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*



You can reach me at:



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,

*Image from internet*

After Long Darkness

You can reach me at:



  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*