Mirror, Mirror…


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

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


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

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*

Short But Sweet

Write me at:



Good morning, dear readers!
My work schedule is up in the air, at the moment, so going forward posts might become somewhat sporadic.  I will still be endeavoring to post three times per week; however, no guarantees on which days that might be.  Things should settle out over the course of the month as new employees relax into their roles and the ebb and flow of customers which dictates the rhythms of the business slows to steady, predictable waves.  Fall is always a transitional period after the craziness of summer.
But enough about that.
Today I would like to share with you a couple brief missives.  We have one woman’s hasty crayon scribbles on a series of napkins, possibly done at a family friendly diner while the kids were distracted with drawing or with the arrival of their meals.  And we have a short letter, shyly hiding its story in a plain white envelope, opening to reveal seductive contents, pink and red folds of sweet smelling stationery.
I hope you enjoy.


Kwaia writes:

Today the server caught my eye, and winked at me.  Gorgeous tanned and fit man with an amazing smile.  I’ve seen him somewhere before, one of those online dating sites I think.  So I told the kids to stay put, mommy’s just going to the bathroom.  I said it loudly while he was nearby, and he watched me get up and make my way towards the washrooms in the back.  As I pushed through the door I threw a look over my shoulder and I quirked an eyebrow at him.  One long pause as I licked my lips as sensuously as I could and I backed into the washroom, my eyes locked on his, a grin on my face.  He looked all around.  It was clear he got my message.  I didn’t have to wait more than two minutes.  Suddenly he was there in the stall with me, my jeans were down around my ankles, and I was pressed up against the filthy wall of the toilet stall.  I fumbled a condom out of my purse, and then his rigid length was thrusting deep into my soaking wet cunt.  He grunted, “So hot,” and started pounding.  I’m certain the rapid slapping of our bodies could be heard in the dining room, and I couldn’t help but gasp and utter short, sharp shrieks as he slammed into me.  He reached over to cover my mouth and I bit his thick fingers as he muffled my screams.  It was so wrong to leave my children alone for this, it was so far outside my usual habits, it was so damn arousing!  We could be caught.  He could lose his job.  But… I came the instant he entered me and just kept cumming until he finished.  In all I don’t think we were in the washroom for more than five, ten minutes.  My knees were shaky and weak.  My face was flushed and my hair was in disarray.  When he was done he tossed the condom in the toilet and left without a word.  I went pee and then took a moment to breathe, splash water on my face, straightened my hair in the mirror.  Then I went back to lunch with my children as though nothing had happened.  I’m writing this now while I have the time, because the rest of my day will be a whirlwind of chasing children, dealing with tantrums, chores and laundry.  But I stole a few minutes for myself, and sweet mercy was it good.  I won’t leave a tip.  He already got it.  Or did I?  Mmm…  Maybe I’ll treat the kids to lunch more often…


Jocelyn writes:

I’m Jocelyn, and I travel a lot for work.  Sometimes I’ll be away from my husband for weeks at a time.  He’s a tech geek, and last christmas he surprised me with an attachment he made for my iPhone.  It plugs in where the charger would, and the wire extends down to a little vibrator, about 3 inches long, fairly slim but bulbous at the end.  He wrote some software that he uploaded onto my phone, and now, when I’m away, I can plug in my little toy, and sexting becomes so much more interesting.  The software watches our texts, and follows the commands he gives it.  He’s clever.  The commands can be sent along with normal sexting, dirty talk.  All he has to do is work the keywords into his message to adjust my experience as we play.  With a quick text, he can change the sensation from a pulse to a vibration, the speed from low to high and back again.  He’s gotten very good at it.  By reading my texts, intuiting where I’m at in my arousal, he can sometimes make it seem as though he’s in the room with me, fingering and licking my pussy.  I just close my eyes and let him work.  It helps, because when I’m away, I miss him so much.  I think he gets off on the power of being able to make me cum from a distance, and the weeks of teasing me arouses him.  By the time I get home he’s horny as hell and I can barely get through the door before he’s tearing my clothes off.  I always give in completely and let him have me any way he wants me.  After all, he just spent all that time keeping me satisfied without me there taking care of him in return.
Right now he’s working on a way to give my little toy voice commands, so that we can play through FaceTime, and we can actually talk to each other, hear and watch each other’s pleasure.  I’m looking forward to see what he comes up with, and I’m tempted to suggest he adapt a Fleshlight for himself, so that our long distance love can go both ways.  After that, wireless, and then?  The possibilities are limitless!
All hearts and naughty parts,

*Images from Internet*

Love, Volcanic and Sudden


You can reach me at:



Fighting a sore throat and stuffy nose today.  The weather is miserable in this corner of the world.  The rain gathers and scatters like schools of silver fish chased by the cold shark teeth of the wind.  It’s a drowning wind, laden with water, capricious and malicious like a big stupid child, eager to snatch you up and just as quickly dash you back down.  I’m happy to be out of the rain where it’s warm.  And, if I wanted a little more warmth today, this letter might provide it.

Carmen writes:

In January I walked in on my long time friend and roommate, Cliah, in the middle of a suicide attempt, and fell in love.

I was home early from a long, frustrating day at work, just one more in a long series of them, really, but different this time, because this one culminated in me throwing my name tag and apron at the manager and storming out.  Out of a job, out of the certainty and security of a humdrum life, out of everything familiar, and straight into the bizarre and unknown.

On my way home I grabbed a couple coffees, on the off chance my roommate was home.  I completely missed the chance to flirt with the cute guy at the counter like I usually do, which shows how much of a funk I was in, then trudged the remaining miles to our apartment with a little black cloud hanging over my head the entire way.

Banged into the apartment, threw my keys in the bowl on the table by the door, called out, “Honey, I’m home!”

Silence.  Like a slow fade in, the sound of quiet gagging registers on my ears.

“Cliah?  You okay, babe?”

Cliah and I have been best friends since we were five.  We’d fought over toys, fought over clothes, fought over boys.  We’d made up, again and again, like sisters, like yin and yang, like, I don’t know, like people who don’t always see eye to eye but deep down really understand each other.  The point is, if she was hurting, I wanted to know about it.  Either so I could laugh at her for being an idiot or so I could go kick the shit out of whichever asshole had broken her heart this time.

Fuming, certain it must’ve been that manipulative pig Brad again, I shouldered my way through the bead curtain and kicked her bedroom door open, coffees in hand.

This is what I saw:  An open space, dimly lit by a lava lamp.  Her bed against the wall to my right, just a mattress on the floor, in total disarray, as usual.  Clothing scattered everywhere, colorful panties and bras peeking out from under and on top of various things like wee creatures startled by an intruder.  Magazines stacked in random piles.  Dogeared books lying open facedown and forgotten.  A black hole of a closet across the room.  Pale and painted onto this yawning darkness, Cliah, naked, suspended from an electrical cord in the middle of the room.  Face turning purple, just her toes barely grazing the overturned trashcan spilling wadded up Kleenex and used condoms onto the floor.  Cliah.  Eyes bulging.  Fingers clawing bright red trails in her swelling throat.  Breasts plump and shaking as her struggles for air increase.  Legs beginning to search spastically for the garbage bucket as the panic sets in.  Our eyes lock.  A hand reaches towards me feebly.  Pleading.

The sound and feel of two hot coffees hitting the floor and splashing over my feet jolts me back to reality.  With a yell I run across the room and leap into Cliah, grabbing the cord above her head and swinging from it.  Drywall or hook, I’m not sure which, but it gives and we crash to the floor together, a tangle of flailing arms and legs.  I dig frantically at the cord buried in the flesh of her neck but I can’t get a purchase on it, it’s too tight.  I’m screaming at her, calling her names, crying so hard snot flies from my nose as I slap her and punch her and beg the goddamn cord to let go, let go.

Finally, it does.  Her first ragged breath is like music to my ears.  Like a choir of angels bursting into song.  I collapse on top of Cliah, sobbing and laughing, covering her in kisses and phlegm and tears as she pushes at me feebly, trying to get air into her lungs.

I can’t stop kissing her.  My mouth roams over her shoulders and neck and face.  With every kiss I’m whispering, “I love you, I love you, please don’t ever try to leave me again.”

For a while she just lays there, just breathing.  Just trying to be alive.  And then she croaks, “Do you mean it?”

I sit up on top of her, looking down.  Her blue eyes, bloodshot now, but still beautiful, look up at me.  They demand honesty.

“Mean what?” I hedge.  I’m suddenly aware that I’m poised on the edge of a precipice, and I’m teetering.  Before this moment, I had never even considered loving another woman.  Not in that way.  In the past few minutes, I’ve given my best friend more kisses than I’ve ever given to every boy I ever kissed, combined.  Strangely, all I can think is, What if I had started kissing her sooner?

“Do you…” Cliah takes a deep, shuddering breath, then lets it out slowly.  Her words ride the escaping air in a whisper.  “Do you really love me?”

My answer is another kiss, this time full on the mouth.  My hands stroke the side of her neck and grip the hair at the back of her head.  The taste of my tears mingles with our saliva as I roughly press my lips into hers, probing with my tongue.  I bite her lower lip as I pull away, just far enough to look her in the eyes.

“Yes!” I say.  Fiercely.  I’m over the edge and plummeting.  I felt a premonition of this when I walked out on my job; today, everything changes.

My clothes melt away as if by magic.  Her hands are shaking but determined as they explore my curves.  I’m taller than her, skinnier, with shoulder length brown hair and green eyes.  She’s short, even for a girl, a little chubby, well padded in all the womanly places, with long blonde hair and blue eyes like chips of ice.   Her lips are soft and tender and hungry for me.  I lead her to the bed.

Cliah, caught in the most vulnerable moment of her life, opens herself to me in a way she never has before.  Body and soul, she gives herself to me.  She needs to find something inside her worthy of living, and I do everything in my power to show it to her.  Fingers and hands, lips and tongue, I caress every inch of her.  I kiss her goosebumps and bite her nipples.  I tongue her belly button and squeeze her breasts and ass.  I press her mons pubis with the palm of my hand, part her labia with my fingers, lick and suckle her clitoris.  I lap at her inner nectar with slow, broad strokes of my tongue, soaking her with spit.  I probe her insides with my tongue and fingers, touch and tease her until she’s shuddering.

Everything I do to her she does to me.  The fires of passion ignite in her eyes.  I hope a passion for life burns with them.
Hours pass in this way, culminating in the press of our pussies, one against the other, swollen and slippery from our play.  The slow rubbing sends frissons of electricity through me.  Warm coils of pleasure unfurl within, like seeking tendrils, reaching out to my fingers and toes, filling me up.  Slow becomes surging, sudden, desperate, frantic.  We thrash our sexes together in furious release.  She cries out, and collapses, spent.  I bite my lip, silent, grim, determined, and grind on, finding one, two, three little explosions after another, as she laughs and pushes at me, begging me, “Stop!  Stop!”  Finally, volcanically, I find my release.

I curl around her from behind, and pull a blanket over us.  She sighs, a deep release of something long held inside.  Together, in the dim wandering light of the lava lamp, we fall into blissful sleep.

Months have passed.  Cliah has been seeing a counsellor.   Writing a journal.  Painting.  Some nights she gets so low I find it difficult to trust her on her own.  She promised me she won’t try to leave me again, and I want to believe that.  I need to believe it.

Most days, though, Cliah is a wonder of energy and exuberance.  Life has taken on new meaning for her, and she works hard to embrace it in all its jagged beauty.  She has a long, arduous path ahead of her, I think.  But I will be there, holding her hand, every step of the way.


 *Image from Internet*

Hello, and welcome to Eon’s Erotica.


You can reach me at:




Send me your favorite arousing fantasies.
Share your guilty, sexy secrets.
Send a passionate postcard.
Send me a love story,
A lust story.
Describe your dirtiest dreams, your most vivid and erotic desires.

How do you masturbate?
Describe your first time touching yourself
Having sex…
Getting caught doing something taboo…
What is your naughtiest habit?
Do you secretly lust for a friend?  A cousin?  A coworker?  A stranger?

Your most personal thoughts and feelings, your intimate confessions, all are welcome here.  The most entertaining, the most arousing of the writings received will be posted here for others to enjoy.  You may remain anonymous or include your return address if you desire a hand-written response.

Ultimately, my goal is to show that we’re not alone.
Always, there is someone out there just like us, someone with the same passions and desires, someone we can connect with on a deep and meaningful level.
I want you to start talking about these things, because through thoughtful discourse comes understanding, and through understanding and acceptance come joy.

We are all beautiful, in our own ways.

With love,
And warmest wishes,