An innocent whore steps before, Alex, in his, and his being either/or, led up the spiral stairs, decidedly not in despair, but to adore. To his arm she coyly clings, as if Alex is in charge of what’s in store.
His arm rings and sings.
Her touch is telepathic.
The jailers, one on each side, glide and slide Alex. He can’t walk without stumbling. Ankles and wrists are handcuffed, with a chain from the wrist cuff to the ankle. The guards directly determine where Alex is headed, down the corridor, to what they say is in store. The guards enjoy something more, but what Alex can’t say.
The younger one has a smile, for sure.
Got him some correctional pain to give. The young one smiles pleasurably savoring paingiving, thanksgiving.
Alex can’t smell the jailers, who are abhorr. Ent. Maybe Alex gets a whiff, a sniff, of Ivory Soap. They don’t stink. They are clean: clean shaven, recently barbered, uniforms crisp and mean. Upright. Except: what’s it for?
Alex smells the intoxicating scent off the innocent whore. It perfectly matches the scent her bare body skin gives. Off. That perfume, undoubtedly a musk, mingles with her skin, as she sips a gin, akin, to a rat, a jail rat, a jail bird, springing wings– and rings.
“Come on up here, honey”, the innocent whore whispers, because she ain’t course, coarse course, or a corpse, and all of this is forced. She ‘a trying to imitate her seasoned colleagues. She ain’t there yet. So she frets. That she speaks in contrivance is a big regret. Seasoning has its own taste and scent.
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