Sunset Sucks Off a Potato Made of Symbolism
Sunset Sucks Off a Potato Made of Symbolism
When the clock by her bed made its usual chirpy chime, Sunset knew it had been precisely seventeen days since she’d been forced to sequester herself from the rest of the world. Truth be told, she was starting to get rather sick of it. Time itself was only the release of an already-tenuous grip away from turning into a slurry of formless sludgy paste, like a pot of spaghetti emptied into a river.
(There was a spider outside her door. It hadn’t gone away yet.)
Still, she liked to think she was coping with it comparatively well. Okay, sure, it’d been about a week since she’d bothered wearing clothes, so maybe she was turning into a bit of a savage, but if she thought of it as returning to her roots that made it more of a sort of spiritual journey kind of thing or something. Sometimes she wondered how her friends were dealing with it.
(There were spiders outside their doors as well.)
Ah well. She’d see them again some day.
It was late in the morning when she finally decided to leave her bed in search of food. She meandered towards her refrigerator when a noise from her couch caught her attention.
She looked at her couch.
There was a potato on it.
“Oh my,” the potato said, “I wasn’t expecting to see such a gorgeous vixen, but I should've known I'd have the most exquisite taste!” The potato tilted, inclining itself poutfully. “And here I was, worried I was in for such a lonely afternoon.
“But now…” The potato did a cheerful giggly pirouette, sparkling gayly all the while. “I’m so happy I might just explode all over you!”
Sunset blinked. “Um. Hi?”
“Aaaaaaaah~” The potato reeled, toppling back. It let out a loud, suggestive moan and wiggled about happily. “Oh, your voice… could you get any more perfect? How’ bout we cut right to the chase and get our potato freak on, hmm?”
The angle the potato took meant that it was rather impossible for Sunset’s eyes to go anywhere but towards the potato’s generously plump, um… side-that-wasn’t-pointing-away-from-her. Did potatoes have sides? Sunset had always thought of them as just being these sort of lumpy blobby shapes, but surely there was some technical terminology there. There was always someone who took something Much Too Seriously, these days.
“Oh my, how embarrassing!” The potato hurriedly scurried back up to an “upward” position, turning away bashfully. “It looks like I exposed myself, how naughty of me! But…” The potato giggled blushfully, its voice reached unrivaled levels of demurity. “You didn’t look away. If I may be so bold… does that mean you liked what you saw?”
For a moment Sunset was very confused. She pinched herself, to see if she was dreaming. That didn’t work, but clearly she was, so she took a frying pan off the wall and hit herself in the face with it.
It was not the first time she’d done such a thing, but it was the first time she’d done so and had the queer fortune to have the exact center of the pan impact at precisely the spot of her dormant third eye.
She felt a strange tremor in her brain, as though her vision was expanding and contracting in synchrony. Her brain awakened and ascended, as though every bump and nodule and wrinkle and ugly brainy bit morphed into an eyeball. Her perception expanded exponentially, peeling back layer after layer of the world that mortal eyes had inadequate grace to penetrate, and at long last an infinite illusion was lifted. She saw all of reality crumble to dust around her, everything disintegrating into swirling clouds of glittering space-dust, only to be blown away and ground to even finer nothingness by the lash of a million supernovas. The universe ploded, ex and im in perfect synchrony, only to be rebuilt a fraction of a hexagigafemtopikapikasecond later—but this time it was the real universe, all the deceptions and halftruths and comfort-lies superimposed upon it by fragile mortal conscience burned to cinders by the everlasting hellfire of Truth itself.
The potato had a penis now.
That…
Yeah that was about it.
“I thought you did,” the potato said smirkfully, giggling as it leaned back and presented itself. “Why don’t you come and get a closer look? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, am I right or am I right?”
Sunset was drawn forwards by a fallacious harpoon made of pure crystalized sunk cost. Her body was a kite, the hypnotic statement “I beat myself with a frying pan to make this thing show itself” the wind under her dainty ephemerality.
“Mmm, yes, I just knew you’d indulge me.” The potato undulated sensually, the tip of its spudsome phallus tracing strange shapes in the air. “It’s unbecoming of a lady to let someone stare at me without being punished, but when I see a cutie like you I just can’t help but flaunt myself!” The potato giggled sexilybitingherlipfully.
As Sunset drew closer, she found herself realizing that her breaching of a false reality’s illusions was, in and of itself, an illusion. The potato had not been what it had seemed before Sunset’s eyes were open enough to realize it was an uncommonly-endowed potato, but there was more to it than that.
Because, she realized when she got closer, the potato had words instead of skin. Tiny little words in flowing, elaborate script, wound so tightly and packed so densely that they transcended mere potato-resemblance.
Strange compulsions yanked at her. She was fascinated by the potato made of words.
“My my, you’re even prettier up close,” the potato cooed, angling herself oglefully at Sunset’s luscious bosom. “I bet we’re going to be just the best of friends, don’t you?”
Sunset opened her mouth, but no words came out. She wasn’t sure why.
“Hmm? How strange, it seems like I’ve stunned you speechless.” Again the potato giggled, and she wiggled closer. “Well, no matter. You can do a lot with that pretty mouth besides talk, you know.”
Before Sunset knew it, she was on her knees and potato-dick was sliding into her waiting, eager mouth. It made her feel queerly gay.
“Oh yes, you’re so good at this,” the potato purred, gently thrusting more and more of her length between Sunset’s lips. It tasted how gouache would taste if gouache were a bit squashed and tasted like girly potato dick instead of gouache.
But more importantly, Sunset’s eyes were able to feast upon the potato’s bountiful shaft from mere scant inches away.
“Metaphor.” That was the word that constituted the potato’s substance. Or maybe it was “Symbolism.” It was like one of her eyes saw one and the other saw the other and she could sort of think about one and see it instead of the other one. There were other words too, not just those two, but they all meant the same things.
“Oh goodness…” The potato rocked back and forth gently as Sunset bobbed her head rhythmically. “I know we’ve just met, but already I don’t think I could exist without you… we’re soulmates, I’m sure of it,” the potato said with an airy giggle that turned into a sultry moan. “So I’d like to confide in you, if that’s alright,” she added winkfully.
Sunset sucked and licked, drawn as if by magnetism or something equally fundamental, but nodded her assent, for she was increasingly eager to plunder this unearthly potato for its secrets.
“It’s a little embarrassing, but… it’s always been my dream to be eaten by a really pretty girl,” the potato said quixotically with a dreamy sigh. “Do you think… maybe you could be the one?”
Sunset tilted her head quizzically, though she continued to lap at the gently-throbbing shaft of the potato’s effeminate cock. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.
“Whatever you think it should mean,” the potato said. “Take me,” she said, thrusting back into Sunset’s mouth, sliding in as far as she could go. “I want to be inside you, deep as I can be! Please, you have to eat me! If you don’t, this high—this ecstasy—will be lost to both of us forever! There’s so much we’ll be missing, I—I don’t think I could live like that!”
Lost in thought, Sunset turned to dreamy contemplation, losing herself in the mindless repetition of fellatio.
But, after what felt like an eternity of paradise, she took a bite. Just a tiny little nibble of potato dick.
With a cry of world-shattering ecstasy, the potato came. A deluge of spud-spunk poured down Sunset’s throat like a flood, except this flood was made of sublimity. It went straight down her throat, into her chest, injected itself right into Sunset’s heart. Every cell in her body was touched by euphoria like nothing they’d ever felt. Sunset wept so long that her eyes fell out of their sockets, but she was thankful for that, because her mouth was full but she craved more.
Sunset swallowed the potato through her empty eye socket and took it wholly into herself. It expanded and enveloped and melded with her, and she lost consciousness.
She saw inside her own brain. There was a potato there, and this potato was made out of words and infinite universes and Sunset’s brain and symbolism, and it smelled like how gouache would smell if gouache smelled like lightly-baked potato dick. Inside this potato, stars were exploding, worlds were sculpted in timeless nebulae, and it was all shaped like a winding trail of crisp ink that branched off into weeping laughter and blissful wails.
And finally, at long last, Sunset woke up.
On a table in Twilight’s house, there was a potato made of symbolism. It waited, silent and lonely, concatenating all the beauty it had just seen until it was ready to be shared.
Sunset was that potato.
