Fuck Talk

Dear Reader,

This story was written in collaboration with Violet_Vixen, whose other wonderful stories may be found here on Literotica.

Grusha

~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

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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.

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Subject Line: Filthy Friends It Is

GrushaVashnadze: Hello, Violet.

I don't normally spread my literary wisdom around so loosely. Being filthy friends is one thing, undertaking a tutelage in grimy grammar and slimy syntax is another. Not everyone can become a good writer, much less a word-whore.

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Subject Line: Teach Me Your Filthy Fucking Ways

VioletVixen: Always a pleasure waking up to you deep inside my inbox.

Your wordplay teases me, Grusha. You are exactly what I need to push my skanky style to the next linguistic level. I would do anything to study under your massive literary prowess.

To show just how eager of a writer-slut I am, I've sent an attachment. Two, actually. Jiggly ones.

Open and enjoy, Grusha. I know how much you want to press those perky little buttons of mine. Tell me what they do to you. I want to hear all of it.

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Subject Line: Cumslut Application Accepted

GrushaVashnadze: Vi!

Those cute little attachments of yours are so yummy, scrummy, cummy. Consider yourself fucking hired, my word-slut apprentice. I can tell you're a cuntwhore with consonance.

For your first day on the job, I'm gonna ram this big hard throbbing message up your hot juicy inbox. How do I know you really want my experienced motherfucking metaphor of a message?

Prove you can handle it, bitch.

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Subject Line: This Is No Fucking Farce.

VioletVixen: I'm serious. My inbox knows no limits.

VioletVixen may be a homophone, but I'll make an exception for that phat chode of a motherfucking message. Knowing it's being stroked by your filthy keyboard... so fucking hot. A massive motif like that makes me drip like no other. Your throbbing syntax just turned this horny little bitch intertextually-fluid.

Now hurry up and fill my fuckbox, you teasing bastard. Don't make me wait.

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Subject Line: Why Are You Ignoring Me???

VioletVixen: It's been days since I've woken up to your steamy message nestled in my slutty inbox.

I miss you so fucking much. Why can't you give me what I want? You know how much I strive to be the best writer-wench there ever was, the one, Grusha. I can't do that without you filling me with inspiration.

You leave me no choice but to rub one off in the subject line. Alone.

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Subject Line: Take This, Word-Whore

GrushaVashnadze: You fucking needy, clichéd cumslut.

Is acting like a pathetic pastiche the best trope you can come up with?

If you want my message up your tight inbox, slut, you're gonna have to fucking beg for it. Go on, tell me how much you fucking need it. I said on your knees, bitch, and fucking beg! Go on, worship that fucking message, cuntwhore, before I ram it all the way up your needy little fuckbox.

Make your argument well, and I might even spray-coat your whore-interface with my literary adage.

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Subject Line: Fucking Fuck My Fucking Box

VioletVixen: Oh God, fuck, please, Grusha.

I'm such a greedy little message-fucker. Your fucking inbox-slut, wanting to stuff my whore PMs with your filthy messages. Spurt your words deep inside me while you shout insulting invectives at my worthless writing. Feed this depraved dickslut all your dirty diction, big boy. I can't get enough of your epithets.

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Subject Line: Do As I Say, Bitch

GrushaVashnadze: You want my message shoved up your inbox, bitch, play with it first.

Go on, spread it wide so I can see your wet pink folders glistening at me. Now stick one little phrase in there, go on, nice and slow, yeah, in and out like that, baby. Now two subordinate clauses. Is that good, slut? Now go on, I know what you want. Ram that whole fucking fistful of sentences deep in that fucking inbox. Hear it squelch. Is that good, whore? Go on, ram it in and out like a message-starved box-slut.

Now taste it. Is that good, bitch? Like the taste of all your wet stinking fuck-words?

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Subject Line: JUST FUCKING GIVE IT TO ME YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!!

VioletVixen: Holy fuck, Grusha!

You are so fucking filthy. You make me squeal anaphoras like a nasty little syntax pig. You like watching Violet's pervy persona fill her dirty inbox with all her vocabulary? You like seeing all my allusions disappear deep inside my flappy pink folders, huh? You like watching my interface scrunch while I stretch my hairy box to its breaking point? You filthy fucking wanker, watching me stick verbiage up my cunty message-deprived PMs.

God, you know I love the taste of my slimy, musky imagery leaking from my flappy folder-lips. I'd eat that goo off anything. This filthy cumwhore loses control when she catches a whiff of that lust-filled lingo. Mmm... I'm licking it off my trash folder now. Haven't cleaned it out in weeks. It reeks of piss-poor poetry, and I don't give a shit.

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Subject Line: That's Better, Word-Whore

GrushaVashnadze: Good bitch, Violet.

Now it's time to shave that fucking word-count down. Yeah, bitch, take a razor to it. Erase all those fucking redundancies until you can run your cursor through your smooth outline. Better get your cuntschlicking consonance in order if you wanna be a real smooth smut author like me, bitch. Yeah, that's it, scrape off all those fuzzy idioms.

While you're at it, scoop your slimy fuck-word drool out of your diction-deprived slut-box. That's it, you filthy fucking worthless writing whore, smear them around your slutty subject line. Circumlocute it with your cummy keyboard. Show me all those filthy strands of juicy jargon.

Now where are you gonna stick that fistful of analogies next...? What about that cute little outbox of yours?

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Subject Line: Spreading My Prose For You

VioletVixen: Fuck, Grusha, making me your subordinate slut-clause!

You know what? This greedy little cuntfucker still needs to learn how to use her outbox. God, it's such a tight fit. That puckered boxhole barely fits one word, much less a fistful. Don't even mention enjambing an entire filthy fucking cum-filled paragraph slicked up with raunchy run-ons up my stinking box-walls like a scum-encrusted simile...

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Subject Line: Teaching My Apprentice Shit-Slut a Lesson in Analogy

GrushaVashnadze: Well, cumwhore, if you want to learn to be a proper writer like me, you'd better gain a bit more versatility with your vocabulary, hadn't you?

I mean, what kind of writer-slut are you if you can't be an analogy-whore? So, on your knees, bitch. Wipe some of that fuck-word-goo on the entrance to your puckered outbox, and you might just be able to squeeze a word in edgewise. If not, I might just have to come over and ram my whole stiff fucking message in there and make you scream words you didn't even know you knew.

And don't you fucking dare touch your inbox subject-line until you're done, you filthy whore! Only good girls get to do that...

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Subject Line: My Analogy Is Gaping

VioletVixen: Oh fuck me, Grusha insulting my shit writing now.

Goddammit, you're going to make me scream while you force me to expand my vocabulary, aren't you? Make my analogy gape until only a giant plothole remains, huh? I've got a fucking fistful of words stuffed up my inbox, and now you wanna make me a double-prolepsis whore while you slap pompous platitudes all over me until my attachments burn red with the sting of your unforgiving editor's pen.

Please, just let me rub out my fucking subject line, goddammit. I'll keep begging and screaming until you shut up my filthy chatbox with that throbbing motif of a motherfucking message. Hurry up and ram your euphemistic erection down my trash cum-coated chat-throat until I choke.

Show me you're more than just talk, big boy.

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Subject Line: Denying My Edgy Writer-Slut

GrushaVashnadze: Oh, so we like it in the chatbox, eh? That's more like it, word-cunt! Now you're sounding a bit more like a serious writer.

Just to show you what a kind literary master I am, I give you a choice: outbox or chatbox -- where do you want my big hard message to ping first? Because they both need to be broken in, whore -- and I'm going to fucking unlock them for you. Is it going to be your hot sweaty outbox, with all its rude words, blowing raspberries all over my stiff euphemism as I ram it in and out, making you scream for mercy? Or is it going to be your slimy drooling chatbox, oozing sweet nothings, off your chiasmus dribbling onto your two soft jiggly attachments?

Then maybe, if you've been extra good, I might let you choose where I publish. Shall I coat your pretty face with my plot? Or give you a syntactical creampie? Or deep-fill your outbox with my characterization? Or maybe you wanna eat my sticky gloopy salty vocabulary out of your stinking outbox -- see if it matches your literary taste? If you're a good little writer-slut, all these prizes could be yours.

But if you so much as touch that subject-line until you've earned that privilege, then you're going to be on your fucking knees for the rest of your fucking life, begging forgiveness, snaking your versatile tongue up my outbox, and slurping my strands of satire off the fucking floor like the worthless filthy writer-whore you are. Because I own that inbox, bitch -- and you'd better fucking earn your readership by showing me what a versatile literary slut you are first.

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Subject Line: Re: Denying My Edgy Writer-Slut

VioletVixen: You filthy fucking bastard. I hate you. Want you. Need you. Deep inside me. Now.

I can't control myself in the face of such an impressive throbbing rod of literary prowess. Oh God, oh fuck... I can't hold back much longer. Can't you see my used-up boxes dripping with sarcasm, begging to be filled by your big hard message?

I'll show you I deserve every perverted fucking smut-reader deep in the glistening folds of my filthy fuck-stories. Spread my text editor wide so they can all have a taste of Violet's pungent mind. You may own my inbox, but I'll dominate your message with my superior subtext -- show you I can take it hard and deep, let you fuck my ribbed archives until I can't breathe. Sweet nothings will turn into muffled gargles as tears and mascara run down your motherfucking metaphor, all over the grimy outlines of my depraved drafts.

As for my stinky outbox, you'll have to pin my slimy face on the ground while you jam your hard diction up my reluctant rhetorical assfucking allegory -- reverse send that fucking shit.

Don't even think about stopping me when I cave into desire and mash the shit out of my subject line. What are you gonna do when that happens, you filthy fuck? Punish me?

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Subject Line: Re: Re: Denying My Edgy Writer-Slut

GrushaVashnadze: Good obedient writer whore.

That's more like it, welcoming my huge motherfucking metaphor up your stinking outbox and then taking it deep down your drooling chathole. Do you like that literary taste, bitch?

So, where do want me to publish? Chatbox, outbox, inbox, or maybe even all over those two jiggly attachments? Beg for it, slut, and you might just get it.

And then I'll be your literary agent forever.

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Subject Line: ISBN

VioletVixen: I couldn't wait for your permission.

I'm such a needy fuck-begging PM cumslut, I'm not stopping even if you demand. I'm gonna keep smashing my subject line until I squirt new plot points all over your grimy interface.

Just fuck the motherfucking shit out of my slut-box until you publish all over my fucking analogies. The perky buttons on my attachments are so fucking swollen right now, desperate to be pushed. Each tweak going straight to my fucking subject line... making me want to burst into a flurry of punctuation.

Be my fucking literary agent, Grusha. Let's publish together.

Oh god, oh fuck... here it comes. Big spurt of poetic verse... I can't stop myself... gonna squirt all over your big phat message header... Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

o r g a s m i c f r e e f a l l

written in f r e e s t y l e

feet curled with no meter

nor rhyme nor rhythm neither

words of a feather

fucking together

typing, tepid

God fuck

[Sweating]

this-

Goddamn

poetry

can't hold back

fuck-crazed cacophony

incoming

fcKnGtpying1hsnded

[Panting]

I'm gonna

submit

this

F

u

c

k

i

n

g

story

!

!!!$"^ ^&% ScrREamMMMIIINGNGGGG!!!!!!><@~#F1ckkk

трахни меня, Груша!!!

ああああんんん♡行くううううう

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Subject Line: Motherfucking Money-shot

GrushaVashnadze: Here it is, baby, open all those fucking boxes wide.

Gonna shoot my fucking hyperbole all over your hot oeuvre. Drink it up, soak it in, rub it all over your fucking onomatopoeia till you squirt, squeal and dribble with delight. Here it comes, my literary fuck-whore! Take it, you cunting author-bitch, take it like the worthless fuck-poet you are. Take my allegory like a metaphor-starved cunt-slut!

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Subject Line: hoLYYY FucKKRkKKK ME yOUBASTARD

VioletVixen: Ooh FUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!

Spurt your hot fucking hyperbole all over me. Fuckkk, publishing with my fucking idol. Holy shit.

I'm such a fucking mess. Mmm... spreading your cummy content all over my fucking pages. Pushing it back inside, filling me with inspiration.

fuuuuuckkkkk...

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A few minutes later...

Subject Line: Potential Project Proposal

GrushaVashnadze: Violet, will you marry me?

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Subject Line: General Error

VioletVixen: I'm sorry, did I misunderstand something?

Was "marry me" a malapropism? Did you slip up on the slick wording there, buddy? Who's the pathetic pastiche now, you sloppy author-swine?

Now that I've got your salty syntax tucked deep inside my folders, smeared over my jiggly attachments, drooling out my chatbox and farting out from my farce of a fucking outbox, I don't need your puny platitudes anymore. Do me a favor and suck your stinking fuck-words out my puckered box-hole like a good little author bitch.

It's time to smother your header with my footer. Narrow your fucking margins, wank-writer. I'm gonna step all over your so-called literary prowess. I am the writer-wench. The best there ever was, and don't you fucking forget it.

Hurry up and get on your knees, bottom boy. Don't make me wait. Lick up every tawdry typo and brace your outbox for my long-winded message 'cause you're my sissy peg-poet now, motherfucker. Wait until I clamp these hyperlinks on your less than satisfactory attachments.

Fuck you, Grusha.

Forever.

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Subject Line: Forever

GrushaVashnadze:

♥♥♥