This fabulous story about oral fantasies on the beach was written by Cal (@uncmfrtblynmb) and originally appeared on his Medium blog. It is read here by Girl on the Net.

Between the deserted dunes I lay, looking out into the sunset. My skin had taken on new bronze tones after a whole day out at the beach. The bright golden light danced on the shimmering water, so I closed my eyes for some respite.

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This gorgeous story is written by Nooky and originally appeared on her website. It is read here by Girl on the Net. 

You’re supposed to meet at the elevators at 6.30 — drinks and supper and then, after, the train back to his place, your first time sleeping there. You’ve fucked at yours, a couple times, once in a hotel. A blowjob in the park, behind a fenced-off carousal. The pre-date quickie on his couch last week when you’d picked him up. But this is the first time really going to his.

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This gorgeous story about impulse alleyway sex is written by Nooky and originally appeared on her website. It is read here by Sherryl Blu. 

The cocktails are good. Glancing across the table at her is better. She’s wearing a tailored shirt in pine needle green and her hair is loose around her face and whenever, like now, she’s trying to remember a detail of an anecdote her mouth puckers up a little to one side, like a thread’s tugging up her cheek.

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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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