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It never fails to impress me the great variety of creative writing I receive.
This is hard to categorize. Short story? Prose poem?
A unique point of view, in any case.
Rarely is there light enough to see my chamber, but I know:
Off-white pillars enclose me.
There is barely enough room to lay down.
I cannot stretch out to my full length.
The roof is soft and reddish-pink.
It is always damp.
But it is warm.
Sometimes too warm.
At the back of the cell, a dark tunnel descends.
I must dangle over the edge.
Braced below, I can lay here without fear of slipping.
Still, I wish I had more room.
I long to stretch and bend, to move.
I lay here restlessly, waiting.
When light comes it is always sudden.
The bars of my cage part rapidly, and food is thrown at me.
The bars snap shut before I can do more than rise to meet my meal.
The food buries me, and I struggle to push it back out of the cage.
It is a dangerous dance.
I must shove and heave the heavy piles before they bury me.
I must not get caught in the slamming bars.
I’m too thick and sluggish to escape before they scissor shut.
They open and close again.
I shove the food out, leap back.
Watch it fall short, crushed in the hammering walls of my prison.
More food piles in on me.
I struggle and vie.
Floods of liquid spill past the bars.
I splutter and flatten myself to the floor, and hope I’m not washed down the tunnel.
I’ve felt the rumbling from below.
Great gurgling roars that vibrate the length of me.
I don’t want to go down there.
I’ve been here so long, but I’m not ready to face that yet.
More food arrives.
No matter how often I force it between the pistoning bars of my cage, it always comes back.
Crushed, liquefied, it is easier to deal with.
I can heave it down the tunnel, into the grumbling darkness below.
I am covered in it before I manage to fling it away a final time.
Most days I barely taste it.
There is a time of silence.
A time of darkness.
Something like musk…
I can almost taste it…
I want it.
I know that flavor.
It floods my cell in a great whuffing blast of air.
The bars part, and stay parted.
Dusky light spills in.
I lift myself up a little ways.
My lower half is tied below, partway down the tunnel, but I know:
I will taste freedom, if only for a short while.
Freedom, and sex.
I will be able to stretch and move!
The dull white damp bars part further yet, and there it is.
Furrowed and creased.
Pale moon colored and light brown.
Crowned in dark curls.
Split down the center.
A moist pearl trapped in its trembling folds, marker to the hidden tunnel below.
Great blunt bars descend from the periphery as I slowly emerge from my chamber.
They collide with the rumpled ridges below me, pull them taut.
Fleshy corrugations part, revealing the prize, the pearl.
The damp bright bead, pinkening as it swells.
The air chills me as I stretch.
I luxuriate in the feeling.
I reach for that delicious bead and press myself against it.
Wet from the confines of my chamber, our musky dampnesses mingle.
I can feel liquid running the length of me, transferred from my watery cell to the luscious mouth of this cavern.
I touch every part of its opening.
Unlike the cave behind me, this one wants exploring.
I plunge within.
Emerge dripping and exultant.
Dive in again.
The walls constrict to hold me.
I’m lost in darkness and heat and salt sea sweetness.
A day in the life of the tongue?
How… deliciously… different.
*Image from Internet*