Digital Ischemia

15/09/2013

Exposure

In a cavern five feet across and at most four feet high, Venom fouters at the biomass bedding that covers the space. She knows fine that she’s wasting time, allowing herself to wonder why he would choose to share with her, rather than insist that Sticks join her. She wonders what she wants for herself. She silently admonishes herself for letting her standards slip.

A shuffling, scraping approach through the tunnel jolts her into a frozen sprawl.
“It’s fucking boiling in here!” Blink’s pre-emptive greeting is followed by writhing to remove any of his clothing. She’s further jammed in her startled freeze. Handily his clothing mostly blocks the entrance and the incoming glow.
He relishes this advantage, the confidence he needs to bare his chest. He feels, hopes he’s not unattractive for a man of his age, sedentary profession, recent incarceration.
The advancing bareness finally gives her the rush of blood she needs to reanimate, but overmuch so she lashes out.
“Once I admired your mastery of language.”
He takes a second to dismiss a couple of corkers in favour of coarse comedy.
“I could’ve gone with the repellent pungency of pismires’ piss.”
“An especially inelegant and inaccurate alliteration.” She squirms feebly, with no intention of going anywhere. Still they need to break out of this pattern.
He sways, closes in like a cobra. With inches to go, he decides to explain.
“I don’t want you to think for a moment that this is a proximity thing. And I don’t want to wait until I actually am the last man alive on earth.”
She smiles to the smothering darkness.

In a commendable opener, he floats up the gradient of her warm, shallow breath to neatly meet her lips. He changes pressure in delightful nudges that make her head swim, especially remarkable in the rigid surroundings.

Sincerity dispensed, he swings to dramatic flippancy.
“Ah mean tae huv ye, woman, oilskin or no, up against the bare rock if ma knees’ll take it!” He’s rewarded with the syrupy chuckle he craves. Eloquence score one.
He grapples her undergarments with surprising care and premeditated skill. Anxiety rushes through her, setting her cheeks aflame. He senses her softness tense, so mumbles enquiry. As she stutters inanities, he breaches the final layer of wrapping to a euphoria of flesh. After venting a moan, he addresses her unarticulated concern.
“Ye dinnae feel like elephant hide, if that’s what yer worried about.”
Her self-consciousness evaporates.

Sticks purses her pretend-closed eyelids. Voices, rustling. He declares, she murmurs. That man is winding up Aunty Venom again.

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