me and her and carefully cleared his throat.  It wasn’t until he knelt down next to me and gently took the sopping shawl from my hands that I looked up at them.

Her self-posession and dignity were impressive.  Intimidating, even.  She looked down at me and I felt I was looking only at the vessel; the contents were far away.  But she stayed there, quietly watching, as Ashley turned my face to meet his eyes and said:
“Mom, I’m sorry.  This isn’t how I pictured you meeting her.  But it’s done now, so you might as well be introduced.”

I turned my stunned stare back to the girl, who smiled tentatively and extended her hand.  Her smile was bouyant, despite everything.  What I had taken to be restraint now seemed shyness, embarassment, and it restored a measure of my self-control.  I was once more the adult here.  I stood and brushed myself off, then took her hand firmly.  It was warm and dry.  She tried to meet my eyes but faltered and glanced down as my nostrils flared involuntarily – she and Ashley reeked of sex.  The tops of her cheeks turned a very pretty pink.  How long had they been going at it?

Ashley was oblivious to this interplay.

“Mom,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Intimacy.  Macy, this is my mom, Christina.”

*IMAGE FROM INTERNET*

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Short But Sweet 2

Hello, lovely readers!
For your enjoyment tonight I have a random selection of short letters from a variety of senders.  I do hope you enjoy, and remember:  You can always write me at eonserotica@gmail.com or:

 

thoseeyes

Dear Eon,
There have been many times meeting a total stranger that I’ve been overwhelmed by the desire to kiss him passionately, just to see how he would react, just to taste someone new, just to leap past all the polite chitchat and get to the meat and bones of the man before he is buried in layers of useless trivia.  Is it odd that I stare him in the eyes when this feeling overcomes me?  I gaze into his eyes with unabashed forwardness and intensity, trying to make him feel what I am fantasizing.  Sometimes I think I succeed, only to find he is intimidated by me.  Other times, I think I have failed to convey my desire, only to find him focused entirely on me for the rest of the evening.  I have a theory that all of my relationships end quickly because I love nothing so much as that initial rush of connection, that tentative back and forth dance, that dare-to-do-it first leap when I step out of my comfort zone and make plain my intentions.  That moment of reciprocation is the sweetest moment I can imagine.  The triumphant flood of arousal, the certain knowledge that tonight I will have my way with this man… mmm… nothing can compare.
Sensual kisses!
Gia

Thanks for sharing, Gia!

ashamed

Hey Eon,
I was just wondering.  Have you ever had trouble with – well, you know – following through?  Not getting it up, I mean, but like keeping it hard?  Cuz I seem to be uh, falling down on the job, lately, and I’m a bit embarassed about getting help for it, and I don’t know who to talk to anyway.  Do I need Viagra or something?  I’m 35, I would have thought I had a while before this kind of thing started happening to me.  My partner has been really great about it but somehow it’s just more embarassing than ever when she tries to make like it doesn’t matter.  Cuz it does matter, you know?  To me it does.  I want to stay hard, I want to outlast her, I want to make her scream and beg me to finish because she just can’t handle my incredible studliness.  I guess that’s every man’s dream, huh?  Well, what do you think I should do?
Love your blog.  Keep them stories cumming!
Haha, that was terrible!
Jones

Hi Jones,
Thanks for your letter.

There’s really nothing to be ashamed of.  Erectile dysfunction can be caused by a huge number of things, and it affects far more men than you’d think.
Here’s a personal story from my own history:
When I was in highschool, I was completely, head over heels in love with a girl from my homeroom.  Let’s call her Jean.  I’ve mentioned her before, in Liam’s First Time.  Jean was pure sexuality, to me.  Her every movement was arousing.  Her body was amazing.  Her eyes were arrestingly blue.  She was independent and capable.  She was softspoken, and I just wanted to lean in close and whisper with her.  In short, I was mesmerized, and for five years (all through highschool, and for a while after) we were incredibly close.  Early on I sort of gave up ever having a chance with her, and settled for becoming a really intimate friend.  As I mentioned previously, we would share a bed, cuddling nearly nude, we were very physically affectionate, but despite nursing some deep feelings for her, the timing was never right and I could never bring myself to cross that line with her.
After highschool, everything changed.  A lot of our crowd moved away, and Jean and I spent less time together as she was frequently away.  When she was in town, our time together had the tone of an extended goodbye.  There was this unspoken acknowledgement between us that if we didn’t explore the possibilities between us soon, we never would.
This led to our first kiss, standing on a bridge over a stream in a nature park, middle of the night, autumn leaves tumbling down around us.
Our first kiss led to more interesting play, when we shared a bed later that night.  She went down on me for the first time, and I put my face between her thighs and licked her creatively until, gasping, she said, “When I’m a middle-aged spinster, I will pay you thousands of dollars to do that like you just did it.  Oh my god that was good!”
Before we could do much more to explore each other, Jean moved away to the big city.  It wasn’t so far that we would never see each other, but it was enough (with finances being what they were at the time) that holidays were really the only time we would see each other.  Besides which, she wasn’t one to withhold her affections.  She had a number of boyfriends in short order, and soon it seemed like she’d all but forgotten me.
Even so, one November a year or two later, I called her up.  I was in the city, and needed a place to crash for the night before heading back home the next morning.  She gave me directions, and once again I found myself sharing a bed with her.
This was it.  This was the moment.  I had brought condoms, and she had some too.  She had left them out on the nightstand as a signal that she would be interested in going all the way if I was.
Of course I was.  I might never be with this girl in a steady relationship, but she was stunning and spectacular fun to be around and I had never felt so in tune with anyone.  For well over five years she had been my deepest fantasy, and I just knew we could complete each other in ways that neither of us had ever experienced before.
So comes the big moment: the condom is on, she is stretched out before me, naked and glorious in her tiny, angelic beauty.  I have spent over an hour kissing and licking her, exploring her body with my hands and fingers.  She has reached the heights of pleasure and now she’s begging me to join her there.  I have never been so hard.  The head of my cock throbs as I position myself and push it inside her.
Problem!  My shaft bends, painfully, and her pussy parts only so far.  The head of my cock simply won’t fit.  She grimaces in pain.  I stammer out an apology, but she quickly shushes me.  It’s her fault, she says.  She was born with a medical condition.  Her vagina is incredibly tiny.  In fact, the opening was once so small that a regular pencil would stretch her uncomfortably.  She’s had some surgery to correct it, enough so that I never noticed when using my fingers, but it isn’t perfect.  She expects it to hurt, she says, but if we’re persistent, it will eventually fit, and we will enjoy ourselves.  Don’t worry if it bleeds a bit, she says.  Tearing is normal, for her.  The opening is really quite small.
Now, I’ve never considered myself monstrously hung, but I do enjoy the occasional compliment, and Jean has made it known that I’m the biggest fellow she’s ever been with.  I’m really not certain this is a good idea anymore.  Here I am, hurting her.  I don’t mean sort of making her uncomfortable, either.  I mean outright inflicting awful, tearing pain, quite literally damaging her vagina in an attempt at intercourse.  I’ve managed to force my way partially inside, but I’m hating every moment of it.  This isn’t just making her uncomfortable, it’s making me feel horrible, like a rapist, despite the fact that she’s urging me on, despite the fact that she wants it.  The looks of pain that pass over her face make it seem as if she’s lying to me.  Who, I ask myself, would really want that kind of torture?  In hindsight I understand that it was the only sort of pleasure she could expect to get, so she had embraced it.  What else could she do?  But at the time, it seemed monstrously cruel.
To make matters worse, she was so incredibly tight that the pleasure has been mounting despite my misgivings.  Without warning, my body gives in to the sensations and I spill myself into the condom.  We haven’t been at it more than a minute or two.  Not long enough to call it sex.  And now I’ve gone limp and no amount of encouragement will get a rise out of me.  After so many years of anticipation, the failure is epic and crushing.  We cuddle for the rest of the night, but something has gone out of our affection.  We know now, without doubt, that this won’t work between us.  I can’t believe, after knowing her so well for so long, that I didn’t know this one vitally important thing.  I can’t help feeling that it’s my fault, that I’ve failed her somehow.  Like I should have known some miracle method by which we could have made it work.

My uncertainty over this entire episode led to a year of intense self-doubt.  Being overly analytical, I went over it and over it in my head, trying to find some course I could have taken to change the outcome.  I did, in fact, require therapy to get over my feelings of sexual inadequacy.  All this in spite of the fact that it was never really anything to do with me.
So Jones, if you’re having troubles with your sense of self, your manliness as it connects to your manhood, please believe me when I say you are not alone, and discussing it with a professional can help a great deal.  Our sexuality is often at the root of our self-image, and when you consider that our self-image is at the root of a great many sexual hangups, it’s easy to see how a recursive and self-destructive loop can be created.  This kind of negative thought habit can be fixed with time and effort.  And if it turns out to be something physically wrong with your equipment, all that will come out in therapy as well.  They’re very good about working hand in hand with your doctor to make sure they suss out the root of the problem.  I urge you, reach out for help.  You’ve already reached out to me.
Now take the next step!
Love and respect,
Eon

tinywoman

Hi Eon,
This is pretty weird, but I’m into dwarves.  Not just short people, but those freaky people with big heads and stubby limbs.  I’ve got a ton of dwarf porn and I think if my girlfriend ever found out she’d drop me like a hot rock.
From Ed in Ed.

Well Ed, after seeing this post, chances are good a great many more people will be interested in dwarves who weren’t before.  The lovely lady pictured above can be seen at Suicide Girls, if you’re interested!

3kiss

Eon!
How are you?  Just wanted to tell you about the hottest thing that ever happened to me:  I was out with some girlfriends at the club, all three of us dressed to kill, and they announce a wet T-shirt contest.  We hadn’t really planned on it but we’d had a few drinks and we were the sexiest women in the whole place, we knew we could win!  So all three of us agreed to do it so long as the other two did.  And we did it!   We shook our soaking wet tits and asses in front of a huge crowd, everyone was cheering and chanting, and that’s when it happened.  I started stroking and touching my friend Jenny.  I thought it would get a good reaction from the crowd.  Oh wow, you have no idea!  The place went nuts!  She sort of looked at me like What are you doing? but everyone was cheering.  Jenny’s an attention slut, so before long she was loving it.  We got friskier, and Sara joined in, and all three of us were making out in front of everyone while they hosed us down.  I’ve never been so soaked in my life, and I don’t mean from the hose!  Kissing my girlfriends, touching their hot slippery bodies, all while being watched by hundreds of horny guys… there were dudes in the crowd touching themselves through their jeans, oh my god, it was so hot!  Jenny and Sara went home with someone that night, but I’ve got a boyfriend, and he’s away at camp, so when I got home I rode my jack rabbit to the biggest orgasm of my life!  When Brad gets home he’s in for a treat!  I’ve never been so horny!
Love ya!
Kelly

I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that reunion!  Congratulations Brad!
Thanks for the sexy letter, Kelly.

*All Images from Internet*

A Last Goodbye

tears

A little something from the personal file tonight…
You can share your own last goodbye stories with me
By writing to eonserotica@gmail.com or sending a letter to

 

For every goodbye, I hope you find hello.
With love and respect,
Eon

It is the witching hour.  You went to bed hours ago.  Our goodnight kiss was brief, perfunctory.  I can feel the love ooze away, trickle out of our hearts bit by bit, day by trying day.  It isn’t your fault.  It isn’t mine.  It simply is.  These circumstances.  The nightshifts I work.  The dance performances you train so hard for.  You have fractured your feet, and still you dance.  We’re both a little crazy.
We occupy the same spaces but so rarely at the same time.  I see you in passing as I come home.  You’re on your way out to a dance class.  You see me in passing as you return home.  I’m on my way out to work.  By the time I come home you will have been gone to your own job for a couple hours.  I will sleep, fitfully, the sunlight too bright around the edges of the blackout curtain that doesn’t quite fit the window, the heat of a summer day sapping my will to move until I hear you come home some time in the late afternoon.
I will pretend to be asleep.  I don’t know why.  We both know I’ve hardly slept over the past year.  We both know it’s slowly killing me.  We both know I don’t have much choice.  There is no other full time work that pays even half so well.  So you will pretend I am sleeping, and I will pretend I am sleeping, because we both know I need my sleep.
But what use is sleep that does nothing to rest me?  And what use is all this money?  I never see you.  I can’t spend outrageously on you, treat you to jewellery store shopping sprees, fancy dinners, tickets to performances we never have the time for.  I heave a sigh.  I will stop pretending to sleep, stumble groggy into the kitchen to say hello.
But you’re already gone again.
I sit and stare at the wall, and wonder where it all went wrong.
Weekends are the hardest.  I’m not needed at work, but I stay awake all night because it’s the only way I can maintain the brutal hours of my schedule.  You come home exhausted after another long day of work and dance, dive into a whirlwind of last minute chores and organization, try to prepare for more of the same tomorrow.  I help where I can but we work in silence.  You don’t have much to say about your day and I only just woke up after a much needed period of total oblivion.  You frown at the empty bottle of rum that delivered me into sleep this morning, but you don’t say anything.  We’ve been down that road.  Your quiet disapproval is more eloquent, anyway.  I can see by the way you don’t even bother to mention it that you’re giving up.
So am I.  I’m so sorry, baby, but so am I.
So I sit here, stare at a computer screen well into the night, mindlessly surf the web, try not to think about it, about us, about you.  Headphones on.  Music cranked loud enough to fill the room around me.  David Usher tells me he understands what I’m going through.  He says he’s been there.  I sigh when he laments,

“The water’s beginning to freeze here…”

You glide up behind me on bare feet, barely a whisper of sound to give you away, your dancer’s grace evident in every beautiful step.
I don’t see it.  I play a mind-numbing computer game, strategically burst bubbles, think to myself this might be a metaphor.
With an air of trepidation you interrupt my reverie.  Your nervousness is somehow more seductive than if you were playing the pouncing cat.  It has been so long since we touched this way.  Your warm breasts press against my neck and shoulders.  You trail your fingers along the length of my right arm, lay your warm palm over the back of my hand.  Together we move the mouse, watch the pointer on the screen hover over to the X in the corner.  You press gently on my finger.  The web browser closes.  When you stand, my swivel chair rotates as you pull on my hand.  I look up at you and see the tears in your eyes, and I begin to understand.
You turn my hand palm up and guide it under the hem of your negligee.  You press my fingers into your wetness and heat.  For what seems the first time, I look at you.  I drink you in.  Your curly red hair tumbles down around your face like sunset clouds.  Your blue eyes, damp with tears, hypnotic, search my face.  What are you looking for?  Recognition?  Some connection?
You bite your lower lip.  Is it because of what you see in my eyes?  Or what you don’t?  Or is it because my fingers press against your arousal, begin to search inside you?
The white lace of your lingerie clings to your pale skin.  The shadowy outlines of your curves are visible beneath.  Your long sleek legs part slightly.  You press yourself into my hand.  My fingers curl, sink between the slick folds of your secret skin.  You lean down, put your mouth next to my ear.
David Gray croons huskily,

“Slowly the truth is loaded:
I’m weighted down with love.
Snow lying deep and even,
Strung out and dreaming of
Night falling on the city
(Quite something to behold).
Don’t it just look so pretty?
This disappearing world…”

His voice fades as you pull my headphones away.
“I was having a sex dream,” you whisper.  As though we need the excuse to touch each other.  How did it come to this?
Your lips brush like feathers against my earlobe.  I feel the gentle waft of your breath.  I smell the green apple scent of your skin, watch the swell of your breasts beneath the sheer fabric of your shift.
I turn my mouth towards yours.  Our lips touch.  Softly, tentatively.  Then with increasing urgency and hunger as we share a kiss every bit as passionate and searching as our very first… but there is an aftertaste, as our tongues touch and slide… a taste of despair.  A taste of hopelessness.
It tastes like goodbye.
I stand and guide you out of the room by the fingers buried deep in the heat of your sex.  Your thighs rub the sides of my hand and wrist as you follow.  Delicious friction, a hint of what’s to come.  You came to me, you offered me this, and I recognize it for what it is.  I will take the opportunity to say one last goodbye before the love drains away completely.  I understand that we must stop pretending.  We’re not a couple, anymore.  We haven’t been for months.
But tonight… tonight we will be lovers.
I carefully think of nothing, pull you by your swollen pussy down the hall and into the bedroom.  In the dim glow of a single lamp, you raise your arms over your head and I lift your nightdress away.  I let it slither to the floor with a quiet hiss.  Your milkwhite breasts fall free, bounce gently.  Your skin prickles with goosebumps.  I watch in fascination as your inverted nipples slowly emerge from their puffy pink areolas.  I’ve always loved the obviousness of your arousal.  I lean down to encourage them, run my tongue in slow circles around your breasts.  I lick their heavy curves, lap along their sides, trace the outline of your nipples.  I flick them with my tongue as they harden, grip them gently in my teeth and draw them fully forth to suck hard, to elicit a gasp of pleasure from you.
Your busy hands fumble at my clothes, strip off my belt, push down my jeans, my boxer shorts.  I step free of them as you pull my shirt over my head.  Naked now, we press against each other, hold each other tight.  There is a moment of desparate calm.  We breathe deep, cling to each other.
But we know it can’t last, so we begin to move our hands, to touch and stroke, to caress and call forth pleasure, and memories of pleasure, and we strive to layer them deep around us, build talls walls to hold out the reality of our world for just this one night.
My warm hands encircle your waist, slide down over smooth pale flanks, up over taut belly.  You are so tall!  Six foot three, statuesque, and there is so much of your strong slim dancer’s body to rediscover tonight.  I want to memorize you by touch.  If this is my last chance to touch you I will touch all of you, I will know you completely before I let you go.
I pull you close.  We kiss, eyes closed, and fall into each other.  Our mouths explore as our hands do.  Your lips draw a line of fire along my jaw, down my neck, over my collar bone.  You kiss my chest, my shoulders, lick the hollow of my throat.  I push you gently down onto the bed.  You fall back and sprawl in languorous abandon.  Your legs part and your fingers slide over the heart-shaped red fur of your mound, spread the wet pinkness there for me to see.  Your fingers delve inside, pull free with a sucking noise.  The slippery slurp and gurgle of you finger fucking yourself makes my cock ache with inner pressure.  I had planned to kiss and lick my way up your legs.  I had planned to circle teasingly around your sweet center and layer affection across your stomach, breasts, and neck.  I had planned to kiss you passionately, run my hands through your flame-red hair, wipe the tears from your ice blue eyes with a gentle thumb.  But seeing you now, wanton and aroused, soaked and shining with the slap and slip of your fingers, I can no longer wait.
You woke up this way, dripping and full of desire.  You don’t need me to take my time.  You need me to dig down to the depths of you, to drill for that fading connection before it slips beyond our reach forever.  You need me to take my pleasure, to lose myself in you, to let myself be carried away by the wave of emotion that threatens us both, to carry you along with me.
You reach for me.  Our fingers intertwine and I climb onto the bed, pin your arms to your sides.  I lower myself between your legs, let my erection push your glistening folds aside.  You buck your hips upwards even as I thrust down, hard.  We slap together, cry out in unison.  I fuck you furiously, punishing your body with mine.  I hammer out my frustration.  I pour it all out, the growing distance between us, the feeling of helplessness as I watch us drift apart, the sense of loss and impotence.  Thrust after thrust I beat my body against yours, hating you for your inaction, hating myself for giving up, letting go.
It isn’t exactly pleasure, but it overwhelms me just the same, and I growl with the release as I drain my agression into the spasming grip of your sex.
Gentler now, I continue in a slower rhythm, long, deep strokes, push hard into you, strain to touch you in what seems the only way we still understand.  The tears stream freely down your face, and I lay my body over yours protectively.  Our mouths meet and we taste each other’s sorrow.  Once again we cling to each other, touch, search, try so hard to remember every moment, every breath, every gasp, every look, every cry, every surge of pleasure, every contraction and release.  We roll in the oceanic grip of our emotions, ride the waves of our release to the safety of a shore of exhaustion.
Sleep reaches from the deeps to take us under.
When I awaken, you are gone again.
A note on your pillow reads,

It might have worked, in another life,
But not in this one.  I hope we can be friends some day.
Love always,
K.
xox

*Image from Internet*

Mirror, Mirror…

nudemirror

The power of the imagination is incredible,
as this letter will attest.
What is your favorite fantasy?
What gets you aroused, every time?

Write me at eonserotica@gmail.com
or

Dear Eon,

I have a recurring fantasy in which a mirror plays a major role.  I picture myself naked, approaching a body length mirror mounted on the wall.  I see my pale skin, my skinny frame.  I see the nest of dark pubic hair between my legs.  The soft pale worm of my flaccid penis dangles there, unimpressive when unaroused.
I smirk.  I know how much it grows.  I feel the first flush of pleasure in the knowledge of how surprising my erection can be to a first time viewer.  I remember times where I waited until I was totally limp, small and cold, before disrobing to begin my seduction.  The look of uncertainty on her face as I encourage her to touch it, stroke it.  The incredulous shock that grows on her face even as my cock grows, and still grows.
Once a woman asked me, “When does it stop!?” with a pleased laugh.
I am well endowed, and this pleases me, because clothed, I am not much to look at.  Bony, long and narrow limbed, hunched of shoulder, long-necked with a large Adam’s apple.  Truly, an awkward storklike man.  I have very large hands and feet.  I find this makes it more believable, when I plant the idea in a woman’s head that I might be well hung.  She looks at the parts she can see, the hands with the long, strong fingers, the long feet, the prominent nose, and she thinks, “Perhaps the rest of him, too?”  A woman’s curiosity about a man’s penis will often get her into bed when she has misgivings about the rest.
So I look into the mirror, and I am satisfied with what I see, because I have discovered how to use it to best advantage.  The warmth of my self-regard is spreading through me, now, and my erection begins to grow.  I step closer to the mirror.
The man in the mirror looks me in the eye.  His dark pupils dilate.  He watches me as hungrily as I watch him.  I see the flush of arousal on him, watch him reach for his manhood.  He strokes it unconsciously.  I feel myself grow in my hand as I watch him grow, and I know that he is feeling what I am feeling.
His testacles dangle loosely.  I watch them tighten up towards his body as his ardour grows.  Knowing his eyes are on my genitals thrills me.
I step closer still.
The head of my cock touches his.  Natural lubrication leaks from our tips, mingles.
I glance up to find a smirk on his face.  He turns away from me, glances back over his shoulder.  Leaning forward, he braces himself on the wall behind the mirror and spreads his legs, presenting his ass to me.
I grip the base of my throbbing cock.  My pulse makes it judder and bounce with every beat of my heart.  He slowly flexes his ass cheeks, baiting me.
I step into the mirror.
My hands grip the mirror image of my own hips as I pull his furnace heat back against my crotch.  My skin sticks slightly to his skin, which is my skin.  I feel the sensation of touch, doubled, both sides at once.  Toucher, and touched.  I am sweating, eager.  I press the head of my cock against his asshole.  I feel my asshole pucker, resist.  A shiver of anticipation prickles my skin.  I feel the goosebumps raise beneath my hands.
I spit on the head of my cock, rub the slippery saliva around his asshole with my fingers.  My own asshole twitches at the slick sensation, and I force it to relax.  His anus opens to my cock.  I press inside, slowly, and feel my cock gripped by the hot vice of his asshole.  I feel his cock enter me, pushing past the tightness of my sphincter and probing deeply.  I thrust and receive simultaneously.  I take and am taken.
In the mirror, I pump my cock into his ass even as I am taking his cock in my ass.
The culmination is an overwhelming concatenation of sensation.  The spurting jets of cum leap forth, and I spill my seed inside him.  I feel the hot liquid as it fills me.  The pulsing of his cock as he thrusts and groans in his pleasure.  The slick grip of his asshole as it milks the final drops from me.  The shaking in my knees in his knees.  The tightness in my stomach in his stomach.  The hand reaching around to grasp his cock my cock as it strokes him me to another bucking orgasms and he empties himself into me as I empty myself into him again.
I step back from the mirror.
Seperate from the fantasy.
Sex with myself.
My semen slides slowly towards the floor.

This is my favorite fantasy,
H.V. in MB

*Image from Internet*

To My Daughter

momdaughter

Good evening, and welcome to Eon’s Erotica.  You should write to me!
eonserotica@gmail.com

I rather enjoyed the following submission, which is another anonymous note titled simply, “To My Daughter.”  I thought that an odd way of addressing a letter to yours truly until I read the content, which comes across very much like advice that an older woman might wish to pass along to the next generation.  Something discovered the hard way, that might save a daughter or granddaughter a great deal of unnecessary pain.
I can understand not being able to write this sort of thing directly to your daughter.  So many people don’t discuss such things in polite company, or even in private.  So if, by chance, this well-meaning advice-giver noticed their daughter enjoyed reading a certain erotica site, it is conceivable she took it upon herself to deliver her message in a less direct fashion.
I probably flatter myself, but even so, I’m honored to be a hypothetical go-between.
I hope my hypothetical readers enjoy!

To my daughter,

I have always loved touching myself.  From an early age the magic of my fingertips has been a key to unlock the doors of pleasure.  My access to breathless realms of sexual satisfaction, requiring no permission but my own, has been powerfully liberating.  I have never required a man to bestow such joys upon me.  Rather, men have been more like sexual accessories; often an enhancement to the act, but never strictly required.

Few men, in my experience, posess the interest or the patience to completely map the pleasurable pathways of even a single woman.   Is it not laughable, then, that men count it a point of pride to have slept with as many women as possible?  This is akin to claiming you are a lover of fine wines simply because you drink a lot.

A true connoisseur enjoys his wine slowly.  He notices in the process all the subtle differences between this particular vintage and the last.  He is blessed to enjoy such a heady brew and he knows it.  This truth is evident in the rapturous transportation he displays when given the opportunity to indulge his palate.  See the way he closes his eyes while inhaling deeply of the wine’s unique bouquet.  See the way he swirls such a small sip over his tongue.  He truly tastes it as if for the first time.  When he does swallow, he does so with immense satisfaction.  His eyes open slowly, and he gazes with fondness upon the bottle, the vessel that contained such a rare delight.  Such a look acknowledges the wine’s perfection.  In that moment, no other wine exists but this one.

A woman could accept her lover having many partners, were he always so attentive to her unique savor, quality, and worth.  What should she care if another was pleased just as much if she herself never failed to be satisfied by him?

Such lovers are a rarity, so it is my advice to you to always be attentive to your own needs.  An orgasm must be pursued.  Lead your lovers by the nose, if you must, until they cannot fail to scent their elusive quarry.  Do not allow them to loose their arrows until you can be sure of the kill.  Le petite mort, as the French call it, is worth un peu de travail.  Lacking a properly responsive partner (what are you wasting your time for, dear?) do not hesitate to chase that golden hind yourself.  Let your man sweat and grunt.  Your fingers will get you there more surely than any of his animal efforts.

A lover should not necessarily be slow but, like any good craftsman, he should take his time to be certain of properly completing his task.  What use is a fence with no gate, a house with no roof, a kitchen without counters?  We wouldn’t accept such shoddy efforts from contractors, so why do we accept half-finished work from lovers?

If I have learned one thing from masturbation, my darling, it is that my evident confidence, my self-satisfaction, my independence, is a powerful aphrodisiac.  Are you putting up with a man who does less than he should to please you?  Heavens!  Whatever for?  Stop it this instant!  Reject him and begin pleasing yourself!  In short order you will have them lining up for a glimpse of your mystique.  You can pick and choose, and hold your lovers to a higher standard, so long as you love yourself.

This is an unassailable truth, but it only applies to those who work to love and accept themselves in every way.  To you I say:  this can begin in bed!  We are naturally inclined to love those who bring us pleasure.  So pleasure yourself, and love yourself for it!  And when you find you adore yourself, flaws and all, your confidence will soar, and so too will your magnetism take flight.

A good lover is not a man who arrives with a briefcase full of orgasms to bestow upon you like so many gifts.  A good lover is a man who joins you in releasing the orgasms already locked within you!  Better yet, he is a man who rejoices to discover a strong woman already in command of her own pleasure, who can release her own orgasms as needed.

After all, there are two of you in that bed — there is no need to rely on him alone!

*Image from Internet*

Again

seacliff

It is difficult to describe
That moment
The apex
The tipping point
The sudden plummet

Together we strive
Reaching for handholds
On inner pinnacles
Scaling our selves
Muscling towards
The heights of
Descent

Take me there
To the cliff’s edge
Where first we fell
And with love in your eyes
Throw me over
Again

I am trying to describe
That instant
The nadir
The surging rush
The sudden flood

Together we dive
Stretching for purchase
On hidden currents
Swimming our souls
Kicking towards
The depths of
Ascent

Take me there
To the riverbank
Where first we fell
And with love in your eyes
Hold me under
Again

~Anonymous

*Image from Internet*

You can reach me in the usual way…
eonseroticca@gmail.com
or

Dreaming Of You

swing

Reach me at:

eonserotica@gmail.com

or:

Throughout my life I have had an interest in dreams.
Even at a very young age, I remembered most of my dreams,
and I was curious to know if they meant anything.
Were my dreams omens of the future?
Were they wish-fulfillment?
Could dreams be used to travel to distance places,
Step outside the body,
Visit others who were asleep,
Deliver messages?
When I discovered lucid dreaming,
Sleep, and dreams, became a second life.
Through the active engagement of my dreams,
The manipulation of time and events within the dreamscape,
I could live two, three, four lifetimes in the space of a single evening.
I would explore past lives,
Indulge in fantasies, sexual or otherwise,
Discover parallel worlds and other dimensions.
I would run through problems, over and over,
Eventually hitting on a workable solution through the wonderful,
Inspiring, creative free-association of ideas
That defines the dreaming space.
These solutions could be applied in the waking world to great effect.
Sadly, the more I dreamed,
The less I rested.
There was a time I spent days in bed, living in my dreams.
The freedom to escape at any time by simply falling asleep,
Combined with depression,
Created a very real risk of sleeping pills
Sending me to dreamland
Forever.
I have a healthier approach to sleep and dreams, now,
And most nights I simply let them run their course.
Lucid dreaming still aids in problem solving, when needed,
And occasionally allows me to indulge in fantasy scenarios.
Call it curiosity…
Sometimes wondering what it would be like,
Is too strong an urge to deny.

The following letter is from an anonymous sender.  He spends a great deal of time with the same people, so it’s only natural they should appear in his dreams.  But over the last few years, they’ve appeared more and more frequently, and their regular appearance has become increasingly sexual in nature.  Unsure of what to make of these dreams, he shared them with his wife…

Anonymous writes:

My wife listened intently as I described, in vivid detail, all the sexual adventures we had enjoyed up to that point with our close friends, G and M.  She smiled frequently, laughed out loud at points, and clearly enjoyed my recounting of various racy romps the four of us have had in my dreams.
It was always the four of us: my wife and myself, G and his wife M.  No surprise, the four of us spent all our time together.  If it wasn’t barbecues or birthday parties it was holiday dinners and boardgame nights, coffee and conversation, movies, liquor, summertime celebrations of sunshine and warmth.  We were like family, and we all loved each other and looked out for each other.  We could pair up any which way, the conversation was always good.  If one of us was away, the others would step in to fill their role until they returned, making sure their partner was taken care of, watching out for the kids, helping wherever help was needed.
And yes, there was a time or two when there were a few too many drinks consumed, and friendly banter became something else… it probably all began when my wife, quite tipsy, laughing over the foolish antics of another guest at a party, nearly fell over.  G was there to save her, a strong arm around her waist, and she wound up sitting in his lap.  I was at the same table, playing cards with M, and didn’t think anything of it.  I trust my wife completely, and G as well, and clearly M trusted them both or she might have spoken up.  As it was, my wife noticed our card game and loudly declared, “After this, we’ll have a foursome!”
Referring to the cardgame, of course, but those at the party immediately concluded we were swingers, and with the idea in our heads, we began to joke about it regularly.  It was ostensibly meant to amuse and impress coworkers, who we could feed vague innuendo for reliable reactions, which we then joked about together later.
But most boardgames aren’t the sort that normally wind up being played topless, and Truth or Dare soon became a new favorite when our Foursome gathered for dinner and drinks, so it’s safe to say the idea had taken root and the four of us were leaning towards swinger behaviors more and more as time went by.
Funny thing is, we never quite stepped across that line.  We all loved and respected each other, and we flirted with the idea a lot, but we never took the final steps.  Nudity became a regular thing, sexual jokes, touching even, but the four way sex, or the wife swapping, never really happened.  It doesn’t seem as if it ever will, and that’s quite alright for all of us.  We’re all quite content to have the companionship and closeness, and we’re all quite happy with our own partners.  Swapping isn’t really necessary, and as a source for fantasies, it’s quite incredible.
So when the dreams began, it was no surprise, and when they intensified and became very sexual, it was a point of interest worth sharing with my wife.  What I didn’t expect was her reaction:
Apparently she’d been having sex dreams about us with G and M for quite some time, too.  Moreover (women talk, you know!) she was able to say with some confidence that maybe M might have been possibly no promises but quite likely having sex dreams, too, about her and G with my wife and me.  My wife described her own sex dreams, along with some of these hypothetically possible dreams of M… and I thought I was horny!  My goodness, M suddenly seemed so much sexier!
Time passes, my own dreams only become richer and more detailed after hearing what the two women had shared, and eventually, out for lunch with G, I manage to casually raise the subject.
Sure enough, G has been having sex dreams.
Weirdly, mostly of me, though the ladies sometimes played a role.
I’m kidding, that was a joke for G if he ends up reading this!  I love you, buddy!
Truth is, he’s one of the most sexually active guys I know.  Always hungry for it, always ready for it, two, three, four times a day, no problem, G will rock your G spot.  M has always said she didn’t know what sex was until her and G hooked up.
So, final analysis: me, burdened with the knowledge that all four of us frequently have sex dreams about all of us, together.  It made me hard just to think about it… these two wet and willing women, stroking, sucking, fucking, me trading off with my best wingman, the master cocksman himself, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized I would suck him hard myself, just to watch him put it in my wife.  I would lick and tickle M’s pussy while watching my wife swallow G’s thick cock.  I didn’t care how the numbers added up, but if you put the four of us in a room naked, I was sure the math would work out just fine.
And every night, now, the dreams, my god, the dreams!
G and M, pounding away like teenagers on the couch in their living room, and I arrive early for our dinner gathering.  G says, “Put the salad on the counter and come give me a hand with this!  The wicked wench is going to outlast me, and I won’t have it!”  So I dive in there, licking and caressing her breasts, sucking her pert pink nipples, until she demands my cock and begins to suck.  I work a finger into her asshole, swirl her clitoris in circles, the whole time G thrusts manfully, and between the two of us it’s too much for her and she overflows with pleasure.  G can finally let go, releasing his masterful self-control and shooting thick ropes of cum over her belly and breasts.
This leaves me hard as a rock, and I step between her legs to take a turn, when my wife arrives.  Watching me fuck his wife, G gets hard again within minutes.  He’s a standup guy, G.  My wife is wet in an instant, walking in on this scene, and seeing G’s arousal she pushes him back on the couch, next to me and M, and straddles him.   As she rides, she leans over to kiss M, and G and I enjoy the show.  I reach over to smack my wife’s bouncing bottom every now and then, just to remind her I’m there with her and I’m enjoying myself every bit as much as her.
Stroking in and out of M’s soaked cunt, so hot and tight, I tip over the edge.  Pulling out, my jizz joins G’s on her tits and tummy.  My wife bends over to take my wet cock in her mouth, slurping up the last of my semen and tasting M on me.  She bucks and moans and gushes over G, who shouts and shoots his load inside her, a pleasure I’m forced to deny her since I haven’t had myself snipped yet.
M kneels to lap G’s juices from my wife’s saturated center.  Seeing her bottom wiggling around in the air like that, I can’t help but stroke myself.  Everything is so sexy and new, with the added twist of extra partners, I’m growing hard again as I watch.  Her asshole begs to be filled.  G can read my mind, and spits on her anus to get it ready for me.  He works his fingers inside her, and she moans into my wife’s mound as she realizes what’s coming.  G gets his face right in there as I press my cockhead against his wife’s tight little butthole.  He licks my shaft and spits on her ass and rubs with his fingers until I pop inside with a sudden surge.  Continually wetting my wood, G gets us good and gushing until I’m slipping in and out of M’s backdoor with ease.
Then G puts his cock in my wife’s mouth.  He tells her to slobber him up good.  Then he steps around behind me and forces his way into my backdoor!  I’m split by his massive cock while splitting his wife, and she’s eating my wife, and oh my god the pleasure, in every direction, the glistening skin and flushed faces and the sounds of slapping and gasping and moaning like music to my ears!  After dinner, the orgy carries on well into the night, fuelled by alcohol and joy and curiosity and a passionate love for one another.  We all want so much to bring each other pleasure.
And that, my friend, is only one dream.  Over the last few years, I’ve had dozens and dozens of such dreams, every permutation you can think of.  A recent version involved my wife, a shower, a rather large cucumber, and M in a very naughty dress.  Poor G was working up north, and I had to help out while he was away.
In others, I’m just an observer, watching as my wife is pleasured beyond the ability to even think by our two best friends, who know her so well they can play her like maestros on a piano.  In others it’s just sex, my wife and I, tender, loving, enjoying the closeness of our friends who share their own intimate moment nearby.  Seeing the love, feeling the love, it’s reinforced and amplified.
So far, all this has remained within the realm of dreams, and I’m satisfied with that.  I wouldn’t say no, were it to happen for real, but fantasy and reality are two different things, and they don’t always mix well.  I’m comfortable with that.
Still, who knows what the future may bring?

All the best!

*Image from Internet*