FARM FRESH
Dante Davidson

JUICY.

PLUMP.

LUSCIOUS.

MOUTH-WATERING.

DELICIOUS—

I was rock hard by the time I got to the farm. The words appeared on old-fashioned signs, hand-painted in a startlingly bright red on small squares of yellow cardboard. The signs stood in a lopsided line by the side of the road, and their faux-innocent words had gotten to me. Again. Gotten to me as they did nearly every day on my commute home from work. I knew it didn’t make much sense. Why was I aroused by a series of adjectives used to describe fruit? It’s not as if I’m the type of geek who uses a thesaurus to turn himself on, and clearly whoever had created these signs had possessed a good friend in Roget’s.

But there it was—sense or no sense, I possessed yet another raging erection that made it difficult to continue driving, coupled with an undeniable desire to pull over and try the new crop of strawberries. Maybe that’s all I needed. More fruit in my diet. Never seem to make that five-a-day goal. Perhaps an apple a day, or a strawberry or two, might deflect my ever-growing libido.

And maybe the girl would be there. Maybe the girl had something to do with it. She was a stunning blonde with a goddess body and a long wave of blonde hair, and she stood at the ready behind the counter at the fruit stand. At least, usually, she stood there. Occasionally, I’d catch her walking out to the fields, and I’d note the way her hips moved under her faded jeans. Sometimes, she even seemed to notice me back, watching until I turned the corner and lost sight of her in my rearview mirror.

Why hadn’t I stopped before now? I don’t know. Desire to be home and end my day for real would win out over potential embarrassment as I shared my erection with a brand-new friend. Now, in the late spring sunlight, I felt as if the time had finally come.

It took me a few minutes to get myself under control before I exited the car and walked to the produce stand. Instantly, I realized all that deep breathing and thinking about baseball had been a waste. Here I was, hard all over again. Not because of any signs. Or because I have a hard-on for fresh produce. But because of her. Fact is, I could have used every one of those words to describe her.

Ripe.

Juicy.

Ready.

Sweet.

She smiled when I approached, and then she raised a hand to me, as if we were old friends. I gave her what must have been my most baffled expression. Was she beckoning me to do her? That’s what I was hoping, because it was clear in my mind how we’d make it work. Shove the berry baskets aside, pluck her up onto the counter, and ravish that sweet, ripe body of hers.

“Taste?” she asked, and my vision went blurry. Taste? Yeah, I wanted a taste. I wanted to start at her lips, which were bare of any cosmetic, but full and plump and pink. Then I wanted to move along the hollow of her throat, to drink in deep of her peaches-and-cream complexion. She was wearing a little white apron over a blue-and-white-checked shirt. She had on faded jeans and tiny hoop earrings, and every time she moved, she made me want her even more. The way she pushed her wheat-gold hair out of her eyes. The way she seemed to possess a berry-hued blush in the apples of her cheeks. She was a meal—a meal at a five-star restaurant. And she was out here on the farm.

I wanted to devour her.

“Taste,” she repeated, no longer asking a question. I saw now that she was offering samples, and I stepped forward and put out my hand. “You’re from the city,” she said, and when my eyebrows went up in a query, I saw her motioning to my sports car out in the dirt lot.

“Yeah,” I said, embarrassed.

“You don’t get quality like this from the supermarket,” she assured me. “For the best taste, you need to come out to the farm.”

“Let me judge,” I said, teasing her. Of course, I was prepared to assure her that anything she put in my mouth was heavenly, but I wanted to hear her keep talking. She had a slice of peach ready and waiting, and she handed it over quickly. I took a bite, felt the juices swell in my mouth and thought about what it would feel like to peel down her jeans and lick the split of her body.

“Sweet?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Then try this—”

Next was a berry, the ripest, roundest, most perfect strawberry I’d ever seen. I greedily reached for it, but now the girl was teasing me. She held the berry out of reach, and said, “What will you give me if I’m right?”

“Right?”

“About this being better than any berries you’ve had in the city.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Ride in your car.”

I smiled. She was no hick. Yes, this was a farm, but it was a farm on the road between two major cities. The girl had seen plenty of fancy cars before, and probably driven in several. Maybe her family even owned one. With her good looks, all the guys in a twenty-mile radius must have been hounding her for years. But I played along. She wanted to be country mouse, I’d be her city mouse without batting an eye.

“You got it,” I told her.

“Have to play fair,” she said. “You have to tell me for real if this is the sweetest fruit you’ve ever had.”

Then she pushed it forward, and I put the whole strawberry in my mouth and bit down. Trust me when I saw that this was by far the most delicious piece of fruit that I’d ever tasted. Trust me again when I say that she could tell by my expression I was hungry for far more than her fruit stand could provide.

“You win,” I said softly.

“I think we both will,” she told me, untying her apron and coming out from behind the counter.

“Can you just leave?”

“I can do whatever I want,” she said, and I could hear the sound of a rebel in her voice. I liked that tone a lot. “Just give me a minute.” I nodded, and then watched her hurry to the house behind the stand, and I prepared myself for being chased by some hillbilly with a shotgun. But no, a pretty girl—sister? Mother?—came out with her and took over her spot at the stand, and then my blonde goddess rushed her way over to me.

“Where to?” I asked, ushering her to the car.

“I’ve seen the way you drive,” she said, and I realized she’d caught sight of me slowing down to gaze at her. That I wasn’t so top secret after all. “Why don’t you let me take you for a spin?”

Without a thought, I handed her the keys, and within moments, she’d motored us along a back road to an empty spot overlooking a flower-filled meadow. It would have been a lovely place to picnic, or to set up an easel to paint, or to—

“Taste?” she said, in the exact same way she’d offered me that first bite of peach, and now I looked to see that she’d split her jeans and was staring at me with a hungry, yearning expression that had to have matched my own. Matched, and perhaps surpassed.

I didn’t answer this question with words. I answered it with my tongue, pressed to the split of her panties, where I could already make out the scent of the first juices of her arousal. For the first time, I realized how much like juices a woman’s liquid was. I breathed in deep and thought of fragrant ripe fruits, thought of the berries and peach that I’d consumed earlier.

Crazy, but there was something again so fresh about her. So untouched and unmanufactured. My mind took me on a memory trip of the perfumed city girls I tend to go for. The tall lean ones with minty-clean breath and carefully blown-out hair. The ones who won’t go out in the rain in case they get “the frizzies.” And then I looked up at this girl, and I said, “Let’s get out,” knowing somehow that she would roll in the dirt with me if I asked. That she would get all sloppy and messy and wet and everything would be fine.

More than fine.

She moved faster than I did, coming around to my side of the car and grabbing my hand. She brought me after her to the center of the field, where a tree stood, gnarled by winds and time. Beneath it, she turned around, so that I could see her before she began to undress. Now, she moved slowly. Letting me see. Letting me appreciate the show. Her checked shirt popping open button by button. Her jeans sliding down her lean thighs. Then her white bra and panties, a simple matched set, carelessly strewn on the ground. I was behind her, still dressed in my suit and unprepared for what it would feel like when she came naked into my arms.

Sure, my fantasies had gotten me to this point. But reality can blow you away. Think about it: picturing a ripe strawberry will make your mouth water. Biting into one is an entirely different experience. And I was ready to bite into her. To bring my mouth to the rise of her shoulders and nip at her. To move in a line down her flat belly until I was kneeling on the dirt, pressing my open, hungry mouth now to the naked skin of her sex.

So this is what I did. Everything that her signs had made me want to do. She was juicy. And sweet. And ripe. She was succulent and mouthwatering, and—

“Delicious,” I murmured, and she gripped me as I ate her. I pressed my tongue up inside of her pussy, drove it deep in there to get the sweetest tasting juices I’d ever savored. She moaned softly as I brought her ever closer to climax, and her noises simply urged me on. The intensity of the moment filled my head. How pure it seemed to be fucking outdoors. How smooth her skin was under my fingertips. Part of me couldn’t believe this was real, and part of me knew not to analyze anymore, but to give in, and to drink in, and to dine.

The taste of her was pure sweetness. The sensation of her cunt against my tongue was as unbelievable as was her next statement. “I want to come on you.”

Oh god, I thought. I want that, too.

“I want to milk your cock,” she murmured.

I ripped out of my clothes, tossing down my jacket for some sort of cushion against the dirt, and then waiting only long enough to see in her eyes what she wanted. I sucked in my breath as I lay down on the dirt and let her get between my legs. She was a vixen, her lips parting around my cock and drawing me in, giving me a slow, long lick and a short, firm suck. She worked me up and down, using her fingertips to stroke my balls, cradling them in the palm of her hand as she continued to play those naughty games with her mouth. When she’d gotten me as ripe as she wanted, she climbed astride, her body opening up and taking me deep within her. I knew she wanted to control the ride. I don’t know how. I just knew. Maybe from the way she’d handled my sports car. Or maybe from the sparkling light in her eyes. I didn’t care who was in the driver’s seat this time. All that mattered was the way her pussy squeezed and released, the way her hips bucked up and down, the weight of her like a warmth on me I’d never felt before.

She leaned forward, her hands on my shoulders, and she rocked her pelvis against me, back and forth, and I could tell from the look on her face each time her clit made contact with my body. It was like an electric flicker passed through her eyes, making them a brighter blue, momentarily rivaling the sky before they settled back to their normal, deep color.

I thought of what she said, the word she’d used—“milk”—and that’s what it felt like. Her pussy squeezed me so perfectly, over and over, until I knew just one more moment and I would come. I put my hands around her waist, moving her slightly faster, and she understood, and I saw her concentrating as I said, “I’m going to—”

She said, “Yes—” her breath a rush.

“Now,” I said.

“Yes!”

And we reached it, with me bucking her off the ground, raising her up in the air as I came, and her finding her space a moment after, so that her cunt held me tight as I crested back down. Back down to a level that was still higher than any previous plateau.

The sky was that periwinkle blue of twilight as she came into my arms, her hair spreading over my naked chest, her pert body still sealed to my own. She looked directly into my eyes, and again I saw a glint of a rebel—or maybe a full-fledged rebel—gazing at me. And I saw those words again in my head. Ripe. Succulent. Juicy. All of them. All of them were her.

“See what I mean?” she said afterward, her lovely blonde hair falling forward over her face. I reached out to brush away those corn-husk soft tendrils, and I raised my eyebrows, waiting for her to continue. “The fresher the better. Can’t get quality like that in a sterile city environment, can you?”

Now, I understood, and I shook my head. “You’re right,” I agreed, smiling. “The only way to go is farm fresh.”