Cold Tequila Tile

Although it remains (farcically) unpublished, Haught’s Cold Tequila Comfort  is widely regarded as the most profound, most arousing and best written piece of erotic literature since Lady Chatterley’s Lover. 

It is, quite simply, the sexual voice of a generation.

Erotic fiction - a new excerpt

"Oh god" Cora-Lynne breathed. "Let's do it right here." She was referring to sexual intercourse. She exposed her dewy thicket. The barometer reached its upper limit - Very Dry. It was a wholly inappropriate reading. His weapon of lust moved intrepidly inside. He now knew what bliss felt like: it felt like being inside a plump, steamed gyoza dumpling. Read the post...

A return to erotic fiction

Dierdre was wearing only a translucent salad bowl and some beetroot paste. Blue blood filled Gridd’s aristocratic flesh pencil. He made a low moaning sound, tore off his clothes and threw them into the open fire place, which had spontaneously combusted the moment their eyes had met. He strode over to Felicity, whisked the salad bowl from her head and threw it out the window. It landed in the Aegean Sea several hours later. He then picked up Felicity and threw her against the wall. “Do me, your highness,” whispered Dierdre. Read the post...

Yet more erotic fiction

[Ruk] was walking down Sparkassenstraße in Munich. He was not wearing lederhosen – he never had. He also had no interest in fascism. He was wearing cuban heels and many women looked at him as he passed. One of those women was Leto Amethyst. Their eyes met – Ruk’s brown like hazelnut praline in a dark room, Leto’s blue like the Danube at a quarter past three on a mid-September afternoon with no cloud cover. They went down and alley. They took off all their clothes and had sex in the doggy position. Read the post...

My eroticest fiction yet

Since San Alfonso, their relationship had deteriorated like a biscuit in a cup of hot tea. It was bitter tea, like someone had accidentally put some tan bark in it, and it definitely didn't have any sugar in it. "You're..." said Brunden, but he didn't finish the sentence. "I think we need to talk," said Dierdre. She had an earnest look on her face. It aroused Brunden. His obelisk firmed, becoming a noble flesh statue. "I think we need to make love," Brunden said. And they did. Again. Brunden pumped Dierdre as if she was a receptacle containing crude oil and he was a greedy Texan with a groin siphon. Read the post...

More erotic fiction

Felicity Montgomery was the daughter of the Establishment. She sometimes rode in a horse-drawn carriage, even though that mode of transport had been obsolete for more than a century and was extravagantly expensive and exceptionally inefficient. She had hair like a flowing waterfall of molten bronze and eyes like two shimmering orbs of cobalt, except with some white (the white) and black (the pupil). Her eyes not only looked like cobalt, they also had a cobalt-like radioactivity, and although they could not cause cancer in a man, they could certainly make him very ill indeed. Ill with love. Felicity had a fine pair of buttocks. Read the post...

My attempt at erotic fiction

Brunden's bed had satin sheets. Brunden completed a difficult equation and yelled with satisfaction, as he sometimes did while exercising his gift for arithmetic. It must have been loud, because he could hear Dierdre, the thirty-four year old divorcee who lived in the apartment next door wake up and ask herself groggily, "Wh-what's going on?" Then suddenly it was on. Big time. Dierdre was at the door with all her clothes on and a duffel coat and a prim early 19th century replica bonnet, then she was about halfway between the door and the bed without her duffel coat and only some of her clothes on, but the bonnet still on in a coquettish manner. Then she was straddling Hank Brunden completely naked, her gulf throbbing like a frightened mouse's heart. It had been like watching a very early, very amateurish attempt at stop motion cinema. Read the post...


 

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