Eric Ross: Blog

They didn’t mean to be seen. But in the meadow, skin slick and open to the stars, Elara stops hiding.

She names what they called shame. She smears his come on his chest like sacrament. She rides him slow, unflinching.

And when the torches come?

She sits up. Glowing. Unafraid.

“Let them see what they’re afraid of.”

Let Them See is live now.

—Eric

I debated whether to tag this story with “sex toys.”

Technically, there’s a sex scene between a woman named Mara and her toaster. But it’s also kind of a love story. And a slow burn. And a surreal, candlelit kitchen ritual that ends with a barista named Ivy kneeling between the protagonist’s thighs while a chrome appliance whispers encouragement from the shelf.

So yeah—“sex toys” felt reductive, but not inaccurate.

When the Toaster Spoke is absurd, erotic, and tender. It starts with a voice in the night—offering stock tips, then seduction—and ends in the kind of intimacy that doesn’t ask to be explained. There’s humor. There’s heat. There’s a haunted thrift-store toaster that may or may not be a prophet of love.

And somewhere along the way, a woman who’s been half-asleep in her own life wakes up—gloriously, with both hands on the counter.

Enjoy.
—Eric Ross

This chapter is told in a series of short vignettes—snapshots of Elara and Jorah returning, again and again, to the old mill. Sometimes to fuck. Sometimes to talk. Sometimes just to be in the quiet, charged space they’ve made together.

If Chapter One was the ignition, this is the slow burn. Their sex deepens—more trust, more heat, more ache. But there’s tenderness, too. Jorah listens. Elara learns what it feels like to be wanted without apology.

And the village? It’s watching. Bread marked with poems. A few heads turning. The fire is catching, one ember at a time.

“Show me,” she said. And he did. With his mouth. With his hands. With a rhythm that shook loose the old silence inside her.

More soon.

—Eric

In the village of Marrowden, shame was law. Elara was expected to obey—to lower her gaze, still her body, and swallow her hunger. But when she meets Jorah, a poet in exile, what begins as a whisper of defiance becomes a blaze that no one can contain.

The Fire Beneath Her Skin is my newest piece—a story about bodies as scripture, desire as rebellion, and the unapologetic act of saying yes.

This isn’t just a love story, though it is deeply romantic. And it’s not just about sex, though it’s unabashedly filthy. It’s about what happens when a woman refuses to be tamed. When she sheds not only her clothes but the shame stitched into her skin. When her pleasure becomes political.

This story lives at the crossroads of the sacred and the profane. You’ll find moaning and metaphor. Thrusts and scripture. A woman standing naked before her village and refusing to flinch.

It began as a single scene—a woman in a meadow, bare and unashamed—and bloomed into a full-bodied novella. I’ve divided it into five chapters, each tracing a stage of Elara’s awakening. From the first brush of lips in the old mill to the final cry of freedom echoing across the river, every moment is both tender and raw.

This is one of my most emotionally charged stories to date—and also one of the most explicit. If you’ve read my work before, you know I often write at the edge where vulnerability meets heat. This one leaps straight into the fire.

—Eric

What starts in a dive bar ends with slick thighs, stained velvet, and two strangers, not quite finished.

The Stain We Left is an erotic short story told entirely in first person—from both sides. One night. One place. Two bodies, two minds, tangled in the same heat.

The first half is his: a raw, headlong plunge into lust. He sees her, wants her, takes her. But this isn’t just his story.

The moment he walks out the door, her voice takes over, still pulsing with him, with everything they did and everything she’s still feeling. She’s not a mirror—she’s her own storm. And she’s far from done.

There’s no dialogue. No names. Just sensation, memory, and need—told in two matching but distinct streams. What they shared wasn’t love, but it left its mark. A literal stain on the rug. A deeper one under the skin.

This isn’t a he-said/she-said.

It’s a single night, split open.
Two strangers, not quite finished.