"We'll go again before we sleep, we'll go again before we sleep."
KafkaRotica's mission is pretty simple: they craft literary erotica. That means original erotic fiction by the site's author(s) H.P. Xachariah (it's more than one person operating under one name), and porn parodies of classic poems and erotica written in the style of legendary authors, from Shakespeare, to Faulkner, to Poe. We've collected some of the funniest, dirtiest excerpts from KafkaRotica here.
(in the style of) Robert Frost, "Getting Wood on a Snowy Evening"
I feel my climax, huge and steep.
It feels so perfect I could weep.
We’ll go again before we sleep.
We’ll go again before we sleep.
(in the style of) Edgar Allan Poe, "The Swallow"
Once upon an afternoon, while I pondered getting poon
And how I’d come to find myself in such a lonely plight,
I thought I heard a gentle tapping, which became a heavy rapping.
Opening the door I saw a marvelous and welcome sight.
’Twas a visitor, my radiant neighbor and a welcome sight. Asking if I had a light.
(in the style of) Lewis Carroll, "Booberwocky"
‘Be aware the booberwock, my son!
The nip that slips, the bags to catch!
Beware the Slutslut bird,
and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!’
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the buxoom babe he sought—
So jerked he in the locker bay,
Just jerked a while in thought.
(in the style of) Albert Camus, Camus' Sutra
Shada’s apartment was much like mine in size but all the different for decoration. Black and white photographs lined the entry-way; the majority were tasteful nudes with erogenous areas obscured by shadow. Her Salamano rubbed against me then darted away.
“What do you do for work?” I asked. Shada gestured toward the photographs. I considered the various complimentary options and said: “They are naked.”
“Do you think so?” We had arrived at her bedroom. Shada reached for a large camera from a basket fastened to the wall. “I should take your picture.”
I had never considered myself handsome, but I had not thought the inverse either. To date, I had thought very little of anything at all. Sex seemed inevitable. It had been a while since my last encounter with a female, but my penis and testicles were signalling that they were agreeable to the notion.
“I have never been photographed,” I said. “I am not sure I am an appropriate model for your art.
Shada stepped toward me and placed a free hand on my hip. She smelled of roasted coffee beans and abject sexuality. I feigned protest at her advances with my inaction, but my Maginot Line was easily crossed.
“You are mourning,” Shada told me. “That is a kind of beauty.”
(in the style of) Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreaus of Passion
As we kissed, I unfastened the top button of his shirt — a simple blue shirt for a man of simple tastes. When he did not protest, I continued down the path of buttons, delighting in the exposure of the thick, black hair on his chest. Reaching the final button, I slipped my hands around his shoulders and pushed the shirt away entirely, trailing my fingers across his skin, which rose, goosefleshed, under my touch.
Once I had rid him of his shirt, he proceeded to unfasten my dress, fumbling with the buttons in his eagerness. He quickly exposed my back, and, drawn by the silky lines of spine and blades, bent to kiss me across my shoulders. Then his mouth made its way around the side of my neck to revel in the warmth and sweet scents he found there.
I let him enjoy me. I encouraged his hands to explore my now bare breasts; leaned against his broad frame, inciting an impassioned response from between his legs. I had forgotten how quickly a young man, so virile and energetic, might come to firmness. His response enlivened my own blood further. Oh how lovely, how extraordinary to be wanted like this.
I turned to him, thinking to push him down upon the sofa, but he placed his hands on my shoulders and stopped my advance.
“With only Mother Nature to watch us, let us make of her an engaged witness; let us show her that spirit, which, in taking us, bids us make use of these fervent bodies; let us demonstrate for our neighbors, the woodcock and the fox, how lush and ambrosial is our lovemaking—how exuberantly we join together as a species; and let us appreciate, like the grateful animals we are, the secluded trees, the pining pond, the indefatigable sky, which may serve as both stage and audience for our ecstasy.”
“You want to go outside?” I asked.
Image via Wikipedia.