Author Chris P Rider

I need to tell you about the weekend that changed my marriage, because I still can’t quite believe we did it, and I still can’t stop thinking about it either.

We hired Kev to do the flat up. Camden builder, Arsenal season ticket holder, the kind of bloke who calls every woman “love” without thinking twice about it. What I didn’t plan for was watching my wife Lexie, all cut-glass vowels and colour-coded calendars, come apart at the seams over four weeks of him being in our kitchen, on our stepladder, in our lives. I didn’t plan for how hard that would make me either.

This is a hotwife novella, properly done. Not a fantasy that stays locked in a browser tab at 2am, but a loving husband actually inviting the rough-handed bloke he trusts into his marriage, and a wife who discovers that being good her entire life has left her absolutely gagging to be bad.

By the time Saturday night rolled round, pizza boxes on the coffee table and Arsenal highlights on mute, there was no pretending anymore. I watched my wife get kissed by another man on our sofa, and instead of the jealousy I half-expected, all I felt was pure, blinding compersion. Turns out that’s the technical word for wanting to watch your wife get thoroughly, spectacularly ruined by someone else.

Kev’s bigger than me. Thicker too. I won’t pretend that comparison isn’t part of the appeal, because watching Lexie’s face when she felt the difference for the first time is genuinely one of the hottest things I’ve ever witnessed, and there’s not an ounce of humiliation in it. Just pride. Just her taking everything he could give her while I sat close enough to watch every second.

The dirty talk gets filthy in exactly the way this genre’s readers love. Posh little rich girl and rough Camden builder, class friction turned into foreplay, “good girl” and “Daddy” doing more work than either of us expected going in. If you’ve ever wanted a hotwife story that leans into that class contrast properly rather than politely dancing round it, this one doesn’t flinch.

By the time we moved things to the bedroom, there wasn’t a corner of our sex life that hadn’t been rewritten. Spitroasting my own wife while she looked back and forth between us. Her first anal, with him, while I held her hand and watched. Multiple rounds, real stamina, none of the fade-to-black nonsense.

She didn’t ask her husband to share her. She’d already chosen a Master who’d never ask her anything at all.

I spent six years asking my wife to make me a cuckold, and I never once used that word, because I didn’t think that was what I was asking for. I called it sharing. I called it a hotwife fantasy. I told myself, every single time I sent Claire another forum link at midnight, that what I wanted was to stay in the room, stay involved, watch her with another man while I still somehow counted. Claire said no every time. Firmly. Sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a proper eye-roll, but always no.

Then it was my forty-fourth birthday, and Claire told me she’d sorted a surprise. Booked us into a boutique hotel just off Marylebone High Street, close enough to our flat in Kentish Town that we joked about getting the Northern Line home after breakfast. She wore the red dress from six years ago. She packed a black bag she wouldn’t let me near. I genuinely believed, walking into that restaurant, that after six years of hinting, my wife had finally said yes to my fantasy as a birthday gift.

I could not have been more wrong, and I mean that as the highest compliment I have ever paid another human being.

What I didn’t know, sitting there necking Malbec and feeling smug about myself, was that Claire had spent three months building a life online I knew absolutely nothing about. An anonymous account. A verification badge. Conversations with half a dozen dominant men before she narrowed it down, video-called two of them properly, face and everything, and chose one. His name was Trent. I’d never heard it before that night. By the time he knocked on our hotel room door, they’d been planning this specific evening in specific detail for weeks.

By the time that knock came, I was already taped to a wingback chair, blindfolded with a leather strap, gagged with my own wife’s soaked knickers. I thought the bondage was Claire finally exploring something wild with me. It took me embarrassingly long to understand that none of this was ever going to be about me at all.

What followed was the single most explicit, humiliating, and honestly life-clarifying few hours of my entire marriage. I heard my wife get spanked properly for the first time in sixteen years by a man built nothing like me, heard her count the strikes and thank him for every single one. I heard her mouth put to use in ways she’d never once offered me, heard her tell him, straight out, that she’d never let me finish in her mouth in sixteen years, because I’d never earned it. I tasted him for the first time when she kissed me straight after, and something in me that had been asking the wrong question for six years finally, quietly, stopped asking.

Claire told me everything eventually, the whole three months, laid out plainly while I sat there still hard, still leaking, and completely unable to summon the anger I’d always assumed I’d feel. What I felt instead was relief. Somebody had finally taken charge, of her, of the night, of the exact thing I’d never had the nerve to just decide for both of us in sixteen years of marriage.

By the time I was released, kneeling on hotel carpet, tasting another man on my own wife’s skin because she’d told me to clean her properly, I wasn’t the same bloke who’d walked in that door hoping to watch. I didn’t miss him.

This is a book about a marriage getting more honest, not less. About a husband discovering that his hotwife fantasy was never really about staying equal in the room, it was about finally being told, plainly, exactly what he was for. About a wife who stopped waiting to be asked and simply went and found herself a Master, and brought her husband along to learn what that actually meant.

Hired for “glamour.” Stayed for the whole squad. Is this Lily’s filthiest team performance yet?

Let me tell you about the night I gave a non-league football club a very different kind of clean sheet.

I’d been hired through my old contact Jeff for what sounded like the dullest booking of my career: “glamour work” at a promotion dinner for Bramble Green FC, a scrappy little club that had just gone up a division for the first time in nine years. Two hundred quid, a free dinner, hand out a few raffle prizes, home by nine. That was the plan. Football clubs, I’ve since learned, do not stick to plans.

They sat me dead centre on the top table, manager at one end, chairman at the other, and four of his players close enough on either side that I understood the seating chart within twenty minutes of walking through the door. By the time the trophy went up and the whole room roared, I’d already decided exactly how many of them I was taking home with me by the end of the night. Spoiler: it was all of them.

It started under the tablecloth, during the speeches, while eighty people including several committee wives had absolutely no idea what the captain’s hand was doing to me two feet from the microphone. It moved to a locked toilet with a broken bolt and a striker who lasted considerably less time than he’d bragged about at dinner. It kept going on a dancefloor where the club clown groped my tits mid-slow-dance and somehow made it charming rather than awful.

Once the bar shut and the last families finally cleared off, the real evening began, in a changing room that smelled of Deep Heat and old Lynx, and a shower block with four heads running and considerably more filth than any postmatch scrub was ever built for. Four players, one after another, in a scene that gets properly, relentlessly explicit: controlled and deep, fast and desperate, and one very enthusiastic anal initiation that I talked him through myself.

The married one spent half the night invoking his wife’s name like a shield and getting gently, repeatedly talked down by his own teammates using the exact kind of loyalty language that grassroots football runs on. No subs. No passengers. Don’t leave the lads short. Watching a decent, guilty man argue himself into exactly what he wanted anyway, using football as the excuse, might be my favourite dynamic I’ve ever written.

And then there’s the manager. Sixty-three, sheepskin coat, hadn’t touched a single person all night, fully clothed the entire time he orchestrated everything from the sidelines like it was a formation change. What he wanted from me, once we were finally alone, is the twist of this whole confession, and I’m not giving it away here. I’ll just say it recontextualises absolutely everything that happened before it, and it’s the gentlest, most human thing in the whole book.

This is book nine of my Naughty Adventures series, and if you’ve read the others, you know exactly what you’re getting: filthy, explicit, first-person confessional erotica, based on my own genuinely misspent years, no apologies offered and none needed. If you haven’t read the others yet, this one stands entirely on its own, no homework required, just five men, one football club, and me deciding within the first twenty minutes exactly how the night was going to go.

Group sex, age gap, infidelity-guilt dynamics, workplace power play, extreme anal, and a male pegging reveal that genuinely surprised even me, this book covers a huge amount of ground for a single Tuesday night in Hertfordshire.

Grab your copy, get comfortable, and let me take you back to Foxglove Lane. Kick-off’s in five minutes, and trust me, I was already soaked through before the starters arrived.

She’s three months behind on rent. He’s old enough to be her grandad. He’s got a very specific idea about how she can pay what she owes.

Kayleigh’s three months behind on rent, and her landlord isn’t the type to let it slide. Frank’s sixty-one, owns the whole crumbling terrace she lives in, and he’s noticed something about her that has nothing to do with the arrears spreadsheet in his little notebook. She had a baby ten weeks ago. Her body never got the memo that it’s over. She’s leaking through her top before she’s even opened the door to him.

This is Landlord’s Milk Money, Book 17 in the Taboo Tales series, and it’s exactly the kind of unapologetic age-gap, lactation-kink, hardcore taboo erotica readers come to Lily Corbett for. If you’re searching for filthy landlord tenant erotica, older man younger woman age gap fiction, or explicit MILF milking fetish stories, this novella was built for you.

Frank doesn’t seduce Kayleigh. He doesn’t need to. He states plainly what he wants, offers to wipe two months off her debt if she lets him deal with her “properly,” and waits, calm as anything, for her to say yes. She always says yes. That’s the engine of this entire story: a man old enough to be her grandad who never once has to ask twice, and a twenty-three-year-old who thought she’d seen and done it all until his mouth was on her.

What starts as a transactional arrangement to clear rent arrears collapses within one session into something neither of them is pretending is about money any more. Frank brings his own rubber sheet the second time. That single detail tells you everything about how carefully he’s been planning this.

Across seven escalating chapters, the arrangement gets filthier every single Tuesday. Milking. Mouth-to-mouth feeding. Anal play building to full penetration. A walk through the shared hallway soaked and marked, daring the neighbours to notice. Breeding talk that tips fantasy and degradation into the same breathless sentence. Every chapter pushes further than the last, because Kayleigh’s never resistant and Frank’s never hesitant.

He handed her the laptop. She fell in love with a bigger man on the screen… and then found him in real life.

I made the biggest mistake of my marriage on a Friday night in June, sat right here on our sofa in Kentish Town, laptop balanced on my knees like it was nothing. I want to tell you it was an accident. It wasn’t. I’d been subscribed to Erin Moore’s OnlyFans for eight months by that point, quietly, secretly, tipping her, messaging her, wanking to the same video more times than I’ll ever admit out loud. I told myself I was just showing my wife something fun for our regular porn night. I was lying to both of us.

Holly and I had been married ten years. Comfortable, loving, and – if I’m honest – a bit stuck in a rut that neither of us had the courage to name. Our Friday nights had become a routine of free Pornhub clips and predictable sex. I thought Erin’s page would be a bit of harmless excitement. A cheeky spice-up. I did not think my wife would watch this stunning British hotwife take a cock twice my size and look at the screen like she’d just remembered something about herself she’d forgotten years ago.

The video that changed everything featured Erin with a man called JK. Big, confident, absolutely built different. Holly went quiet beside me, then said the four words that ended my old life: “I know him. School.”

That was it. That was the domino. A quiet, awkward boy from Holly’s secondary school had grown into exactly the kind of man neither of us could look away from. And the worst part – the part I couldn’t admit to myself for weeks – was how hard I was watching her watch him.

What followed wasn’t a slow decline. It was a landslide. Holly messaged him. He remembered her (he didn’t, not really, but he’s good at his job). Texts became flirting became a Friday night visit to our flat became something I can only describe as watching my wife discover an entire sexual self she’d been quietly starving for the better part of a decade.

I won’t pretend I handled it well at first. Jealousy and arousal feel almost identical when you’re sat in a chair by the wardrobe watching another man’s hands on your wife’s body. What I discovered, slowly and then all at once, is that I wasn’t a victim of any of this. I was the architect. I built the pyre. I struck the match. And somewhere in the smoke, I found out exactly what kind of husband I actually wanted to be.

This is a story about size, about confidence, about a Black bull with a body and a cock that made comparison not just inevitable but devastating. It’s about a wife who stopped apologising for wanting more and became genuinely, joyfully herself. And it’s about a husband who discovered that being peripheral, being the one who watches and serves and thanks her afterwards, isn’t humiliation at all. It’s purpose.

By the end, Erin Moore – the woman who started this whole thing without ever knowing she had – comes full circle in a way I never could have scripted. My private obsession and my actual marriage collided live, on screen, in front of hundreds of strangers, and I have never in my life been so hard, so happy, or so completely certain I was exactly where I belonged.

If you’re the kind of reader who understands why a husband might want this – might need this – then Cucked by Obsession is written for you. Set in the real streets of Kentish Town, grounded in a real British hotwife creator, this is hardcore cuckold erotica that doesn’t flinch, doesn’t apologise, and doesn’t pretend there’s anything wrong with wanting exactly what Holly and I found.

Book 16 in the Cuckold Tales series, from British erotica author Chris P. Rider. Some marriages don’t survive obsession. Ours was built by it.

Tony Marsh thought flowers and a nice restaurant could save his marriage. He was catastrophically wrong.

Book 16 in the Cuckold Tales series brings you a darkly psychological journey through one North London couple’s brutal awakening. Over the course of one Friday night and Saturday morning, Tony discovers exactly what kind of husband he actually is – and learns that keeping his wife means accepting a role he never imagined for himself.

The Setup: Five years married. Sexless for months. Geri going through the motions whilst Tony desperately tries to fix what’s broken. Their anniversary dinner at a Kentish Town restaurant should have been the reset. Instead, it’s where Ash Okafor – confident, imposing, built like the alpha Tony will never be – hands Geri his business card whilst her husband watches helplessly from across the table.

The Unraveling: One drink becomes two. The bar becomes a dancefloor. Tony watches from the edge whilst Ash’s hands claim his wife’s body in ways Tony hasn’t been allowed to touch her in months. When Geri tells him to go home – gently, almost kindly – Tony obeys like the beta he’s finally being forced to recognise himself as. Then comes the wait: three hours alone in their Fortress Road flat, hard and horrified and unable to stop imagining exactly what’s happening at Ash’s Gospel Oak apartment.

The Reckoning: At 3am, Geri comes home marked, used, and satisfied. The love bites on her neck. The bruises on her thighs. The smell of another man’s sweat and cum clinging to her skin. She climbs into their bed without showering, and Tony – still awake, still hard – says nothing. Because what could he possibly say that his body isn’t already screaming?

The Confession: Saturday morning. Coffee at their kitchen table. Geri tells him everything: Ash’s eight-and-a-half-inch cock compared to Tony’s five. The forty minutes of fucking compared to Tony’s two-minute finishes. How she came, really came, not faked, three times in four hours. How she’s been faking orgasms with Tony for their entire marriage. How she’s seeing Ash again tomorrow. How this is what their marriage looks like now.

The Humiliation: Tony listens to every word whilst getting harder than he’s been in years. When Geri tells him to show he – —to prove what hearing about another man’s cock inside his wife does to him – he obeys. Thirty seconds of desperate pumping at the kitchen table. Pathetic and honest and exactly what his body needed. The comparison is devastating: Ash lasted forty minutes; Tony couldn’t last a minute listening to the story.

What happens when you agree to look after your neighbour’s teenage son for the Easter weekend? If you’re me, Lily Corbett, you end up spending three days teaching him everything his awkward fumbles at university never did. This is the filthiest, funniest, most shameless confession I’ve written yet. And yes, every detail is staying in.

I’m twenty-four. I’ve fucked my way across four continents. I’ve done things in Marrakech, Sydney, Berlin, and Los Angeles that would make your toes curl and your conscience question itself. I thought I’d exhausted the list of things that could surprise me. Then Felicity Thomas from Flat 14C asked me to keep an eye on her nineteen-year-old son Oliver whilst she visited her sister in Bristol over Easter weekend, and I discovered I had one more trick left to learn: I could be someone’s sexual awakening. I could be his Morocco.

Saturday morning, 11am. I go upstairs with coffee. Oliver opens the door looking like he wishes the floor would swallow him. I smell cum before I see the evidence. Fresh. Unmistakable. His laptop’s open on older-woman porn, the tissues are still warm, and he’s standing there in his joggers with his mortification written all over his face. Most people would’ve backed out of the room. I sat on the bed and asked him to show me what he’d been watching. And when I’d watched enough to understand exactly what he wanted, I told him I’d teach him properly. If he wanted.

He wanted.

What followed was three days of explicit, patient, step-by-step instruction in how to actually fuck someone who’s genuinely aroused rather than performing for a camera. I taught him to kiss without rushing. To touch without grabbing. To go down on a woman and actually pay attention to what her body’s telling him instead of copying what the algorithm says works. He made me come twice in the first lesson. By Sunday he was making me squirt, and his reaction—pure fascination, genuine enthusiasm, zero performance—was so rare I’m still thinking about it two years later.

We covered everything. Oral both ways. Riding him until he learned what real arousal feels like. Teaching him to fuck me properly: harder, deeper, longer, with his whole attention on my face and my sounds rather than some imaginary highlight reel in his head. I introduced breeding talk (I’m on the pill, it’s pure fantasy, but Christ it works on nineteen-year-old boys). I taught him anal—slow, patient, properly prepared, the way I wish someone had taught me at his age instead of just pinning me down and going for it. By Monday morning he’d gone from a boy who thought porn was a training manual to a man who understood that listening is the entire skill.

The phone call scene alone is worth the price of admission. Saturday afternoon, Felicity rings to check in. I answer. Oliver reads the situation, positions himself between my legs, and eats me out whilst I conduct a perfectly pleasant conversation with his mother about whether he’s eating properly and getting enough fresh air. I tell her he’s just finishing his lunch. He is. I come approximately four seconds after I hang up, screaming into my palm, and we both dissolve into hysterical laughter at the sheer audacity of it. Then we fuck urgently on my bed, still laughing, and it’s one of the best moments of the entire weekend.

Monday morning, April Fool’s Day, Felicity comes home refreshed and delighted. She thanks me for looking after her son, calls me “such a good girl,” tells me he seems so much more settled and confident. She has no idea why. She gives me a large Cadbury Easter egg as thanks. I accept it with a straight face, hug her, wave them both off, close my door, and laugh until I can’t breathe. The universe handed me the perfect punchline and I’m still dining out on it two years later.

This book is explicit. It is unapologetically filthy. It is also funny, warm, and surprisingly tender in places I didn’t expect. Oliver wasn’t a conquest. He was a student, and I was a teacher, and what I taught him will serve him well for the rest of his life. I gave him what someone gave me in Morocco when I was nineteen: the understanding that sex can be extraordinary when both people are actually present. I’m proud of that. I’d do it again. I have zero regrets.

If you’re here for the wank material, it delivers. Forty thousand words of detailed, explicit, instructional sex across a long weekend. Oral, vaginal, anal, squirting, creampies, the works. If you’re here for the comedy, the phone call scene and the Easter egg payoff will not disappoint. If you’re here because you like my voice—Northern, shameless, self-aware, dirty as hell—you already know what you’re getting.

When your older neighbour stops being a guest in your home… and starts acting like he owns it – and your wife.

I should have stopped it the first time I smelt his tobacco in my flat. Bob Bowen, our fifty-nine-year-old neighbour, sitting in my armchair like he owned the place, chatting up my wife while I stood there like a spare part. But I didn’t stop it. I told myself Tracy was just being kind to a lonely old widower. That’s what good people do, isn’t it? They show a bit of compassion. Except Bob wasn’t looking for compassion. He was looking for an opening. And I gave him one.

Tracy started working from home. Suddenly, Bob was always there. Fixing our dripping tap. Bringing round fish and chips. Telling dirty stories that made my wife blush and giggle in a way she hadn’t done for me in years. I watched him look at her arse in those jeans. I watched him touch her, just a hand on her back, her arm, her knee. Small things. Boundary tests. And every single time, I said nothing. I sat there, paralysed, my stomach in knots, my cock getting harder with every passing second.

The first time I caught them, I wasn’t supposed to be home. I came back early and heard them in the bedroom. I should have kicked the door in. Dragged him out by his collar. Reclaimed my wife, my home, my bloody manhood. But I didn’t. I stood outside that door, my ear pressed to the wood, listening to Tracy moan for another man. Listening to her beg him for more. Listening to the wet, obscene sounds of her submission. And I pulled my cock out and wanked myself stupid in my own hallway.

Bob’s got eight inches and the confidence of a man who’s been breaking in tight young wives for decades. I’ve got three inches and the self-esteem of a wet flannel. The first time I saw it, saw him make Tracy kneel in front of me and suck it, I wanted to die from the shame. But I couldn’t look away. She worshipped that thing. Took it deeper than I thought possible. Swallowed every thick rope of his cum and then opened her mouth to show him it was gone. She never did that for me. Not once in four years of marriage.

He fucked her on our sofa. In our bed. Bent her over the kitchen table while I was told to make them tea. He called her his slut, his good girl, his property, and she loved every second of it. She screamed his name so loud the whole building must have heard. And me? I was given a chair at the foot of the bed and told to sit there and watch like a good little cuck. Bob made sure I saw everything. Every thrust. Every time her pussy stretched around him. Every time she came harder than she ever had with me.

But here’s the sick, twisted truth I can’t escape: I needed it. Watching Bob own my wife unlocked something in me I didn’t know existed. Every act of humiliation, every cruel word, every time he made me acknowledge my inadequacy, it didn’t break me. It freed me. I wasn’t failing at being a man anymore, because I’d stopped trying. My role wasn’t to compete. It was to serve. To watch. To clean up the aftermath.

Yes, you read that right. Bob decided I wasn’t allowed to fuck my own wife anymore. My cock was too small, too useless. But my tongue? That still had a purpose. After Bob finished inside her, Tracy would spread her legs and call me over. And I would crawl to her, get on my knees, and lick every drop of another man’s cum out of my wife’s holes. I’d taste him on her lips when she kissed me afterwards. I’d smell him on the sheets, in her hair, on her skin. Bob didn’t just take my wife. He made her his, and he made me the cleaner.

The night he made me pay for their date, I handed over a hundred quid I’d been saving for Tracy’s birthday. He took her to a restaurant, felt her up in a pub where my work mates drink, and then fucked her in a taxi on the way home. She told me all of this while Bob pounded her on our living room floor, right in front of me. And I came in my pants without even touching myself.

Our life isn’t normal anymore. Bob has a key to the flat. He comes and goes as he pleases. He brings mates round sometimes. Tracy services them all while I sit in the corner, rock hard and leaking, utterly powerless. My colleagues at work know. Tracy’s best friend, Mandy, knows. She even tried to fuck me once, but got a better offer from Bob mid-seduction and left me hanging. Literally. Everyone knows I’m a pathetic cuckold whose wife is owned by a sixty-year-old ex-train driver with a cock like a fucking rolling pin.

When Dan took Holly to watch the match with his pub mates, he never imagined she’d become their lucky charm, or that he’d be the one holding her hair while they proved it.

Dan Fletcher’s life was small, predictable, and safe. A warehouse supervisor from Kentish Town, married to Holly for five years, drinking at The Gooner’s Arms every match day whilst trying desperately to fit in with the proper lads. Mason, the alpha builder with the shaved head and the big mouth. Jay, the cocky mixed-race wannabe filming everything. Robbo, the silent one with the monster cock nobody talked about. Dan was the Skipper—tolerated, never quite belonging, his three-inch cock and thirty-second stamina a secret shame he carried alone.

Then he made the mistake. Or the best decision of his life, depending on how you look at it. He brought Holly to the pub. Tight Arsenal shirt knotted above her tits, micro skirt barely covering her arse, red lipstick and that smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing. The lads noticed immediately. And Dan? Dan sat there with his pint, watching Mason’s hands slide onto her waist, watching her giggle and lean into it, and his cock got harder than it had in years.

What started as banter turned into bets. Flash your bra if we score first. Sit on Mason’s lap if we keep a clean sheet. Kiss each of us for luck before the second half. Holly agreed every time, flushed and buzzing, and Dan nodded along, terrified and desperate and so fucking turned on he came in his jeans just watching Mason’s hand disappear under her skirt. By the third match, they weren’t pretending anymore. Holly was upstairs in the private room, on her knees, Mason’s thick seven-inch cock buried in her throat whilst Dan held her hair and thanked him for it.

The cuckolding was brutal, relentless, and everything Dan’s porn habits had promised but never delivered. Mason fucked her in every hole, Jay filmed it all, and Robbo’s monster eight-inch cock made Holly scream names Dan had never heard her say. She wasn’t his wife anymore – she was theirs. Their match day slut, their lucky charm, their three-hole fuck toy who dressed like a pornstar and walked into the pub dripping their cum from the week before.

And Dan? Dan became the cuck. The bloke who sat in the corner, jeans soaked through, watching his wife get gangbanged whilst he leaked pre-cum and came untouched. The husband who got on his knees and licked Mason’s spunk out of Holly’s gaped arsehole whilst the lads laughed and called him a good boy. The pathetic three-inch-cock beta who filmed his own wife riding Robbo’s monster whilst Jay fucked her arse and Mason used her throat, all three of them filling her at once whilst Dan held her steady and thanked them after.

The humiliation was constant, visceral, and intoxicating. Size comparisons that left Dan red-faced and harder than ever. Holly telling him, breathless and honest, that Mason’s cock was so much bigger, so much better, that Dan could never satisfy her the way a real man could. The lads passing around Holly’s soaking knickers, Dan’s nose buried in the fabric, inhaling her cunt and Mason’s cum whilst his cock pulsed and leaked. Being added to the group chat as an afterthought, told to bring beers to Mason’s flat for Champions League night, where Holly would be naked and ready before kick-off.

But here’s the fucked-up truth: Dan loved it. Every humiliating, degrading, shameful second. Watching Holly cum harder on Mason’s fingers in thirty seconds than she ever had in five years of marriage. Hearing her scream their names, beg for their cocks, tell Dan she was theirs now, not his. Tasting their cum on her skin, in her mouth, leaking from her holes. Feeling his pathetic cock throb and pulse and explode just from watching better men use his wife the way she deserved.

And Holly? Holly had never been happier. She glowed after every match day, flushed and satisfied and alive in a way Dan recognised from their early days but hadn’t seen in years. She texted Mason between matches, kept herself waxed and ready, refused to fuck Dan on match days because she was “saving herself for the lads.” She called him a good boy when he licked her clean. Smiled down at him whilst Mason’s cock filled her throat. And she told him, honest and kind, that she loved him – but she needed them. And Dan finally understood what his place was.

By the time Champions League nights rolled around, the dynamic was set. Holly naked except for heels and the gold chain Mason had given her. The lads using all three of her holes at once whilst Dan knelt beside her, holding her steady, feeling her shake and scream and cum on their cocks. Jay’s phone capturing every second for the group chat archive. Robbo’s silent intensity as he filled her cunt with more cum than Dan produced in a month. Mason’s grin as he spat on Holly’s face, slapped her, called her a whore, and she thanked him for it.

Match Day Hotwife is 45,000 words of brutal, explicit, unrelenting cuckold erotica. This is not a romance. This is not empowerment. This is a straight male fantasy about a weak husband, a gorgeous wife, and the alpha bulls who own her now. Expect gangbangs, ATM, rimming, cum-eating, public use, filming, size humiliation, verbal degradation, and a husband who cums harder from watching than he ever did from fucking. Dan Fletcher is a cuck. Holly is their slut. And neither of them would have it any other way. If you’re looking for hardcore British cuckolding with a football pub twist, this is your match day ritual. Kick-off starts now.

Chris P. Rider’s Cuckold Tales series continues with this standalone novella – no prior reading required, just a taste for jealousy, humiliation, and cum.

“Cuckold Tales” book 15 – another stand-alone 45k word novella, full of explicit cuckold lifestyle erotica, by #1 best-selling erotica author, Chris P Rider.

On their tenth wedding anniversary, Matty discovers his boss has owned his wife for eight months—and tonight, in London’s most exclusive sex club, he’ll watch her surrender completely.

Matty Pipe thought he knew his wife. Ten years of marriage, a modest flat in Kentish Town, a decent job working under his charismatic boss Richard Stark. Janet was his: loyal, loving, safe. But on their tenth wedding anniversary, Matty’s entire world shatters in the velvet-lined shadows of Le Cercle Noir, London’s most exclusive BDSM and swingers’ club.

Richard didn’t just arrange a surprise. He orchestrated a revelation. For eight months, Janet has been his submissive. His property. His perfectly trained slut. And tonight, Richard wants Matty to see exactly what his wife has become when she’s on her knees, collared, begging for a real man’s cock.

This isn’t a tale of accidental discovery or slow-burn betrayal. This is a single brutal night where denial crumbles, jealousy burns white-hot, and Matty is forced to watch as his boss – richer, stronger, bigger in every way that matters – fucks his wife in a glass-walled room while an audience of strangers looks on. Janet doesn’t just submit to Richard. She transforms. Loud, filthy, desperate, coming so hard she screams his name. She was never like this with Matty. Never even close.

The size difference is impossible to ignore. Richard’s thick, eight-inch cock stretches Janet in ways Matty’s small, inadequate four-and-a-half inches never could. She takes him deep, moaning, begging, and Matty sits in the Viewing Gallery, hard as a rock, hating himself for how much watching this turns him on. The comparisons are brutal. The dirty talk is vicious. Richard and Janet both make it clear: Matty was never enough. He was just the husband. Richard is the Master.

But the night doesn’t end with watching. Richard pushes further. He orders Matty into the private room after the scene, Janet’s body still flushed and dripping with her lover’s cum, and gives Matty a choice: clean her with your mouth, or leave and never see her again. It’s the ultimate cuckold test. And Matty, broken, aroused, desperate, kneels. He tastes Richard’s cum on his wife’s skin. He licks, he obeys, and he comes in his trousers untouched, because his shame and his arousal are the same thing now.

Le Cercle Noir isn’t just a setting. It’s a character. The exclusive Georgian townhouse in Bloomsbury, the velvet booths, the glass-walled rooms designed for exhibitionists and voyeurs, the wristbands that mark Dominants and Submissives, the Viewing Gallery where Matty sits and watches his marriage dissolve. The club’s rules are strict: consent is everything, discretion is absolute, and no one judges. But Matty judges himself. Every second. Every thrust. Every moan.

This is hardcore cuckold erotica with a BDSM edge. There’s no redemption arc. No tearful reconciliation. Matty doesn’t win Janet back. He doesn’t even try. By the end of the night, he’s accepted his place: the husband who stays, the man who watches, the cuckold who cleans up after his wife’s lover. And the worst part? He wants it. He needs it. The humiliation is inseparable from his arousal, and he’ll never be the same.

Chris P. Rider delivers a tight, explosive 12,000-word novella that pulls no punches. Every scene drips with psychological tension and filthy, explicit detail. Richard’s dominance is surgical. Janet’s submission is total. And Matty’s free indirect discourse POV puts you inside the mind of a man whose world is ending and beginning at the same time. You’ll feel his shame, his jealousy, his aching, traitorous erection. You’ll watch with him. You’ll break with him.

Perfect for readers who crave intense cuckolding with a high-class BDSM twist, this standalone entry in the Cuckold Tales series explores themes of power, submission, inadequacy, and the dark thrill of watching your wife become someone else’s property. Expect long, detailed sex scenes with dirty talk, size humiliation, public voyeurism, Master/slave dynamics, and a cum-eating finale that cements Matty’s new role.

One night. One club. One revelation. She’s owned. And so is he.

Lily’s Clinical Shoot: When Documentation Becomes the Ultimate Kink

March 2024. I’m twenty-four, broke, and emotionally wrecked after my neighbour Michelle left to go back to her husband. I need rent money fast, and I’m scrolling classifieds at half nine in the morning when I see it: “Female figure model wanted for private artistic photography. £800 for single day session. Must be comfortable with explicit nude work.”

I’ve done nude modelling before. Thailand, Barcelona, Sydney. Easy work. You pose, they photograph, you get paid, everyone goes home happy. I assume this is the same. Bit of tasteful spreading, maybe some toy work if they’re feeling adventurous. Eight hundred quid for eight hours? I email before my coffee’s gone cold.

What I walk into is something else entirely. Bettany Davidstow runs a private commission service for wealthy collectors who want gynaecological documentation of female arousal. Not pornography, she’s very clear about that. Documentation. Clinical, precise, utterly explicit photography of women’s bodies responding genuinely to stimulation, penetration, and use. Her clients pay thousands for authenticity, and authenticity means I need to actually be wet, actually be turned on, actually surrender whilst she photographs every intimate detail from six different angles with three different cameras.

The morning session is solo. Standard nudes escalate into legs-spread close-ups. Then she tells me to masturbate whilst she photographs. I use a Vegas DP fantasy to get properly wet, and she documents my swollen, glistening cunt in extreme macro detail. Then come the anal plugs—three graduated sizes, each one stretching me wider until I’m gaping open and she’s photographing my arsehole staying open, unable to close, whilst I feel the studio air inside me. Then the speculum. Medical-grade stainless steel, cranking my cunt open mechanically whilst she photographs my cervix. Then the endoscopic camera inserted inside me, and I’m watching my own internal walls on a screen whilst she photographs me watching myself. It’s the most invasive, most clinical, most objectifying experience of my life. And I’m soaking wet the entire time.

After lunch, her husband arrives. Charles Davidstow, forty-four, ex-rugby build, salt-and-pepper hair, warm brown eyes, and the polar opposite of his wife’s coldness. He’s done these shoots for six years, and he’s very, very good at his job. Bettany directs him to eat my cunt until I scream. Then I deep-throat his cock whilst fingering his arse, triple stimulation that makes him nearly buckle. He comes in my mouth. Bettany photographs me holding his cum on my tongue, playing with it, bubbling it between my lips before I swallow.

Then the fucking begins. Missionary first—unprotected, because her clients require bareback and internal cumshots. He’s thick, curved, hits exactly the right spot. I come twice during vaginal, once from missionary and once from brutal doggy-style pounding that leaves me collapsed and gasping. Then Bettany instructs breeding fantasy dirty talk whilst he fucks me, tells him he can finally come inside. He does. His cum leaks out of my used cunt, and Bettany does something I don’t expect: puts on latex gloves, scoops his cum, and pushes it back inside me with her fingers. First time anyone but Charles has penetrated me all day. She photographs the result with the same clinical detachment she’s shown all morning.

Anal comes last. Three fingers preparing me, then his cock sliding in slow and deep. The fullest I’ve been in months. He fucks my arse for forty minutes, building from slow and careful to brutal pounding, and I come for the fourth time—from anal alone, the most intense orgasm of the entire day. I collapse face-down, screaming into the leather chaise, whilst he keeps fucking me through it. Then he pulls out and wanks himself onto my arse and back, thick ropes covering me, and Bettany photographs my gaping, red, utterly destroyed arsehole in extreme close-up. Evidence. Documentation. Proof.

I walk home at six o’clock with eight hundred quid in a brown envelope, his cum still drying in my knickers, every muscle aching, and a revelation forming that I won’t fully understand until I’m writing this two years later: my kink isn’t degradation. My kink is documentation. Being studied. Being archived. Being turned into permanent evidence that exists somewhere in a private collection, being viewed by strangers I’ll never meet, wanked to by wealthy collectors who paid to see my body at its most exposed, most used, most utterly surrendered.

Coming soon (pre-order on Amazon) - 1st May my next hotwife novel is published - "Angela's Bigger Ex" - a loving husband realises he can use someone's misfortune to bring his wife's old ('big') partner to stay with them. He then helps encourage them together... and things get hot and spicy.