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*

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*

Love Is A Crime

badcupid

eonserotica@gmail.com

Love Is A Crime

Her name was Melanie, and she stole my heart.
I was three.  She lived a few houses down, and used to babysit.
I don’t remember her parents, but I’ve heard they were indulgent.
I used to toddle down the street and ring their doorbell.
“Can Melanie come out to play?”
She would have been twelve.
Maybe she already had a boyfriend?
It took me until I was 16 to get my heart back.
Until then, I replaced it with a pretty purple stone.

Her name was Tanya, and she stole my stone.
I was four.  She lived around the corner from me.
Her mother was German, and made incredible coffee cake.
Tanya and I would hold hands, and pretend to be married.
I never did get my stone back, so I stole an extra piece of cake.
It filled the cavity nicely.

Her name was Thea, and she stole my coffee cake.
I was five.  She lived across the street from me.
Her father wasn’t German, but he looked like Hitler.
He was very strict, so Thea and I couldn’t hold hands.
Instead, we played doctor, and her sister Nell was the nurse.
Thea always seemed to need surgery on her vagina.
I really liked that cake, but I didn’t want it back from her.
Thea gave me my first kiss.
I knew the perfect place to keep it.

Her name was Kelly, and she stole my first kiss.
I was six.  She lived at the top of the street, in the cul de sac.
She had a twin sister named Carmen.  My friend Ed loved Carmen.
Carmen and Kelly’s parents were never around.
We would play tag in the woods behind the house.
If you got caught, the twins would kiss you.
Ed never got caught, but I always got caught, eventually.
Kelly took my first kiss, but she gave me dozens to replace it.

Her name was Teagan, and she stole all my kisses.
I was eight.  She lived a long way away, on the other side of town.
I never met her parents, but they seemed nice.
We met in school and she liked me because I said her name right.
“It’s TAY-gun,” I’d say, “Not TEA-ghin!”
And I’d beat the crap out of Nick, who always said her name wrong.
I walked Teagan home from school every day.
We would hold hands and talk about school, and homework.
She never gave me any kisses, but she blushed a lot,
Especially when I told her how much I liked her.
I kept her blushes where my heart used to be.

His name was Felix, and he stole my blushes.
I was twelve.  He lived a few blocks away.
His parents were weird.  French, and always saying strange things.
Without my blushes, I was willing to consider new things.
Felix and I explored these things together.
He gave me confusion, and took it away again.
He gave me fear, and a little stayed with me.
He gave me a better sense of my identity.
That, I kept.

I bumped into Melanie again, and got my heart back.
I was sixteen, and she was twenty-five.
Her husband was ruggedly handsome.  He said,
“Is this the one… ?” And she laughed,
“Yeah.  He was so cute!”
I scratched my head and watched them walk away.
It didn’t seem damaged in any way.  My heart, I mean.
And even with a better sense of myself, it still fit nicely.

Her name was Catalina, and she stole my heart.
I was seventeen, and still didn’t know any better.
Her mother was rarely around; she wanted to be in Australia.
Cat and I didn’t actually like each other,
Though we still love one another.

It took an awful lot of sex to discover that fact.
A lot of arguments, too.
Meanwhile, my friends drifted away (I let them go),
My family drifted away (I never even noticed),
My grades drifted away (I barely graduated).
We grew apart, and we grew up.
Life has a funny way of wearing away the rough edges.
We sort of like each other now.
Despite everything (or perhaps because of it) she kept my heart.
To be fair, I think I kept hers.

Well, that sums up early childhood through teen years, minus some odds and ends that aren’t in keeping with the tone of this poem.  I could probably do another for adulthood.  I could probably do an entire book of poems for every person I’ve ever loved, but I won’t bore you with that.  Instead, I will leave you with the inspiration behind my words, a letter from a woman (who used to be) named Felony.

Felony writes:

Hey Eon,

My parents named me Felony, for the way I was conceived.  The story I heard (not from my parents, mind you, but from a friend of theirs) was that in the swinging seventies they fell in with a bad crowd.
They all shared the same kinks, swapping partners, big orgies and sex parties, most of it while flying high or tripping way out.  It was natural for them to spend most of their time with the friends they made in that crowd,  but that crowd was fond of flipping off “The Man,” angry environmental demonstrations and political rallies being the least of their activities meant to undermine authority.
Some of that crew sabotaged police vehicles late at night, breaking into fenced compounds, cutting brake lines, sugaring gas tanks, setting cruisers on fire.  Others had robbed a bank or two.
My parents were encouraged to involve themselves in action against the corruption and corporate thievery of Big Brother.  High on idealism as much as anything that might have gotten up their noses, they began a series of B & Es.
They would target the wealthy homes of bankers, politicians, businessmen, even police.  They got away with it for a long time through sheer brazenness.  They were actually very intelligent, when they weren’t flying on chemicals, so they developed a system, and the system worked.  They could walk into a home, get the grand tour from the home owner himself, the whole time making notes on an official looking clipboard.  If they didn’t rob the poor sod blind during that very tour with a series of quick-fingered manouvers, or by manufacturing an excuse to separate, leaving one free to grab choice items while the other distracted the homeowner, they would use the notes they were taking right in front of their target to come back later and finish the job.
So many descriptions of my parents circulated due to the disguises they wore that it was thought, for a long time, that a crime syndicate was responsible for targeting the elite, the influential, the well-to-do.
My father once told me:  Never get too good at anything.  It makes you lazy.
My parents, so drunk on success and wealth that they spent outrageously, confident of always having more, began to take totally unnecessary risks when on the job.  My mother would seduce a police officer in his home, handcuff him to his own bed with his own cuffs, then leave him there when my father showed up to announce the house had been cleaned out.
They would set off an alarm at a mansion on purpose, drawing police and firemen to the scene, and rob the house next door right under the collective nose of authority.  When they were done, they would often go out to join the crowd that had gathered from around the neighborhood, all the looky-lous who came to stare, and start asking questions of the police, riling everyone up about slow response times, lack of leads or suspects, questioning what was being done to make the area safe again.  They implied that tax payers paid police wages, and these taxpayers paid more than anyone.  In essence, they were the officers’ real employers, and they deserved special attention.  Capitalizing on the deeply distrustful spirit of the times, when so few people believed in the leadership of the government, these scenes could rapidly devolve into entire angry neighborhoods ready to crucify what they now saw as lazy pigs, when in reality the poor men and women trying to placate them were just trying to do their jobs.
Still, it wasn’t until they joined in on a bank job (something they had once sworn they would never do) that they got caught.  True to form, they failed to take the task at hand seriously, and when the crew on that job realized my parents were a liability, they cut and ran.  With no escape, trapped in a bank vault, my parents did “the logical thing,” as they put it, to pass the time:  they made love.  For hours, over and over again, they  made love, reaffirming their devotion to one another with passionate kisses and tender touches.  By the time police had located a bank manager to open the vault, my parents were fast asleep, tangled naked in a mess of documents torn from the steel womb of the vault.
My mother gave birth to me in prison.  I was immediately given over to state custody and placed in an orphanage.  One last “screw you” to The Man, I think, forcing him to raise the child of crime, change my diapers, feed me, clothe me.
My mother dubbed me Felony.  It said so right on my birth certificate.  When I was growing up, everyone called me “Lany,” and I’ve since had my name changed legally.
I do everything legally.  I often wonder if my parents would be disappointed in me, but times have changed.  Surveillance technology, forensic science, police powers; there’s so much today that would prevent my parents from living the life they lived back then.
They did leave me with something, though.  A thing only a few people have ever known about me.  Something I’m sharing with you now because part of why I’m writing is to try to understand.  I hope this is the first steps towards knowing why.
Throughout my life, I have fantasized about being trapped.  Locked in a bank vault, like my parents, put in a cage by cruel men, tied to beds, chained to the desk of a powerful company president.  When I became sexually active, I found myself unable to reach the peaks of arousal, or orgasm, without some sort of restraint preventing my “escape.”  This always made me feel very embarassed, because I never really wanted to escape, I wanted to have sex, but I couldn’t find the words to make myself understood, and not many people knew the story of my parents and my birth.
Telling a man, “Hold me down.  Don’t let me get away.  Pin me,” was sometimes enough for the pleasure to crest, but not often.  I had a chance to get away, then.  Tied up, chained to something too heavy to move, I could submit more fully and allow myself to be brought to climax.  It hasn’t ever been difficult to convince men to do this for me.  Most men secretly want to dominate women, I think.  Control us.  I haven’t suffered from want of sexual satisfaction.  But there is another satisfaction that seems to be missing from my life… no matter how many men I get to constrain me, cage me, chain me, pin me, truss me, keep me, neither they nor I truly know why I need this.  I am not truly a submissive, by nature.  I enjoy giving my man commands, and I sometimes hate my inability to climax if I don’t submit to restraints.  It seems there is something sad being said about my life when my bed is equipped with leather straps.  Like the cage I’m truly trapped in is my own fear of living outside the lines, of breaking rules, of defining myself without reference to the expectations of society and authority.
Thank you for reading, Eon.  This has been… helpful.  One can’t really redefine oneself without first knowing what needs to be redefined.

Love,
Felony

*Image from Internet*

Liam’s First Time

bigbutt

eonserotica@gmail.com

My apologies for the delayed post today.
Was entertaining guests this evening,
no time to write my own reflections.
So here is a somewhat longer letter from Liam.

Liam writes:

Dear Eon,

The first time I had sex I was 17.  I was sort of seeing this girl Leanne from my homeroom in highschool.  I say sort of because I don’t think she really thought of me that way, but we spent most of our time together.  We walked to school together almost every day.  Home again, too.  Spent lunch break together, working on homework and art projects and stuff.  She was pretty with long black hair and pale skin.  Her eyes were big and gorgeous green.  She had a cleft palette when she was born, but she’d had a lot of surgeries to fix it by the time she was 16, so she just had a scar on her upper lip and a slightly crooked nose.  Maybe a bit of a lisp.  I thought it made her more exotic.  I think she thought it made her ugly, which is why she never expected guys to think she was beautiful.  She had a slim waist and a great big round butt, which I loved.  It stuck out and wiggled back and forth when she walked.  Her back was kinda swayed at the bottom, so the way her ass stuck out was a bit exaggerated, but I was 17.  To me it was sexy.  It was so hard to ignore that wonderful wiggling ass.

I can’t remember why, exactly, but she had to go to the store one lunch hour to buy something, and I volunteered to go along.  Maybe I invited myself along, I don’t know.  I sometimes think she was just being nice to me because I was a bit of a goof and awkward with the girls, but I like to think maybe she actually liked me because I was funny and smart when I got over being shy.  She had had boyfriends before, but she was single at the time, and I was hoping that we’d end up becoming a couple.  Anyway, we went and bought this thing, and we were walking through the parking lot back to her car, and it was a crowded parking lot, so I was walking behind her so I didn’t get run over.  And I just stared at her butt the whole time.  She must’ve glanced back and caught me looking, but I was 17.  I figured it was the perfect crime, her having to watch for traffic, no way would she catch me.  But she did.
The car ride back to the highschool was pretty quiet.
“You think my butt’s too big, don’t you?”
She sounded kind of angry. I was caught off guard, but she was clearly offended that I’d been staring.  Must’ve caught me smirking and thought I was laughing at her or something.  Boy was she wrong.  I blurted out the first thing that came into my head.
“I always wanna touch it.”
“What?”
I was in deep already.  Might as well see how far this would go.
“It looks so round and soft.  Sometimes I wish you would be naughty just so I could spank you.”
“WHAT!?”
“Um… look, you asked.  I shouldn’t have been staring, okay?  I’m sorry.  But I wasn’t laughing.  I was admiring.”  And then, as a sort of afterthought, I muttered, “Maybe daydreaming a little bit.”
The rest of the drive was spent in a kind of contemplative quiet, her mulling over the things I’d said, maybe wondering what to make of it, and me just staring out the window, wondering if I could put my foot in it any deeper.  I wasn’t too upset.  I’d never really had any chance with a girl before.  This was the first time I’d ever admitted how I’d felt, though.  My heart was pounding.  I felt like maybe something should be happening, somehow this should have turned out different.  But she was just quiet and distant and I felt like a bit of an idiot.
We had different classes that afternoon.  I waited for her after school in the usual spot, and she didn’t show.  I wandered home, punting a rock along most of the way.  When I lost the rock I switched to a pinecone.  I admit it.  I was down.  Like, really dejected.  She must’ve thought I was your typical sex crazed dude now.  I mean, I was, but usually I wasn’t so obvious about it.
My route home took my by her house, so I swung wide by a couple of blocks and hit the store for some cola on my way.  Got home and sat around playing video games, drinking pop and feeling sorry for myself.  When my buddy Don called I was ready for some activity, so I grabbed a hoodie and took off to meet him.  We went into town to the coffee shop everyone always gathered at.  It was open until midnight, great place to hang out.  They sold used books there, and had boardgames and net access, and were friendly to large groups of teens.  We spent a lot of time there.  Don had gathered a good crowd, Ru and Sae and Mike and Ben and Betty… the twins, too, Bianca and Beth.  Lots of B names in that crowd, now that I’m writing them down.  But there was Jer, too, acting odd as usual, but getting lots of laughs.  And Jean was there.  She came right over for hugs and sat on my lap when I found a place at the couch.  I put my arms around her and we cuddled close.  She always knew when I was feeling low.  Her and I were tight, had been for years.  Funny how I never thought of her as a romantic option.  We’d even shared a bed a few times, nearly naked, but somehow it just never seemed sexy or anything.  She was cute enough, but…  She was more like a sister to me.  She was close to Leanne, too, and I sometimes thought she might secretly have a thing for her.  I knew she was bi.  I just didn’t know how bi, you know?  Anyway, she was an odd girl, didn’t ever ask me for anything, but was always physically affectionate with me.  I guess I’d always been really nice to her, affectionate without being aggressive like some other guys.  Never pushed her for sex or touching or any of that.  She was quiet and easy to be around.  So I lost myself in her company and in the crowd.  When Byron showed up the night really got started.  That guy was brilliant, funny, tough and cool, always had something interesting on the go.  He had Aden with him, and before long we were all down at the little airstrip in the middle of town, talking big philosophy and watching the stars.  Byron had a couple joints, so we smoked a bit.  I always started grinning and telling stories when I got high.  People began to drift off as it got later.  I lost track of who stuck around, caught up in a conversation with Byron.  Eventually, must’ve been 1 am, I was getting cold (Jean wasn’t around keeping me warm anymore) and I made to go.

Couldn’t find the keys to my car.  Tried all the doors.  Locked.  Damn.  It was an hour walk to get home, and everybody with a car had already left.  Double damn.  The guys I’d offered a ride to all slugged me in the arm or gave me a shove, but it was friendly enough.  We started trudging.  One by one they all turned down streets that would lead them home.  I was on my own, with a half hour to go.  The rain started.  I didn’t hurry my pace.  I was lost in thought.  Thinking about Leanne, thinking about how I’d told her I thought she was sexy, her ass was incredible, how I wanted to touch her.  I might as well have told her how I fantasized about her naked, how some days I showed up early to pick her up on the way to school in the hopes she’d still be in the shower when I got there.  Sometimes she was, and I’d sit in the den and wait.  She’d walk by from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her and one in her hair.
“Hey, Liam,” she’d say.  “Just be a minute.”
She was always more than a minute.  I remember the time she left her door cracked open while she was changing.  I got teasing glimpses of pale skin, but I was never sure what I’d been looking at.  Still, that didn’t stop me from jacking off that night, thinking about her naked body.  I always hoped it would happen again, that I’d be able to contrive some way of accidentally stumbling in on her.  But that was a bit hopeless now.

The rain suited my mood.  When I neared my house, I realized I didn’t have keys to get in.  They were on the same ring as my car keys.  I didn’t feel like breaking in.  My dad was the type to call the cops, even after he saw it was me.  And I really didn’t feel like waking up my folks and explaining to them what I was doing out in the rain at 2 in the morning.  Especially when I’d told them I’d be staying the night at Don’s.  They probably figured I was a good boy and I’d been in bed right at 10 pm.  So what to do?

I wandered around for a while, getting thoroughly soaked, feeling miserable, considering the merit of waiting for sunrise and weighing it against waking up my parents.  When I looked up from staring at my squishing shoes as I slouched along, I saw a light on in the window of Leanne’s house, and I realized where my traitor feet had taken me.  But then I figured, why not?  In my current state I’d at least get a little sympathy.  Maybe it would be enough to get some forgiveness for the things I’d said earlier.  And lucky me, the light was on in her window.  I wandered over and peeked inside.  Through the gauzy curtains I could see she was sitting in bed, reading.  I didn’t know what time it was anymore, but it must have been well past 3.

I tapped on the window.  She started and glanced up.  Got out of bed, slowly, and pulled the curtain aside.  When she saw my face in the glow of her bedside lamp, she pointed to the side of the house with the carport.  I understood, and went to wait by the basement entrance there.  She left her room and moved through the den to let me in.
“Hi Leanne.”
“Hey.  You’re soaked.  Come in, but be quiet.  My mom’s still awake.”
Her too?  What was with these women?
“What are you doing here?”
“Lost my keys.  Had to walk home from town, and couldn’t get into my house.  Thought I’d gamble on waking you rather than pissing off my parents.”
She stared at me, a strange frown on her face.
“Uh, look,” I continued, “I just need a place to sit and dry out, maybe a cup of tea.  When the sun comes up I’ll go home and make up some excuse about having a fight with Don.  I don’t want to bother you.”
She sighed.
“No bother.”
She took me by the hand and led me into the bathroom, which was across the hall from her room.
“Take off your clothes,” she said matter of factly.
“What?”
“You’re soaked.  Take off your clothes.  I’ll get you a robe.”
I stripped and wrapped a towel around my waist.  I was freezing, and there was no way my shriveled dick was going to embarrass me by jumping to attention, even naked in front of the girl I liked.  I was too tired and too cold to even think about that, really.  Well, maybe not that cold and tired.  But close.
She came back and tossed me a white terry cloth robe.  I put it on, cinched it tight, and followed her into her room after letting the towel fall.
She had a large room.  It took up most of the basement, and had an actual fireplace at the far end, with a wide stone hearth.  She was sitting on the hearth, loading wood into the fireplace.  I went and gave her a hand getting the fire started.  Then she left me sitting there, warming up and drying out, while she went upstairs.  I heard a murmured conversation, and then the floor creaking and the closing of a door at the far end of the upstairs hallway.  Her mom finally going to bed, I guessed.
Leanne came back with two mugs of hot chocolate, loaded with little marshmallows.  We sat in companionable silence and drank, and I sighed with contentment as the cold and damp eased away.  Along with it, my worries began to slip away.  I could tell she wasn’t upset with me over earlier.  So I just stared into the fire, and was happy to be silent.
I must have nodded off, because I don’t remember her getting up.  But she took the cocoa mug from my hand and led me to the bed.  She patted it, and I climbed on, sitting somewhat awkwardly in my robe.  I didn’t want to lay down on her bed.  It was too much of a reminder of the way I’d crossed the line earlier.  I was beginning to wake up, and I was feeling way out of my depth here.
She pushed me back on the bed.  She turned out the bedside lamp, and I saw her backlit by the light from the bathroom across the hall.  Her curves were starkly visible beneath the thin nightgown she wore, which looked like a pale halo floating down from her shoulders.  She took a deep breath, and let her nightgown drop to the floor.  I heard it slither across her skin.  The darkness of her pubic hair was a tempting shadow beneath the pale curve of her belly.  I wanted to reach into that shadow and see what I would find.
She climbed onto the bed and knelt beside me.  She reached down and gently spread the robe, revealing me in all my skinny glory.  I felt self conscious and more than a little nervous, but my cock knew what to do.  It was standing almost before she touched it.  When her cool hands closed around it, it came fully alert in an instant.  The jolt it sent through me!  She stroked me a few times, experimentally.
“You’re bigger than I thought you’d be,” she said.
“You… wondered… ?” I managed.
“Well, yeah… after I’d had time to think about what you said… I realized… you’ve always kind of liked me.”  She nodded to herself, then looked over at my face.  “Haven’t you?” she added quickly, suddenly unsure of herself.
“You have no idea,” I whispered.
That seemed to decide her.  She swung a long, graceful leg over me, and used her grip on my penis to guide me into the gap hidden below that nest of dark curls.  She was wet, and warm, and it was so unexpectedly pleasant to be inside her that, one, two, three strokes of her slick folds and I came inside her.  I barely had time to gasp and it was over.
She ceased her gyrations when she noticed me getting soft.
“Already?” she pouted.
It was not good for my frail self esteem.
“Shit… no, I… are you gonna get pregnant?”
“I’m on the pill, relax.”
I fell back on her pillows and stared at the ceiling.  What a disaster.  I could feel myself going soft already.  She knelt there with her hands on my stomach and watched me for a few minutes, and then she climbed off the bed.  With a tug on my hand she guided me to the bathroom, where she started the shower.  Now that I was seeing her nudity in full light, I felt arousal stir again.  A slight tremor of possibility caused my limp cock to twitch.  With her back to me, she never noticed.  She was leaning into the shower to adjust the temperature of the water.  I let my eyes wander over her body, settling finally on that glorious full moon ass.  Slowly, my cock began to harden.
“Let’s get cleaned up and go to bed,” she said, then squealed as I pushed her into the shower.  The curtain snapped closed behind us and I pressed her against the wall, kissing her clumsily, passionately.  I covered her neck in kisses, let my lips caress her collar bone, cupped her breasts and shoved them into my mouth.  I didn’t now what I was doing, but I knew I wanted to do it all.  I sucked and licked and squeezed, caressed her sides, gripped her big firm butt.  I’d read a few porn magazines.  I knelt in the warm spray of the shower, and put my face in her crotch.  She gasped in surprise, then laughed when it became evident I was having trouble finding something worth licking.  She hadn’t ever shaved, and she was rather furry.
“Lower,” she said, and I obeyed.
I found her vagina and let her smell envelope me.  I tasted her wetness and my own failure.  It spurred me on.  Half guided by her sounds and whispered commands, half instinctively, I gave oral sex for the first time, and I loved it.  The way she moved her hips and pushed into my face.  The musky scent of her, the taste on my tongue, the slippery tunnel I slid my fingers into, the beautiful wet skin and warm mounds of flesh I could touch and squeeze.
When I stood up again, I was hard as a rock, and she returned the favor by going down on me.  She stroked me and swallowed it down her throat until her lips bumped my balls.  Her fingers tickled the underside of my scrotum.  She bobbed her head and licked and sucked and I got harder and harder.  The sight of her, young and perky and soaking wet, hair dripping, skin flushed and beaded with moisture, the spray splashing over her curves, it was too much.  I came again, never thinking to warn her.  She made no sound of protest, swallowed it all, licked the residue from my shaft and stroked me until more came out and she licked and swallowed that too.

We finished showering.  We took our time, running our hands over each others bodies in eager exploration.  We soaped each other up and washed each other’s hair.  We touched and talked and laughed.  We went to bed, and we lay in a tangle, hands never laying still, fingers tracing ticklish lines of pleasure over one another’s skin.  I bathed her head to toe with my tongue, kissed every inch of her, got right down close to her vagina and opened her wide and examined the way she was built while asking questions and loving her every giggling answer.  I fingered her to another climax, the whole time asking over and over what felt nice, where to touch her, how, when, why?
She taught me so much in those hours, and as the sun came up I was stiff and aching and she lay back and spread her legs for me.  I slid inside her with relief, feeling the slippery grip of her pussy ease the ache with that first stroke, finding my rhythm, letting her guide me with her words and her hands until I came again.
“Don’t stop,” she begged me, “I’m so close!”
So even as I came, and the pleasure overwhelmed me, I gritted my teeth and kept plunging my cock in and out of her, harder now, faster, striving to get her there before I went limp and loose again.  It didn’t take long.  Her eyes went wide as she stared into my eyes, she bit her lip and she clawed my back.  She arched as her orgasm took her, shaking and turning red until finally she was able to gasp in a breath.
We collapsed in a heap.  She cradled my head against her breasts and stroked my hair.  I nuzzled her and gave her little kisses and playful bites.  Her mom’s footsteps on the stairs nearly went unnoticed.  At the last moment, as her mother came around the corner, I rolled off of Leanne’s warm soft body to the side opposite the doorway, and she snapped the bedsheets up and over me.  Blinded by the light from the bathroom, her mother peered into the darkness of the bedroom.
“Leanne?”
I held my breath.  Leanne ignored her.
“Leanne?  Who are you talking to?”
“Huh?  Wha?”  Her sleepy mumble deserved an Oscar.
“I heard you with someone,” her mom accused.  Thank god there was only the lamp by the bed, and no overhead light she could lean in and switch on.
“Mom, go away.  I’m trying to sleep.  You’re ruining a wonderful dream.”
Silence.
I felt like I was going to burst.  I couldn’t hold my breath any longer.
The silence stretched.
“Mom?”
She turned and walked away.  We heard her stomp upstairs and slam the door to her room.
Relief flooded over us.  We whispered and laughed and didn’t get any sleep that night.  When the sun came up, I put on the clothes that had been drying by the fire, and left by the garage door.  I made my way home, feeling very good indeed.

*Image from Internet*

A+!

loveletter

You can write me at:

or:

eonserotica@gmail.com

Dear readers,
You may recall a post entitled Homework Assignment,
originally posted on the 24th of August.
Today, I’m very pleased to share a pair of letters submitted by a husband and wife team who decided to spice up their sex life and assign each other some very sexy homework.  These are their first attempts at erotic writing, and I have made no effort to edit their offerings, so please be kind with your comments.
If any teachers are reading this, please dress as seductively as possible
and submit video of yourself grading this homework assignment
while being ravished by your lover.
But seriously,
Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. X., for your wonderful letters.
I give them both an A+!

He writes:

She writes:

I’m watching as you begin teasing me, running lips along my inner thighs.
You’re dressed in that sexy, lacy black underwear, wearing those striped thigh-
highs I love so much.  You move up and kiss my shoulder, breathing deeply.
Kiss my mouth.  The warmth of your tongue excites me and I stiffen.  Your
lips are soft and insistent.  I taste your want.

It’s so quiet.  I’m nervous.  Like it’s the first time.  You comfort me and
tell me it’ll be ok.  Your hands on my legs are a soothing sensation.  I love
your hands on my skin.  Your tongue whispers along the inside of my thigh.
It’s so sensitive it almost makes me giggle but it’s not ticklish.  I twitch as
your tongue hits my clit.  The sensation is almost too much to bear.

When you take it in your hand that way, look at it with such hunger, such
desire, it makes me twitch.  And then…
Oh God, I’m inside your mouth, your tongue rolls across the head of my
penis, and you take it deep with a moan of pleasure.  Warmth wraps my
cock like the heat spilling from an oven.  The wetness of your mouth feels
slippery and smooth… it’s like pressure and warmth and dampness all at
once.  The nerves can’t send signals fast enough.  Pure sensation, all of
it good.

 Your beard against my pubic hair is soft.  I love that feeling.
But then your 
tongue flickers over my clit and your fingers
slide inside me.  My heart is racing and my breath is laboring.
Your tongue is so quick.  
You focus on that little pink nub, licking
away.
  Every so often you change the angle and direction and it
sends shocks up my body.  It 
makes me want to arch to
get closer
 and yet I want you to stop but I don’t.


As you draw your head back the cool air chills my shaft.  The exquisite heat
of your mouth descends again, so much hotter by comparison.  Hot, cold,
hot, cold.  Delicious contrast, wrapped in softness.  Your hands stroke the
length of me, slipping along the saliva you’ve coated me with.  It feels in-
credible, electric, the pleasure intensifying in the tip of my penis, building
up inside like the head is swelling.  It could burst at any moment.

A random itch distracts me, but then I feel your finger wiggle
inside me and it makes me think of your thick cock fucking me.
When you have both finger and tongue going I can’t focus on
the pleasure of my clit, so soon I’ll ask you to stop…

Now you’re on top of me and your pussy slips over my cock like liquid fire.
Your juices mingle with mine, with your spit, and you bounce.  God, so
tight.  Almost painful.  The skin pulls down as your muscles squeeze.  The
sensitive part where the foreskin connects to the underside pulls tightest.
Painful.  I have to pull out, push the foreskin up over the head of my cock,
slip inside again.  Now the skin has play, it can pull back until I’m all the
way in.  The head of my cock bumps into your deepest walls.  It’s a jolt
of intensity.

…to kiss my nipples, make them wet while you finger my wet cunt.
That’s what’s going through my head.  It makes me hot all over and
I almost say it but you replace your tongue with your lips and suck
my clit and the pleasure shoots through my body.  Your hands on
my nipples make me twitch in pleasure.  You start to position your
hands to hold me down, as you know I’m close, to keep me in your
mouth.  I can just imagine how hard you must be right now.

You take me inside and squirm like a puppy.  Enjoying yourself?  On your
knees… you thrust back against my erection and moan in ecstacy.  That
beautiful round ass, your skinny little waist sloping down and away to those
incredible shoulders… so sexy.  I love this view of you, face pressed into
mattress, hands reaching over your head to tangle and claw at bed sheets.
My own POV pornstar, my sex kitten, my sultry little goddess, my exotic,
sensuous bride.  Fuck you look good.

That first feeling of your cock inside me, that full feeling,
is so intense it almost hurts, but the pain is also pleasure.
I ask you to lick me again and you do.  The combination
of the fact that you’d do that for me and how you’re willing
to follow direction is so hot that I’m wetter than before.  I
feel my clit swell with the licking of your tongue.

You order me to drop the letter and fuck you.  Thrust and pound.  The wet
concussions of our bodies slapping together nearly drives me over the edge.
Your cunt tightens, a grip like velvet-lined steel.  You push up onto your
hands and hammer back against me and scream in pleasure.  I’m feeling
every throbbing millimeter of my cock, every square inch of skin.  The soft-
ness of your ass cheeks slamming into my hips.  My hands on your back,
your hips, your waist.

I know I’m close.  My body tightens up and the pleasant
tension starts in my belly and spreads slowly out from my
clit.  I want to wriggle and writhe and stay still at the same
time in case I stop feeling what I feel.  My clit is so swollen
that it extends past my lips.  Every part of my pussy is super-
sensitized to the point of discomfort but it feels so good.

The pleasure is entirely centered in the head of my cock, buried in your
slippery center and pulsing against the walls of this fleshly heaven.  It’s
building, straining, growing, stretching my endurance, testing me.  I struggle
to last.  I want you to cum first.  I need to see your pleasure to amplify mine.
I love making you lose control.  Sweet Jesus, you’re stroking my balls.  Your
hands tickle and draw sensuous lines across my sensitive skin.  I’m watching
your ass bounce and I can feel my orgasm closing in.

The orgasm starts in my belly and moves to my toes and it’s
like that instant electric shock from a socket.  It lasts forever
in a second that stretches on til it’s over in a flash but the after-
shocks roll on inside me and then your cock slides in and it’s
so hard and I can feel all the veins and the shape of it so snug
there’s no room for anything else except my wetness.

When it comes it’s like a wave cresting, rising higher and higher until it breaks
and floods out.  I spasm.  My cock jumps and twitches.  My knees lock and
every muscle stiffens.  It’s like turning inside out.  I overheat in an instant.  A
black hole opens up at the tip of my shaft and sucks my entire being inside in
a sparkling moment of bliss.  It’s like falling.  Like landing safely.  Like swallow-
ing fire.  Like submerging in water.  I shout.  I can’t help it.  I feel like a conquer-
ing hero.

The sensation of skin on skin sends shivers and shocks up my
pussy walls til you hit my cervix and then the 
pleasure is so
intense that I want to scream to release 
some of the tension.
The friction of you moving inside me faster and faster and faster
makes that tension so unbearable that when the climax finally
comes, if your weight wasn’t holding me together,
I would twitch and spasm until I came open.

This has been so incredibly intense.  So powerful.  I’m normally very quiet
during sex, I don’t vocalize my pleasure.  I have to remind myself to make
noises to show my enjoyment.  I sink inside myself, I get caught up in the
pleasure, the slippery sensations, the fantastic friction and smooth rock and
glide of it.  I feel my strain as muscles bunch and release, core heats up,
brain loses track of time, focus gets fuzzy.  I look and look and look and look
at you.

The streaks of sensation radiate from pussy to
brain too fast to focus on.  It’s pure feeling.

All my love,

Your exhausted,
Immensely pleasured wife,
X.

I crave your skin.  I want to bury my face in your hair, your breasts, taste every
inch of you, bite you, dive into your wet hot mouth.  I want to take you again,
immediately.  Every time.  But our bodies need rest.  I’m patient.  I can wait
to have you again.  And I will have you again.  I will have you for as long as
you will have me.  Again and again I will.  So until next time, my love…

Yours always,

X.

*Image from Internet*