Today’s guest blogger is Zoe, who writes a travel blog over at The Zoeverse (and who you can follow on Twitter, Insta, Facebook and Patreon too). I absolutely loved the idea she pitched me – a filthy hot fantasy about a guy she’d met but not got round to shagging on her travels. I love the idea that outside the Zoeverse, her encounters with people she’s met on her travels live on in her head, as deliciously horny stories such as this one. In this story, Zoe is going to tell you about her Sicilian lover, and a story about talking very dirty indeed…

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This gleefully filthy erotic fiction is written by Kate, and originally appeared on her website. It is read here by Girl on the Net. 

There’s four of us at the breakfast table – the father, the son, the mother and me. Well, I say four, it’s three – the father, the son and me – the mother is making breakfast like a dutiful housewife and the son gets packed off to school sharpish, leaving the father and the mother and me. His and hers dressing gowns. She balked at my ill-fitting t shirt from some summer festival in ’75. I was a child, then. She didn’t know me, then. Whoever bought this t shirt bought it for a boyfriend or lover who turned out rotten so to the thrift shop it went and I scooped it up and sleep in it, after a boil wash.

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This gorgeous fisting erotica – which includes BDSM and degradation – is written and read by Quenby, and originally appeared on their blog. 

Her legs are bent at the knee, spread open before me. Her mound bristles with trimmed pubes, leading down to her cunt glistening with arousal. I lean forward, inhaling her musky scent. My tongue flicks out, running along her lips before pushing into her wet heat. I pull back and look at her: “Mmm, you’re so fucking wet. I love the taste of your cunt.”

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This delicious erotic story about fucking in a tube station is written by Nooky, and originally appeared on her website. It is read here by Girl on the Net.

It’s the last tube home, or almost. They’ve drunk enough beer that they haven’t kept track, not quite. Their stop is far enough out, a backwater on a bit of the Central that feels almost bucolic, that no one else gets off except a little old lady in a mauve peacoat who walks slowly off towards the lift.

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There are two types of people in this world: those who unwrap their gifts with care and precision, trying not to shred the paper as they go, and those who tear into it with eager, gleeful joy, destroying the wrapping in their haste to get to the gift. If you’re the second type of person, this Christmas erotica is for you.

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