International Fiction

He’s a box of chocolates: his clothes are just wrappings I rip off impa­tiently and throw on the floor.

There’s a tale, from Morte d’Arthur, I think, about a knight who wins a contest of strength and courage and is rewarded with the hand of a fair lady.

The only catch is that the fair lady is under a spell, doomed to turn every day into an ugly, graceless hag. The knight is given a choice. He can have her beau­tiful by day and be envied by all, but a hag when he is alone with her: or he can have the beauty for his eyes only and be mocked by others for being married to an awful old bag.

I almost feel like that with him. No-one knows but I how beautiful he is under his awful clothes. Every time I unwrap him, he’s the best present I ever received.

His skin is like milk, his arms thick twists of rope under velvet, his arse tight and firm, buttocks round and full as cherries. He moves like a wrestler, light on his feet, his shoulders rolling forward, his hips narrow and loose. I want to braid his hair into a rope and climb up it as if he were a tower I needed to conquer. He’s always hard when I want him. Always.
His cock fills me so tightly my vibrator’s a disappointment by contrast. I could lie and sculpt his pectorals with the palm of my hand for hours. I would, if he didn’t complain that it tickles. Sometimes I turn him over and massage him from head to toe, digging my fingers as best I can into the tough weave of muscles along his back. I stand over him and dip one heel into the back of his thigh, press­ing down into it with my whole weight, because I’m not nearly strong enough to make any impact on it with my fingers alone. I take his feet into my hands and work each toe gently, knead the soles with my knuckles, sink my thumbs into the softness below the ball, tenderising him a little. And then I make him turn onto his back again and work my way up the soft skin of his inner thighs, trailing my nails up them till his impatient cock jerks up still further into the air.

I kneel over him and rub myself against him, teasing him while I massage his face, smooth out his forehead, pinch lightly along his eyebrows, roll his earlobes between the pads of my fingers, pretending that I’m calming him down while I can feel beneath me how erect he is, how much he wants me.

He’s so hard I don’t even need to reach down and guide him in. He does that all by himself. And then I’m full, completely full. His arms around me, his cock rocking away inside me, pulling out so I can feel how much I want him, driving back in to plug me up again, fill me to the brim. Even when I’m desperate for him to come, even when I feel I can’t take any more, I know that a few minutes afterwards I will want him all over again. He’s better than a box of chocolates; I can glut myself on him and never feel sick or guilty. He’s my sugar rush. His sperm tastes as delicate as sweet almond paste and his sweat rolls over me like salt water. I lick it out of the hollows of his neck as he fucks me. Bite into the caps of muscle on his shoulders. I want to drown in him.

Only when we’re making love do his eyes really look into mine; the rest of the time he’s wary, cautious, almost afraid of me. He has never learnt to trust a lover and he won’t let me teach him. I will never really have him.

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International Fiction

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“Translation as Adventure, Obsession and Collaboration”

Join us for this week’s #TranslationThursdays session with Sampurna Chattarji, poet, novelist, teacher and translator par excellence. She has eighteen published books to her credit. Her translation of Joy Goswami’s Selected Poems is a Harper Perennial; and Wordygurdyboom! – her translation of Sukumar Ray – is a Puffin Classic. She is currently Poetry Editor of The Indian Quarterly. (more…)


“Announcing this week’s #TranslationThursdays session with Arunava Sinha, award-winning translator and Associate Professor of Creative Writing, Ashoka University. Arunava Sinha translates classic, modern and contemporary Bengali fiction and nonfiction into English, and from English into Bengali.

Participate in the session and find out how Arunava began his translation journey, as he speaks about “My First Translation”. If you’re looking for some inspiration this week, this is it.

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Thank you, and see you there!

#FUNtasticBookWeekends continues at Storyteller Bookstore!
This Sunday come spend time with Shabnam Minwalla as she does a dramatised book reading of her own book, Nimmi’s Bizuper Birthday.
The book is about Nimmi who is waiting for her birthday and is excited about a new mobile phone, and a party. Of course, it all comes with some disastrous issues including a competition birthday party by someone else! This will be followed by a word game!
5:30 PM onwards this Sunday, register here to attend the session –
Powered by Talking Cub / Storyteller Bookstore/ LBB, Kolkata


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The Assassination of Indira Gandhi: The Collected Stories ‘Some of [the stories] are truly complex, and some revel in simplicity. What is evident throughout is the humorous and satirical voice of the author. The understated humour freely sprinkled on the pages will not escape your attention. And this satire is serious literary satire… The Assassination of Indira Gandhi- The Collected Stories of Upamanyu Chatterjee is not a light weekend read, but instead needs to be treated like a true classic.’ Book review of The Assassination of Indira Gandhi: The Collected Stories

The Drunk Bird Chronicles ‘One hundred years of pandemonium is the phrase that best describes Malay Chatterjee’s thoroughly enjoyable debut novel… Irreverence and wit keep readers engrossed even as triumph and tragedy unfold, skeletons tumble out of closets, and love, lust, hope and greed keep Braganza and Co. going.’ Book review of The Drunk Bird Chronicles

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