As you step out of the elevator, your stomach emits a whiny gurgling growl. You stop short in the hallway and an ooze of thick soup landlord-spunk dribbles down your leg.
"I guess my tummy only accepts donations one way" you say, laughing.
You wonder if you would have refereed to it as your "tummy" yesterday.
You wouldn't have been standing with your cock out (or your tits out for that matter) in the hallway yesterday, you muse, and decide to not dwell on the past.
The old you, for example, had politely declined several neighbours offers for meals.
You set off down the hallway resolving to fix this.
You walk down the hall on your floor slowly, eyes closed. You stumble a fair bit, unused to the significant shift in weight onto your chest and rear.
You are smelling as you walk, going through a menu of potential lunches.
You don't know the names of the couple in apartment 712, though they always shout yours in greeting when they see you in the elevator. The husband is an older man, maybe 60, you assume he's a doctor or something. Pretty well dressed and polite. His wife is younger, maybe early 30s? from behind their apartment door you smell peanut sauce and frying vegetables.
You'd talked to Janet in Apt 714 several times, she was a single parent raising three teenagers, who you presumed would be at school right now. Janet was friendly but always a little stressed out. From behind door 714 you could smell microwaved pizza the faint smell of pot.
It had been hard to get a read on the guy in 716, even with his apartment right next to yours you'd barely ever seen him. The only reason you knew his name, Ray, was that you'd seen a LOT of mail arrive for him. Whoever the dude was he got a lot of stuff mailed to him. As you get to his door your smell Steak frying in a hot pan.
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