His sweat is engineered chemicals that tell him what to do. His body has been redesigned to deliver specific information to his conscious mind through the taste of his sweat. Entire encyclopedias can be stored in average bodily secretions now; he once saw his old partner, Charlie, coughing up bile that contained the entire works of Herman Melville. Himself, he gets mission parameters and documentation that he can peruse while his latest conquest is showering in the other room—Simone, her name's Simone. He licks his sweaty arm while he lies in the abused bed and the triggers fire off what exactly his purpose is. They give you a shot before you go out into the field—after that, at the appointed time, your sweat will unfold the story. Where to go, who to talk to, where to stick the money when he's done. He'll pack Simone away and get to work.
The shower stops but for the soft drip-drip-drip of a hotel faucet. Simone paces back and forth in the bathroom. He licked her, during, and tasted no stories or information. Oh, to have normal sweat glands again. She almost tasted...
Simone stands at the foot of the bed, fully clothed. Fortunate that she doesn't expect some post-coital spooning or emotion. It occurs to him that he's having trouble moving—is he sore? Did she do something to his back, midway through? "My saliva," she says. "Slow-acting paralytic." She gives a curt laugh, an act, an impersonation of an evil villain. Is this really happening? But her sweat! "I suppose you'd expect my sweat to do the talking for me, but I prefer to give nothing away."
He tries to ask what she wants, although he clearly remembers her licking at his collarbone. Damn. Should have checked her tongue, but some days you don't want to have to check every possible sex partner's tongue for adaptations.
"Your sweat," she says, while she slides her feet into those long leather boots. "It screamed. Talked immediately. I didn't even have to torture it for hours." She smiles. Ugly. They were...they were doing it and she was reading him! Like a book! In the middle! "Don't worry," she says while she grabs her jacket and pulls it on, heading for the door. "You'll be able to move again in roughly two hours. If I'd wanted to kill you, we would have gone bareback."
© Ben Rawluk, 2008, all rights reserved.