Not necessarily erotica; more like an HBO tv show:
The smoke veiled the black ink on his page, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed watching the smoke chimney out of his mouth: a large cloud blocking all vision and external phenomena. The haze around his head allowed him to think clearly for a few seconds before the atmosphere tore the white exhaust apart and the external world invaded or arrested his thoughts. He started reading again. The protagonist of the story had just beat up one of his wives for what he thought was no apparent reason, but he was reading a story about Africa, and he didn’t know African culture, so he decided it was just another misunderstanding. “This story is really good,” he said to the curly-headed blonde sitting on the floor underneath his abdomen. She raised her head as if in agreement. She may have been really engrossed in her own reading, a beatnik-like story about the trials of a young man as he protested some governmental law. At least, that’s what he thought it was about. He’d never read the story. He took another drag from the blue-swirled hookah that stood erect on the table in front of them. Admiring the smoke as it puffed out of his mouth, he attempted to make some smoke rings. He failed. Sitting up and stretching, his arms raised first and then bent forward like a half-assed salat, he asked the girl what she was having for dinner. Receiving no reply, he stood up and walked to the bathroom. As he unzipped his pants, the cat of the apartment slunk in as if spying on his actions. He kicked the cat out the bathroom and began pissing. He flushed, washed his hands, and walked back to the couch he was laying on. Clearing away the dead ash from the hookah coil, he finally got a response from the other human occupant: “you know you’re not supposed to do that. It gets ash in the Shisha.” “It’s my hookah” he replied, not in defense but in authority. The blonde-curls set down her book and reached for the coiled hookah hose. She inhaled deeply, sucking in the sweet apple-flavored smoke. He admired the expertise at how she exhaled the toxic smoke without coughing. He knew she had a very relaxed jaw and throat but was always astonished at how she was able to hold so much smoke. “Are we gonna eat?” he asked; a simple differentiation of his earlier interrogation. “What do you want? I have some left-over beans and rice casserole” was the reply. He didn’t reply and took the hookah hose and inhaled deeply only to blow the smoke in the curl’s face. “You’re a dick,” she said jokingly. He knew she liked it blown on her face. He stood up again and went to the refrigerator and grabbed one of the twenty-four oz cans of Bud-light he had brought. Taking a glimpse out of the small window, he noticed it was getting darker. The “kssh” sound of the can accentuated the growing dimness of the outside, like the opening of the can was the reason the sun was going down. He felt good. He felt the pain-pills he imbibed upon earlier were working their magic. His arms felt numb; he was glad. He re-entered the living room to find the Curls had appropriated his place on the cough and was beginning to please herself over her tightly-fit yoga pants. He grabbed the hookah hose and inhaled the sweet nectar deep into his lungs. He felt his capillaries choke and regurgitate the toxin and he laughed. The Curls looked up, her darkly shadowed blue eyes curious at his outburst of jest. He imagined she thought he was laughing at her because she quickly stopped touching herself. He was laughing at the absurdity of the scene, at the absurdity of his life. He approached the couch and grabbed a fistful of the Curl’s hair; her spine arched like a cat ready to hiss away an enemy. She smiled. He didn’t. He looked into her eyes and bent over and kissed her, passionate enough to make her want more contact, but removed enough to allow for his own indifference to the Curl’s affections. He ran his tan hand down her check until it wrapped around her neck. He always felt that a hand around the neck meant that he was feeling a soul. He could feel the air enter into the Curl’s lungs as she inhaled. It was only a slight muscle twitch to end that feeling, to gate the passage of life. He was careful enough to not actually choke her, but he squeezed the outer rim of her neck like a massage from the wrong side. She moaned in a performed ecstasy. He glanced out one of the large windows in the living. He could see the neon light of the bar that served ecstatic drinks to needy customers underneath the apartment. He pushed the Curls out of his seat on the couch and sat down. She began kissing his neck and rubbing his penis through his jeans. He pushed her way claiming he wasn’t drunk enough to deal with her right now. “Why do you have to be drunk?” she questioned. She was genuinely interested. A grunted reply was all she was granted. Raising his bud light can to an obtuse angle, he drained the rest of it. He threw it against the wall, not in anger, but in a way that accentuated his authority. The little bit of backwash that was left in the can sprinkled out across the white carpet. The Curls gasped. In a forceful move, he grabbed her jawbone and began to pseudo-passionately kiss her. His hands journeyed underneath the yoga pants and fit their way into her moist vagina. He felt her body tense and then relax. He felt her mind empty of all memories, feelings, thoughts: existence. He felt her back spasm in pleasure and pain and he drove his fingers deeper into her vagina. Using his other hand he stifled the moan that was nearing escape from her larynx. He wanted to keep everything inside. He ripped the yoga pants in one forceful but controlled move. A gasp escaped. He grabbed her hair in consequence and stationed his mouth on top of hers. His tongue penetrated her mouth in the same movement his fingers invaded her vagina. In defense, she bit his tongue. He pushed farther, harder, faster. The apartment cat slithered up the couch arm to the back of the couch, as if it was a journalist. It watched in amazement as its master was defeated, squirming in a half-pleasurable half-painful ecstasy. As he grabbed the cat at the nape of the neck and with howl that complemented the cat’s screech flung it across the living room, the Curl’s screamed in an antagonized pleasure. She grabbed the back of his neck, her nails digging into the back of his neck enough to break the skin. She yelled no, yes, no. Her excitement at the events taking place were unable to be put into a coherent monosyllable. He stopped and stared into the Curl’s face. She looked at him in amazement, as if she had never seen him before as if the apartment ceiling behind his head was brand new. As if everything was brand new. He exited her body and grabbed the hookah hose and began puffing on it. The apartment cat crawled back to him and rested its head in his lap. He smiled and took another drag from the hose.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/2avjdk/an_apartment_story