Gromet's Plaza Latex Stories
Living Canvas
by June Sukiyuri
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© Copyright 2009 - June Sukiyuri - Used by permission
Storycodes: M/f; F/f; MF+/f; bond; plaster; statue; encase; vacbed; display; susp; cons; X
Living Canvas June Sukiyuri M/f; F/f; MF+/f; bond; plaster; statue; encase; vacbed; display; susp; cons; X
 

Art. I was going to be art. Not pose for art, not make my sad little attempts at drawings, but become part of a canvas, shaped and molded by a wondrous artist, as I’d only imagined before. The beautiful latex vac-bed lay before me, welcoming me to become part of it, to be molded, stilled, and framed for the evening before a crowd of rapt patrons. But no good story, and no good evening begins with the climax first.

The first time I modeled was for a figure drawing class in college. I didn’t expect to be nervous my first time walking into that room wearing nothing but a robe, but the two students who had arrived early were girls. I thought that was lucky until I noticed that both of their breasts were bigger than mine. I had a B cup, respectable for a girl whose parents are both born in Japan, but all Asian girls raised in America seem to be trained to be self conscious about their breast size, no matter how firm they are.

Luckily, by the time I was to model, I screwed up my courage and stepped to the platform. As I slowly took the robe off, I understood that this was more than a strip tease. The robe could be taken of all at once, or slowly, let drop to the floor, or carefully draped. Whatever mood I was in was to be reflected. I slowly took the robe off my shoulders, letting it pause just below my breasts. I stood facing the two girls whose breasts were bigger than mine, with the cotton robe rumpled just bellow them, as if to say “See, mine look this good without a bra.” For the rest of the students, I let the robe slowly fall the rest of the way off. Down the small of back, past the end of my long raven hair, past the gentle curve of my hip. I caught the robe before it hit the floor by slowly raising my left foot backwards, and draped myself upon the chair that I was to sit in for my first modeling session. Tossing my long free flowing hair over the chair back, I felt proud that I’d inspired everyone to think deeply about creating a work of beauty, and possibly think deeply about something else as well.

Over the next four years, I grew increasingly proud of my body. Every night I carefully braided my hair which was soon approaching three feet long and exercised while watching old episodes of Xena, determined to look the part of a Greek goddess so many young art students wanted to draw. Occasionally, one did me the honor of drawing me as the Japanese goddess that my straight hair and crescent eyes lent themselves to. I practiced holding myself perfectly still for hours in every conceivable pose.

Towards the end of my third year modeling for as many classes as possible, one of the art professors, commented that I could have been a real model if I cut my hair so as not to draw attention away from the clothes. But I never wanted to subtract from myself to better show off a product. I loved seeing men enter classes drooling and leave clutching portraits that they would work on late into the nights, knowing that they could make something that would last for centuries. I loved posing for them too. I loved seeing the boys trying to hide their erections while pretending to be professionally painting, making not secret of displaying my full arousal directly at them. But as I looked at the exhibition hall in the Art department where many paintings of me hung, I longed for something more. I wanted to become one of those works of art. I wanted to be on a canvas, hung beside them, frozen in perfection for the world to see.

How, I didn’t know. I spent all of the remainder of Junior year wondering what I could do to make myself into a piece of art. I looked up shibari online, but rope bondage had been done for hundreds of years. There wasn’t much original to do, and a work of art should always be original. A number of other bondage solutions weren’t very good either. Ropes and chains allowed too much movement. Mummification in duct tape hid the human form and had limitations. Eventually I stumbled across a cast fetish site, and began to wonder if plaster could be more creative. I might never be able to make myself a painting, but a statue now seemed possible. But I couldn’t make myself a real statue alone. Every work of art needs a creator. I’d never had a boyfriend. I didn’t want a boyfriend anyway. I wanted a sculptor, but I’d have to make do.

That summer, I worked as a living statue in the town square, tucking my long hair into a wig painted the same marbled gray as my skin and toga. I made a very convincing Athena even with crescent shaped eyes, and went without a break for hours, once the whole day. It wasn’t quite what I wanted, but it was good practice.

Finally, my senior year, a transfer student came to the advanced studio drawing class. John was a genius of a man, who drew me the way no other could. Week after week, he drew with the carefree accuracy of DaVinci and the lustful hues of Raphael. I worked out even more furiously every night. I wanted to model only for him. Soon, every day after class we were talking about our dreams of fame, and it wasn’t long before I told him that my dream was to become a work of art, and that request was what catalyzed our careers. Finally my dream was to come true. In art class he began making paintings of me as a statue, as a tree frozen in time with the gentle curves of my body sensuously reproduced replicated as in immovable object. All the professors marveled at how wonderful his theme a single girl immobilized was coming along.

Soon he asked to model for him privately. He began by saying that he’d been carefully researching my fantasy and that this was a test for a later work. I squealed in delight when I saw the plaster buckets and giant mixing tub. Carefully we mixed the casting plaster perfectly. I helped because I too had researched this. Carefully, he wound the plaster soaked strips of cloth up my legs. Even though it was a special mix for medical uses, I was placed directly between several fans so there was no risk of me overheating on this trial run. I held my legs perfectly still, while the tiny strips of plaster soaked cloth were wrapped around my arms. Each one was placed on freezing, but gradually warmed and solidified, becoming a little too warm, but one has to suffer for art.

The hardest part was standing up without moving my arms that were still drying. John helped me to my feet and it was hard not to topple over. He made a note that next time this should be the first step, and went ahead and cemented my feet to the board I was standing on with large dollops of plaster. I had to giggle at this. I’d long been secure being naked in front of strange men, but to be thrilled to be made helpless by one in his apartment while falling over while he’s trying to glue my feet to the ground was too much to keep my enthusiasm from bursting to the surface. The last time I almost fell he grabbed between my legs. Our eyes met for a long time. Pure embarrassment was in his eyes until I giggled and thanked him for catching me.

By that time my arms had dried stiff, and it was time for the hard part. John carefully tucked my hair beneath several layers of netting and sealed it by wrapping saran wrap around my head, eyes, ears and nose. At that point the excess plaster on my feet was starting to burn. John pointed the fans directly at them, but it was hard not to squirm in spite of the fact that my dream was coming true. Sure that I would be OK, I placed my lips around a short plastic tube, and John quickly covered my head with the chilling mixture. More carefully, he wrapped plaster around my neck, being sure to leave a little extra room should I need to swallow. Down around my shoulders the plaster was added to my body, and soon, I would be unable to move even my shoulder joints. Gently he wrapped around my breasts, carefully making sure their curves were as enhanced by the plaster as possible and minimize how the plaster hid them. I moaned with pleasure as he cast them knowing that I was art, every last curve of me. As he finished wrapping my well muscled abdomen, the bandages began to harden on my chest, squeezing my breasts and restricting my breathing. The air through the tube was stuffy. Another girl would have panicked, but I felt that whatever the final work of art was, it would be remembered for centuries.

John asked me if I was OK. I grunted twice, the signal for yes, and was left to dry, leaving only my neatly trimmed labia and clitoris unwrapped. After the heat on my feet I was grateful that those parts were left bare to keep cool and wouldn‘t have to endure the freezing slap of plaster. After another hour, I decided to test my new body. I could manage gentle rocking of my entire body on the board, and the tiny motions all girls can make with their lips, which were getting moist with the thrill. I could also move my torso and neck a bit within the shell, but no work of art is perfect. I didn’t care that the muscles in my legs were screaming for release and my back was cramping horribly, I wanted to be like this forever. I could hear John snapping pictures and scribbling notes. Soon he announced that it was time to be taken out. I moaned in protest, thinking of some of the erotic stories that I’d read, I thrust my labia out as far as I could. It was only about millimeter, but I prayed he’d notice that I was enjoying myself in here.

Luck! I could feel his fingers stroking me, seeing that I was wet with pleasure. I could feel the bliss of this shell a little longer. I concentrated on the feel of imprisoning plaster, and then I felt a little extra pressure on the plaster over my cheek. John must have been kissing me. The squeeze around my torso got a little tighter. I was being hugged, and soon what was happening became clear. I felt his member against me. I grunted, one of the few noises I was capable of to try and ask him to stop, and then let out a gasp as he slid deeply into me. I’d never had sex before. This wasn’t what I expected the first time to feel like. It hurt horribly. I tried to shout to let him know that I was in pain, but I couldn’t get anything out. The desperate high pitched grunts must have sounded like squeals of pleasure from the outside. He kept thrusting into me, back and forth. I rocked on my searing legs inside my plaster prison. Adrenaline rushed through my body, yet I couldn’t move. The pain of my legs and back burned hotter than I could have imagined and it all merged into one agony when something tore deep inside me. I was no longer a virgin.

Soon he was done. A mixture of semen and blood tricked down my leg. I stood there wimpering. John began cutting the plaster away from my head, and tearing away the saran wrap. I wanted to wipe the tears away from my eyes but couldn’t. Wanted to wrap my arms around him but couldn’t. John started apologizing profusely, saying he didn’t know, thought I wanted sex. I smiled to reassure him. I said, “John, I am your work of art, your masterpiece. Do with me whatever you want and I shall never be upset.” He wrapped his arms around the plaster still containing my torso. My arms and legs were still held stiff. He embraced me for a long time while tears filled my eyes. I longed to touch him but couldn’t, longed to hug him back but couldn’t. Longed to be woman with him but couldn’t, and that was the best part. I was a creation, a masterpiece. I was crying from happiness that I was a beautiful object.

His first art show was something that I shall always remember. The room was filled with the dozens of pictures he had painted of me as statues, waterfalls, and prisoners. There were paintings of me tied up with rope where I had stayed tied for the entire painting. The theme was “A Woman Immobilized.” I had been that woman. In the very center, I stood smiling. After much practice the casting had improved. The plaster dyed gray came in swirls around my body. I was still held perfectly still, but among the swirls tantalizing glimpses of my real flesh could be seen. My face was also left unplastered so I could see the exhibition and smile at patrons. My skin itched from the roughness of the plaster and my muscles still hurt from the harsh immobilization, but I smiled from the joy of being art. I was titled Object. The show got rave reviews, even from the professor of the feminism classes for commenting on the objectification of women. She didn’t know how literally I liked that. Soon the show was repeated with additions in Chicago and New York. Each time I was the centerpiece, but other models were recruited to add to the plastered beauties.

Sadly, plaster was becoming limiting. Much as I loved to be a statue, it wasn’t enough. People still had to see my face to know a real woman was under the art or it would loose the impact, or so John said. I longed for that perfect immobilization again, but a work of art isn’t at liberty to demand. Also, adding other models took time to construct. It typically took all day to make me into a statue. While I was content to be a statue for days at a time, not all other models wanted the same or were willing to suffer being helped with bathroom breaks. So the details suffered for their casts, and the displays could only last one night. Furthermore, my skin was becoming very sore from all the rough treatment.

After our show in New York, a miracle happened. I was laying plastered aside from my face and breasts, molded to look like a mermaid. The tail and base concealed how I’d been using the bathroom. I had been in the cast for three days and was in a lot of pain. John had promised that I’d always be the first exhibit to go up and the last to come down. It made me happy, but after several snags in the tear down of this exhibit, it was getting hard to smile. In that state, right before I was to be released again, John made his art thrilled when he introduced me to Mr. Sullivan from Kink Engineering. I nearly squealed with delight again.

Mr. Sullivan was starting a company that would make custom vac-beds. I didn’t know what that was until he showed me. The one he brought with him was beautiful. Laying on the floor was a canvas. A canvas that I could finally become a part of. As if in a trance I followed his instructions. Slowly, I coated my body in a latex safe lubricant, and slipped between the two sheets of the vac-bed. The crystal clear latex was cool to the skin, not cold. Gradually it warmed to the most comfortable temperature I‘d ever felt. My scratched and tortured chest welcomed the sweet feel of the top sheet.

There was a tiny breathing hole that I aligned with my mouth, and the top opening of the latex that I had climbed through was sealed shut. As instructed I lay with my legs spread and my arms away from my torso. Then, the vacuum was turned on. In what seemed like an instant, the air was sucked out, and every square inch of the latex was pressed against my skin.

I believe I orgasmed within the first minute that I was sealed in that vacuum bed. My head was held immobile. Pulling my arms and legs together was impossible. The latex molded perfectly with my chest. As my chest expanded to breath in, the latex expanded with it, allowing a seamless fit with my body. A little pressure on my ears made me feel like every part of my body was exquisitely carved from the latex. Soon, the hum of the vacuum motor cut off. Outside, Mr. Sullivan was talking about how the seals kept air from leaking out allowing for longer time in the vacuum needing to be on and how he had special vac beds that could be free standing, but who cared about what was going on out there as long as it allowed this quiet world to persist.

I tested my new body. My head couldn’t be moved side to side. The breathing hole was pressed tightly against my lips, forming what must have been a cut little O. I opened my eyes. Amazingly I could see. I could see through the clear latex. My eyes could open and close while the latex pressed every other part of my head. Finally the audience could see me while I was held still. I tried moving. As I said moving side to side was impossible. Moving up and down was limited to a few millimeters by the strong vacuum and the weight of the air above me. My long hair flowed free yet frozen in the vac-bed, and I knew that it was being admired for the first time as a work of art. Most importantly, I could feel it down there. The latex cradled my lips firmly, making the final part of me a work of art. With the few millimeters of movement I could move my hips up and down. The latex held gently but firmly to my mound. It took a lot of strength but I could grind. Oh, how wonderful that felt.

Soon the time had come for the next exhibition, this one devoted to the living canvas. The only displays would be more than a dozen people displayed in vac-beds. Reluctantly, John had to break his promise that I’d be the first work of art displayed. He needed my help too badly with the other displays. The first two displays were to be hoisted up over the door inside, so that all guests walking in would look up to see two female figures encased above them. Of course, hanging a vac-bed is tricky work, and hanging one that high would be very dangerous for the models, who would be unable to control their fall if they fell, and would likely break something. To eliminate this concern, the most realistic manikins we could find were fetched. Wigs were carefully placed to look like hair, and breathing tubes were placed in their mouths so as not to spoil the effect.

Next came something I had long been waiting to see. I was watching the first vac bed in use at the exhibition. After rounding the corner into the gallery and passing under the two manikins, the first display they would see was being prepared. Like me, her hair was long and braided. Like the manikins’ it was a wig. She had made the smart move of getting close cropped hair and letting her employers buy whatever hairstyle she needed, but I wouldn’t trade placed with her. Even though she was the first to go into the vac-bed, I would be the last to leave.

She was wearing a brass bikini, and a long red strip of cloth, carefully designed to at first glance remind everyone of a certain princess whose beloved pilot was frozen in carbonite. That’s what most science fiction fans seemed to say a vac-bed resembled when they first saw it, so we were giving them exactly what they wanted. She was going in first because she was going out first. In the middle of the exhibition as hor-de-vors were being served, she would be released and mingle among the guests in her slave outfit. Carefully she was arranged in the bright silver vac-bed with her hands raised next to her head and her fingers pleadingly outstretched, and like a flash she was frozen, with only a tiny hole to breath through. The latex was pressed against every square inch of her. Her toes could be seen individually. Every line of her metal bikini stood up in relief from her skin. Her pony tail was frozen with individual hairs noticeable.

Next came the greeter for the exhibition. She stood in a bright purple vac-bed that had a rather ingenious feature. The slim blond with her hair done in a cute bun like you’d see on stewardesses in the 1960’s slid her head through a neck gasket that would allow her to talk with patrons as they entered.

Next we arranged a man in a blue vac-bed that was to be lying down within a pit, so that he would be at floor level. Printed upon the latex was a scene of waves from Japan. I helped arrange his limbs in an approximation of the wave pattern and his member in a way that would let every critic know that this display wasn’t just about exploiting women. For him and the other models who hadn’t had experience in a vac-bed we also fitted with a gag containing a slender plastic tube similar to the one I first wore when I became my master’s object.

We arranged two more men lying down. Both were arranged on their backs similar to the man in the wave display. The first in a jet black bed that magnificently showcased his trapped sexuality. His member was squeezed through a gasket that would showcase how helpless he was. The second one was part of a special work though. He was in a bright red bed with a neck gasket as was his wife. She was sealed into her vac-bed facing down. Slowly carefully we raised her vac-bed on special pullies, knowing that she couldn’t break her fall. We glided her over top of the mans vac-bed and lowered her down so that she was pressed firmly against him. We angled their bodies so that they could grind against each other, and could only kiss if they both strained their necks. We’d carefully selected exhibitionists so we knew they’d try. Maybe the girl might even climax. Their display was titled Frustration.

Another gorgeous couple was placed in a single upright vac bed. The vac bed was specially made with a neck hole on each side, and it was much wider than most. The man and the woman faced each other with their arms and legs splayed as far from each other as possible and let the vacuum crush their torsos together. To make it work the latex had to be extra thick and the vacuum extra strong, but they also were shown in a beautiful act of love. I made sure his penis was held far away from her, but with enough squirming they might even have the chance to make love.

A pair of identical twins was held tight also with their heads uncovered by latex. They were in the same latex vac-bed, but laying side by side. Their curly red hair and bright green eyes shone with the silver latex of their double vac-bed. Their four breasts giggled in unison whenever they laughed, and they laughed a lot. This whole display was a big adventure to them, and they were loving every minute of it. How wonderful it must have been to have a second person in your canvas.

A number of other women were sealed next. The two most brilliant were the last two I helped with. The only other Asian at the exhibition was placed in a bed with a circuit board pattern printed on it. She placed the gag in her mouth and aligned it with the breathing hole, but placed her two hands though airtight gaskets. Once she was sealed only her hands were free. Next to each hand half of a keyboard was placed, and connected to a computer. She could then type out answers to a conversation, as well as broadcast her feelings.

Another girl was sealed lying down in bright pink latex with bright red letters saying CENSORED over all her private parts. Her brown hair had been done in pig tails and she was selected to look as no as innocent as possible. After her head was placed through the opening and she confirmed that she was OK being immovable, we placed a blindfold over her eyes and a gag in her mouth, both labeled CENSORED.

As I stood transfixed over the beautiful simplicity of this statement, my master whispered in my ear, “Have fun with her. She thinks you’re cute.” I leaned in close, asking if it was OK that I play with her. She nodded yes very enthusiastically. Carefully, I climbed on top of her bed. She was breathing heavily and I was too. Gently I kissed her gag, careful to barely touch her lips. All the time I slowly moved my head away from hers. She followed as long as she could. Soon, she was straining against the vac-bed, desperately trying to come closer. Using some of the lubricant we’d used to get everyone into the vac-beds I began massaging her chest, carefully rounding the breasts in a figure eight pattern. Gently I kissed her right nipple. Just a little kiss, then a nibble. The vacuum kept the latex tight against her erect nipple, and I played with it, delighted with her moaning.

Slowly, I moved down. I ran my finger around her belly button, and finally after she couldn’t stand the wait anymore, I moved my hand lower. I could feel her heat radiating through her lips. They’d parted beneath the latex, hungry. I rubbed my lubricated hand up and down them, cherishing each moan, and carefully, very carefully on her pert clitoris I planted a long and sensuous kiss. I heard a long squeal come from the top of the bed. As she panted, I slowly climbed back up, and kissed her goodbye on the cheek. I was glad I could make art happy, and couldn’t wait for my turn.

While I’d been giving the censorship display something to think about during the rest of the night, John had secured everyone else in their vac beds. It was my turn. We climbed the central dais where a crystal clear vac-bed lay. I was arranged carefully to look trapped within the printed black spider web pattern and my long hair was radiated from my head, becoming part of the design. John tucked his head into the latex sheet and kissed me as a woman. This would be the last time I was human for a long while. The vacuum was turn on, and I was the centerpiece. Through the clear latex I saw John and the other workers hoist my display vertically. A picture of a magnificent woman trapped in a spider web. I was the only work of art in clear latex, the only one standing without her feet touching the ground. I was hung in the air by the pressure of the air itself. A masterpiece.

I was facing the front of the exhibition. I got to see every patron as they came in. And they all stepped up to admire me. All were amazed. Some were shocked. A few were offended. None would forget this. From my perch I could see almost everyone I’d described so far. The greeter bowed her little blond bun at each person who walked through. People stared down at the man with the waves as if looking at the real ocean from above. From time to time, the man trapped in black would get an erection to the delight of the ladies nearby. Neither couple seemed able to climax but both were having great fun trying to get the most out of those few millimeters of motion. The woman in pigtails rolled her head occasionally in blissful contentment., while the Asian girl typed up a storm with everyone enthralled by what her fingers had to say. The twins were flirting with everyone who came in. Several of the craftsmen and women from Kink Engineering who’d helped set up the displays were mingling among the crowd and keeping them fascinated with stories about the construction.

Finally, the interactive portion had arrived. The princess in carbonite was released to talk about her experiences. Through the latex I could hear how pleased she was. After dinner was served, only those patrons who’d paid a little extra and agreed to certain terms were allowed to stay. I watched from my perch. I was the only work of art that was not allowed to be touched.

Several girls were playing with the men in jet black and waves. They took turns massaging each man’s chest arms and legs with lubrication. I knew the one in blue would be moaning in bliss. The one in black’s penis was allowed to be batted about. Many girls donned a complementary pair of cat ears and played with it like kittens with string. The censored girl was also being tortured, but she seemed delighted by it. All over her latex clad body and naked face, patrons were tickling her with feathers.

The greeter with the bun got to be hand fed in exchange for a kiss, and the twins had the same deal, but were also getting drunk, while two boys they’d selected held champagne glasses to their lips. Most erotically, those two couples in latex had the crowd hold little vibrators to their genitals. The girls came readily. The men took a little more doing. As I watched the efforts of the elite patrons, I found myself thrusting my hips forward desperate for my master to work upon me. The little movement wasn’t enough, even with the latex pressing against me. I remained awaiting release. Finally, the men came. The exhibition was officially over, but the twins begged for their two new boy toys to use the vibrators on them. The crowd got another show while I was forced to wait.

When the show was actually winding down, and the models started being released, many patrons filed past my display commenting one last time how they wished that my display had been interactive. The last said to his companion that this display was the most artistic. I swelled with pride. I was the centerpiece, and furthermore, none had spoken to me. I wasn’t human. I was art.

The censorship girl was the last to be released. She staggered up to me with a big grin on her face. For a long time she stared longingly at me. Through the clear latex I realized that I thought she was cute too. In the background the computer girl was saying to John that after a while she felt like a computer. The couples were talking about how this was the best sex they’d ever had, the twins were making plans with their new boyfriends, and some of the other models were discussing whether of not they would get a discount from Kink Engineering if they volunteered to help promote the vac-beds they were sleeping in. All that was secondary. The censored girl whose name I still didn’t know gave me a long deep kiss. To be admired like this was bliss. Her lips locked firmly over my breathing hole, and she held there for a long time. I didn’t even try to breath through my nose. I knew it was sealed. The kiss was too good to try and interrupt even if I could. Soon my head was swimming. I wanted air so badly, but all efforts to struggle against my canvas were useless. Finally right before I passed out, she backed away, and whispered, “What a shame the artist is hogging his masterpiece all to himself tonight. I guess I’ll have to admire it later.” With that she backed away.

It was a long wait after that. John ushered everyone out, and made sure the gallery was locked. Turning the lights low he then fiddled with the radio until the music and sound was just perfect. Finally my master was ready. He didn’t say a word. He carefully removed the hidden panel over my other set of lips, letting my juices drip down onto the floor. That was now all of me that was exposed, lips. Fresh air was almost a new sensation. I longed for him to be inside me. Lazily, he removed his pants. And carefully rolled a latex condom onto his throbbing member. Oh, the latex felt the same as my second skin holding me aloft as he gradually slid it in. Gently at first, than more roughly. I moaned, as close as I could come to begging for more. With every kiss, my breath was taken away. With every motion inside of me, my whole being became his canvas. I felt his hand reach around back and grab my ass, squeezing viciously hard as he pounded into me. Back and forth, back and forth. Master shook my frame. I wanted to arch my head back and scream, wanted to reach my arms around him, and pull him deeper inside me, but I couldn’t. I was just an object. An object to be used and cherished and cum.

Had the latex not been around me I’d have collapsed to the floor. I gasped for air. The breathing hole had slipped and I’d almost suffocated. Master was carefully arranging it over my lips to ensure that I was safe. He then turned the vacuum on again to retighten the latex. Oh how wonderful to be squeezed even tighter. Master leaned down and whispered, “Silly me, I almost ruined my best work.”

He put on his pants, then held a drink with a straw in it up to my lips letting me have my fill. Then slowly he began to take out his set of paints that we’d tested to be latex safe, and painted over my eyes blinding me. The rest of the night I felt gentle brush strokes all up and down my body, sometimes just the faint vibrations as he painted on other parts of my latex canvas, but always there and loved. I knew he’d be working on his masterpiece until the end of the exhibition. This was going to be a very good week.

28.07.09

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