This gorgeous dormophilia erotica is written and read by JM Seaborn, with brief audio additions by Girl on the Net. Note that this story contains a hot, consensual fantasy about sleep sex (dormophilia). You should not practice this kind of sex without doing the important groundwork – discussing consent (as well as methods to withdraw it) with your partner.

“I want you to fuck me while I’m asleep.” That’s what she had said. The phrase floated in front of my eyes as I looked at her. She lay still, her skin accented by the new light. Her breathing was slow and deep, telling me that that she was, without a doubt, unconscious.

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You know those meditation apps which show a circle increasing and decreasing in size, which encourage you to breathe in and out in time with the animation? Sometimes I like to fuck like that.

CN: drug use, minor references to panic attacks. But broadly this is a super-hot one, I promise. 

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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 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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“There is absolutely no way he’ll text me back,” I tell my friends, the day after an extremely hot date. I can’t really explain why I’m so convinced of this, but I am. In fact, so certain am I that he’ll wake up tomorrow and realise he’s made a mistake that I ask him – while we’re on the date – if I can take a picture to show people how hot the man I shagged was. In case, you know, I never see him again. This is very impolite of me, but he’s game so we take pictures. When I show one of my friends a shot of him – kissing me on the cheek, while I grin inanely to camera – my mate laughs and tell me: “you look like you’ve won a contest.”

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