This erotic story about fucking the boss is written by Scorpio Appetites, and read by Girl on the Net. Note this story contains brief use of ‘daddy’ as an honorific.

‘Hey, who’ve I gotta fuck to get another beer over here?’ I smile sweetly at the customer and put another Stella on the counter. I’m wearing a checked shirt tied low enough to show a flash of black bra and as much cleavage as I can muster, and I enjoy feeling his drunken gaze rake over me. I drink his impotent desire like a shot of cheap whiskey. The two feet of bar between us may as well be a trillion miles.

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‘No’ is a complete sentence, sure. But if you get partway to shagging someone, saying ‘no’ can be genuinely difficult, especially if you want to give them an explanation for why you’ve changed your mind. I’m going to tell you about one of the most awkward ‘no’s I’ve ever said. It’s not the most awkward ‘no’, just one of them. It starts on the south bank of the Thames, around autumn 2020.

It’s hard for me to judge the tone of this piece, and editing it proved tricky. But just so you know up front: this story has a happy ending.

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This stunning masturbation erotica is written by Spencer Pritchard, and read by Luke. 

I study your portrait and read your words with breathless anticipation. Study every letter and imagine them rolling off your tongue, dancing from your sultry mouth to the erotic Southern Hemisphere cadence of your voice, showering me in their implied filth.

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I love dick, it’s brilliant. Unfortunately, I don’t love it all the time on a 24/7 basis. As a sex blogger, my work is a constant background throb throughout my life: even when I’m not feeling horny, my Tweetdeck spits out pre-scheduled posts from ‘this time last year’ in which I wax lyrical about my love of blow jobs. About a year ago, I got frustrated with the fact that this painted a picture of me as constantly horny for cock, which men (understandably) responded to in the moment, without realising that at that specific point I was actually in the middle of extremely stressful work and probably not up for sexting at that moment in time. All this to say, I wrote a silly poem called ‘your dick can wait, I’m working.’ Don’t take it too seriously, especially if you and I are fucking.

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He’s at the toilet, pissing heavily into the bowl. I’m standing behind him with my arms wrapped round his waist, gripping him ever so gently so I don’t put him off or change the direction of the stream. Both of us are staring down at the task in hand. The fat head of his flaccid cock gripped between thumb and forefingers. When he pushes out the last few drops, he grunts a little at the back of his throat. The same way he sometimes grunts when he comes inside me. When he’s finished peeing, he turns his head towards me and whispers in my ear ‘what do you want?’

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