//------------------------------// // Skin Couture // Story: Sun Redacted // by daOtterGuy //------------------------------// Coco Pommel awoke, disturbed by some sound that had invaded her dreamscape. Ignoring it, she instead buried herself within a soft embrace. Pure, unstained. Light and sound filtered through thin white curtains from her bedroom’s bay window, beckoning her to the world of the waking. She spurned its call. She preferred to stay where she was amidst the most perfect embrace. Knock. Knock. Knock. The incessant banging forced her further out of her dream-like state. It broke the illusion and showed the perfect lie for it was: silk sheets and a pillow. They were the best on the market, the softest material one could buy. But it was a falsehood. One born of her groggy state and subconscious desperation. She tossed the sheets aside in disgust. It was not the touch she sought. No, the softest touch one could ever find was gentler than silk and sturdier than broadcloth. It was a sensation unmatched by any ponymade material and granted the greatest comfort at the merest touch. A mare. Nothing could ever hope to compete with it. These paltry fabrics were a balm to a grievous wound. A bandage for a severed limb. It was a facsimile, a falsehood that sowed seeds of discontent within herself as the truth of the matter sunk into her. Discontent turned to disdain, and further built itself into frustration. Sorrow filled in the gaps and irritation came to join at being stuck with such inferiority. She wanted perfection, not near perfection. Wallowing within this mix of negative emotions, a thought came to her mind. Then all the disappointment washed away, leaving her once more pure and unsullied with sorrow. She had already found a solution to her predicament. She only had to go get it. Coco got out of bed and trotted through her single bedroom apartment and toward her private studio, a wide smile threatening to split her face in two. Knock. Knock. Knock. Heavy impacts against her apartment door caused her to stop just before the threshold to her own personal paradise. Crude knocks were reminders of the real world, obligations outside of comforting fantasy. She upturned her nose at it. They were all problems to be dealt with later once her desires were sated. Sashaying into the room, she found herself within her dominion. White wood floors with whitewashed walls splashed with hints of floral pink. Shelves and shelves of muted, dull fabrics. Tables loaded with unused tools and outfits. A central stage lined with ponyquinns, untouched by cloth for what had now been weeks. Concepts and dreams littering the floor as crumpled balls of paper. But none of this mattered. Only her love. Placed prominently at the forefront of the room was a white ponyquinn, upon which laid her newest creation. It had been made in a single night, her tired body pushed by the throws of creative fervour after meeting her benefactor. Though a stallion, his birth meant nothing compared to the gift he had given her. Red stains splattered the wood floor around a gorgeous dress like loose flower petals. The dress was bright pink with purple highlights. A one piece, strapless gown made from the softest material. The bodice was patterned with red fruit, the ruffles made to look like decadent cake frosting. It was designed to hug every curve, to embrace the wearer in its superior feel. It was bold. It was ambitious. It was the perfect feel. Knock. Knock. Knock. Ignoring the increasingly insistent knocking, she approached the dress in reverence. She brushed a hoof along one sleeve. A shiver of delight raced through her body at the soft feel of the material. She took the dress off the ponyquinn and began to pull it on herself. It stretched gracefully over her form, made exact to her proportions. Her heart pounded in her ears, a frantic chorus to the immense pleasure she felt. She relished the touch of the fabric, like loving phantom caresses along her figure. Coco fell back onto the floor with a gasp, her emotions overcoming her balance. She pressed her hooves against her heart, willing it to slow down for fear of it bursting. She felt hot, overheated despite the cool temperature of her abode. Memories overwhelmed her as she reminisced about her love. Long walks through the parks of Manehattan. Discussions about her love’s discontent at home and the joy upon visiting her dear friend amongst the city lights. Giggled whispers and brushed contact that hinted at their underlying feelings for each other. Coco breathed raggedly, overcome with pleasure. Nothing mattered more in that moment than the dress. The culmination of desire and lust blossomed into true love. Nothing could match how she felt in this dress. Nothing. Her love’s touch. Her love’s skin. Knock. Knock. Knock. She frowned. The knocks had grown from background noise to foreground annoyance. They were louder, more gruff. The insistent power of some loser stallion with more brawn than brain. Or perhaps the grace of a larger mare, but Coco could never be so lucky. She stood up and trotted to a nearby mirror. She would continue to ignore the call of reality, wanting to stay within this moment of bliss. In the reflection, she looked to be in bliss. Flushed face and a content smile marred only by the occasional huff of exertion. Perfectly framed between her neckline and the bodice of the dress was the gift of her benefactor. An orange bolt of cloth shaped into the form of a pair of puckered lips. The Brand had liberated her. Pushed her to give into the desires she had forsaken. It was freedom, imprinted onto her very flesh. No amount of gratitude could ever be enough for being so blessed. Knock. Knock. Knock. She stomped her hoof in annoyance, whipping her head toward the front door with a look of pure fury on her face. The interloper was interrupting her time with her dearest love. She had a good idea of who may be knocking on her door, and wanted nothing more than for the stallion to drop off the nearest balcony and splatter across the pavement below so as she may never have to be burdened with his presence ever again. Although. Marriage had been important to her friend. Despite her misgivings over their union, she had cared enough to go through with her vows at the altar. Perhaps, her friend would appreciate some company when Coco was unable to be there for her? A matching suit to stave off the possible loneliness? Knock. Knock. Knock. Yes, that is what she would do. A matching ensemble. A gift for her dear love so she may stay with her subpar boorish husband when she could not be with her superior paramour. She grasped a pair of bloodied scissors that had been discarded in the fervour of last night, clenched tightly between her teeth. The stained blade gleamed in the light, its edge still retained despite the harrowing work it had already gone through. Coco trotted toward the door, purpose in her steps. She was a mare in love, and that meant that she needed to provide what her paramour required. The perfect touch. A touch to always be with her. Knock. Knock. Knock. She opened the door.