Fuck-Me Fruits

She’s got these shoes, see. Or she had these shoes. Sandals, really. I don’t know what it is about them. She wears them when she’s sunning. She wears them when she’s lying on the chaise lounge in the back yard, sheathed only in a white string bikini. And these glorious, unbelievable shoes.

They’re trashy — she got them at some discount store when they’d been discounted 95% or something. They’re tacky — she would probably never wear them in public, but she likes wearing them around the house. They’re impractical — platform heeled thongs, white plastic, with a gaudy spray of grapes, crab apples, ivy leaves and berries tucked just above the single toe strap. But they match her string bikini perfectly — shameless, garish, skimpy, revealing and cheap. And sexy enough to make my cock hard every time she puts them on.

I’ve never confessed it to her; how could I? She makes fun of them herself, calling them her “fuck-me fruits.” She wears them a lot, though; all summer long, she savors her sunbathing, stretching out on the chaise lounge and displaying her body in its twin infinitesimal white spandex prisons. I watch her, and I get hard as a rock.

This afternoon, I decided I couldn’t take it any more. I was watching as she lay there in the sun, her eyes shrouded by dark glasses, her skin glistening with sweat in the sun, her nipples hard and showing through the bikini top. Her feet lay there, taunting, casually crossed at the end of the chaise lounge as she leafed through one of those women’s magazines that consists mostly of underwear ads. Her hair was tied back in a fruit-print bandana, and that was the last straw.

I watched her stretch in the sun, stifle a small yawn, toss the magazine on the patio and reach back to ratchet the chaise lounge into a flat position. She kicked off the fuck-me fruits, rolled over onto her belly, and spread her legs to ensure she wouldn’t have a patch of fish-belly pale on her inner thighs. The string of her thong disappeared fetchingly between her cheeks, and the fuck-me fruits taunted me.

I banged the screen door, but she didn’t hear me.

She looked up as I approached her. “Hi, honey,” she said, stifling another yawn. “What are you doing here?”

The shoes lay there, goading me, one upright, one casually turned on its side, their fruits shimmering plastic and moist in the sun. I seized the shoes and slapped the side of her legs.

“Roll over,” I told her.

“Why?” she asked as she rolled over onto her butt, sitting up. I got up and went behind her, pulling the back of the chaise lounge into a reclining position. She leaned back onto it, looking confused.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Reverently, I lifted first one of her delicate feet, then the other, sliding the thongs onto her. Her eyes were probably spinning with puzzlement behind those dark glasses, but I didn’t care.

“These shoes have been begging to be devoured for too fucking long,” I growled. “Today’s the day they get what they want.”

She giggled, as if she couldn’t believe what was happening. My mouth descended to her feet and I began to trace the outline of the plastic fruit with my tongue. When I tickled her flesh, the sensitive, bony slope at the top of her feet, she gasped and giggled.

My hands crept up her thigh, and she didn’t even move to slap my hand away when my fingertips plucked away the skimpy crotch of her bikini bottoms and tucked it to the side.

She did utter one faint protest: “What will the neighbors think,” but she said it even as her legs were sliding further open. My fingers entered her, two of them, and I began finger fucking her as I licked her shoes. “Fuck,” she moaned. “Fuck, that feels good.”

I ran my tongue all over the fuck-me fruits, consumed with hunger for them. I bit and gnawed at the plastic fruits as I fucked her cunt with two fingers, then three. She squirmed on the chaise lounge, gripping her thighs as her ass lifted off the plastic seat. I bit down hard on her fuck-me fruits and ripped off a great globular grape, spitting it across the patio into the ivy.

She giggled, but her giggle turned in to a gasp when I curved my fingers up and pressed against her G-spot, my thumb finding her clit. I took another bite and spat a crab-apple into the pool. She moaned softly as I ripped a tender plastic ivy leaf and let it fall in glistening splendor to the plastic bands of the chaise lounge.

“Fuck,” she moaned softly as I ripped at her shoes. “I’m going to come –” She whimpered and grasped her thighs, shuddering all over as I tore another mouthful of plastic fruit and launched it into the flower bed in a sputtering haze of saliva. She continued to come even as I shredded the last, pathetic grape that clung with desperation to the thin white strap of her sandals, like the terrified survivor of a frontier massacre.

Her quick breaths turning to slow, satisfied sighs, she looked down at me, no less puzzled than before, though my purpose had apparently, by now, been made clear to her.

“My fuck-me fruits,” she groaned sadly.

“It’s all right,” I told her. “I saw another pair for sale at the thrift store.”

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