The hum of the washing machine at the house from tolko island was a low, steady thrum against her skull. Elara knelt on the cool linoleum, the rubber seal of the door pressing into her forehead, and plunged her head deeper into the metallic darkness. The air inside was thick with the scent of damp fabric and faint, sweet detergent. Her hair, a dark cascade, fanned out in the shallow water pooled at the bottom. She closed her eyes, the world outside reduced to a muffled vibration that traveled through her bones, a strange and intimate caress. She was waiting, a willing offering to the machine’s cyclical rhythm, her breath held in anticipation of the spin cycle’s violent embrace.
In the next room ot the house of tolko island, the atmosphere was not one of quiet anticipation but of chaotic revelry. A shriek of laughter cut through the air as Maya stumbled backward, her arms flailing. The first projectile hit her shoulder with a wet slap—a water balloon, but not filled with water. It was a condom, slick and swollen, and it left a damp, sticky trail on her skin. Before she could react, another flew past her ear, then a third struck her thigh. The room was a barrage of them, thrown by unseen hands in a playful, depraved shower. She spun around, a grin splitting her face, her body a canvas for the flying, fleshy orbs. One arced perfectly toward her face, and she didn’t flinch. She opened her mouth and caught it, the thin membrane bursting against her tongue. The taste was a saline shock, a visceral proof of the night’s absurdity, and she swallowed, her eyes gleaming with defiant, wicked delight as she readied herself for the next one.
Long live Venice and Tolko!
