DESIRE: 100 OF LITERATURES SEXIEST STORIES

International Fiction

Another drinks party at the Wentworth Tennis Club. The company tends to be on the conservative side at the club – almost all of the husbands
commute to the City, very few of the wives work – and I had no high hopes of any great repartee. In fact it would be fair to say that I could identify in advance every single topic of conversation that was likely to be raised.

It was, however, a lovely evening. The heat of the day had ceded to a golden stillness, and long shadows were painted on the lawn and the clubhouse veran­dah. And I would venture to say that we ourselves made a brave enough picture, with the men distinguished in blazers and open-necked shirts and the women charming in print dresses and light woollens. I arrived just as the fray was warm­ing up, and after arming me with a gin and tonic – longish on the gin, shortish on the tonic, as is my regrettable wont – the club secretary introduced me to a new member, Davina Harvey-Clissold.

Mrs Harvey-Clissold was an attractive woman of some 35 summers. She was wearing a navy blue linen suit with a pretty sapphire brooch. Her intelligent features displayed a light honey-coloured tan – Barbados, perhaps, or Gstaad­and her smartly cut blonde hair was restrained by a black velvet band.
“So,” I said, when she had accepted a cigarette and I had lit it for her. “Tell me something about yourself.”

She smiled politely and examined the frosted glass of her drink. “I love to guzzle cum,” she told me. “I love it when some big-cocked stud hoses my dirty slut’s face with his creamy wad.”

“And have you and your husband moved to the area recently?” I asked her. She coloured slightly at the intimate nature of the question.

“I love to feel a massive rock-hard prick between my juicy stiff-nippled chest-puppies,” she said, drawing absently at her cigarette. “But how about you, Mr Corbishley? Do you like to drive your rock-hard piston into the drenched twat of a barely legal cumteen? Or do you prefer to gag on the swollen ebony shaft of a Brazilian she-male?”

Her question went unanswered, for at that moment an acquaintance of hers hove into view. They air-kissed, and Mrs Harvey-Clissold turned to me. “Mr Corbishley, I’d like you to meet Consuela Vasconcellos. Consuela is a filthy spunk-chugging Latina slut-bitch who likes nothing better than to spread her coral pink cunt-lips for a succession of huge-cocked studs.”

Consuela Vasconcellos smiled, and we shook hands. Sensing a directness in her manner -and, I confess, a hint of mischief -I dared a personal question.
“How do you find Berkshire, Mrs Vasconcellos?” I asked.

Her jaw dropped, and for a long moment she stared at me, appalled. Then, with every fibre of her being quivering with outrage, she turned on her heel and marched into the clubhouse.

“Well, that was hardly tactful, was it?” murmured Davina Harvey-Clissold. “I’ve heard you have a reputation for plain speaking, but … ”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but don’t you sometimes feel you want to cut to the chase with people? To dispense with the formalities? I mean, would you really be of­fended if I asked you your opinion of the property market, or where you and your husband were thinking of sending your children to school?”

Hardly were the words out of my mouth than a stinging slap connected with my face. The report was like that of a gunshot, and I could feel my cheek blazing with the force of the blow. When my eyes had finally cleared, Davina Harvey-Clissold was nowhere to be seen and the club secretary had material­ised at my side.

“Dickie, old boy,” he began. “You must stop behaving like this. People are beginning to talk.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid I just don’t seem to have the gift of small talk.

George Arbuthnot looked at me kindly. “Let’s just forget about it, shall we? Why don’t you help yourself to one of my panatellas and come and say hello to the Hoarwithys. Guy loves chocolate sex-play while wearing a hardened rubber butt-plug and Sophie dreams of being orally and anally violated by a succession of monster cocks in a Transylvanian dungeon.”

The sensible chap, I have always thought, knows when it’s time to throw the towel.

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International Fiction

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“AFSPA’s shadow was darkest in the early years of the insurgency. In the 1960s…socialist leader Jayaprakash Narayan…referred to the government’s handling of the Naga problem as ‘India’s Vietnam’. He was referring to the ruthlessness and widespread violation of human rights perpetrated on the Naga people. The horrifying scenes of entire villages burnt down, the humiliation of people running for cover in their own land, the pain of living in the jungles during the torrential rains, the trauma of seeing loved ones dying before one’s eyes — these have largely gone undocumented. But these experiences live on in the memories of the people. It is no wonder that these generations are affected with post-traumatic stress disorder… I’ve tried to capture those years in my debut novel,” Waiting for the Dust to Settle

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