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Welcome to P*rnstation. No plot. No sweetness. No fade-to-black. Just raw, dripping, filthy s*x that will leave you soaking and aching for more. From massive c*cks stretching tight holes to messy cream-filled endings, each story in this collection is designed to make you cum as you read. If you’re ready for wall-slamming f*cks, obscene dirty talk, and shameless pleasure that never stops, this is your station. One-handed reading highly recommended.

If you’re a delicate little flower who clutches pearls and believes sex should only happen in the missionary position with the lights off and your spouse’s permission, close this book immediately. Seriously. Put it down before you ruin your boring little life with uncontrollable wetness and questionable morals. Still here? Good girl. Welcome to Dripping Forbidden: 100 Ways to Make Yourself Wet — a ruthless, dripping-wet collection of one hundred filthy, plot-driven taboo stories that don’t just flirt with the line… they bend you over it, fuck you senseless, and leave you leaking.😉 💦

Five years ago, his rising hockey fame shattered our forever promise, leaving me with nothing but memories. Now, I’m the journalist assigned to cover his championship run, and he’s the cold, distant superstar who treats me like a stranger in front of the cameras. But the moment the lights dim, his burning gaze pins me down, revealing a hunger that never died. In the locker room shadows, the bad boy enforcer is ready to break every rule to reclaim what was always his.

For +18 ONLY! Wanna be banged so bad till you’re sore and dripping? Till your core trembles and shamelessly gap for your big Daddy? Till you spread those shaking thighs, moan his name, and beg for mercy? And no, he doesn’t listen, he uses you like his filthy little toy, and fills you up. When he’s done, you’ll swallow his dirty seed down your bruised throat, wipe the excess of his juice leaking down your throbbing hole, and say; Thank You, Daddy. If this is your fantasy, welcome on board! This is a collection of unapologetically RAW steamy stories, where all shades of your fetish is checked.

While inspecting my company’s cold-chain operations, my wife, Mandy Snow, and the college boy, Jonas Leedon, who I’d been sponsoring suddenly vanished. As I passed the cabinet storing the research supplies, a stream of floating comments suddenly flashed before my eyes. [That was way too close! Jeff Miller almost caught them. Good thing Mandy reacted fast and dragged her boy toy into the storage cabinet.] [But that cabinet is about to be locked up and shipped to the Antarctic research station. Are those two trying to turn themselves into ice sculptures?] I froze. My wife was cheating on me right under my nose? I was just about to pull open the cabinet door when my wife’s assistant, Patrick, hurried over and forced a smile, blocking my way. “Mr. Miller, the seal on this cabinet was just waxed and hasn’t dried yet. Careful, or you’ll get your hands dirty.” The floating comments appeared again. [That was so close! The assistant’s pretty sharp. Once Mandy gets out, she totally owes him a car.] [No wonder she’s the lucky heroine. She always gets out of trouble. I seriously can’t wait to watch her sweet romance with her boy toy.] Looking at the comments in front of me, I let out a cold laugh. “These are critical supplies for the research team. To make sure nothing goes wrong, seal the cabinet right now.” “Go get a welder. Weld the door shut.” The assistant froze, and so did the floating comments. [What the hell? This evil male character is brutal. The two people inside aren’t wearing a thing.] [Help! If the door gets welded shut, the male and female leads are going to drift at sea for a month and freeze into specimens!]

I was a housewife with severe OCD and a serious cleanliness obsession. I accidentally entered what I thought was a wholesome parenting game where I beat the crap out of my rebellious son, smothered my adorable daughter with love, and ripped out the corpse-stitching on my husband to sew him back up. On the day I cleared the game, the three of them tearfully sent me off. Only during the final settlement did I learn the truth: my husband was the ultimate boss of the horror game. My son was an infamous demon who left no players alive, and my daughter had crushed the skulls of a hundred players. Wasn't this supposed to be a parenting game? Turns out, I had walked straight into a horror game.