Skin Folk Read Online Free PDF Page B

little girl shouted, glaring at him from the depths of her specs.
    Artho leapt to his feet and dumped the remainder of his lunch in the garbage, fled the girl’s irritating ditty. His table
     partner still had his nose buried in his paper.
    As Artho walked the last few feet to the elevator of his office building, he suddenly became aware of the movement of his
     legs: push off with left leg, bending toes for leverage; contract right knee to extend right leg, heel first; shift weight;
     step onto right foot; bend right knee; repeat on the other side. For a ludicrous moment, he nearly tripped over his own feet.
     It was like some kind of weird jig. He stumbled into the elevator, smiled I’m-fine-really at a plump young woman in a business
     suit who was gazing at him curiously. She looked away. Then he did. They stared politely at the opaque white numbers, knobbled
     as vertebrae, that indicated each floor. The numbers clicked over, lighting up one at a time: 10… 11… 12…
Roll the bones,
thought Artho.
    “Um… do you know what time it is?” the woman asked him.
    He checked his watch, smiled at her. “Almost ten to one.” The deep rust of the suit made her flawless cinnamon skin glow,
     hinted at the buxom swell of breast, belly, hip, and thigh. Yum. Artho’s mouse fingers stopped twitching.
    She smiled back nervously. The smile quirked friendly lines at the corners of her mouth. “Thanks. Guess I’m on time after
     all, then.”
    “Job interview?”
    “Uh-huh. Marketing. Up at Joint Productions.”
    “The design place? Cool. They’ve done some great stuff.”
    She looked even more interested, leaned forward a little. “Oh, you work there?”
    Shit.
“Uh, no.”
    “In the building, then?”
    “Yeah. Web design. For, um, Tri-Ex Media.”
    She frowned a little, took a bit of a step back. “Another design place?”
    “Yeah, sort of. We…”
    The elevator stopped and the door slid noiselessly open.
    “Oh, my stop,” she said. “Nice talking to you.”
    “Yeah. Bye.” If she got the job, that’d be the last civil conversation he had with her. The people at Joint acted like Tri-Ex
     Media was the very source and centre of evil in the universe. She’d probably get bitten by the same bug. Artho got out at
     17.
    Cold air prickled his forearms into goose bumps when he opened the door to Tri-Ex Media. The office was air-conditioned year-round
     to protect the expensive computer equipment. The not-so-pricey staff just wore sweaters. “Close the fucking door!” growled
     Charlie, his boss. Artho uncurled his spine to stand tall. He stitched a smile across his face and stepped inside, gently
     pulling the door shut behind him. “Miss me?” he cooed at Charlie.

    People just look really weird,
Artho thought. He contemplated the image up on his screen: a buff, tattooed man in a shoulder stand who’d curled himself
     tight as a fiddlehead fern so as to suck his own cock. Well, actually, he hadn’t quite been able to reach it. His searching
     tongue was just a few inches away. Probably would have helped if he’d been interested enough in the procedure to have a hard-on.
     That was where Artho came in. He giggled, began the process of stiffening and elongating the man’s dick. “Virtual fluffer,
     that’s me,” he said, aiming the comment at the general air.
    Only Glenn looked up, scowling over the top of his terminal and flicking a lank lick of Popsicle pink hair out of his eyes.
     “Yeah? Just keep it in your pants, Mouse Boy.” He grinned a little to take the sting of the comment out.
    That uncomfortable little grin. Taboo subject at work, sex. Staring all day at pictures of spread, penetrated flesh—flesh
     more shapely than any of them in the office had: plump, perky breasts, impossibly slim waists; muscled thighs and ever-ready
     cocks—but
talk
about any of it?
    “Hey, Artho?” Tamara called quietly from across the room.
    “Yeah?” Today her thick wool sweater had a picture on it of that