Unable to contain herself

the last glimmer of light in my model city dimmed a notch as Tova removed the mayor's badge. She placed the paper badge beside the clock tower, the table bobbing as her fingertips left, and another layer of dust settled on the roof of my cabin.

"It's over," she said. Her voice didn't sound like a mayor's, but like that eighteen-year-old girl who had crouched down on the highway, waiting for me to walk up.

I stood before the city gate. The metal box was locked in the drawer; the samples had been sent out, the aid convoy had departed. For the first time in five years, I didn't know where the next stop would be. The cabin's light was still on, the model streets remained quiet; I could go back and lie down, pretending tonight was just an extension of the city's rehearsals.

Tova sat motionless at the table. Her hands were on her knees, her knuckles sometimes clenching, sometimes loosening. Her breathing was heavier than usual, each exhale causing the flag on the clock tower to sway.

I took two steps toward the cabin.

"Nico."

She called to me. Her voice was low, but direct. Not a test, not a prelude. She called my name, then stopped, waiting for me to turn around.

I stopped. I didn't turn around. The wooden planks beneath my feet were slightly sticky from the night's dampness, and the resin river of the model street shimmered with orange fragments under the streetlights.

"I have a question," she said.

"Ask."

Silence. The table shook as she shifted her position, like a heavy object falling in the distance. I felt her shadow move from behind me, obscuring the city gate and the road in front of me.

"...I need you to touch me."

I turned my head. Tova's face flushed from her ears to her collarbone, her lips pressed together and then relaxed, but her eyes didn't look away. She repeated the sentence, each word more forceful than before, as if confirming that every syllable she uttered hadn't been swallowed back:

"I need you to touch me. Not the kind of touch in the model city. Really...help me."

My first reaction wasn't shyness. It was exhaustion.

Five years. Five years of highways, chases, monsters, iron boxes, loss, and starting anew. I'd just locked the evidence in the drawer, just adjusted to the room's layout, just felt I could finally catch my breath—and then she said she needed me. To help her physically.

I heard my own voice, sharper than I expected:

"What do you take me for?"

Tova's shoulders twitched. Her hands moved from her knees, hovering in mid-air, as if unsure where to put them.

"I didn't…"

"You just said 'help me.'" I took a step forward, standing on the stone slab outside the city gate, looking up at her. She was too tall; I had to crane my neck to see her face. That position made me even more uncomfortable, as if I'd already lost the confrontation. "You sat there all night, and I walked around the city, repaired bridges, checked drainage, tested the wind for you—and now you say you need me to 'help you.' Help you with what? Help you solve things you don't want to handle yourself?"

Tova's mouth opened and closed. She leaned back slightly, the chair legs scraping the floor with a sharp, short sound. Her fingers gripped the edge of the chair, her knuckles turning white.

"It's not what you think," her voice trailed off, as if a sentence had been folded several times before being delivered.

"Then tell me what it is."

She took a deep breath. When she exhaled, her voice was direct again: "My body... it's been acting up since this evening."

She paused. Her eyes were fixed on the table, as if confirming that what she was about to say could no longer be presented in a respectable manner.

"When you were touching those models... I kept watching your hands. You were checking the axles, feeling the railings, adjusting the booth height—when you were doing all that, I couldn't concentrate on being mayor." She licked her dry lips. "I tried to take care of it myself later. In the bathroom. In bed. But it didn't work. I couldn't do it all by myself."

Her voice didn't tremble when she said the last sentence. She stated the embarrassing truth, like placing an unpolished stone on a table.

I stood outside the city gate, my feet on damp wooden planks, a warmly lit wooden cabin behind me, and before me a giant girl who laid bare her shame on the table.

My weariness hadn't subsided. But something else had been added to that weariness—an discomfort weighed down by trust, simultaneously bitten by her unvarnished bluntness.

"Why didn't you say so sooner?" My tone was still harsh, but softer than before.

"Because I didn't know how to say it." She lowered her head, her long, silvery hair cascading over her shoulders, obscuring half her face. "I couldn't exactly say 'Please help me masturbate,' like ordering a model part."

She looked up, her eyes slightly red, but she didn't cry. "I won't force you. If you feel…it will ruin something, go back to the cabin. I'll still make breakfast tomorrow."

I stood there. The city gate, the cabin, the edge of her palm, the direction of the bedroom—all were in the same night. I knew that if I went back to the cabin, tonight would be quiet, tomorrow would go on as usual, but an invisible rift would appear between us. The crack wasn't from rejection, but from her knowing I rejected her because I saw her as a burden.

And I truly had. Until that very second, I hadn't admitted it to myself.

I took a step towards her.

"You said you tried," I said, my voice lower, as if talking to my toes, "How did you try?"

Tova's ears turned even redder. But her eyes brightened—not with excitement, but with a sigh of relief.

"...In the bathroom. Then in bed," she said softly, like someone being called on in class to answer a question they didn't want to answer, "but I couldn't concentrate. All I could think about was your hand checking the axle on the bridge railing. And the sound of you crouching under the stall, giving measurements."

I didn't know how to respond. After a moment of silence, I found myself walking through the city gate, across the empty square, and stopping beside Tova's outstretched hand.

Her palm rested flat on the edge of the table, her fingerprints still holding the fine shavings from the wood chips she'd whittled that afternoon.

"You promise you won't use me as a tool?" I asked.

"I promise," she said. Then she paused, adding, "But you also have to promise not to write it down in your mind. At least... not tonight."

That sentence made me feel instantly exposed. There was indeed a notebook in my backpack, and a pen with the cap off. I hadn't decided whether to write anything down after tonight.

"I'll try," I said.

Tova lowered her palm a little more, allowing me to climb onto it.

As I climbed onto her palm, her body temperature was higher than usual, and her skin was covered with a thin layer of tense sweat. After I steadied myself, she slowly raised her hand, bringing me to chest height, and then walked towards the bedroom.

As the bedroom door closed behind her, I smelled the warmth emanating from her neck—not a fragrance, but the salty and slightly metallic scent released by her warm skin. I wasn't ready, but I was already inside.

Chapter Four, Part Five: The First Invitation (Remastered Edition, Paragraph Two: Mutual Wounds)

As the bedroom door closed behind her, I smelled her tension. Not a fragrance, but the salty, slightly astringent, metallic scent released from her skin as her body temperature rose, emanating from between her neck and collarbone.

Tova placed me on the bed. Not on a pillow, but on the surface of the comforter near the headboard. She opened her palms, letting me step down, then withdrew her hands, crossing them on her knees, as if unsure how to position herself next.

She sat on the edge of the bed, and I stood among the folds of the comforter. About an arm and a half apart. The bedside lamp behind her cast a short, clear shadow of me on the sheets.

"So…" I said. The word dragged on, because I didn't know how to finish it.

"I don't know how to begin," she said. Her voice was even softer than before, as if she had used all her courage in those few words outside the bedroom door. "Could you come over here first?"

I took a few steps toward her. The soft, uneven fabric of the blanket beneath my shoes made each step a struggle to regain my balance. The closer I got, the clearer her body temperature and scent became—the lingering sweetness of laundry detergent on the sheets, the faint soapy residue on her skin after her shower, and the gradually thickening saltiness of her nervous sweat.

I stopped about an arm's length away from her thigh. She didn't move. Her knees were together, ankles crossed, like a building shrinking itself to its smallest possible size.

"Where should I touch?" I asked.

She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Her lips were dry; she licked her lower lip with the tip of her tongue before speaking: "I don't know. I've thought about it many times, but when it really comes to this…"

She didn't finish. I reached out. My fingertips landed on the skin on the outside of her knee.

That was the first time I had touched her without rehearsing. The skin beneath my fingertips was warm, slightly damp, with a layer of extremely fine beads of sweat; the texture of the pores was incredibly clear to my touch. I felt her knee tremble slightly, but she didn't pull away.

I tried to place my palm on hers. My hand was flat on the outside of her thigh, fingers pointing down, like measuring the smoothness of a wall. Her muscles tensed and relaxed at my touch, the temperature of her skin rising rapidly at the point of contact.

"...You're measuring me." Her voice suddenly changed. Not shyness, but something else, hard, like something choking her.

My hand stopped.

"No," I said.

"You are." She looked down at me, her eyes narrowing, not angry, but more like hurt. "Your fingers first check the edge, then your palm flattens, and then slide down—that's the order you use when measuring bridge railings."

My hand remained on her thigh, but suddenly felt that skin so hot I wanted to pull it back.

"Because this is the only way I can touch you," I said. My tone was more defensive than I expected. “Your fingers are bigger than my whole body. How am I supposed to know where I’m touching if I don’t check the edges first?”

“You can touch,” she said. “Not measure. Touch.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You’ll look at me when you touch,” she said. Her voice began to tremble. “You’re not looking at me. You’re looking at the texture of my skin. How the sweat beads are distributed. The direction of the pores.”

She was right. I was indeed looking at those things. I’d gotten used to converting everything into data when I measured, because data didn’t scare me. It didn’t make me feel like I was going to be crushed, swallowed up, or accidentally turned into a tiny dot on a blanket.

I withdrew my hand.

“You called me here,” I said. My voice rose, as if confronting her, but really, it was to myself. “You said you needed my help. I came. I didn’t refuse you. I just did it the way I’m used to—is that not okay?”

Tova turned her head away. The light cut a sharp line between light and shadow on her profile, her cheekbone in the shadow like a stone just sculpted with a knife.

“Yes, I called you,” she said. Each word was enunciated clearly, as if trying to suppress her tears. “Because I tried twice in the bathroom and couldn’t climax, because all I could think about was your hand moving on the model bridge—and then you actually came, but continued to touch me like that. So what am I? Just another model that needs to be measured?”

That last sentence hit me like a nail. I stood on the blankets, my feet sinking into the soft fabric, my skin suddenly turning cold.

“You’re not a model,” I said. But even I could hear how thin that statement sounded.

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

I looked up. I met her eyes. Grayish-green, the corners of her eyes beginning to redden, her eyelashes wet but not yet falling. She didn’t look away. She left the question there for me to answer.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I was searching for a sentence that could restore everything, but all the sentences in my mind were notebook-like, analytical, archived—not a single one that could be placed directly in front of her without explanation.

“…Because I’m afraid,” I finally said.

It wasn’t an apology. It was a fact, and as I pulled it out of my throat, it felt like pulling a thorn that had gone too deep.

Tova didn’t reply. She just kept looking at me, her breathing slowing, her hands falling from her knees to her sides.

“Every time I encounter something new, I measure it first,” I said. Each word was slow, like lifting a heavy object. “Only after measuring can I decide if it’s dangerous. Can I get close? Will it crush me? I’ve survived five winters on the highway like this—if I don’t measure first, I don’t dare touch it.”

I stopped. The smell of the blankets, her body temperature, the stuffy, damp air in the bedroom, all became clearer than before in that silence.

“When you told me not to write in my notebook, I was terrified,” I admitted. “Because if you don’t let me write, I have no way to put these things in a safe place. My notebook is the only thing I can control. Now you want me to put it down, like you want me to put down my shield.”

Tova’s lips moved slightly. She finally blinked, and the tear that had been held back slid down the side of her nose, but she didn't wipe it away. She just looked at me.

"I'm scared too," she said. Her voice was hoarse, like sand rubbing against her throat. "When I called you here, I thought all I had to do was get things straight. But when you touched me—" She paused, quickly wiping her cheek with the back of her hand, "when you touched me, you didn't see me in your eyes. You only saw measurements. I felt like I'd become a tunnel. A terrain. Not a person."

I stood before her. There were no props, no model city, no bridges to repair or streets to widen between us. Only blankets, a bedside lamp, and two trembling eighteen-year-olds, neither of us backing down.

"You're not terrain," I said. This time my voice was steadyer, like I'd finally found a place to put my feet. "You're the best roofer I know."

She paused for a second. Then she laughed, a short laugh, nasal and slightly choked. “A model roof. Not real.”

“It’s a real roof,” I said. “When I was lying in the cabin, I saw you using tweezers to press that loose piece of wood back in. Your hands are so big, but you didn’t rip the whole roof off. You only touched that loose piece of wood.”

She didn’t speak. But her hand moved—slowly, as if doing something that needed to be relearned—she stretched out a hand, spread it on the blanket, palm up, waiting for me to decide whether to walk on it.

“This time,” she said, “you don’t need to measure. You just need to come up. Then I’ll tell you what to do.”

I looked at the hand. There were still sawdust in the palm lines, an old scar from a model knife on the fingertip, and warmth emanated from the palm, salty and warm.

I didn’t measure it. I walked straight up to the center of her palm, feeling the skin sink slightly under my weight. Then she lifted her hand, bringing me from the surface of the blanket to her chest.

Her heartbeat traveled up from the inside of her wrist, steady against the sole of my shoe.

"You can say stop if you're scared," she said.

"Okay," I said.

“I can say stop too,” she said.

“Okay.”

She placed me on her stomach. The cotton fabric was warm from her body heat, and my feet, positioned above her navel, could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of her abdomen with each breath. She gently pressed her clothes down with her other hand, smoothing the fabric so I wouldn't trip over the wrinkles.

“Let’s do it again,” she said.

I looked down, watching her abdomen rise and fall slowly beneath my feet with each breath. I didn’t take out my notebook. I placed my hands on her skin, not to measure, just to rest.

Then I felt her hand—the other hand not supporting me—move gently across the sheets, as if tidying something, as if giving herself time.

We both stood there. The bedroom was quiet. Her heartbeat, her breathing, her body heat surrounded me from all sides, and I didn’t run away.

Tova placed me on her stomach. The cotton fabric was warm from her body heat, and my feet, positioned above her navel, could feel the slow rise and fall of her abdomen with each breath. She didn't move me immediately, but simply placed her hands flat at her sides, letting me adjust to the height and the point of contact.

"Sit down first," she said. Her voice was steadyer than before, but still a little hoarse at the end, like tears just swallowed back.

I squatted down and sat on her skin. The texture of the fabric was clearly visible under my fingertips, and her body heat seeped up from below, carrying a faint scent of sweat and soap. Her breath paused for a moment when I sat down—not from discomfort, but as she adjusted to the feeling of my weight on her abdomen.

"Okay," I said, looking up at her. From this angle, her chin resembled a cliff, the shadow of her collarbone extending along both sides of her chest.

"I'm going to take off my clothes," she said. Not a question, but a declaration. But her hand paused at the hem of her clothes, waiting for me for a few seconds, as if to confirm I wasn't planning to escape.

I didn't move.

She pulled up her shirt, slower than before, but more steady. Her long, silvery hair was lifted by the fabric, then fell back onto her bare back. The light shone from the side, outlining the subtle curves of her shoulder blades and the slender lines of the muscles along her spine. Her shirt, folded slightly on the bedside table—she remembered to fold it even at times like this.

As her trousers were pulled down, her knees were still slightly turned inward, but she didn't linger. Her undergarments were the last to come off, the fabric slid against her thighs with a barely audible rustle, then she clutched them in her hands and placed them beside her pillow.

She sat on the edge of the bed, completely naked. Her hands rested on her knees, her ankles crossed. The light from the side cast a warm, thin glow over her body, making the beads of sweat on her skin appear like tiny glass shards.

"You can come over now," she said, "but this time, don't use your palms."

I stood up and walked from her abdomen to her groin. This distance was longer than the distance from her navel to her chest, the fabric tightening into a shallow groove on her inner thighs. I followed that groove down, the closer I got to her knees, the cooler her skin became. When I stopped near the back of her knee on the inside of her thigh, her knees were slightly turned outwards.

"Use your arm," she said. "An arm is softer than a hand; it won't make me feel like you're measuring."

I extended my left arm, my forearm against the skin of her inner thigh. Soft. Warm. Beads of sweat flattened the moment I touched her, the skin slightly sinking. I didn't move, just felt her body heat gathering into a thin layer of dampness on my forearm.

"That's enough," she said. Then she leaned back, letting her back rest against the headboard, her legs slowly opening. Her knees turned outwards, the skin of her inner thighs unfolding before me. The light shone from the side between her legs, the shadows and highlights creating a terrain I'd never seen before.

She didn't rush me. She just opened herself up and waited for me.

I moved forward along the inside of her thigh. With each step, I checked my center of gravity, because the mattress had formed a shallow indentation under her weight, and I had to climb up that slope. The closer I got to her groin, the stronger the smell became—the acidity of sweat, the slightly oxidized sebum, the faint ammonia lingering from urine stains, and the warm, closed-off scent of her intestines emanating from deeper folds.

I pressed my forearm against the skin of the outer part of her groin, then pushed forward, letting my forearm touch the softest area of ​​her inner thigh closest to her body. She took a breath, her voice soft but drawn out.

"A little more in," she said.

I stretched my entire arm forward, pressing my forearm and upper arm against her skin simultaneously. My face was less than an arm's length away from her genitals, my breath fogging my goggles. I could feel the moisture from the warmest part of her body, thick and even, like a cloud of steam condensed on her skin.

"Use the other hand," she said.

I stretched out my right hand as well, placing both forearms side by side against the inner groin of her thighs. She gently clamped my arm and body between her legs, the pressure so light it was as if she were just confirming I was still there.

Then she began. She first swayed her hips slightly, pushing her pelvis forward a little. My forearm followed her movement, my skin sliding a short distance between her inner thighs. A warm, slippery fluid seeped from between her legs, staining the outside of my arm, carrying the slightly salty, fishy smell characteristic of bodily fluids.

"Don't move," she said. "I'll move."

I remained in the same position, my arm pressed against her skin, my forearm trapped between her thighs. She began to rhythmically move her pelvis back and forth, repeatedly rubbing the most sensitive spot between her legs against the outside of my upper arm. Her breathing grew heavier with each movement, the air from her nose warm and rapid, occasionally punctuated by a nasal sound.

I looked up at her. Her head was tilted back, her neck taut, her collarbones appearing as two shallow ridges in the light. Her eyes were half-closed, her eyelashes wet, her lips slightly parted, each exhale longer than the last.

"Yes…don't move…" she said, her voice already fading. She quickened her pace slightly. My arm swayed back and forth with her movements, skin to skin, the mucus stretching into thin strands on the contact surface. Her body temperature was rising; I could feel the heat emanating from between her legs, layer upon layer, mingling with the acidity of sweat, the fishy smell of bodily fluids, and the stench emanating from deeper within, from the crevices of her intestines.

Then she stopped.

She froze, her waist suspended in mid-air, taking a deep breath but not exhaling. I didn't know what was happening, only that she tightened her mouth, her face flushed from her ears to her chest, and her eyes suddenly widened.

She farted.

Short, low, it escaped from between her buttocks, the warm air spreading down her inner thighs. As the gas passed over my arm, it carried the warm, acidic smell of her intestines and the stuffy stench of fecal residue, like a package long suppressed by body heat finally opening. I wasn't sprayed on my face, but the odor quickly dissipated, mingling with the previously stuffy air in the bedroom.

Her entire body froze. Her waist stiffened in mid-air, and the thighs gripping my arm suddenly tightened, pushing me half an inch towards her.

"...I'm sorry..." she didn't finish. She turned her face to the pillow, her long, silvery hair covering half her face, her shoulders hunched.

I could feel her thigh muscles trembling—not from orgasm, but from shame. Her body was taut like a snapping string, even her breathing was shallow.

I didn't speak. I didn't move. I simply remained where I was, my forearm still pressed against the skin of her inner thigh.

After a few seconds, I suppressed her reaction and said, "I'm here."

She didn't respond.

"Tova," I called her.

She turned her face half an inch from the pillow, revealing one eye, red and wet.

"Such a stimulating feeling," I said.

She stared at me for a moment, her lips pursed, as if considering how to retort. But she didn't. She lowered her waist again, the pressure on her thighs easing slightly.

“…Continue,” she said. Her voice was still hoarse, but no longer trembling.

She started moving again. This time the rhythm was slower, but more focused. She would pause before pushing her pelvis forward, feeling my forearm slide against her skin, before pulling back. Her breathing deepened with each movement, a nasal sound escaping intermittently, like suppressed moans squeezing through a crack.

Sweat trickled down her collarbone. I smelled a stronger, warm scent, gradually mixing with the stench of her earlier farts, creating an unclean, yet intensely real, atmosphere. I didn't run away from those smells. My arm remained against her skin, feeling every change in temperature and humidity.

Her movements became unsteady. No longer a rhythmic back-and-forth swaying, but short, trembling thrusts. Her toes curled tightly on the sheets, her fingers gripping the edge of the headboard, her knuckles white. Her voice changed too—no ​​longer sounding suppressed, but more like she was struggling to keep herself from falling forward.

"Tova," I said.

She didn't answer. Her pelvis thrust forward heavily, then stopped. In that instant, her body was like a bow stretched to its limit, her spine suspended in the air, her neck arched back, even her toes lifted off the bed.

Then she lost control. Her body collapsed from that limit.

Not a slow descent. Her back slumped forward violently, but her hips rose high at the last moment, a tremor exploding from her entire body, starting in her pelvis—her thighs, abdomen, ribcage, fingers, like a bridge whose ropes had been cut simultaneously. She cried out, a long, forceful cry, squeezed from deep within her throat, unfiltered, unheld, like a wisp of air finally finding an outlet after being suffocated for too long.

I was trapped between her thighs, pushed forward. Her pelvis trembled, her hips contracting in waves in mid-air for several seconds, each wave bouncing her body off the bed and back down.

I didn't flinch. I was pinned between her legs, my forearm pressed against her trembling skin, feeling each contraction travel from deep within her body, through her muscles and bones, and pulsate on my arm.

When her last tremor subsided, she slumped back onto the mattress, the surface sinking under her weight. She lay there panting, her back drenched in sweat, glistening like an oily film under the light.

I pulled my arm out from between her legs. My forearm was covered in sticky sweat, my goggles fogged, and her scent lingered in my breath.

She panted for a long time. Then she turned her face from the pillow, her eyes half-open, as if even opening them required effort.

"Are you... alright?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse, like sandpaper.

"I'm fine," I said.

She looked at me, blinked, as if processing the words. Then the corner of her mouth twitched—not a smile, but a subtle, relaxed twitch of the muscles.

"Then...what do you want?" she asked.

I glanced down at my body. My jacket was half-soaked with her sweat, and there was a damp patch on the front of my pants from when I'd been pressed between her legs. I didn't try to hide it.

"You should rest first," I said.

"No," she said. Her voice was still hoarse, but her tone was returning to its usual directness. "You're not done yet."

She propped herself up on her elbows. The movement was slow, because her legs were still trembling slightly. She rolled onto her side, bent her knees again, and looked down at me.

"You can do it yourself," she said, her voice low, as if stating something perfectly ordinary. "On my lap. Beside me. Whatever."

She paused, then added, "I won't look anymore."

She closed her eyes.

I stood on the blankets, my arms still wet with her fluids and sweat, the bedroom still filled with the warmth of her orgasm and the lingering smell of her fart. My fingers were a little unresponsive as I unzipped my pants, because I was still trembling—not from fear, but from an unexpected, deep-seated relaxation.

I knelt down, resting my face against the skin of her outer thigh. Warm, slightly damp, still undulating gently. I pressed my forehead against her skin and began. The process was shorter than I expected, because my body had already been pushed to the edge by her trembling, her scent, and the long moans she let out during her orgasm.

I ejaculated on her thigh. The fluid dripped onto her skin, warm and sticky, forming a small, cloudy, damp patch between her sweat and my fingers.

She didn't open her eyes. But her thigh muscles twitched slightly, as if in response.

I sat against her skin for a while. My breathing slowed. The sweat began to cool.

"...Okay," I said.

She opened her eyes and looked down at me. Then she saw the wet patch on her thigh, paused, and looked away.

"I'll get a towel," she said, her voice returning to its normal hoarseness.

"No need," I said. "I did it, I'll clean it up."

She didn't insist. She simply lay back down, placing her hands on her abdomen, as if waiting for something.

Only the breathing of the two of them remained in the bedroom, along with a new, nameless silence.

After the Climax

The scent of the climax hadn't completely dissipated. The air in the bedroom still carried the salty smell of sweat heated by body heat, the lingering sweetness of bodily fluids, and the lingering, closed-off scent of her intestines that had been released from her body. The bedside lamp maintained its warm tone, but now, when it shone on the two bodies that had just finished, it had an added layer of damp reflection.

Tova was still lying on her side. Her knees were slightly bent, her arm was under her face, and her long, silvery hair was spread between the pillow and the sheets, a few strands clinging to her neck with sweat. Her breathing had returned to a normal rhythm, but each exhale was a little longer than usual, as if her body was still slowly descending from a height.

I sat on the blanket on the outside of her thighs. The front of my pants still bore the damp stains I'd left, but I ignored them. I pushed my goggles up to my forehead, letting my eyes, which had been covered all night, breathe directly into the stuffy bedroom air. My eyelids felt like they were floating in liquid, as if I'd just returned from another world.

The creases on the blankets retained their shapes—the indentations from her weight, the tiny creases from my compression, and the deep wrinkles from her gripping fingers. Our bodies had left a brief imprint on the fabric.

"Are you hungry?" Tova asked. The voice came from the edge of the pillow, muffled by my hair.

"Not really," I said. Actually, I was a little hungry, but it sounded like a lie.

"There's bread in the fridge from yesterday. And honey." She didn't move. She just remained in the same side-lying position, as if she'd already regretted not having the strength to get it.

"Wait a minute."

She didn't insist. The air grew quiet again, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall and the occasional low vibrations of passing cars outside the window.

I got up from the covers. My trousers, soaked with sweat and bodily fluids, clung to my skin, the fabric rubbing against my legs as I walked, feeling a little cool. I took a few steps towards the head of the bed and stopped beside Tova's pillow.

"Tova."

"Yes."

"This evening, I was walking around town and found something."

She didn't move. But her breathing changed.

The previously steady rhythm was interrupted by a very brief pause, like a sentence abruptly cut short. That pause, less than half a second, sounded louder to me than any answer.

"What is it?" she asked. Her tone was still relaxed, as if she had just woken up. But that pause told me she knew what I was talking about.

"The window frame of the third house on East Street," I said.

I didn't continue. I stood there, waiting for her to respond.

She was silent for a moment. Then she turned her face half an inch from the pillow, revealing one eye looking at me. Grayish-green. Gleaming slightly in the light.

"What happened to that window frame?"

"The upper half is new wood. The lower half is old. The colors are different, and the glue hasn't dried completely."

She didn't speak.

"The same goes for the pillar next to the south stall. The lower half is polished smooth, and the upper half has teeth marks—very shallow, but not knife marks, nor the kind of wear left by sandpaper. They're bite marks."

She turned her face completely towards me. A faint red mark was imprinted on her face by the pillow, her hair disheveled and pressed against her cheeks.

"What else did you see?" she asked. The relaxation in her voice vanished. Not tension, but something else—like someone who had just had a secret discovered, thinking it was well-kept, and was testing how much the other person knew.

"The floor next to the clock tower. There's a patch of a different color, an irregular shape," I said. "It looks like something hit it and then patched it up."

She looked away, staring at the ceiling. Her lips twitched slightly, as if considering how to answer.

"Those marks… I did them," she said.

I knew. I knew from the beginning. But I didn't interrupt her.

She propped herself up on her elbows, shifting from lying on her side to sitting up. The blanket slipped off her, revealing her bare chest and abdomen. She didn't cover herself, just looked down at the skin on her knees.

"A few weeks before you came… for a while, I was alone in this room," she said. Her voice was a shade lower than before, as if she were talking to a blanket. "The model city is finished. Streets, bridges, clock towers, rivers, markets—everything's there. I sit at the table every day looking at it, not knowing what to do next."

She placed her hands on her knees. Her fingers were clasped together. Her knuckles were slightly white from the pressure.

"Then one night, I sat at the table, looking at that row of houses on East Street…and suddenly they seemed so quiet. Quiet, like they were dead. They were just there, no one walking in them. I'd made them for three years, but they'd never come alive."

She paused. She took a breath.

"I don't know what I was thinking. I reached into the city, picked up the roof of a house…and put it in my mouth."

She closed her eyes. As if recalling a moment she herself didn't fully understand.

"Wood. Dried. The paint on it had a slightly sweet taste, the kind of sweet that's gelatinous. I took a bite—not swallowing, just holding it in my mouth—and then I realized it wasn't bad. The wood fibers spread in my mouth, the paint powder dissolved by my saliva, mixing together, a bit like dried wheat flour."

She took her hands off her knees and placed them on the sheets on either side of her, as if to support herself.

"Then I ate it."

She spoke calmly. Like stating a fact long since digested.

"Not the whole building. Just the roof. I chewed up that piece of roof and swallowed it. The wood chips were a little prickly as they scraped down my throat, but they slid down quickly. I sat there, feeling like I'd done something absurd—but my hand was back in the city."

She looked up at me. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying.

“I didn’t stop. I ate the houses on East Street, one by one. First the roofs, then the walls, then the window frames—some were too big, so I chewed them up with my teeth and swallowed them. The pillars at the south stall too; when I bent down to bite into that wooden pillar, the upper half was dented and pitted. I didn’t use any tools. I used my own teeth.”

She licked her lips. As if savoring something, or perhaps confirming how much detail remained of that memory.

“The floorboards next to the clock tower were crushed. I was so excited playing the monster—I squatted by the table, pounding the buildings with my fists, making a huge bang, and then I would bend down and pick up the pieces to eat. One floorboard cracked, I stepped on it, the wood broke, and I picked it up and put it in my mouth. At that point, I didn’t care what it was anymore. I just felt…it was something I did. I wanted them back in my body.”

She finished. Silence.

I stood beside her pillow, looking down at her. Her shoulder blades protruded slightly from her sitting posture, forming two shallow arcs in the light. Her chest rose and fell slowly. Her words lingered in the air between us, like a layer of suspended dust.

"What did you do the next morning?" I asked.

"I relieved myself," she said. Her voice regained a certain firmness, as if she had repeated this to herself many times before. "Everything. I checked. Wood shavings, paint chips, glue particles—all in the toilet. No residue."

She looked at me, her gaze earnest, almost deliberately serious.

"I spent two weeks rebuilding. The entire house on East Street was redone, the window frames replaced, the pillars re-sanded and repainted. Those areas where the old and new meet are the parts I haven't finished yet."

"Why didn't you replace everything?"

She paused. The question seemed to have touched a spot she wasn't ready for.

“…Because there were some houses, and I wasn’t sure whether to tear them down and rebuild them,” she said, her voice trailing off. “When I ate them, I really ate them. Then I excreted them. If I did the same thing again, would they still be the originals? Or just identical copies?”

I didn’t answer. Because I knew she wasn’t asking me.

“I later decided to leave those boundaries,” she said. “The places where the old and new blend together are the traces of what I ate and rebuilt. I didn’t hide them. I just didn’t tell anyone what they were.”

She looked up at me.

“I wasn’t going to tell you anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s absurd,” she said. A very faint, self-deprecating smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. “I built a city, then ate half of it, and then rebuilt it. Nobody would treat something they’ve worked on for three years like that.”

“Do you think it’s absurd?” I asked.

She looked at me. After a long silence, she finally spoke.

“I felt very lonely back then.”

Her voice distorted slightly at the last two words. It wasn't crying, but a quieter, more subdued sound, a breath that had been suppressed in her chest for too long, finally finding an outlet.

"I sat alone at the table, facing a city no one would ever live in. I'd made this for three years, and no one would ever walk into it. So I let it into my body—at least that way, those houses were truly mine."

I took a step forward. From the edge of the pillow to her bent knee. I reached out, my palm against the skin on the outside of her knee. Warm. Dry. The pores beneath my fingertips were fine and still.

"You didn't leave those houses in the toilet," I said.

She looked down at me.

"Whether you emptied it or not—when you ate them, they were already inside you. What you rebuilt was just the shell. What was truly eaten is still inside."

She stared at me. Her lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but nothing came out.

“And those places where the old and new meet,” I said, “if you really wanted to hide them, you would have changed them all. You left them because you wanted to remember which places had been eaten.”

Her eyes flickered. As if something she herself hadn’t fully sorted out had been pointed out.

“…How did you know?”

“Because you even fold your clothes before putting them away,” I said. “You’re not someone who leaves traces without noticing. You left them on purpose.”

She looked away. Her chin lifted slightly, as if suppressing something. Her breathing quickened a couple of beats, then slowed down.

“…Yes,” she finally said. Her voice was soft, as if admitting a fact she hadn’t fully accepted, “I left them on purpose. I want to remember which houses have entered my body.”

She held out her hand, palm up, on the blanket.

“Come up here,” she said.

I walked up. I stood in the center of her palm. Her skin pressed against the sole of my shoe, her body heat seeping through the fabric. She raised her palms to chest height, bringing our eyes almost parallel.

"When you asked me about those marks," she said, "I thought you'd think I was crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy."

"Why?"

"Because I did the same thing," I said.

She frowned.

"Not the city," I said, "my notebooks. I told you, I have three notebooks. The first one I started writing when I was fourteen, it's all the places I hid—tree hollows, under bridges, abandoned animal dens. I drew them down, noting the dimensions, the smell, the wind direction. The second one is about the terrain along the highways, the slope of every road, the shelter at bends, the distance to water sources."

"And the third one?"

"The third one is about things I won't show anyone," I said, "It contains a sentence I wrote when I was fourteen—'If I could live in a place where it wouldn't be cold, even if that place was someone else's body, I would.'"

She didn't speak. Her palms tightened slightly at my feet, as if to make sure I was still there. “I used to imagine what it would be like to live inside a giant’s body. Warm. Humid. Tightly wrapped up. No more worrying about the wind and monsters,” I said. “I drew those imaginary pictures—not for research, but because I was less afraid when I thought about them.”

Her thumb gently bent and touched my shoulder. So light it was almost a brush.

“How old were you then?” she asked.

“Fourteen.”

She was silent for a moment. Then her lips twitched—not a smile, but a slower, subtle expression, like some kind of understanding forming.

“You wanted to live inside someone else’s body when you were fourteen,” she said. “I ate the city I made when I was eighteen.”

“It sounds like we’re both a little abnormal.”

She finally smiled. Short, but real. Her eyelashes fluttered as she smiled, the redness in her eyes hadn’t completely faded, but the smile extended from her lips to her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “neither of us are quite normal.”

Her voice softened as she said the last four words. Like a string stretched for too long finally allowed to return to its original length.

I stood in her palm, my body rising and falling slightly with the rhythm of her breathing. Her body heat continuously seeped up through the sole of her shoe against my skin, warm and steady. Her heartbeat traveled from the inside of her wrist to her palm, forming an almost imperceptible, continuous low-frequency pulsation between the fabric and her skin.

"The remains of those buildings," I said, "are you really sure you've cleared them all?"

She didn't answer immediately. She looked down at me, her grey-green eyes shimmering in the lamplight.

"...I'm sure," she said. But this time, there was something in her tone I hadn't heard before—not so much certainty, but more like she was speaking to herself.

"You checked?"

"Yes. The next morning. All of them."

She looked at me. Her expression shifted several times in the lamplight—as if she wanted to say something, but then stopped herself.

"Why are you asking this?" she finally said.

I stood in her palm. Her heart pounded up from beneath her skin. The door, the one she had just opened to me, was still there, waiting.

"Nothing," I said, "just curious."

She didn't press further. She lowered her palm, letting me return to the covers. I stood beside her knees, and she looked down at me. The air still held the words she had spoken—about loneliness, about the city that had been devoured, about the traces that hadn't been completely erased.

"Tova," I said.

"Yes."

"Tell me when you've decided."

She didn't ask what I wanted to wait for. Her eyes brightened for a moment, like someone suddenly realizing another already knew the answer, just waiting for her to be ready to speak.

"...Okay," she said.

The bedroom fell silent again. The clock ticked. The light was on. Occasionally, a car would pass by outside the window. She sat on the bed, and I stood beside her knees. Between us lay a city devoured and rebuilt, the imagination of a fourteen-year-old, and two people, neither fully ready but already determined to move forward. Her breathing gradually became steady in the quiet. She placed her hands at her sides, her fingertips lightly touching the surface of the blankets. The light from the bedside lamp slid down her collarbone and shoulders, forming a warm, thin glow on her skin.

I sat beside her knees, my back against the outside of her calves. Her body heat emanated from behind me, like a slowly flowing warm current. We didn't speak. But I knew she knew I was still there. She also knew I knew.

# Reward?

The door hadn't been opened yet. But light was already seeping through the crack.

The silence in the bedroom lasted a long time. Nearly ten minutes passed before I heard Tova's breathing change slightly from its steady rhythm—like someone finally making a decision, pushing it from their chest to their lips.

"Nico."

"Mm."

"You just said… wait until I've thought it through."

I didn't move. My back remained against the outside of her calves, her body heat like a continuous warm current emanating from behind me. I felt her calf muscles tighten slightly, then relax.

"I've made up my mind."

I turned around and stood up beside her knees. The blankets were still soft and uneven under my feet, requiring me to readjust my balance with each step. I walked to her directly in front of her, stopping between her thighs. The light from the bedside lamp shone from behind her, creating a warm rim around her body. Her face was in shadow, but her eyes were bright.

"What reward do you want?" she asked. Her voice was low but steady. It was as if she had rehearsed the sentence in her mind several times.

"I want a promise."

"What kind of promise?"

"I want you to promise me that whatever I ask for later—as long as you can do it—you will let me do it."

Her eyebrows twitched. As if she hadn't expected me to throw the question back at her like that.

"...What do you ask for?"

I looked up at her. Her chin formed a clear line in the shadows, and a thin layer of sweat glistened above her collarbone. Her hands were on either side of her knees, her fingers slightly curled, as if preparing to grasp something.

"I want to live inside you."

The words lingered in the air for a second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

Her expression didn't change. But her fingers gripped the sheet. The movement was light, but the fabric's wrinkles quickly gathered beneath her fingertips, like grass suddenly flattened by the wind.

"Which place?" she asked. Her voice was a notch lower than before.

"You know which place."

Her gaze moved down from my face, past my shoulders, my chest, finally settling on my waist. Then her gaze continued downward, past the outline of my body, landing on her own body—the area behind her hips, hidden by the sheet and her weight.

She didn't say "no." She just sat there, gripping the sheet, her breathing slowing. Not a relaxed slowness, but another—like someone suppressing some impending reaction.

"Are you sure you know what that place is?" she asked. Her voice thinned, like a taut sheet.

“I know.”

“It’s for getting out,” she said. Her shoulders twitched as she uttered those words, as if she were saying something she shouldn’t have. “It’s not for going in. It’s filthy in there. There’s excrement left. It’s hot. The air is awful. You’ll smell all sorts of odors you don’t want to smell.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.” Her voice suddenly rose. Not anger, but something more like panic, a sound finally squeezed out after being stuck in her throat for so long, “You’ve never been in. You don’t know what it’s like in there. You don’t know if those things—those things I ate and excreted—were really cleaned up. What if there’s still…”

She didn’t finish. Her mouth closed, her lips pressed tightly together. Her eyes glistened in the light, moist, but didn’t fall.

I stood there. Neither approaching nor retreating.

“Tova.”

She didn’t respond.

“You said you checked,” I said, “You said it was all out.”

“Yes,” she said. The sound of the word was distorted, like glass crushed under pressure.

"Then why are you afraid?"

Her mouth opened and closed. Her gaze shifted from me, sweeping over the bedside lamp, the clock on the wall, the edge of the curtains. Finally, she looked at her hands.

"...Because what if I didn't empty myself completely?"

The sentence was very soft. So soft I could barely hear it. But the bedroom was too quiet, so quiet that even her heartbeat seemed to leave a trace in the air.

"What if there's still something inside—the sawdust, the paint, the house I swallowed—it's all still inside. I kept thinking I'd emptied myself, but I couldn't really see inside." She looked up at me, her eyes red. "If I let you in, and you saw there was still something inside—what would you think of me?"

I took a step between her thighs. The distance closed enough for me to smell her skin—the sweat had dried, leaving only the original, warm, faintly salty scent of her skin.

“I think, some of those houses you ate are still inside you,” I said. “They haven’t disappeared. They’re still inside you.”

“Isn’t that disgusting?”

“That’s you.”

Her eyes flickered. Her lips parted slightly, as if struck in an unguarded spot.

“But that place is… filthy. It stinks. There’s poop in it. Do you really want to live in a place with poop?”

Her words grew faster and faster. Like building a wall with language.

“You can stay in there for a few minutes, and then you’ll want to come out. Nobody wants to stay in a place like that forever. There’s no space, just folds and slime, you have to bend over, it’s hard to breathe, and all you smell is stench—”

“Tova.”

I interrupted her. Her voice stopped. She looked at me, her eyes red-rimmed, her lips trembling slightly.

“You just said you were sitting alone at the table, facing a city no one would ever live in,” I said. “And then you ate it. Because you wanted it back into your body.”

She didn’t speak.

“Now I’m telling you, I want to go in. I want to live in there. Not because I want to study whether you’re clean or not—it’s because when you said you were lonely, I realized I understood that feeling.”

I moved to the space between her knees. I stood on the blankets between her legs. I looked up at her face; her chin was high, like the edge of a cliff.

“I’ve been lonely for five years too. Five winters. Three notebooks. Those notebooks were filled with places I could hide, but none of them were places anyone would come looking for me,” I said. “You’re the first person in five years who’s lifted me off the table and didn’t shove me back into a box.”

Her lips moved, as if she wanted to say something. But she didn’t.

“If you don’t want me in, I won’t go in,” I said. “But you just asked me what reward I wanted—this is what I want.”

Silence.

The air in the bedroom felt like a vacuum. The clock ticked. The light was on. Her breath was slow and moist above my head.

"...Then you're not allowed to write notes in there," she said finally. Her voice was hoarse.

"Okay."

"If you see anything else in there—don't hide it from me."

"Okay."

She closed her eyes. Her shoulders, which had been tense, slowly relaxed, like a city gate gradually lowering. She supported herself with her arms, lifted her hips off the sheets, and turned to face me. Her movements were slow, as if each joint was making a decision requiring courage.

She bent her knees and braced herself on the bed with her hands. Her hips rose slightly towards me, forming an arc. The light shone from the side, tracing a soft line of light and shadow along her hips and spine.

"Then come in," she said. Her voice was muffled in the pillow, as if she were talking to herself.

I took a few steps forward. The blankets were soft as a swamp at my feet. From this distance, I could see the skin of her buttocks gleaming faintly under the light—dry sweat had crystallized into a thin layer on the surface, and along the edge of her buttocks, the heat trapped by her body temperature all night continued to escape from that crevice.

The closer I got, the clearer the smell became.

Initially, it was the scent of her skin itself—warm, damp with sweat yet slightly acidic, with a hint of oxidized skin oils. Then came something deeper: the sealed odor accumulated between her buttocks, heated by her body temperature, carrying the ammonia lingering aftertaste of urea, the characteristic somber, fecal odor of the intestinal tract, and beneath that, the moist, acidic odor of her intestines. The odor didn't emanate from a single point, but rather flowed like a slowly moving mist, continuously seeping out from between her buttocks, spreading over the surrounding skin, and gradually diffusing along the curve of her inner thighs.

My throat tightened. Not nausea—it was the body's instinctive reaction to a strong odor, like being suddenly thrust into a space with a different air density. My breathing became shallow, inhaling through my nose to dilute the odor slightly as it passed through.

She sensed my hesitation. Her body tensed slightly in the pillow.

"It stinks, doesn't it?" she said. Her voice was muffled by the pillow, nasal, as if stating a fact already known.

"Yes," I said. I wasn't lying.

She didn't respond. But her hands gripped the edge of the pillow, her knuckles white.

I took another step forward. The odor grew stronger—no longer "emanating from the cracks," but permeating the entire area. Her body heat heated the air between her buttocks to a higher temperature than the surrounding air, the odor molecules, trapped all day, rising in waves under the light like invisible heat.

I stopped less than an arm's length from her buttocks. Her buttocks were directly in front of me, the skin on either side showing soft curves under the light, the central cleft a slightly darker color than the surrounding area, covered with a thin layer of moisture. The wrinkles, under the light, revealed a fine, intricate texture, each line like a tiny stream extending deep into the skin on either side.

The scent, up close, became a tangible substance—like a warm, damp cloth covering my face, carrying the ammonia, the sour smell of fermenting sweat, the sulfide odor of intestinal flora, and the thick, pungent stench of fecal residue released after prolonged exposure to heat. Each breath felt like swallowing a tiny mouthful of air. My eyes began to sting, my tear ducts instinctively secreting fluid to wash away the irritation in my corneas.

"Nico," her voice came from beneath the pillow. Trembling.

"I'm here."

"If you want to back away…you can."

"I know."

I didn't back away. I looked down at the tightly closed crack. It closed tightly before me, the wrinkles compressed into an even finer network of lines due to tension. Tiny beads of sweat clung to the skin, appearing as tiny, transparent stars under the light.

I reached out my hand. Palm up. My fingers first touched the skin of her outer buttock—warm, slightly damp, trembling slightly with tension. I placed my entire palm on it, without sliding, just resting it.

Her muscles tightened and relaxed beneath my palm, like someone gasping for breath before being touched, then slowly exhaling.

"I want to go in," I said.

"...I know," her voice came from under the pillow, muffled and damp.

"But I can wait. Until you're ready."

Her body trembled slightly. Like a bird just touched by rain.

"I'm not sure if I'll be ready," she said.

"That's okay."

I left my hand on the skin of her buttock. Without moving. Without measuring. Just resting it. Her body heat continued to rise through my palm, like a slow, warm, undemanding signal.

A long time passed. The clock ticked several times. Her breathing changed from tense and shallow to a deeper rhythm, showing signs of relaxation. Her hand loosened slightly from the edge of the pillow.

"...Then when you come in, don't touch anything in there," she said.

"Okay."

"If you touch anything...don't be startled."

"Okay."

Moving InTo The House

She took a deep breath. A long breath. Like inhaling all the oxygen into her lungs. Then she exhaled, and as the breath left, her hips opened slightly.

The gap widened. The folds rearranged into a new shape before me, revealing a deeper, darker layer of skin. Heat rushed out from the newly opened gap, carrying an even stronger, more suffocating odor—like a room that had been closed for a long time finally having its door opened, all the air inside being forced out at once.

The smell hit my face directly. Ammonia, fecal odor, the smell of sulfides from intestinal flora metabolism, the acidic smell of sweat after long fermentation, and the damp, fishy smell unique to intestinal fluids from deeper layers, all mixed together, like an invisible, thick cloth covering my mouth and nose. My eyes immediately welled up with tears, and my throat reflexively constricted, as if my body was instinctively resisting the drastic change in the air's composition.

I coughed. A short, forceful cough stuck in my throat.

She heard me. Her hips clenched slightly, and the opening that had just opened narrowed a little more.

"...I'm sorry," she said. Her voice was completely hoarse.

"Don't apologize," I said. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand; the fog on my goggles blurred my vision. I pushed the goggles up to my forehead, exposing my unprotected eyes directly to the smell. "This is what your body smells like. I just need time to adjust."

She buried her face deeper into the pillow. Her ears were a deep, almost purple red, and her shoulders were hunched over as if she were folding herself up.

I stared at the open entrance. The folds trembled slightly with shame, and the surface moisture reflected tiny specks of light under the lamp. Heat continued to escape, carrying the humidity and odor that had accumulated in the enclosed space.

"May I come in?" I asked.

She didn't answer. But her hips parted slightly.

I began checking the equipment: belt, short lamp, cord buckle, anchor ring. My left shoulder throbbed slightly as I raised my arm, but it didn't affect my movements. I secured the short lamp to my chest and turned it on. A beam of white light cut through the dimness of the bedroom, illuminating the space between her hips. Under the light, the texture of the folds became extremely clear, each undulation like a miniature topographical contour line.

"I'm going in," I said.

She didn't speak. But her fingers tightened and loosened on the sheets.

I slipped my left hand in first. My fingers touched the skin first—warm, moist, soft. The folds parted slightly under my touch, like a plant slowly unfolding its leaves in the sunlight. My fingertips felt the temperature inside was a few degrees higher than outside, the humidity higher, like entering another climate.

I pushed my entire palm in. As my wrist slipped through the entrance, the surrounding muscles contracted slightly, as if confirming the shape and size of the intruder. Heat enveloped my hand and forearm, and the scent became more concentrated in the enclosed space—not more foul, but more "complete," as if all the odor molecules had nowhere to dissipate, forced to circulate endlessly within the limited space.

I felt the muscles in her buttocks tremble slightly at my entry. It was shame, not resistance. She didn't push me out.

"My hand's in," I said.

"...Mmm." Her voice trembled.

I slipped my other hand in as well. Both hands braced against the sides of the entrance, palms pressed against the inner walls. The texture of the inner walls was completely different from the outer skin—softer, smoother, covered with a uniform film of mucus. I could feel her heartbeat traveling through the muscle layers to the inner walls, slow and steady, each beat causing a tiny vibration on the contact surface.

She didn't speak. But her body trembled. From the muscles of her buttocks to the inner thighs, like a rope under tension.

“Nico,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, as if every syllable was shaking.

“I’m in.”

“Is it…stinky in there?”

“Yes.”

She paused for two seconds. Then she asked, “Then why do you still want to continue?”

I braced myself against the inner wall of the entrance, my head still inside. The short lamp shone into the passage ahead, illuminating the folds of the inner walls. The mucus reflected a warm, glossy sheen under the light. The stench enveloped my face and head, thick enough to feel like breathing in liquid.

“Because I’m inside,” I said.

She didn’t ask any more questions.

I stuck my head in. The light first shone on the mucus film on the inner wall, giving it a slightly reflective, wet sheen. Then it reached my vision—a passage formed by soft folds, extending upwards along the curves of my body. The inner layer of skin was several shades darker than the outer skin, a color between fleshy pink and light brown.

The surface was evenly covered in mucus, casting fine, reflective stripes when light shone on it.

My ears, cheeks, and cheekbones passed through the entrance in turn. The muscles around my head tightened slightly, as if adapting to the new shape. The smell became thicker after my head was fully inside—no longer just "the smell in the air," but the entire space itself was the smell; every breath I took carried the warmth of my intestines, the acidity of intestinal fluid, and the somber undertone of residual feces.

As my shoulders passed through, I felt pressure. The inner walls tightened around my shoulder blades, soft yet strong, like a highly adaptable container readjusting its internal shape. A sharp, dull pain shot through my old left shoulder injury, and I groaned.

Her body tensed immediately.

"What's wrong?" Her voice came from outside, low and muffled, as if through a thick wall.

"My left shoulder is pressed. It's okay."

"You can stop."

"No. It's over."

I pushed myself forward. Waist, hips, thighs, knees, calves, ankles. As the last foot passed through the entrance, I felt the muscles of her hips tremble again—not pushing me out, but the kind of tremor released at the final step of a ritual.

The entrance tightened again after my heel was fully inside. The narrow ring of light shining from behind disappeared. I stood inside her, surrounded by soft, warm, moist walls. Mucus formed shallow smudges around my shoes, pushed to new positions with each step I took.

The smell here was no longer a matter of "strong" or "stinky." It was the entirety of the air, the content of my breath, the unavoidable component between every inhale and exhale.

I stood still. Waiting for her to adjust. Waiting for myself to adjust.

"...You're in?" Her voice came from outside, muffled by the tissues of her body, sounding like someone speaking from a great distance.

"I'm in," I said.

She didn't respond. But her body shifted slightly—she lowered her hips a little, readjusting the shape of the interior space to give me more room to move.

I sat down against the curve of the inner wall. My back pressed against soft skin, the mucus seeping through my clothes, warm and slippery. I turned off the low light. Darkness didn't descend instantly; the interior felt like a glowing cave, beautiful but stinking.

Her heartbeat came from all directions. Deep, slow, each beat causing a subtle movement in the inner walls.

I sat there. No further exploration. No checking for the residue. Just, inside her, in the darkness, in the emptiness of silence, for the first time, I found a place where I wouldn't be blown away by the wind.

"Tova."

"Mmm." Her voice came from afar.

"It's warm here. But it stinks."

She didn't answer. But I felt her breathing slow down a little—not the tense slowness, but a relaxed slowness, as if something had finally been released.

The clock on the wall ticked. She was breathing. I was inside her.

The door was closed.

Exploring the New Home

I sat inside her for a long time.

Long enough that the clock on the wall ticked several times, long enough that the intestinal wall against which I leaned against gradually changed from the tense contractions of the initial contact to a steady, slow peristalsis. Her heartbeat came from all sides of the flesh, deep and regular, each beat creating extremely slight ripples on the surface of the mucus. The orange light shining through the entrance remained the same width and color, indicating that she maintained the same posture without moving.

I closed my eyes. Exhaustion welled up in this silence, from my shoulders to my spine to my knees, like the weight of a whole day finally finding a place to rest. I rested my head against the intestinal wall behind me, feeling the mucus seep in through my hair, warm and slippery. Her heartbeat traveled from the point of contact to my skull, becoming an extremely low-frequency vibration, like the sound of raindrops falling on a distant rooftop, amplified and then slowed down.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I opened my eyes.

The glow of my intestines began to seep from deep within the intestinal walls, slow and even, like the color shifting of the sky before sunrise from the easternmost point.

I sat up straight. The intestinal walls behind me made a slight, sticky sound as I moved—mucus was stretched and then re-adhered between the skin and the intestinal wall.

The light came from the intestinal walls themselves. Inside the folds, beneath the mucosa, something was glowing. It wasn't a glaring white light, but a gentle, yellowish glow, like afternoon sunlight filtering through light-colored curtains. The light shone from deep within the intestinal walls, passing through the translucent mucosa, illuminating the texture of the folds like the ridgelines directly illuminated by sunlight.

I looked down at my hands. The beads of sweat on the back of my hands appeared as transparent teardrops in the glow, and the mucus on my fingertips had turned a translucent amber color. My clothes, trousers, and the mucus-soaked fabric all revealed details previously hidden by darkness under this light.

The texture of the intestinal wall became extremely clear in the fluorescent light. Each fold resembled a miniature mountain range, varying in height and spacing, with mucus pooling into tiny streams at the lower levels. The surface covering displayed rich layers in the light—the bottom layer was pale pink mucous membrane, the middle layer a translucent mucus film, and the top layer a mixture of particles and residues of varying shades.

I looked around. The source of the fluorescence seemed to permeate the entire intestine, extending from the entrance to deeper areas—where the light was brighter, like a warm, yellowish-white light source continuously illuminating the distance in my vision. Every fold in the intestinal wall cast a clear shadow in this light, and the surface of the mucus reflected tiny specks of light, like miniature mirrors.

I took my notebook out of the waterproof bag and turned to the latest page. Under the fluorescent light, the paper took on a warm yellow hue, and the pencil lines were actually clearer in this light than under fluorescent light. I wrote:

Fourth Night. About an hour after entering Tova's body. The intestinal wall began to glow spontaneously. The light source was unknown. The brightness was roughly equivalent to indoor light on a cloudy afternoon. The source seemed to be some kind of biological tissue beneath the mucosal layer.

After writing, I paused. I added another sentence:

She doesn't know. No one outside can see. This is my light alone.

I put the notebook back in its waterproof bag and observed my surroundings again.

Under the fluorescent light, the mucus was no longer simply a "liquid covering," but a thick, active film of varying shades. Around where I was sitting, the mucus on the intestinal wall appeared translucent amber, its surface covered with tiny bubbles—some were gases produced by the activity of intestinal flora, others were circular pores formed by air trapped beneath the mucus layer as I moved. The bubbles, perfectly round under the fluorescent light, reflected a yellowish-white glow at their edges, like tiny pearls embedded in an amber background.

I touched the intestinal wall with the back of my hand. Under the fluorescent light, I clearly saw the change that occurred the instant I touched it—the mucus, under the pressure of my hand, pushed to the sides, revealing the moist mucous membrane beneath, a darker pinkish-flesh tissue with a fine network of capillaries that appeared as deep red lines under the fluorescent light. As I lifted my hand, the mucus slowly flowed back from the skin, covering the newly exposed membrane and restoring its original even sheen.

I moved a few steps inside her. Each step produced a long, sticky sound as my shoe soles were pulled from the layer of mucus—like the slow tearing of tape, amplified and clearly audible by the enclosed space of the intestines. As I moved, my calf brushed against a thicker fold, squeezing the mucus into thin threads that stretched into long, transparent lines under the fluorescent light. One end clung to my trouser leg, the other still attached to the intestinal wall, like an extremely thin, translucent bridge, slowly drooping under gravity until its own weight separated the two ends, shrinking into a small, viscous droplet that landed at the bottom of the intestinal wall.

Under the fluorescent light, those details were magnified to an unmissable degree.

I squatted down. Before me was a deeper fold, where the mucus had accumulated into a shallow depression. At the bottom of the depression were deposited some dark, tiny particles—darker than the surrounding mucus, irregularly shaped, some extremely fine fibers, others tiny flakes. I carefully brushed them aside with my fingertip. The texture was slippery, with a fine, gritty feel, and appeared dark brown under the fluorescent light. I brought my fingertips to my nose, inhaling the scent of dried sawdust after prolonged soaking—a damp, slightly acidic, faintly resinous aroma.

Her sawdust. The remnants of cities that had been devoured.

I didn't tell her. I gently pushed the sediment back to the bottom of the depression, letting the mucus cover it again. In the fluorescent light, they lay quietly among the folds like leaves submerged in water, waiting for the next intestinal peristalsis to carry them deeper or shallower.

I moved a few steps to a brighter spot. The short lamp was off, but the fluorescent light provided a more even, softer glow, like natural sunlight filtering through clouds. Every fold of the intestinal wall, every layer of mucus, every accumulation of residue was clearly visible in this light.

Even the smell seemed "visible" in the fluorescent light. It wasn't that I actually saw the smell, but rather that the visual clarity strengthened the sensory connection—I saw bubbles rising on the surface of the mucus, saw how the dark substance pushed out from deep within the intestinal wall slid along the folds as it peristalsized, and I saw the color and texture of those substances. With each new detail I saw, the corresponding smell became more concrete in my memory. The stench of feces, the acidity of intestinal fluid, and the saltiness of residual sweat in the air were no longer just a vague "thick odor" under the fluorescent light, but sensory layers with identifiable sources, shapes, and locations.

I sat down. Leaning against a relatively flat section of the intestinal wall. The fluorescent light shone from behind, casting my shadow on the opposite intestinal wall like a silhouette.

The excitement came quietly.

It wasn't a vague impulse accumulated in the darkness, but a real bodily reaction to its environment, gradually becoming clearer under the light. I saw every fold of her intestinal wall, every layer of mucus, every way the residue accumulated. I smelled the composition of the odor released after her body had been sealed off all night. I felt the vibrations of her heartbeat travel through her intestinal walls to my back. These things became concrete and complete in the fluorescent light, like a room I could finally see clearly.

I didn't resist. Nor did I think too much.

I turned my body to one side of my intestinal wall, resting my forehead against the warm, moist mucus. The mucus quickly soaked my hair, trickling down my cheeks. I felt the intestinal wall slightly sink under the pressure of my forehead, soft, warm, like living ground.

My hands moved on their own. First, I unzipped my pants, then grasped myself. My skin was dry with sweat, my fingertips were wet with mucus—I was using the mucus from my intestinal wall to lubricate myself, the movement clearly visible in the fluorescent light. The mucus stretched into thin threads between my fingers, like translucent lines in the fluorescent light, one end clinging to my fingertip, the other dangling towards the surface of my intestinal wall.

I closed my eyes. But the fluorescent light was still visible through my eyelids, like looking at sunlight through a thin sheet. The sensation of her intestinal wall lingered on my forehead—warm, moist, and slowly undulating. Her heartbeat echoed within my skull, like a low-frequency drumbeat filtered through my body.

My breathing quickened. Not from tension, but my body responding to the rhythm of its surroundings. I felt my body temperature rise in the fluorescent light, and new sweat began to seep from my skin, mixing with the mucus on the intestinal wall.

I opened my eyes. Before me lay the glistening, moist texture of the intestinal wall. The fluorescent light illuminated the intricate network of capillaries beneath the mucosa, deep red lines forming intricate patterns against a pale pink background. A thin layer of sheen covered the mucus, flowing slowly with the peristalsis of my intestines, like a living terrain slowly rewriting its contours.

My hands quickened. The movement propelled my body, my back sliding back and forth slightly against the intestinal wall. The lubrication of the mucus made each friction produce a very soft, moist sound, like skin gliding on water. My movement caused the intestinal walls to secrete new mucus; a clear liquid seeped from the mucosal layer, flowing down the folds and forming a gradually expanding wet patch around my body.

I felt myself approaching the edge. The touch of the intestinal walls, the fluorescent light, the low-frequency vibrations of my heartbeat blended into an inseparable whole. I was deep within someone's body, surrounded by her warmth, illuminated by her light, propelled by her heartbeat. No notes. No measurements. No way back.

As the climax came, my body arched forward, my forehead pressed forcefully between the folds of the intestinal walls. Mucus flowed down the side of my face, forming a clear trail along my chin and neck. I ejaculated onto her intestinal walls, the warm liquid spraying onto the fluorescently illuminated mucosal surface, first a murky white arc, then a subsequent, thinner fluid, flowing slowly down the curve of the intestinal walls, mixing with the mucus.

I closed my eyes in the trembling of climax. The fluorescent light, filtering through my eyelids, transformed into a slowly floating, yellowish-white glow, like looking at a riverbed under sunlight through water. I felt my bodily fluids slowly sliding along her intestinal walls, carried lower by the viscous mucus, merging into the internal environment composed of intestinal fluid, sweat, wood chips, and fecal residue.

I stopped there. My forehead pressed against the intestinal wall, my breathing gradually slowing. Mucus dripped from between my hair, forming a slippery film on the surface where my forehead met the intestinal wall. I removed my hands from my body, letting them hang at my sides, my fingertips coated with a mixture of intestinal mucus and sweat.

The ejaculated fluid had already been carried away from its original position by the peristalsis of her intestines. In the fluorescent light, I saw that turbid trail transform into a slowly spreading pale path, the mucus reabsorbing, mixing, and transforming it into part of the intestinal environment.

I sat back down. My back pressed against the warm, moist intestinal wall again. The afterglow of the orgasm within my body was fading, and my heartbeat began to return to a normal rhythm. The fluorescent light continued to glow, even, warm, and unchanging.

I looked down at my body. The front of my pants was wet, a mixture of myself and my own fluids. My shirt was soaked through at the chest and shoulders, appearing a translucent dark color in the fluorescent light. Sticky fluid clung to my fingers, forming extremely fine, transparent threads when pulled apart.

I didn't clean myself. There were no towels, no water, no means to do those things.

I just sat there. Inside her. In the fluorescent light.

Then I felt hungry.

At first, it was an empty, uncertain feeling in my stomach. I pressed my hand against my abdomen, pressing myself through my clothes, trying to ignore it. But it didn't go away. It began to become more concrete—like an increasingly clear voice rising from the depths of my stomach, reminding me that I hadn't eaten in a long time.

I remembered what I had for dinner. The real bread from the model city had been divided into two days' worth. I had eaten the last piece this morning. The waterproof bag contained only a notebook, a short lamp, spare rope, and a few pencils—no food whatsoever.

I looked around.

I looked around. On the fluorescently illuminated intestinal wall, besides mucus and residue, there was nothing obvious that could be identified as food. But the smell told me there was—those dark particles mixed in with the mucus, those fibrous remnants deposited deep in the folds, those thin flakes of sawdust softened by the intestinal fluid.

I hesitated for a long time. Long enough that she might have taken a nap outside—because her heartbeat had become more steady, and the peristalsis of her intestinal walls had slowed to its slowest pace.

But I was hungry. Really hungry. The emptiness in my stomach had gone from "negligible" to "persistent," like a low-frequency alarm that wouldn't turn off.

I moved to the folded depression I had just discovered. In the fluorescent light, those dark particles were still deposited at the bottom of the mucus pool, irregularly shaped, ranging in size from a pinhead to a sesame seed. I squatted down and gently brushed aside the surface layer of mucus with my fingers, revealing the deposits underneath.

Sawdust. Paint fragments. Glue particles. After being digested and soaked in the intestines for a long time, it all turned into dark brown, soft, moist organic fragments.

I picked up a small piece. About half a fingernail's width, as thick as cardboard, its edges rounded from being soaked in mucus. In my palm, it looked like a dark leaf fragment, its surface covered with a glistening, sticky film.

I brought it to my mouth. The smell hit me first—the smell of damp wood, with the characteristic acidity of intestinal fluid, and a very faint pine base note of resinous residue. I opened my mouth and placed the wood shaving on the tip of my tongue.

The texture was soft. The wood fibers, soaked in intestinal fluid, had lost their dry hardness, becoming like cooked vegetable fibers, easily flattened on my tongue. The taste quickly spread—the plant-like acidity of the wood itself, the sweet guminess of residual pigment, the saltiness and slight bitterness imparted by the intestinal fluid, and the dull, fecal-based undertone absorbed from its long stay in the intestinal environment.

I held it in my mouth without swallowing immediately. My tongue darted across the surface, discerning each layer of flavor. Sweetness came from the pectin in the pigments, sourness from the metabolic byproducts of gut bacteria, and bitterness from the breakdown of lignin during digestion. I bit down; the cork fibers separated between my teeth, becoming finer fragments.

I swallowed.

The warm, sticky substance, carrying the mixed scent of wood and intestinal fluid, slid down my throat and into my stomach. The empty stomach contracted gently upon receiving its contents, as if to say "welcome."

I picked up another piece. This one was larger, shaped like a small fragment of a staircase—perhaps bitten off from the steps of a building. It had a neater cut along the edge, likely a mark left by her teeth. I put it in my mouth, first swirling it on my tongue to feel its shape and texture. Then I chewed, slowly and carefully, letting my saliva evenly mix the mucus, intestinal fluid, and wood fragments together.

I swallowed. Once more.

I began to eat at a steady pace. Not wolfing it down, but methodically picking up the deposits piece by piece from the folds and hollows, observing, touching, putting them in my mouth, chewing, and swallowing. Each piece had a different texture—some were cork shavings, soaked like wet cardboard; some were pigment particles, releasing a faint sweetness as they crumbled between my teeth; some were resinous glue, viscous, slowly melting in my mouth into a pine-scented liquid.

The fluorescent light continuously illuminated this process. I saw my fingers scooping up dark fragments from the mucus pools, saw those fragments reflecting a yellowish-white light on my fingertips, saw the mucus trails they left as they were put into my mouth sliding down my lips and chin. The smell became more concrete with each bite—no longer just "damp wood," but the discernible differences in aroma between different tree species, the resinous smell of different pigment colors, the subtle variations in the acidity of the intestinal fluid in different locations.

I drank some of the intestinal fluid. I placed my palm against a relatively flat area of ​​the intestinal wall, letting the mucus naturally gather in the indentation formed in my palm, then bent down to drink. Clear, slightly thick, with the characteristic sour and salty taste of the intestines, lukewarm, like a thin soup. I drank three times, each time forming a small puddle in my palm before being covered by my lips and sucked into my mouth.

My stomach began to contain contents. A warm, moist, digesting mixture, forming a new connection with her body within my own stomach. I was eating the sawdust she had eaten, and drinking the fluids secreted by her intestines. Two bodies were exchanging contents in a way no textbook had ever described.

I leaned against the intestinal wall, taking a deep breath. The warmth of my stomach after eating spread to other parts of my body, and a new layer of heat began to emanate from my skin. The fluorescent light shone steadily, illuminating every detail inside this section of the intestines—the texture of the folds, the flow of the mucus, the distribution of the sediment, and the traces my body left on the ground.

I was ready.

I took my notebook from the waterproof bag and turned to the latest page. Under the fluorescent light, the pencil marks were clearly legible. Below the entry for "intestinal wall glowing," I added a few lines:

Eating. Contents: wood chips, paint residue, intestinal fluid. Quantity: approximately the size of an adult's palm. Confirmed to contain traces of fine building materials. She said she was empty. There's still some inside. I didn't tell her.

I put the notebook back in the waterproof bag and tightened the opening. Then I stood up, facing the brightest direction of the fluorescence—that was deeper, the passage curving upwards, the fluorescence shining through the bend like a door that couldn't be fully seen.

I glanced back. The entrance was completely obscured; only a shallow, dark red contraction was faintly visible. The spot where I had sat left a body-shaped indentation, slowly filling it with mucus, covering my traces. Under the fluorescent light, those marks looked like temporary terrain, gradually smoothed out by the activity of the intestines themselves.

"Tova," I said to the intestinal wall.

No response. She was probably asleep. Perhaps she was waiting for me.

I didn't wait for her answer. I tightened my backpack strap, switched off and stowed the short lamp, then turned to face the upward-curving passage. The fluorescent light steadily illuminated my path from behind the bend, gentle and even, like an unextinguished sunbeam.

I took my first step. My shoes sank deeper into the layer of slime, making a soft, sticky sound. The stench grew stronger ahead, mingling with older fecal deposits and the more damp smell of the intestines.

But I had already eaten. I had already been here. I had already left a part of myself here.

I walked towards the deepest part of the fluorescent light.

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Next Chapter Preview

A heavy, wet sliding sound came from the depths, like an unseen river pushing through the mud. The stench was heavier than near the entrance, carrying the heat of intestinal fluid, sour residue, and formed feces mixed together. I secured the last knot behind me, turned back and knocked three times, letting Tova know I was still conscious.

Her answer passed through her body and fell, blurry and low, yet clear enough for me to recognize. A pile of dung blocked most of the passage ahead, and slimy fluid slowly seeped along the narrow crevices on either side. I pressed my hand into the first slippery fold, beginning my exploration of Chapter Five.