snotboxaphone

1. Snotboxaphone. Operator, please, I say, speaking into the murky depths of Reese Witherspoon's snotboxaphone. She shifts her thighs and rings softly, like a kitten purring. Hello? I finger the touchpad with my hooked finger, dialing G over and over again. Hello? Hello? 2. MILKPHONE. [phone number redacted]. This is a number on an american exchange. Trunk probing has revealed little of interest. Within two minutes of dialing, there was a knock on the door. A firm, authoritarian knock. milkphone@[redacted].org: Final-Recipient: rfc822; milkphone@[redacted].org Action: Failed Status: 5.0.0 3. Reese runs her fingers lightly across the crown of my skull. I have hung up her snotboxaphone and am drifting in and out of slumber, my cheek resting on her soft belly. My tongue is sore from excessive discussion. She seems happy. I want her to be happy, after all. I think I want her to be happy. Really, I don't care. I want to be inside her one more time. It doesn't matter that my cock is numb and sullen, overworked and sleeping like a flaccid dog. I can revive him. I want to cover her eyes with my hand and kiss her little mouth until my dog lifts his ears, until I am ready to send forth into her. Her snotboxaphone is on vibrate. I hear it softly humming. I reach into it with two fingers and feel for the rough patch, the touchpad. I engage by dialing G. My overworked tongue forms syllables. The dog rises, charges. Reese, honey, fetch me a beer and a shot of woodelf bourbon. We have one rule in this office: there are no rules. She has a shaved cellar door that I open and descend into. I hear her whispered mumblings, her prayers sans destination. I give her the gist, and then the full story, complete in breadth and depth. "Balls deep!" she cries out. I laugh and I laugh. "I just shit two slugs," she said to me once. "I just shit your two slugs." "Banana slugs," I replied. "Slugs of the banana." We each have a revolver. Mine is steel and silver, gold wire and careful scroll work, mahogany and sweatsalt. I keep it in a stamped tin box from colonial India, lined with the breast feathers of pheasant and grouse. Hers is lightning and mother-of-pearl, child's breath and restful sleep. She keeps it hidden within, under folds of velvet, near the spring of eternal life.