Eric Ross: Blog

You know the fairy tale.

Three little pigs. One big bad wolf. A few flimsy houses and a whole lot of huffing and puffing.

But what if I told you the story you grew up with left out the best parts?

In the sleepy village of Fairywood, the Pigg Sisters—Penelope, Clarabelle, and Bettina—aren’t just innocent homemakers. Penelope bakes with passion (and a piping bag used for more than frosting), Clarabelle milks with expert hands, and Bettina runs the Finishing Academy for Proper Young Ladies… with cuffs and a St. Andrew’s Cross.

Wolfgang Lupine isn’t just blowing down houses—he’s getting tied up, licked clean, paddled for grammar mistakes, and turned inside out by three very determined women.

This isn’t a children’s fable. It’s a filthy, funny, fairy tale gone rogue.

And it all starts in a swaying straw house with a wicked baker, a naughty apron, and a scandalously phallic baguette.

Read Chapter 1: The Big Bad Wolf’s Naughty Night

-Eric

When people think of erotic fiction, they often picture silk sheets, candlelight, and softly-lit bedrooms. But for me, that’s never been the whole story. Eroticism isn’t just about fantasy—it’s about tension, need, friction, and often, mess. Real life doesn’t happen in clean lines, and neither does desire.

So while I was publishing The Clockmaker's Rewind, I set myself a challenge: write stories where sex blooms in places we don’t usually consider erotic.

The result is a series of gritty, unfiltered, deeply physical encounters in unlikely places. The first-A Riot of Lust-unfolds between two dumpsters during a protest gone wrong, where the trash stinks, the concrete burns, and the chemistry is undeniable.

My latest, Dirt and Desire, takes place inside a broken-down chicken coop on a struggling farm, where straw sticks to sweat, the air reeks of ammonia, and yet—the heat between two rough, stubborn bodies burns hot enough to brand.

Why a coop? Because I wanted to see if I could make it real. I wanted the reader to feel the straw underfoot, the rooster screaming, the sweat running down your back, and still be pulled into a moment that’s intimate and hot and alive with urgency.

These aren’t stories about luxury. They’re about need. About bodies that collide because they have to. About people who find heat and connection in the dirtiest corners of their lives—because that’s where it actually happens sometimes.

If you’ve ever felt something stir in a place you thought was too raw, too loud, too filthy to hold tenderness, then these stories are for you.

Dirt and Desire is now live. Read it with the windows open and a thunderstorm coming in.

Eric

Chapter 10: Still went up Friday. Today, the last piece-Chapter 11: The Inheritance-falls into place.

I began The Clockmaker’s Rewind with a single image: a hand turning a key, again and again, to steal time back. I didn’t know yet where it would lead—only that it would have to end somewhere irreversible.

For nine chapters, the clock rewound. It made space for desire, for repair, for denial. But like any mechanism pushed too far, it began to fray. I always knew there would come a moment when they’d stop turning the key—not because they ran out of time, but because they had finally chosen not to escape its flow.

Chapter 10 is where that tension breaks. The prose shortens, the heat rises. It’s both climax and collapse. They’ve used the clock to touch each other, to test themselves. But now they face each other with nothing to buffer the weight of wanting something real.

And then Chapter 11 turns quietly forward.

It felt important that the story end not in tragedy or triumph, but in continuity—a legacy passed, not through magic, but through care. The shop settles into rhythm again. A child learns to listen to gears. The broken clock stays broken, not as a failure, but as a witness.

This story isn’t just about time travel. It’s about what we do when we discover that rewinding is not an option. When memory becomes material. When we choose to stay.

Thank you for the generous gift of your eyes, and comments!

—Eric

There’s a danger in believing there’s no cost to actions. For eight chapters, the clock has offered Lira and the Clockmaker something close to magic—a clean reset, a silent undoing, a way to feel without consequence. But time has never really been consequence-free. It only pretended to be.

In Chapter 9 of The Clockmaker’s Rewind, that illusion finally snaps. The story, and the characters, press too far. And so does the quiet lie they’ve been telling themselves: that they can touch fire and never burn.

The prose deliberately changes in this chapter as a result. Sentences shorten. Paragraphs break more often. The lyrical cadence of earlier chapters gives way to sharp breath and urgency. It’s not just about speed—it’s about control, and what’s lost when it slips. So as the characters come apart, so does the narrative rhythm. The structure of the writing itself begins to mirror the strain.

When I first started writing this, there was always going to be a moment when the clock gave out. Here the clock breaks, but the moment holds. Not tragic, not redemptive. Just real.

And after this, what will they do when nothing resets again?

– Eric

"I see a red door and I want it painted black…"

There’s a moment in the Stones’ Paint It Black that lingers after the final note fades—a recognition that grief doesn’t just hollow us. It stains. It saturates the world until even beauty feels like an affront. I tried to carry that feeling into The Sitarist’s Requiem, a story born of smoke, memory, and the kind of desire that doesn’t comfort—it cuts.

Set in 1960s Istanbul, this is the story of Emre, a man adrift in mourning, and Leyla, the sitarist whose music doesn’t offer healing, but something far more dangerous: a reckoning. What begins as seduction unfolds into revelation. Leyla is no passive muse. She is the orchestrator of the night, the composer of her own ritual. Her music is a blade, her body an altar, and her grief is as finely tuned as the strings she plays.

I like women who command the terms of their own mythology. Leyla doesn’t wait to be saved. She chooses. She hunts. She dares Emre, saying "Drown in me—it’s the only way you’ll breathe again".

And in that, we reach what I think of as the violence of beauty. Beauty that doesn’t soften or soothe—but wounds. Beauty that demands something from you. That strips you bare. That doesn’t ask permission before it enters and rearranges you. Leyla embodies that kind of beauty. So does grief. So does love, at its most ruinous.

The Sitarist’s Requiem isn’t a romance, although I could have written it that way. It’s a requiem. For the dead, for the past, and for the man who thought he could carry both without consequence.

The story is live now.

-Eric