The water trickles down, creating a sensual rhythmic beat that captivates his senses. He can feel its heat before he touches it and his breath catches at the sensation. As his fingertips run over the smooth porcelain of a dish, he savors its cool touch, so in contrast to the heat that envelops the rest of his fingers. He reaches for the dish soap, caresses its pump momentarily before pumping it once, twice, three times. He spreads the lubricating fluid across his sponge, letting it soak in, allowing it to penetrate even the most hidden depths. He has work to do, and he intends to be thorough.
He licks his forefinger and pauses, waiting a moment before rubbing it sensually against the pad of his thumb. It’s important to get the right amount of fluid. Too much, and there’s no sensation. No wonderful friction. Not enough and… well, not enough should never be an issue if you’re doing things properly. Finally, his fingers have the right feel, the right consistency. Now. He mouths the word as he thinks it, stopping just sort of speaking it aloud. The moment is ripe, and he feels it with the core of his being. He reaches down, brushing aside the flaps that enfold his hidden target. Their skin still slightly tacky, he lets his fingers explore, trusting them to find what he seeks. After a moment, he is there. The most recent check, laid bare in front of him, waiting for his ink. Waiting for him to alter it forever. Memo: For services rendered.
His fingers work tirelessly, darting forward to seek out their target and, like hummingbirds, they are gone again, seeking new purchase. His heartbeat finds the rhythm of his strokes upon the keys and he grows flush with the effort. A missive spreads itself out before him, shaped by the length of his thoughts, broadened by the girth of his vocabulary. He holds his breath tight in his chest. He can feel the finish is approaching, but he isn’t ready just yet. He has to focus, stay in the moment. Prolong the experience. A few more strokes. With a sigh that is more lusty grunt than wistful release, he concludes. But what of the missive? He curls his palm around the receptive vessel that is his mouse and flicks a finger to the soft nub of the scroll-wheel until the message can be moved through no more. He hovers the cursor over the send button, unsure again if he is ready for it to be over. His eyes drink in the glow, scanning what lies before them hungrily. He bites his lip and clicks down. Hard.
Taking Out the Trash
He hopes there will be enough room, he’s carrying quite the load. He jams his junk into the plastic, ensuring a snug seal all around. He doesn’t want any spillage out of the bag. As he approaches the alleyway, familiar aromas penetrate his senses. An animal musk fills the air around him as he gets ever closer. It is the kind of scent that can either repel or entrance. With lithe and practiced fingers he flips back the covering on the can and drops his load into the depths of that smooth cylinder. Before he turns away, he spies the almost invisible forms of alabaster larvae undulating across an old plastic bag, gyrating to a music that no one can hear, dancing only for him.