This choice: Move sideways, parallel to her path, praying that she doesn’t shift her weight. • Go Back...Chapter #7Close One by: boons   Desperation fueled your movements, your puny legs propelling you sideways at a pace you hadn't thought possible. Your trajectory was adjacent to her descending rear, and from this unnerving angle, its sheer vastness became even more palpable. The fabric of her dress pulled and bunched, revealing more intimate details of her form than you ever cared to see.
You caught fleeting, revolting glimpses of what lay beneath that worn dress: moist patches from the day’s sweat, errant strands of fabric from deteriorating undergarments, and faded streaks of what could only be assumed to be days-old lotion, flaking and catching in the fabric's weave. The mingling scents of stale perfume, body odor, and remnants of musky detergent assailed your senses, each telling tales of a long day outside, of bus rides, of heat and exhaustion.
The shadow of her descending rear became a shrinking eclipse, its perimeter inching closer to you with horrifying inevitability. Every second felt drawn out, the creeping approach of her buttocks a cruel and relentless progression of impending doom. In the milliseconds that stretched like hours, you could make out the minuscule bobbles on her dress, the product of many a wash cycle, each one like a minuscule mountain under your feet.
But just as the impending eclipse of her form threatened to blot out all hope and light, your mad dash sideways paid off. You skidded to a stop, lungs heaving, and watched with horrified relief as her rear missed you by mere millimeters, its gargantuan mass compressing the bench's cushion, sending a gust of stale, trapped air shooting out from underneath, which hit you like a pungent windstorm.
Victory was yours, albeit temporary. | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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