Haught

Purveyors of fine sarcasm

Tag: literature

August 9, 2012
 Erotic Literature

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.

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JonathanJuly 23, 2012
 Erotic Literature

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.

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JonathanJuly 9, 2012
 Erotic Literature

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.

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