Short fiction and serialised novellas of GJ Fairlamb

Archive for June 2014

Savage Writing: To Leave Brazil

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The Savages Overlord, Doug, decreed that this week’s topic be Brazil, because of some international kicksphere tourney. I ended up doing this crazy freewrite late the night before. Best heard at 100mph.


Imagine one of these days, Bella. We’re going to get out of here. We’re going to fly straight across the sea – across and up – and we’ll fly right over Africa and up to Portugal, and there they’ll think we’re quaint, loud, “Oh look, these beautiful Brazilian woman, ha ha ha!” And no-one will tell us what to do any more, because they’ll fall at our feet and give us rubies just for a smile, and we’ll be secretaries and washer women and maids, anything, until we find men worth keeping, and then we’ll say “yes” but we won’t settle down, oh no, we’ll get a man who moves, and we’ll carry him all across Europe and Asia until we reach Vietnam and the Philippines and Taiwan and then maybe we’ll find a new man there, who knows? Old or young, it doesn’t matter as long as they have vitality, spark in their eye enough to take in our swaying hips. You’ll see Bella, they’ll adore us. Across the world, they’ll adore us, anywhere – just anywhere that’s not FUCKING Brazil!

Paola, Paola, no, never, it can never be. The world is not made of rubies – the sea is not sapphire, and the plants are not emerald. We walk down the street in Rio and we see twenty girls prettier than us, girls with hips that sway wider than ours, woman built like the symbol for spades on playing cards, round perfect symmetrical buttocks tapering up to a waist of nothing, nothing, nothing. These girls have hair spun from silk, teeth white as desert skulls, skin of caramel, of ebony, of cream, always in one flawless matte colour. Why, then, should we – with our pimples and our wide mouths and oval faces – be courted so in Portugal or Vietnam or Taiwan? You say men would appear to give us money once our penance of wash-work is done, but my mother and your mother know the wash-work is never done and the secretary goes home last and maids will always exist because there will always be a mess to pick up. If we start that work, we will work forever. We are not fairytale princesses waiting to be saved, we are the serving girl, the farmer’s daughter, the townsfolk not even with the power of the crone. What could Portugal hold that is not here? Or Vietnam? We will always work. We may find boys to share our beds, yes, but never men to rescue us from our financial trolls, our dragons of debt. There are no knights, and my love, even if there were – do you think yourself so feeble that you must be rescued? Do you think you have not intelligence enough to be better than a maid? Only you can rescue yourself. Reliance on hypotheticals leads to death. An optimistic man in the jungle may believe he’s safe, but we know the thirst or the spiders or the crocodiles will get him in the end.

But let me out of this country! This place of invisible walls, this trench between poverty and wealth, let me out of here! You say rescue myself, Bella. Then let me rescue myself, let me hustle and sell and bargain until I’m little else but husk – but let me away from the fawning hail marys after an evening shoot-out, the starving mother inches away from the football Midas. Let me out of this awful place!

What, you think no favelas means no trench? In India we would wear gold watches in front of a dozen starving beggars. Near every country is the same, only cleaner. You want cleaner? Then yes, let’s go to Europe. But not to get away from the church, and not to get away from the stench of the poor and the reek of the rich.

Cleaner streets. I would like that. Where even the poor have shoes so they do not fear stepping in shit or glass. Yes, Bella, I want cleaner. I want Europe. We go.

And we work. We do not seduce, we do not toil: we work, and we save. You want Asia, and the rest? We work, and we pound our own path with what we have. We grow, and earn more. We see everything – and maybe in some other part of the world, we find a man to say “yes” to.

We do! Though we may toil, a little – we may do whatever needs be to eat – but not indefinitely. Even maids are not always maids, not in this future time. But yes, yes, let’s – let’s go away to Portugal, and cross the Alps, and teach and work and learn and love.

And even if at the end we have no money and no man, we will have stories – oh, such stories as no-one will ever know!

And even if they say our stories are boring or trivial, we will have one thing over our mothers, over our brothers, over our families.

And what is that, Paola?

We won’t be in fucking Brazil!



Written by G.J.

26/06/2014 at 2:56 pm

Savage Writing: No Negotiation Needed (explicit)

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I made a comment, after the dirty jokes were making their rounds on the last meeting, that we should devote an entire night to erotica and get it out of our systems. Unfortunately, Doug took me up on this idea. We wrote “filthy” stories and swapped them for other people to read. Only a couple of the contributions were truly filthy…this included. So: NSFW.



Taz Edevane lounged on his leather seat like it was a throne, elbow upon its arm, one gloved hand upright in the air. His fingers made a perpetual dance of flexing and gesturing, giving him the appearance of tourettes (or extreme fidgeting). On second glance, though, one could see how the glove was connected to the graphene screen wrapped around his forearm. With each change in posture, an array of numbers, polygraphs, and 3D molecular images flickered across its surface. Constant, physical 3D input and manipulation of data. It was exactly the kind of brilliance Leda’s company had come to expect from him.

And exactly the kind of brilliance it was hard to focus on, given the beautiful hunk of man-meat standing beside him.

‘It’s good to meet you at last, Ms Ruskin,’ Taz said.

‘The pleasure is mine,’ she said, tearing her eyes away from his guard.

‘I’m sure it is,’ Taz said with a wry smile. Backwards code flashed across his smart glasses. ‘Do you like my latest project?’

‘It’s very impressive,’ she said, nodding towards the glove and bracer, eager to turn her eyes back to the other man.

‘It is,’ Taz said, looking at said other man. ‘Manipulating him takes every inch of my brainpower sometimes – especially when he fights my influence.’

Leda turned back to the guard (or what she thought had been a guard). He was breathtaking, like a Grecian statue given colour. Black hair, lightly curling at the tips. Square jaw. Low eyebrows over deep blue eyes. Powerful muscles barely restrained under a black short-sleeved shirt. And the tiniest twitch in the bottom lid of his left eye.

‘You’re controlling him with that?’

‘Yes,’ Taz said. ‘If I want him to fetch me coffee, he does it. If I want him to pour the boiling coffee over himself, he does it. If I want him to suck my cock, he does it – and believe me, I’ve made sure he’s an expert in that matter.’

She ignored the pulse of pleasure that ran through her at the thought.

‘Are you wondering why?’ Taz asked.

‘It’s not my place to ask why, Mr Edevane,’ she said, resuming her professional attitude. ‘I’m here to make sure our contract goes through. We’re eager to have your skills, and you’re in need of our financial backing.’ Probably because of experiments like this, she added to herself. ‘I’m sure by the end of today we can come to an agreement.’

Taz looked amused.

‘If you’re here to please me so I’ll sign, then listen to why I did this. I don’t want you to think I’m a monster.’

I couldn’t care less if you are a monster, she thought, but she couldn’t deny her curiosity.

Taz swivelled to face the man beside him, hand ever fidgeting. In his look lay hate a thousand miles deep, loathing that sat in his core like a second soul.

‘This man,’ he said, ‘is called Caleb Bell. He was a policeman in the Tier 3 riots two years ago.’

His eyes held bloodlust as intense as a starving dog’s hunger.

‘He killed my wife.’

The man’s eyelid twitched again.

‘So now he does whatever you want,’ Leda finished.

Taz laughed, fingers suddenly working faster.

‘I made a few modifications to his brain. My programs run electrical interference, which in turn affects chemical release. It’s not that his body is willing but his mind is not; rather, his body makes his mind willing…to the most extent.’

Leda scanned Caleb’s face, fascinated, hoping his eyelid would twitch again. She pressed her hand against his chest, and felt his heartbeat, solid and steady under her palm. With her other hand she pinched his bicep, and nothing changed. Harder, violently, muscle tight under her fingertips. Still he did not react.

She struggled to beat down the glee, and the heat, running through her lower body.


When she turned to Taz, she knew she had been too obvious. A grin split his face wide.

‘Why don’t you try him?’

‘Try him?’

‘You know full well what I mean,’ he said. ‘And I think it would be in both our interests. You get him, and I get another small revenge. I think we’ll both be quite amenable to each other’s ideas for the contract after that.’

‘He is safe, isn’t he?’ she said, taking the chance to run her hand over Caleb’s torso again.

Taz cackled.

‘You think I would’ve risked putting my cock near his teeth if he wasn’t?’

‘Then my answer is yes,’ Leda said.

She pulled Caleb’s head down to hers, and planted a kiss on his lips – and he kissed back, gripping her back like a vice. Panicking, she pulled away.

Taz laughed again.

‘Don’t be scared, Ms Ruskin,’ he called, hand gesturing wildly. ‘He wants you. Please – enjoy him.’

Caleb kissed down her neck as Taz spoke, sending shivers over her skin. Her fear melted under the onslaught of his desire.

With a last smirk, Taz spun his chair to face the blinds.

That was enough privacy for her.

She tore open Caleb’s shirt, but barely touched it before he lifted her onto Taz’s desk. He pushed up the skirt of her dress and yanked down her tights, her high heels flying to the carpet. Willing him to be quicker, she wriggled off her pants herself. Spreading her legs, she guided his head upwards. The anticipation was unbearable as he kissed the inside of her thighs.

The desk was cold under her hips, and his tongue was warm and firm as it pressed against her. A spasm ran up her spine, forcing a moan through her lips. Yes, he knew what he was doing. His hands gripped her hips, allowing her no escape from his relentless motions. Heat throbbed through her. She could barely see his head past her heaving breasts, and greedily she wished there was a second one of him to ogle and touch as she wound higher, and higher. Instead, she gripped the desk edge, calling to the ceiling as waves of pleasure rippled up, and up, and up, until, with a shudder and a scream, she climaxed.

Panting, Leda opened her eyes, and looked down. Caleb Bell’s empty expression stared back at her. Revulsion sprang in the wake of her desire. She kicked him in the chest, and with a grunt he stood, and resumed his sentinel.

She heard Taz sigh, and the sharp glissando of his fly being pulled up.

‘Was I too fast for you, Mr Edevane?’ she said as she sat up.

‘No matter,’ he said. He turned his chair around as she stood and shimmied down her skirt. ‘I’m sure once the contract’s agreed, the three of us will be seeing a lot more of each other. Are you prepared to finalise the details now?’

Leda looked again at Caleb Bell. He gave her a forced, false smile. Her disgust of him gave her lust a spicy tinge, like wasabi in soy sauce.

‘I may need to take another break,’ she said. ‘I feel that was only a taster.’

Taz Edevane grinned again, his gloved hand never resting, his manipulations never ceasing.

‘Whatever makes our work more comfortable.’

Leda smiled and unclipped her briefcase.

Caleb Bell’s eyelid twitched: once, twice, three times…

Written by G.J.

11/06/2014 at 11:15 pm

Savage Exercise: Won’t Get Fooled Again

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At the end of the last meet, we had enough time for a ten minute writing exercise. The group’s become so busy now that we haven’t had time for one of these for a long while. Downstairs was playing “Won’t Get Fooled Again” so Doug decided that was the topic. This is (a now edited version of) what I came up with in ten minutes.


‘It won’t work,’ Marie said. ‘He’s going to know it’s you this time.’

‘Shurrup,’ Cathy replied, as she stuck the tenth post-it note to his computer monitor. ‘Fuckin’ prick has it coming.’

When she was done, each note on the screen said “WANK”, with the exception of the one in the centre, upon which was a detailed picture of a hairy cock and balls.

‘Ace,’ Cathy said. ‘Soon as he’s back from his meeting, he’ll get an eyeful.’

She walked back towards her desk, Marie in her slipstream on the way to her own computer.

As soon as Cathy’s monitor came in sight, she frowned. Her own monitor was also covered in post-its, excepts these stickers contained no insults or doodles. Instead, out of order, were small numbers: 1, 18, 3, 7…

‘It’s like an advent calendar!’ Marie said.

Cathy tore off number one. Underneath, on her desktop, was a small window of a Notepad document. It said, all caps, HI.

Number two, in the bottom right corner, said CATHY.

She tore each note off in sequence, Marie reading each window’s message, until the sentence came in full:


An Internet Explorer tab was also open. Youtube. The song by The Who.

Written by G.J.

04/06/2014 at 11:09 am