You want this? How much do you want it? Enough to humiliate and degrade yourself by begging? Enough that you’ll kneel on the floor naked with your legs and your mouth wide open, tongue hanging out and my spit dripping down your face, whining and weeping and begging me to fuck you? You want humiliation, I’ll give you humiliation – you filthy, cock-hungry slut. 

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@Absolutely_Ruby is back, everyone! She is the incredible smutty writer who contributed the most popular guest blog ever on my site – about being made to wear a butt plug to go and get breakfast. She’s also written up an intensely sexy/scary story about getting caught having sex in the office. Thanks to the kind of adventures she has, and the way she so beautifully writes them, I am utterly in awe of her. Today she’s here to tell a story that featured something that’s close to my heart: watersports. Read on if you want to hear about a super-hot, dominant incident where she was made to piss for her master. This story is available as audio porn too, so click ‘listen here’ above if you’d like to hear it read aloud by Ruby herself.

Note: everyone in this story is over the age of 18, but it includes elements of school role play.

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Sometimes writing is about having a great idea then spending ages writing, rewriting and editing until it can work as a story. At other times it’s just about vomiting an idea onto a page and hoping that people like it. If you’d like the former, check out some other erotic fiction here. If you’re happy with the latter, here’s a story I wrote this week.

Content note: this fiction plays with the idea of non-consent/reluctance, so if that’s not your cup of tea please don’t read on. 

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He likes me to greet him when he comes home from work. But ‘greet’ means different things to different people. To him, it means ‘come and meet me at the front door, give me a hug and kiss like you missed me.’ I’d prefer to greet him on my knees, mouth open, ready for him to tell me “I’ve had a really hard day at work” before proceeding to brutally fuck my face.

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We love each other. We fancy each other. We live together. I think about his cock almost constantly, and I’m betting he does too. We are inside each other’s heads all the time, and in bed together every night. We touch on the sofas while Netflix is on, and we steal kisses on the tube on our nights out to go and meet friends. And we only ever really fuck on Sundays.

After the report that many Brits only have sex once a week, I considered writing a blog post about why ‘number of times you did it’ is a shit way to measure how happy people’s sex lives are, and how annoying it is that these studies usually only include a very narrow set of acts in their definition of what ‘sex’ is. But that didn’t seem as fun as what I’m about to do, which is write some erotic fiction about a couple who only fucks on Sundays. 

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