Eric Ross: Blog

The words were “I have cum dripping out of my pussy right now”.

When she said those words to me, they seemed like the perfect way to start a story. Let me know if you agree. It's a bit of flash fiction called With His Name On My Lips.

- Eric

This chapter draws a quiet breath before the unraveling.

Lira and the clockmaker have pushed the mechanism past minutes, past play, into something heavier—hours rewound, hours rewritten. But in Chapter 7, their intimacy starts to fray. Time isn’t the only thing being stretched thin.

For the first time, the key is turned without invitation. For the first time, someone pulls back.

This chapter was challenging to write. It needed to hold tenderness and misalignment in the same frame—wanting and not quite meeting. The clocks falter. So do they. The line between desire and exhaustion sharpens. And when time snaps back into place, the mark it leaves doesn’t fade.

One of the recurring themes in The Clockmaker’s Rewind is emotional erosion: not grand rupture, but quiet wear. Chapter 7 leans into that—into what gets lost in the turning, and what stubbornly remains.

As always, I’d love to hear from you.

—Eric

I’ve been traveling lately, spending lots of hours in terminals where time stretches, boundaries blur, and strangers become stories. Airports are liminal spaces-erotic liminal spaces. Everyone’s between things—cities, lives, selves—and that tension seemed ripe for exploration.

So I wrote two stories set in the hum of airport life. Each one plays with intimacy, risk, and surprise. Each begins with an encounter. Each ends somewhere you might not expect.

Security Check

When Ethan opts out of the scanner, he’s escorted to a private screening room by a stern TSA agent with a sharp tongue and gloved hands. What follows is an inspection that’s anything but standard—and he may never pass through security the same way again.

Welcome to Denver

Mia’s flight is delayed. She’s tired, wired, and en route to a new job she’s not sure she wants. When a smoothie spill leads to a sudden, reckless connection in a discreet corner of Terminal C, she grabs hold of the moment—until reality catches up on the other side of the gate.

Two different checkpoints. Two different kinds of risk. One question in the air: what do you do when desire shows up before departure?

—Eric

Tomorrow, the streets will once again fill with voices—raised in protest, in fury, in hope. Americans will march against surveillance, against authoritarian overreach, against the creeping normalization of tyranny dressed as policy. And tonight, I’m releasing a story that was born in the heart of that same unrest.

A Riot of Lust is not just an erotic story. It’s a confrontation with you, the reader.

Set during a protest that turns violent, it follows Lena—a young woman burning with political rage—as she finds an unexpected, visceral connection with a stranger in the smoke-choked aftermath of a riot. What unfolds between them isn’t soft or romantic. It’s raw. Urgent. Dangerous. Two bodies grabbing hold of one another when the world outside is cracking open.

This story doesn’t offer neat answers. It doesn’t preach. But it does ask:

What do we cling to when the air turns toxic and the future snaps under our feet—and someone reaches for you in the dark?

In a world where your government wants your silence, your stillness, your obedience, A Riot of Lust is a reminder: claiming pleasure—raw, messy, ungoverned—isn’t just human. It’s a kind of rebellion.

If you’re marching tomorrow, stay safe. Stay defiant.

And maybe, tonight, let this story remind you that even in the darkest alleys, we still burn.

- Eric

Some days, the world conspires to trap you inside—with rain at the glass, breath fogging the panes, and nothing left to do but face what’s brewing just beneath the surface.

In Chapter 6, Pressing Closer, the storm presses in as Lira and the clockmaker edge toward a line that refuses to stay still. The antique clock waits nearby, its key pulsing with last night’s charge. But it’s not just the machinery of time that trembles—what passes between them is harder to measure, impossible to rewind.

This chapter leans into tension: the way bodies brush without quite colliding, the weight of unsaid things, the allure of pushing too far. Lira turns the key again. The past buckles. The present stutters. And something in the shop—a clock, a memory, maybe a feeling—starts ticking again when it shouldn’t.

For me, this chapter is about resistance: the kind that flares in the space between a near-kiss and a step back. The kind that makes you wonder which moment will finally tip the scale.

We’re past curiosity now. The clock remembers. But what else is it breaking?

—Eric