The Couch

Our Cherry Topping

Comments on Our Cherry Topping

MrMario
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Posted 11/28/09 - 4:05 AM:
Subject: Our Cherry Topping
I always wake up everyday with the sun shining warmly on my body. I wondered why I had the extremely great fortune of having clients, with windows facing the sunrise, every time. Even my bedroom at the house has the sun shining it beautiful, warm, enveloping, honey-sunrise embrace my husk-less body. Warming my face, breasts, and tummy like the most passionate and sincerest lover. They even let me spend the rest of the night in their bed and delicately spoon. Even if the smooth leather masks, and soft, felt whips are lying on the floor next to the bed, or they fall asleep on their couches and look like the sloppiest and most content child in the world.
How sweet.
Every warm, engorged, soft phallus, I treated as though it were a child of my own, I loved it. I caressed it. I gave it a warm comfortable place to stay the night. They were the homeless, and I was the shelter and the loving nuns. Only I don’t cringe back in disgust. Only I truly accept.
Every smooth, gliding, in-and-out motion was like scrubbing with warm silk.
In, and I felt as though a burden was being placed inside. A burden, heavy with inexplicable pleasure, just oozing and pressured and held in, and screaming in desire and ecstacy to let out and share its warmth.
Out, and it became a pistol. Like the recoil of a shot: Sliding back in an emptiness, only to quickly refill the chamber, so fast, there is no time, what-so-ever, to think, but an eternity to feel the burdenlessness, before the heavy pressure reenters and finally lets those bullets fly.

This morning, I stayed in bed for so long. I woke up and was met with warm rays shining in my face. I laid there and basked in glow. It couldn’t have been more perfect. The sun shined in from the right side of the window.
I stretched and filled my body with dormant ecstacy that replenishes its self every night. The sun was the whipped cream of the morning.
Immediately to the side of my bed is a stereo. I have only one CD with one song.
When I was a little girl, y mother would always play classical music. She was seventeen at the time and this new fad called “Baby Mozart” had just come out recently. She didn’t have any money to buy the program, so she went to the local library and grabbed a disk from the classical section at random. She took all the tape and magnetic strips off the disk and walked out of the library very womanly and nonchalantly. At home she immediately put the disk in and listened to it with me. I was two. Seventeen year old mommy and two year old, sweet, little Katherine, who pressed repeat every time “Bach Aire on G” played. It even got to the point where I was able to hum it.
So now, I press the power button, play, a digital, bright red number 1 appears magically on the front display, and I press repeat.
Pulses of beauty hit with each pluck and crescendo of each note. My breathing begins to say my body back and forth. The sun serenades my neck and chest. My roommate Tracy isn’t here or else she would have told me to turn my goddawfull granddad music the fuck off. I giggled at both the thought and the swells of Aire.
I lied in bed the rest of the day. Tossing, turning and humming in the soft comforting rustle of my sheets and blankets. My sheets were the icing. Why cant anyone or everyone do this everyday? My bed was the cake. Sweet, Comforting, Delicious.
Movement.
I never looked away from the window. Birds fly by through telephone pole wires. Like the notes on the staff of my beautiful music, personified through birds and their playfulness. Just flying across the blue infinite sky and the now whit mid-noon sun. The rays have worked their way down to my pelvis and tummy. My invisible, passionate masseuse that works all my kinks painlessly, never misses a spot, never touches me. I was the sweet, juicy center of the cake.
I close my eyes and my vision falls upon beautiful, brightly flashing, slavial light patterns in front of darkness. The lights are flashing rythmicly, and I cant tell if it’s to the music or to my heart. I feel the pulses. In my head, in my ears, in my palms, in my fingers, and in my toes. The warm light, coming in and on as pulses. Warmth, thrusting on my skin, entering and leaving itself. Light of life and peace. My flower, photosynthesizing the light for me. Life. Light, my lover. The other girls are jealous of my tan.
I place my hands on my pelvis. My skin is so warm, I rub my hands all over the genesis of warmth, that are my abs; I roll my tummy as a smooth ocean at calm; I Flip over and the warmth cascades over the side of my abs and pools into my lower back, and as though my skin was cloth, the heat began to climb up my ass ever so smoothly.

The light has moved down to my calves and outside is a bluish-mauve in the sky opposite the set of my lover. I rub my slightly stubbled legs together ib the light, and I do it slowly. My legs are the bows and violas. The sun: My resin. I rub them back and forthwith the music.

Just as the music ends, the sun has its last little but of light on the tips my toes. There is only complete and utter silence. I want so bad for time just halt. I hold my toes as still as an Aphrodite painting as I do with my breath. Then as the last hint of light leaves, I lay there. In complete darkness, I lay naked. Loveless.

I swing my feet off the bed and the floor to the whore house is cold and unforgiving. I calmly walk to the other side of the room to turn the light dimmer on a bit. There’s really no need to car about the cold anymore, so I embrace the enticing feeling on my bare feet. Think of the opposite of walking across hot coals. Or just walking through the kitchen in the morning. I suddenly realize I have been smiling all day. My cheeks have not had a break, nor do they feel like they need one. I am the Barbie.
The bathroom is porcelain-white. Its 3 by 4 meters big. You open the door and the bath is on the wall opposite you. The washer is immediately to your right, and the porcelain god, that so many before me have prayed to, is opposite the washer. Under the sink is a solid wood cupboard. Three out-sliding ones on the left and two swinging doors for the rest. The two opening ones are filled to the brim with cleaning products on one side, and all sorts of shampoo on the other. The combined scent is a chloride-strawberry-bush.
The top shelf is stuffed with hair irons, and curlers, and combs. All sorts of colors from periwinkle to pink.
The middle shelf is where we keep all the pads and tampons. We restock on tampons every two weeks. The pads: every four to six months.
I walk into the bathroom and leave the door open. I take a nice long warm shower. In the cold night, the warm water is always a welcome friend. My cold shivers are pushed down to my toes, and I feel every drop explode in warming ecstacy over every last millimeter of my body. Then the droplets of those drops over every last cell. My toes stop buzzing and my body has reached homeostasis. I run my fingers through my hair, and not a knot is felt.
I turn off the fountain and step onto the cold white floor. I grab a dry pink towel and the first thing I dry off is my head. I really do enjoy the feeling of water drops, crawling down my back, thighs and calves. I dry off my arms, torso, and legs in that order. The steam dissipates slightly, and I look into the mirror above the washer. I towel off my hair thoroughly and blow-dry the rest. Durning this entire process, I don’t look away from my own eyes. I am dead set on that deep blue.
Gently, I iron my hair to look like a golden bell.
Gently, I mascara my eyelashes to look like, thick, black, outward versions of Venus Flytraps.
Gently and meticulously I put on eyeliner and shades of green and blue.
Softly, I paint my lips with seductive, red lipstick, I mash my lips together and pucker them for a smooth even coat.
The bottom shelf is completely empty, save for a heavy rolled up cloth, which I slowly and daintily bend over for and place on the counter. It makes a light, muffled thud, and the sound makes me realize something else.
The stereo is still playing.

I spend the next few minutes tidying up the bathroom. I put everything away, except for the cloth.
When I’m finished, I take a deep breath of air through my nose. There is no smell. Only pure air. Warm air.
I pick up the heavy cloth and unroll it. Its weight is an amazing parallel to how soft and smooth the fabric is.
I look into my reflection. My voluptuous lips, my long, beautiful lashes, bouncy, volumed and well done hair, cheeks as rosy as a baby and accentuated by my facial bones. My cute and tiny waist, gives me the perfect hour-glass figure with my round breasts, smoothly shaved pubic area, and beautiful backside. Through my long, slim legs, I don’t feel the cold of the floor. I look at my Barbie in the mirror.
Through my smile I say: “Aren’t you a pretty whore.”, venomously.
I put the cherry to my head, and then an eternity to feel the burdenlessness.
libertygrl
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Posted 12/02/09 - 11:51 PM:

wow mario, brilliant.

what's the towel for at the end?
smokinpristiformis
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Posted 12/03/09 - 5:50 AM:

Leaves an extraordinary impression. Reads like a trainwreck from up close: You see every detail and the world seems to spin at a tenth of the regular speed while at the same time going too fast to grab a hold. Everything but the subject fades in the background while the final crash approaches smoothly, inevitably. A very strong piece.
libertygrl
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Posted 12/03/09 - 12:17 PM:

libertygrl wrote:
what's the towel for at the end?

ah, never mind... her next client, i presume.
MrMario
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Posted 12/15/09 - 5:29 PM:

libertygrl wrote:

ah, never mind... her next client, i presume.


What towel? the one she used to dry herself off?

Also, was the chang in tone too blatant?
libertygrl
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Posted 12/19/09 - 10:20 PM:

it didn't seem blatant at all. unexpected, but not blatant. thumb up

i guess it wasn't a towel, necessarily, but the heavy rolled up cloth at the end?
Face_of_Stone
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Posted 12/20/09 - 2:49 AM:

Deep and yet truthful …. Although I enjoyed every moment of it, I have seen the very likeness and nature of what you speak in the eyes of many…
MrMario
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Posted 12/21/09 - 5:24 PM:

libertygrl wrote:
i guess it wasn't a towel, necessarily, but the heavy rolled up cloth at the end?


The cherry that was in the heavy rolled up cloth was a gun.
Is that what you mean?

smokinpristiformis wrote:
Leaves an extraordinary impression. Reads like a trainwreck from up close: You see every detail and the world seems to spin at a tenth of the regular speed while at the same time going too fast to grab a hold. Everything but the subject fades in the background while the final crash approaches smoothly, inevitably. A very strong piece.


Thanks Smokin'

Face_of_Stone wrote:
Deep and yet truthful …. Although I enjoyed every moment of it, I have seen the very likeness and nature of what you speak in the eyes of many…

I would very much enjoy to meet more people like this.
libertygrl
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Posted 12/21/09 - 6:34 PM:

MrMario wrote:
The cherry that was in the heavy rolled up cloth was a gun.
Is that what you mean?

yeah, i had no idea. definitely puts a different spin on it eek

still, brilliant!
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