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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This kinky inspection erotica is written and read by JM Seaborn. Note that this kinky story contains use of ‘Daddy’ as an honorific – everyone in this story is over the age of 18.

I’ve been looking forward to this. After a day executing my part in society’s endless play, I crave control. I’m tired, worn down, dejected. But she will change it. I sit in the arm chair and look at her standing nervously before me, waiting for inspection.

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This gorgeous erotica about fucking over a mirror is written by Spencer Pritchard. It is read aloud here by Matt Johnson. 

I can’t quite remember where this falls in to the timeline of those two weeks in each other’s arms. My brain has shaken that particular tin of memories around so much, it doesn’t seem to have an order anymore. Just a beginning and an inevitable (and unwelcome) conclusion. The middle is a sweaty, panting, sticky mess of nights out with cocktails, a lazy Sunday getting lost in the city, verdant parks, pizza in bed, too many restaurants… All punctuated by your naked body, your incredible and explosive orgasms, and the strength of the bond that connected us.

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This hot story about fucking your employee is written by Scorpio Appetites, and read by Matt Johnson. 

You notice him right away. How could you not? He works for you but you don’t feel it, not really. He commands any room he enters, his easy wit and broad smile equal parts charming in their sincerity and dangerous in how defenceless they leave you. Every grin seems to be for you. Every time he rubs his neck and his suit strains around his biceps, it seems to be laser-targeted to your pussy. But you’re not stupid – you don’t fuck employees. He’s just an object, something pretty to have around, to be admired and enjoyed on your own terms. He’s a statue. A painting. A lamp.

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I wrote this last week when I was excited to go to a festival, pondering whether this might be the first time I ever got laid at one. I always have this romantic fantasy of finding a festival boyfriend – someone who I can snog while the bands are on, who then disappears into the night, not seen again until (perhaps) next year. But then every time I go to a festival with the aim of getting laid, I fail. But failure here is sweet and this is why. 

He catches your eye in the beer tent, your festival boyfriend. Gives you a smile and a nod. Mouths ‘cool shirt’ and lifts his plastic pint in a casual salute. You smile back, flushing hot with nervous energy, and wonder if you should go over and say hello. But you’re struggling to catch the attention of the stoner who’s working the bar, and you’ve got to get back to your friends. Besides, by the time you turn round, full hands sticky with cider, he’s gone. Your festival boyfriend has disappeared into the crowd.

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