Why Do Characters in Erotic Novels Never Have Tea Breaks?

Tea Time
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As I press the switch the light illuminates the darkness like a seedy Soho massage parlour. I stand in silence anticipating the low satisfying rumble from the boiling kettle. I am in a kitchen with the lonely white goods standing naked and cold; my bed is calling me back like a parent to a lost child. I place my hand on the warm plastic, feeling the heat emanating from within. A wave of comfort and security washes over my entire body, soothing and sensual, satisfying my carnal needs. The heat begins to intensify to a point where I can hardly bare to keep my hands in place. The low rumble erupts into a gurgling symphony of sounds, growing louder and louder until the button… clicks. The room fills with steam which quickly condenses on the ceiling above.

The excited gurgling slowly subsides leaving silence once more. I remove the tea bag from its box, holding it between my fingers; feeling the rough paper grain upon my soft skin. I drop it into the mug, it sits there begging to be drenched. The hot water rehydrates the black tea leaves and a satisfying scent of bergamot hits my nose in waves. I take in the heavenly aroma appreciating the subtleties with immense excitement and pleasure. The remains are still imprisoned within their paper cage, to be squeezed dry and discarded.

I walk over to the refrigerator taking out a bottle of milk, my breath against the chill of the fridge creates little white clouds dispersing as quickly as they were formed. I add the milk and it turns the tea’s deep sepia into a creamy hue. I carefully climb the precarious stairwell with the mug of tea, trying hard not to spill a single drop. Entering the room, I place the tea on the bedside table. I climb back under the warm covers and pass the hot mug to you. You look sleepy. You cradle it in your hands and drink. Soon the tea will be consumed, but your thirst will never be quenched. You put the empty vessel down and we continue…


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Lucas Howard

When I was seven I started copying poems out of a book and telling people they were mine. When I ran out of good ones to copy, I had to start writing my own. I have been performing and organising nights on the UK spoken word scene now for over seven years and am most of the way through writing the first draft of my first novel 'Zedlist', which is serialised on here. As the story is in fetal form, any critiques or suggestions are most welcome.

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