The Fockit, or, In and Out Again

 by GrushaVashnadze

TypeTalk

 

Fuck, thought Joy, as she settled into her cubicle at the Royal National Institute for the Deaf Message Relay Centre. Eight more hours relaying inane bullshit down a telephone line, she continued to self-commiserate, as she logged onto her TTY – huge and modern, like a typewriter on steroids, with handset and microphone to match, the latest in 1990s technology. How are the mighty fallen! she moaned silently as she donned her headphones. Last month – a triumphant Romeo and Juliet at the Old Vic (“Joy-Beth Stuckey is a revelation as the Capulet princess, combining teenage playfulness with a mature and alluring sexuality.” – The Stage). This month – out of work and back to the call centre grind. At least the deaf relay work is less mind-numbing than the John Lewis catalogue line (“No Madam, your toilet paper dispenser does not come with toilet paper installed. You have to buy your own toilet paper, Madam. My pleasure, Madam.” Go fuck a dog, Madam…)

All Systems Functioning

 

Earth date 1^st April, 2121. Time 12h03m56s GMT. Space Station Alpha 69. Geostationary above Mars. Unmanned. Nothing to report. All systems functioning.

***

Earth date 2^nd April, 2121. Time 15h05m23s GMT. Space Station Alpha 69. Geostationary above Mars. Unmanned. Nothing to report. All systems functioning.

Our Porge

 

“FUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!” She would have screamed it out loud, if she could have been sure of not being heard. As it was, she screamed it deep into her heart, where it burnt, scraped, and dug, till she folded up double on her bed with anguish.

She looked again at her phone.

Sorry, love. It’s over.

Soeliram

 

Soeliram,
Anak manis djanganlah ditjioem;
Kalaoe ditjioem merahlah pipinja.

“Sweet child, let her not be kissed,” she sings in her native tongue, “or ruddy will her cheeks turn: soeliram…” Her voice tinkles and her spirit soars, as the bundle in her arms latches onto her full brown breast. The child’s eyes are wide and sincere, sparkling like burnished bronze under candlelight, as mother and baby commune through song and shared body-being. “Anak manis,” she warbles again, “sweet child…” Her own eyes gleam happily, as baby’s slowly close, softly urged into slumber by the stroking of a maternal finger. She gently places him in the cot, folds over the blankets, stows her breast back into her bra, and buttons up her faded floral-print dress.

Widadari Ophelia

 

“Back soon, mbak!” I called towards the kitchen.

“Jalan-jalan?” – “Going for a walk?” came Sri’s voice, amid the clatter of pans and the scent of terasi and lemon grass.

“Is that OK?” I asked.

“Of course: Ningsih can help me with supper. Be back by sunset, though.” Her voice, tinkling like degung, radiated trust and cheerfulness. My heart twinged briefly, but I dismissed the feeling with a deft and practiced gesture of moral legerdemain.

Pink

 

(Historical note: The import and sale of chewing gum has been illegal in Singapore since 1992.)

 ~

“Alamak! So sexy what!” grins Aini, eyes squinting against the tropical afternoon light as she looks up from the pool. Her bathing costume is a modest maroon one-piece affair, melding into the rich dark skin of her short round body, carefully conserving her full breasts from view.

Fuck-Talk

One morning, GrushaVashnadze awoke to find his PMs filled with a steaming slut. Opening the message, he unintentionally kickstarted a series of double entendres that would change his erotica career forever.

==========

Subject Line: Let’s Be Friends?

VioletVixen: Grusha!

I just read your Alison series, and I'm completely obsessed. I hope this doesn’t come off too strong...?

We might not be acquainted yet, but I hoped you could help me fine-tune my skills as a filthy writer. It’s always been an aspiration of mine to become a true word-wench, if you know what I mean.

Fuck-Talk Too

 

Dear Reader,

If you’ve never met Grusha and Violet before, you might consider reading their first collaboration, Fuck-Talk, first. Then again, you might not…

Double Stopping

 

by CuriousAnnie & GrushaVashnadze

She’s sex-on-legs; so, of course, she plays the cello. It’s all about that hourglass shape. Add the facial ecstasy, the poise, the curl of the back, the lunge – and bingo. After all, music critics think with their dicks.

Jade’s pretty. That luscious body and those dark glinting eyes had me drooling the first time I saw her at Royal College. Even then a serious player; her whole body, arms, shoulders, hips, seemingly brought to bear on making love to that cello. And the instrument responded, singing out in pleasure.