Coming Together Presents: Remittance Girl

By Remittance Girl

Seventeen erotic stories by the mysterious and reclusive Remittance Girl. Open the cover and enjoy incredible tales of twisted desire and overwhelming lust, intricate and perfect as some Chinese jade carving. Proceeds benefit the ACLU.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coming Together
• Release date: Mar 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452311715

Remittance Girl

Remittance Girl lives and writes in exile in a small Southeast Asian country, where she teaches and grows orchids in a house with a large mango tree and a cat called Seven. She holds a Master of Arts in Writing. Driven by the conviction that eroticism is an overlooked but essential part of human nature, Remittance Girl believes that examining this important part of our lives is essential to gaining insight into what motivates us, frames our social interactions and forms our interior sense of self. Erotic fantasies, even very dark ones, give us clues with which we can decipher the symbolic language we use to express who we are and how we fit into our society. Her novellas and short stories have appeared in electronic format on her own website, at ww.cleansheets.com and in the Erotica Readers and Writers online gallery. A number of short stories have appeared in print anthologies.

Book preview

Coming Together Presents

Remittance Girl

Lisabet Sarai

editor

Coming Together Presents: Remittance Girl

Lisabet Sarai, editor

Copyright © 2010 Alessia Brio, Lisabet Sarai, Remittance Girl

All digital rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Cover art © 2010 Alessia Brio

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Coming Together Production

www.EroticAnthology.com

Smashwords edition

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/comingtogether

License Notes

Piracy robs authors of the income they need to be able to continue to write books for readers to enjoy. This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of ONE reader only. This ebook may not be re-sold or copied. To do so is not only unethical, it's illegal. This ebook may not be forwarded via email, posted on personal websites, uploaded to file sharing sites, or printed and distributed. To share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each intended recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you, please notify the author immediately. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this—and every—author.

DEDICATION

To Don, for his unstinting support,

to Lisabet for believing in me,

and to the organizers & members of ERWA

who, generous with their time,

their wit & their talent,

taught me how to write.

TABLE of CONTENTS

Introduction

Introduction

I first met Remittance Girl on the Writers email list of the Erotica Readers and Writers Association. Not long after she showed up and began offering literate and insightful commentary on the various writerly topics we were discussing, I read one of her stories in the ERWA gallery. I was incredibly impressed at her combination of heat and craft. Then I read a few chapters of her on-line novel, The Waiting Room. It was rich in sensory impressions, dark, perverse and haunting. I was astounded by this talent who seemed to have sprung fully formed out of the recesses of the Internet, like Athena from the forehead of her divine sire.

I'd never read anything she had published. I'd never heard of her. Yet here she was penning these incredible tales of twisted desire and overwhelming lust, intricate and perfect as some Chinese jade carving.

I became even more fascinated by this mysterious woman when I learned that she lived in Vietnam. Perhaps that was one reason why her work resonates—I recognize so much in her descriptions from my own travels in Southeast Asia. The debilitating heat and humidity. The riotous energy and color. The loneliness of being an outsider.

I think there's something more, though. When she and I finally had the opportunity to meet in the flesh, it felt as though we'd known each other all our lives. We couldn't stop talking. It's been the same every one of the few times we've managed to get together. Perhaps we were sisters in a former life. Perhaps we were lovers. I don't pretend to understand, but I feel the connection when I see her and when I read her tales. That's one reason I'm so proud to offer this volume through Coming Together. It's a very personal pleasure for me to share her work with the world.

Don't expect light-hearted tales of playful sex from RG's pen. Don't expect romance—well, not much anyway, though sometimes it's difficult to distinguish true love from satisfied desire—and perhaps there really isn't a difference. Be ready for tales with an edge, with a sting, and occasionally, with a moral. While many of RG's stories are vividly realistic, some of the works you'll find here are fables: unsanitized, old-fashioned fairy tales that retain a taste of terror.

RG's writing strikes to the heart of the erotic. Her sex is strong and messy and real. She is not afraid to explore the darkest, rawest fantasies. When she writes kink, it's not fashionable sex games—it is inevitable, compelling, inescapable, cutting to the core of her characters.

The proceeds of this volume benefit the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU). Knowing RG, I find this especially appropriate. There are many who would rather silence voices like hers, authors whose fiction makes you squirm. RG's stories are not polite and some of her work breaks taboos. For nearly one hundred years, the ACLU has fought for the rights of individuals like RG to speak and publish freely. Many of the freedoms that Americans take for granted are the result of hard-won battles by the ACLU.

I'm grateful that Remittance Girl has chosen to expose her visions with the world in support of the ACLU. And I'm glad that I've had the chance to help a bit by editing these stories. At this point I've read them many times, but they still amaze and arouse me.

~ Lisabet Sarai

22 January 2010

For more information about the American Civil Liberties Union, visit www.aclu.org

Motorcycle Hug

At first she thought that it was just a hormone surge. She told herself to ignore the urges; they would go away. But they didn't.

Later she reasoned that it was being on a bike—all that vibration between the legs—and it would have been a good, rational explanation had it happened every time she got on a motorcycle taxi, but it didn't.

* * *

After a couple of months of serious and systemic culture shock—both physical and mental—Ellen Edwards began to adjust to the alien world of 21st Century Saigon. First time in Asia, her first time out of the U.S., in fact, it surprised her just how quickly she became used to the suffocating heat, the daily power black-outs, the total strangers in the street who would stop to practice their English on any white face they saw.

A year on, she let herself out the gate to her little house, into the little alleyway, and sat down to have a coffee at the local street stall. It had become a comforting routine now. Ellen would sip the sweet mocha concoction made with syrupy black coffee and thick condensed milk, smoke her single, time-allotted cigarette, and read the day-old International Herald Tribune. As she sat there on one of the low plastic stools in the cool shade of an age-scarred wall, her neighbors would trundle by down the narrow alley, treating her now as if she had been there always.

"Good morning, co giao!" The woman in the house opposite greeted her, pulling her pink-scrubbed six-year old son behind her.

Teacher, hello, the little boy said, correcting his mother and grinning at Ellen.

Good morning, older sister, Ellen responded in badly accented Vietnamese. She winked at the child. Hello, Thanh! Off to school?

It was the same every morning. And at eight o'clock, the sun would peep past the roofs and nip at her sandaled feet, reminding her of the time. Ellen would get up, pay the equivalent of fifteen cents for her coffee, and walk to the mouth of the alley to catch a motorcycle taxi to the Language Institute.

For months it was the same guy, Binh. On seeing her approach, he would shift from his languid position, draped over the frame of his bike, and start it up. Ellen would greet him, hop on the back and steel herself for the chaotic ride to work through the morning traffic.

One morning in late September, after following the same predictable routine, Ellen walked to the corner. Binh was gone. Instead a stranger wearing a faded blue cotton shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a pair of trousers two sizes too big had usurped his place. He kicked the bike off its stand and smiled at her.

Where is older brother Binh? Ellen asked.

Gone to his village in the country, the stranger said quietly. But I can take you. You go to the Language Institute, yes? A heavy curtain of shiny black hair flopped over his left eye; he flicked it back with a toss of his head.

Ellen looked at him perplexed. Unkind irritation bubbled up inside her. After so long, the routine that she had come to expect and rely on had suddenly and unfairly been smashed into nonsense.

The main street at the mouth of the alley was a riot of bicycles, motorbikes and the odd car. Perhaps she should take a taxi, she thought. She glanced at her watch: ten minutes to get to work. A taxi would be too slow in this traffic. Shit.

She looked back at the stranger, taking in his shabby flip-flops and dirty feet, examining his clothes again and finally staring him in the face. In her own country, the inspection would be considered downright rude; here it was normal.

How much? she snapped.

How much did Binh charge?

Ten thousand dong.

He grinned at her cheekily. Then it's ten thousand.

Eight, she said gruffly, locking her jaw in stubbornness.

He tilted his head. Why?

I don't know you. You might be a bad driver.

He shrugged and laughed, flashing shockingly white incisors and a single gold eye-tooth. I might be a good driver. Better than Binh.

She stood there in belligerent silence, feeling the seconds tick by.

He looked down and finally nodded his head, kicking the bike to life. Okay. Eight. Climb on.

Still angry that her flawless morning schedule had been blown to bits, she huffed and got on the back of the bike, nestling her book bag between herself and the driver.

Ellen had learned that the word xe om literally meant 'motorcycle hug', but no one actually hugged the driver. Xe oms were just one step up from the cheaper and slower cyclo—the three-wheeled bicycle taxis that ferried people and goods around the city—and the drivers held corresponding social positions. A cyclo driver was the Vietnamese equivalent of a street person in the West. For all Vietnam's claim to socialist equality, old class structures still held firm. Passengers never hugged the xe om driver.

They pulled into the torrent of traffic, weaving their way between the other vehicles, passing a motorized aviary, live chickens flapping and clucking, hanging upside down by their scaly feet. Ellen tensed and held her breath as they drove within inches of two girls on a Honda carrying panes of plate glass between them on the seat. Suddenly, he gunned the engine to take a corner onto a small side-street.

This is not the way I usually go, shouted Ellen above the traffic noise.

Perhaps, but this way is faster. Not so crowded.

Ellen panicked; she didn't know this route or this street. Saigon was a warren of tiny alleyways and winding one way streets. She was unable to tell whether he was telling the truth or not. They pulled to a stop at red light. This, in itself was a little surprising, considering that half the drivers in the city thought that red lights meant kind of stop if you feel like it.

Are you sure? she demanded.

He turned his head, giving her his profile. It was angular and exotic, skin stretched across his face so tight that it seemed a single cut might peel it open. Teacher, don't worry. I will get you to school early.

How do you know I am a teacher? Ellen snapped back at his assumption, and resigned herself to being late for class.

He laughed and revved the engine again. Everyone knows you are a teacher. Also, you talk like a teacher, foreigner or not.

She opened her mouth to say something nasty but realized she lacked the essential vocabulary. Fuck you, she thought, making a mental note to find out exactly how to say fuck you in Vietnamese. He pulled to an abrupt stop out in front of the school gates, causing her to slide forward on the seat. Her head jerked, narrowly missing his shoulder.

See? On time, teacher, he said, smiling smugly as she climbed off the bike. Ellen rummaged in her pocked and took out some curled up bills, counting them out.

Eight, she said, handing him the money.

He took the bills and nodded. My name is Tuan. Now you know me. He gave her another winning, glinting grin.

She threw him a stern look and turned on her heel, walking through the gates. Cheeky bastard, she thought.

* * *

The next morning Ellen had her coffee in the shade of the wall as usual. She leafed through the day-old meager paper and smoked her one miserly cigarette. Again, Binh wasn't there. It was the new guy again.

Where's Binh? she demanded anew.

Binh's not coming back. He's staying in his village and getting married. Tuan smirked at her. Lucky, yes?

Oh… Ellen said distractedly. She stared at Tuan's face. How much?

Ten.

No, eight. Same as yesterday, she retorted.

He stood and kicked the bike to life. No, ten because now you know me.

Oh, fuck it, she thought. Why am I even quibbling over a lousy ten cents? But his informal tone irked her. Nine. Okay? I only know you a little.

He closed his almond-shaped eyes and nodded. Okay, he sang, in English and held out his hand. Ellen stared at him, not understanding the gesture. If he wanted the money now, he certainly wasn't getting it!

Give me your bag, Teacher. I'll put it in front. It's safer. Tuan gestured at the hollow dip in the bike's frame, between the steering column and the seat. Otherwise robbers can grab it away as we drive.

She eyed him suspiciously for a moment. She handed him the bag and he nestled it between his legs, hooking the strap over the handlebars to secure it. It only held exercise books, after all. Where was the harm?

Hop on, or we'll be late, chirped Tuan, revving the throttle. His full lips curved into a lopsided smile.

She climbed on behind him and, as they pulled into the familiar and chaotic stream, she got the keen sense that something was missing. Then it hit her: it was the bag that separated her from the driver. Awkwardly, she edged along the seat backwards, widening the space between them.

As he drove, she looked at his shirt. Today it was white cotton and frayed a little at the collar. But it gleamed bright in the sunlight against the ochre-colored skin of his neck. Above it, his hair was neatly clipped to bristle at the back and sides, curving over the bones of his skull which disappeared under a jet black mop on the top, a little like an Eton crop. Ellen peeked over his shoulder at the traffic ahead of them and caught a whiff of something delicious. It was the clean, tangy smell of warm skin. She stared at the side of his neck and, quite unexpectedly, got a vivid flash: an image of pressing her lips to it.

He braked hard and Ellen skidded forward on the seat, sliding into his back with all her weight and, for a second, the scent overwhelmed her. She looked up and realized she had missed the whole journey. They were at the school gate. She scrambled off the bike feeling sheepish and plunged her hand into her pocket for the fare.

Nine, she muttered, handing him the bills without looking at him, and turning away.

She walked down the paved path to the main building, the hot, fresh smell of his skin still lingering in her mind, making her mouth water and her nipples ache. A year was too long— way too long to be without a boyfriend. Footsteps pounded the pavement behind her. Someone was running, perhaps late for class.

Hey! Tuan jumped in front of her; she almost barreled straight into him. You are so forgetful, Teacher, he chuckled, the book-bag swinging from his hand.

It snapped her out of her daze. Oh…yes. Thanks. Thanks very much. She took the bag from him. See you tomorrow.

He beamed, bobbed his head once, and took off at a trot. Ellen watched him go before walking on. For God's sake, she reprimanded herself impatiently.

* * *

Dusk fell at five—it always did no matter what the time of year. This close to the equator, there were perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes of twilight before it got dark. Ellen chatted with some of her students as she strolled towards the gates, on her way home.

Teacher!

She twirled around, expecting to see one the boys in her class.

Teacher!

It was Tuan, sitting on his bike. Ellen could hardly believe her eyes. He balanced on the seat like a snake charmer, barefoot and cross-legged. As she watched, he stood and slid his feet into the flip-flops. Kicking the bike to life, he plopped off the curb and pulled up in front of her.

Why are you here, Tuan?

I take you home. Okay? he stated cheerfully in cracked English.

Ellen shoved her hands in her pockets, taken aback. Um… Okay, I guess.

He held out his hand and she automatically went to give him the book bag, but stopped. Remembering that morning's ride and the smell of his skin, she felt a twinge between her legs.

Maybe I'll carry it, Ellen muttered.

No, it's very bad! It's dangerous to carry it like that, Tuan insisted, switching back into a torrent of Vietnamese. It might get stolen. He pulled the bag off her shoulder with good-natured bossiness and stowed it as he had in the morning. Let's go! he called out, revving the engine.

Ellen sighed and climbed. The air was cooling down now and the traffic was thinning. They sped down the tree-lined street past the food stalls, their savory steam wafting on the dusk's breeze. She was relieved not to have to endure the smell of his skin again. The aroma of cooking overpowered everything else and made her mouth water.

At every stop light, as the bike idled, she felt the rumble of the engine beneath her more acutely. Motorcycles in Saigon had tiny engines—never more that 150 cc's. Ellen had been on really big, proper bikes, and for all the hype about how erotic they were, she'd never had this particular sensation before. It built as he geared up into third and sped down past the banana market, intensifying exponentially. Ellen almost moaned aloud, terrified of the possibility that, if she didn't get home quickly, she was going to have an orgasm.

Clenching her teeth together, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on something other than the throbbing of her cunt, but the images that flickered in the darkness behind her lids were lurid and horribly erotic—it didn't help at all.

She prayed that ESP didn't actually exist. Somehow and with no possible rationale, she was scared to death that he knew exactly what she was thinking, and feeling. Her arousal was so powerful she was convinced it could seep through her pores and betray itself to the man in front of her.

She scolded herself harshly and silently. Stop it, you crazy bitch! What the hell is wrong with you? But the quiet desperation of the urges grew unabated. Her heart was thudding against her ribs and a creeping heat flushed over her skin.

The bike screeched to a halt. She fell forward, her breasts crushed against his back, her hands clawing at his shirt for balance. The impact pushed the air out of her in a sharp gasp that must have seemed like a roar in his ear; her mouth was pressed against it.

Fuck, he does this on purpose, she thought in a moment of clarity. The heat of his body soaked through the fabric of their clothes along the insides of her thighs and between her legs. Tuan made an odd noise—a little groan—deep in his throat.

They were sitting outside the gate to her house. The alley was desolate and dark, inadequately lit by a solitary street lamp. Her mind told her to get off the bike, but her body wouldn't move. She could hear him breathing hard above the distant hum of the traffic out on the main road; his heart hammered through his spine, into her chest.

Gradually unclenching her hands that gripped fistfuls of his shirt, she felt him kick the bike stand down and rest his palms on her thighs. His hands trembled as they moved slowly backwards to her hips. Ellen stifled a sigh as his hands reached behind her, cupping her buttocks. He pulled her against him and dug his fingers into the flesh of her ass. The scent of his skin was overwhelming, invading her; the skin burned everywhere her body touched his. She shuddered against his spine.

What the fuck was she doing? Her brain kicked in and she climbed off the bike awkwardly, almost stumbling. Her hand slid into her pocket, automatically fumbling for the fare. She held the money out, unable to look at him at first. When he didn't take the bills, Ellen glanced up to meet his stare.

He wasn't smiling or smirking and his chest rose and fell with something close to violence. For a moment, she thought he'd say something, but he picked up her book bag and held it out for her instead. There was a horrible wretchedness in his eyes. Then, quite suddenly, he lowered the bag gently to the pavement and roared off down the alley.

Ellen stood immobile, the fare still gripped in her fist, watching the shadowy figure disappear at the end of the lane, swallowed into the river of traffic.

The next morning was a Saturday. Rays of light streaked through the bamboo blinds that shaded the windows of her bedroom. The sheets lay twisted around her body, damp with the sweat of a late morning sleep. Ellen groaned and turned onto her side, pressing her palms to her mound. She had dreamed. She couldn't recall them with any clarity, but knew she had orgasmed—more than once. The muscles on the insides of her thighs ached with spent tension.

Oh, Jesus, she muttered aloud, trying to push away the images of gold skin and undulating torsos. What if he was there, at the end of the alley, waiting for her? What if he never went away? She'd have to move.

It was the doorbell chiming and the pounding at the gate that forced her out of bed. Ellen pulled on a cotton robe and wrapped it around her tight. Taking the stairs a pair at a time, almost slipping on the way down, she unlocked her door and went out to the gate.

Hey, Ellen! Wake up, you lazy cow! The mocking voice belonged to Ruth, a fellow English teacher at the language school.

Ellen fumbled to unlock the gate and inched it open.

About time too! declared Ruth. Her thick Aussie accent made Ellen smile. She dragged the steel gate open wider to allow Ruth to push her bike through into the courtyard.

As Ruth passed her, Ellen saw him. He was squatting in the shade of the wall, across the alleyway, smoking. Tuan met her eyes and it made her body stiffen. Her skin was burning.

What's up? asked Ruth.

Ellen closed the gate quickly and bolted it shut. She took a big breath and turned to Ruth, forcing a smile. Want some tea? I just got up.

They sat in the kitchen with the fan going full blast, gossiping and eating toast with vegemite. At first, Ellen had found the sticky malt spread revolting, but it was an acquired taste and now she was addicted to the vile Australian goo.

How long have you been here now, Ruthie? asked Ellen.

Six years or so. Why?

Most of the girls I know complain that if you are white and female in Saigon, you might as well be dead. You ever dated anyone here?

Ruth raised her eyes to the ceiling and thought. Dated… nah, not really. Fucked some backpackers, though. You know… coupl'o days… non-stop sex. Nice. Ruth looked at Ellen and waggled her eyebrows lewdly. The flaming red hair and freckled