Julia

by Sandra Newman

twatspeak, arsethink, doublepluscunt

certain words and phrases had become watchwords that showed one was of the fucking class.

Many a tryst had been spoiled by a band of convivial strangers with a bag of protein-paste sandwiches.

In the SAZ, they’d had a cow that gave more milk than any other, but liked to kick the bucket over just as it was full. Smith was like that frustrating cow.

He knew just how to fuck, hard enough that it jarred her whole body and resonated through her. He rang her like a bell.

Well, let it be what he liked. Let him call her “the dead,” and spin unwholesome fantasies about woman-murder. She was here for his long hard thighs, his tight arse, his fair hair falling into his eyes as he bent over her, his spent prick lying curled against his hairy thigh, seeming utterly exhausted—but

the rumpled look of having slept out of doors on an errand he found cheerful.