A Place of Great and Rushing Silence

by Fei Wu
Past midnight. Salary-men hurtle home drunk and horny to silent apartments, cold rice and a bowl of shriveled green beans swimming in oil. They glance at their still, sleeping wives and consider shaking them awake for a quick and furious fuck, but balk at the thought of worn beige panties, and tofu waists indented with the elastic bands of winter wear. Some turn to their computer screens; pant in the near-dark, faces aglow with artificial light.
Then there are those who phone Xin. Continue reading…

Love Between Trapezes

by Peaches Pleasant
Vivienne’s legs were spread wide, blood rushing to her head. The whip cracked and Damien laughed. “Okay, sweetheart. You can come down now. You’ve been a very good girl.”  Continue reading…

Fifteen Minutes

by Basia Dekleva

“Come on, harder. Fuck me hard.”

“Stop. Ehm, Jess, could we try that one again? Let’s remember the girl is just getting fucked by a big guy she kinda likes, alright?”

Jess rolled her eyes. She had had a bad day and now this. Dubbing porn. Dubbing fucking porn. “Fuck me”, she thought to herself. Continue reading…

An Evening of Smut @ YY’s

H.A.L. got all hot and bothered over at YY’s with some of the filthiest smut around plus featured readings by Renee Reynolds and Mark Talacko from H.A.L.’s second book MIDDLE KINGDOM UNDERGROUND. Performances by Robin Silver, Basia Dekleva, W.M. Butler and Fei Wu left the audience panting for more! The evening was a climatic event for all involved. Guests and authors stayed late into the night in a post coital embrace, lost in the afterglow of some brilliant readings. If you missed the event and would like to get a little taste of what going down at a H.A.L. event is like check out these stories!

Basia Dekleva – Fifteen Minutes

Peaches Pleasant – Love Between Trapezes

W.M. Butler – Donkey Punch

Fei Wu – A Place of Great and Rushing Silence

And You Will Adore It: an erotic tale

By L.N.R.

Today I’m meeting him in an old office. I’ve been there before. White on off-white. A water cooler. A chair. Nothing unique or memorable. It’s the kind of place a man goes to hide. A place he can bring a nameless female to slip out of her black dress, lay across his cold, gray desk and wait.

“C’est jour de tempête, c’est jour de tempête, c’est jour de tempête…” This time it’s a poem by Julien Hommage. My master likes to remind people that he speaks four languages, one of them French. Usually poems make my stomach do little somersaults of embarrassment, but this is an order. “Memorize this for me,” his last e-mail said. “You will recite it on Wednesday in my office at 5 p.m. Mistakes will be punished.”

“Ton talon s’abat sur mon corps, frappe mon menton encore et encore.” My floor is almost done. Afternoon light illuminates the floor and I imagine cruel, heavy boots walking across it. “Ton talon s’abat…” I look at my phone, 4:17. I need to get dressed.
Sitting in the reception of his nearly empty office complex, I watch the nervous receptionist. She’s told me to go up the marble staircase several times but I am sitting, as commanded, on the left side of the couch, legs crossed, silent. I smile at her, keeping my face calm while my heart bangs out a very different story. The receptionist gets out her phone and stares at it intently.
Finally he appears at the top of the stairs, sees me and makes a quick gesture with his head. Shaking a little, I stand and try a confident walk, but I can’t control my knees. I stumble a bit on the marble stairs and his lips smile just enough that I can see his yellow, jagged teeth. We go up.

Continue reading…

Very Small Rooms

by Greg Baines

My first glimpse of Yu Ting, actually, was on a grainy web cam that was pointed at her as she squashed into the wall dressed in some black lacey fuck-me lingerie. She paned around the room she lived in and I saw her mum crumpled and asleep next to her.

Her house was forty one square metres in total and mine was about eighty but I did share with a French girl who didn’t believe in sex before marriage. But when she moved in I wasn’t in love with Yu Ting.

Yu Ting now ‘feels-close-enough-to-get closer-and-show-more-commitment’ (go to bed), but the French girl and her unemployed mother have forced us into public parks at odd hours hiding from people doing Taichi to grope and get our hands tangled in each other’s clothes and to avoid guys with uniforms and whistles roaming around killing pleasure.

Half of her thinks that I am, of course, some no-good-dirty-foreigner-who-will-fuck-anything-that-moves and say any ‘sweet-words’ to any girl to fuck her so when I told her I’d never heard of  “couples cafés” she slapped me and told me I was a rotten egg and I’d probably fucked many girls in them. Continue reading…

Appetisers and Aperitifs

by Mark Talacko

Have all our guests arrived?  inquired P’an Chin-lien.

Xochiquetzal and Kurukulla just arrived, making 29. I’m sure we can expect Aphrodite soon; the sea was seen churning and foaming off of Chong Ming.

Remember to seat Astarte and Ishtar at different tables. We don’t want a scene like at Luamereva’s last year in Cocody.

It was P’an’s turn to host la fêtes des déesses, an annual gathering of the world’s love, sex and fertility goddesses during which they replenished their powers by feasting upon the sexual energy of mortals. As goddess of brothels, promiscuity and general lasciviousness, P’an knew that nothing says sex better in Chinese than Shanghai.

Continue reading…

Accompaniment

by Joshua Tintner

I remember building spaceships, guns, and cars as a child.  Chunky things, they all ended up resembling 1980s-era Volvos—but then you can’t expect Frank Gehry curves when you give a kid Legos.  Maybe that’s why I never made Lego buildings.  Erecting a building with Legos isn’t creating, it’s stacking. Turning boxes into bigger boxes.

Bat an eye, blink away 20-odd years, and I now live in one of those boxes-made-of-boxes.  I’m walking into one of these sad behemoths, shuffling past the teenage security guard who thinks he’s a soldier.  Above me, rows of windows rise like stale layer cakes into Shanghai’s “foggy” skies.

My girlfriend and I scamper into Building-12, one of its cavities being our current apartment.  Good timing, as we are only slightly damp from the famous Shanghai Autumn drizzle.  We’re both tired from the office, but I still notice a naughty smirk rising on my girlfriend’s glossy lips.

Continue reading…