Lust has a hundred aromas and a thousand flavours. Whether my lovers are men or women, it’s the savory tastes of their bodies that I recall with the greatest pleasure. My open mouth passes over heated skin, vacuuming its bouquet. My tongue relishes the sweet-salt of sweat, lapped from intimate creases. I dote on the spicy saliva I suck from beneath an amorous tongue. The slippery, slightly lemony musk that oozes from the labyrinthine folds of an excited vagina delights me. When a man anoints my mouth with the hot wet cream-and-leather proof of his passion, I am transported.
Perhaps it is strange then, that in my fantasies, I dwell more on my lovers’ oral pleasures than on my own. My favourite mental accompaniment to my solitary play is an appetizing little scene I call, “Breakfast with Tiffany.”
“Tiffany” is a composite of every slender young blonde I’ve ever lusted after. She’s somewhere in her late twenties, with vanilla skin and enormous, creamy-lidded, espresso-brown eyes. Her lips are raspberry cream; her nipples cones of milk chocolate.
My fantasy starts with me laying a table for breakfast. I set out a dish of thick sweet cream that I’ve whipped to stiff peaks and a bowl of fresh fruit. It is very important that the fruit be perfect, without a single blemish, and arranged aesthetically. Setting the table is an act of seduction. My selection is always the same – two large thick, definitely phallic, bananas that are a few days away from being ripe – a pair of Jaffa oranges that mimic the shape and size of Tiffany’s tender breasts – a bunch of big black seedless hothouse grapes and one glorious peach that is juicy-soft to the touch but not squishy – just past “ripe”.
The fruit knife is silver, inlaid with gold. There are no napkins or fingerbowls. If either is needed, my tongue and mouth are ready to serve.
With the table prepared, I sit to one side and wait. What I am wearing doesn’t matter much. Sometimes I imagine it’s a short satin slip, sometimes a tailored shirt or perhaps the tops of a pair of pajamas. Usually, I don’t even think about what I have on. I might as well be invisible, except to Tiffany. The fantasy is about her, not me. When, in the fantasy, she looks at me, I’m seeing her looking, not what she sees.
When Tiffany comes down from upstairs she’s perfectly made up, cotton-candy hair artfully tousled, wearing a tiny white lace bed jacket that frosts her slender arms like a dusting of icing sugar. Sometimes she has mules on her feet, sometimes not. I tried imagining hose on her legs once but they didn’t add to my pleasure so I don’t bother any more.
She ignores me, but not from haughtiness. Tiffany is enraptured by the banquet I’ve spread for her. With her butter-smooth little bottom perched on the edge of a delicate cafe chair, she gorges her eyes on the feast that awaits her. Her mouth waters. I can’t see that it does but we have perfect empathy. I can taste the saliva that pools in her mouth.
A willowy arm reaches out. Her elegant hand hovers above an orange, over a banana, close to the peach. It is as if her fingertips test the textures of skins and rinds without actually making contact. She traces each fruit’s contours with air-caresses.
I hold my breath. Which of my offerings will she choose first?
When she makes her selection, her hand moves with predatory speed. She snatches up an orange. With the fruit nestled securely in her left hand, she takes up the knife and bisects it with one deep swift slash. One half falls to the table. She strikes again, and again, criss-crossing the pulpy interior of the other half with a dozen precise cuts. Juice, the orange’s blood, wells up. The lacerated hemisphere is lifted to her breast. Tiffany squeezes. Pale sweet droplets fall in a slow steady stream, exactly onto her left nipple. She shivers. The juice is chill.
Her left hand bears the other half orange to her mouth. Her face transforms. Tender calm dissolves into ravenous ferocity. Her lips curl back from tiny white teeth. Almost snarling, she tears into the succulence. Slurping, sucking, devouring, Tiffany gobbles shamelessly. Pulp smears her lips and chin. Juice flows.
And yet, even as she falls on one half of the fruit like a rapacious beast, her other hand continues its slow controlled squeezing of the other half. Orange juice drips from her left nipple. My thirsty eyes follow its descent. Drops splatter a creamy thigh. Tiffany lifts her knee until her heel rests on the cross-bar of her chair. With her leg angled thus, the sticky fluid runs down into the crease of her groin.
I groan in anticipation.
Half the orange is reduced to gnawed pith. The other half is concave from losing juice. Tiffany arches back and clamps the hollowed half over her breast. Her hand revolves it, pressing it as one might on an old-fashioned juicer, with her nipple the spike that impales it. Like some sort of fruit-sadist, she grinds and compresses. Little translucent juice-sacs smear her delicate skin.
I half-rise, thinking to nibble those tiny nectar-filled gobbets off her loveliness, one at a time, but subside. There is a full bowl of fruit. My darling has sampled but one, so far.
Her hands open. Ruined orange-halves fall to the floor, discarded. Tiffany’s avid eyes are on the peach. I am that peach. I lie in my bowl, almost over-ripe, almost trembling with anticipation. How will Tiffany choose to consume me? Will I be ripped asunder and gulped down? Or?
One finger strokes, savouring the texture of delicate fuzz. The peach is cupped and lifted on a palm. Tiffany takes up her cruel knife. Its gleaming blade rests on the peach’s skin too lightly to indent it. Her wrist lifts, angling the cutting edge. Slowly, with a surgeon’s precision, Tiffany slices. Flesh parts. The incision is fine and deep, running a third of the peach’s circumference. She prepares to cut again. The blade slithers through fruit-flesh, mostly parallel to her first cut but meeting it at the top and at the bottom. The twin points of the knife lever the new-moon sliver free and discard it. A once-perfect fruit is now slotted but is not marred. It is as if peaches were meant to wear thin tight smiles, displaying hints of the yellow wetness of their lush interiors.
Tiffany cradles her fruit in both palms. The nails of her thumbs rest in the wound. They press, move, press again. She is turning the raw edges of the cut inwards, creating lips for it. From time to time, as she works, she looks down into her lap. I understand. She is a sculptress. The fleshy slit that nestles between her thighs is her model. She is transforming the lush fruit into an effigy of her own, more luscious, sex.
Edible. I mouth the word, tasting it, tasting the peach, tasting the flesh. Succulence. The true meaning of that word is revealed to me.
Tiffany glances my way with naughtiness sparkling in her eyes. I understand. She is telling me, “This is for you.”
Holding the peach in her left hand, Tiffany scoops cream from the bowl with the forefinger of her right. She smoothes it into the slot, leaving a dab at its apex. I recognize the image. When clever fingers tease me until my sex weeps and gapes, its lips ripe and plum-purple, and those fingers stoke the urgent hunger between my thighs until only ferocious abuse will serve to sate it, and those fingers fold into vicious spikes that plunder me deep and hard and fast, they whip my clear dew into a thick white froth. So it is with Tiffany, for she is me and I am her.
She is showing me my, our, sex, as it is when most avid – in that excruciating nanosecond when climax is inevitable but not yet achieved. It is Tiffany’s sadistic practice, when she has driven me to that peak of expectation, to pause, withdraw her fingers and slurp up the ambrosia I have leaked, suspending me in a delirium of desire.
Tiffany is reminding me.
Twisted on her seat so that she can maintain avid eye-contact with me, she extends her tongue. Hers is a tongue among tongues. All tongues were meant to be like Tiffany’s, but fail. It is narrower than mortal tongues, and longer. Its tip is a supple arrow-head, bluntly pointed. Her tongue is pink, pink, pure pink. It is prehensile. I fancy that she could pick small objects up with it, if she wished.
She rolls its width into a “U”. She flattens it and curls its tip up. Stiffening it, she trills, vibrating its end. Her hand brings the peach closer. By stretching her tongue to its incredible limits, she is able to take cat-laps that just touch the fruit’s skin, a fraction below the slit.
My thighs squeeze together. I know what that lick feels like. I’ve felt it, when my thighs have been spread achingly apart and the skin immediately below my own sex has been pulled drum-taut.
The tantalizing tongue drags up, up to where the slit parts the flesh. It twists, insinuating itself into that narrow slot.
Where my slot’s lips unite, there is a little lip that forms a subtle cup. It is in that little depression that my juices pool when my sex weeps. The nectar inside Tiffany’s peach is a mixture of peach-juice and cream. Its flavour is different from mine but will suffice as a substitute.
Tiffany’s fresh-from-bed skin has the aroma of apples baked with cinnamon. Her pussy-dew always reminds me of pina colada – pineapple and coconut. We are all different. I once had a lover, a Mexican barmaid, appropriately, who tasted like salty-lemon and Tequila. I push her from my mind. This is Tiffany’s breakfast, not hers.
Held rigid, a spike of flesh, Tiffany’s tongue stabs. With its tip buried, it vibrates. She drags it upwards, still quivering, until it “flips” free at the very top of the slit. My sex feels each fraction of an inch of its progress, vicariously. It remembers the vibrant pressure of her tongue’s tip on the softness of its floor. It recalls how delicately it trills the edges of my inner labia. It knows what her tongue feels like on the firm smooth plane, between my outer lips but above my inner ones. That even curve is crowned by the pink pea of my straining clitoris. When she subjects me to that particular caress, at the moment of the “flip”, her tongue’s tip flicks.
I moan.
Tongue still stiff, Tiffany moves the peach away and back, each motion impaling it, stabbing low, high, between. Its juices, as mine would, run. Her hand moves faster. Her tongue pierces deeper.
The peach is fucking Tiffany’s tongue.
She returns the assault. Her fingers tighten, bruising the softness. Her tongue flattens and slavers, running up and down the full length of the drooling slot. She sucks hard, then curls her lips back from her even white teeth.
Once more she looks at me, with erotic threat. Gazing into my eyes, she turns the peach sideways. Her lower teeth are inside the slot. Her upper ones rest on the delicate skin. Fascinated and squirming, I watch as her teeth slowly sink into peach flesh.
She bites!
Poor peach! Poor vulva! Savage and slavering, grunting her greed, Tiffany devours its sensitive vulnerability.
My legs cross and clamp. I vibrate. Pity and envy consume me. The thought of it, of her feasting on my flesh, of being eaten alive by this lovely young girl, even with a peach as my proxy . . .
The thrill of it is too much. I surrender to the gleeful paroxysms of a convulsive, gut-clenching climax.
When my mental eyes focus again, Tiffany is looking at me, smug. We know that breakfast is not yet done. My first orgasm always leaves me on a plateau, ready to scale higher peaks once I’ve caught my breath and my legs have ceased their trembling.
She arches a brow at me and beckons. I saunter to the table, hitch my bottom up on it and spread my thighs. Tiffany has to stretch round me to reach the fruit bowl. She takes her time selecting the next treat by touch. My navel is inches from her eyes. The tip of her nose is even closer to the roundness of my lower belly. Tiffany’s breath warms my mound. When she inhales, the aroma of my climax fills her mouth.
She has chosen the other orange. Looking up at me, she peels it. Orange curls drop between my thighs, to the floor. When it is bare, orange flesh showing through white pith, her thumbs dig in and rip it apart. Precise fingers separate one section. She lays it on my bare thigh, ready, and reaches for a banana, which she sets on the table between my thighs, one end just touching the wrinkled lips of my sex.
For the first time, in the fantasy, Tiffany touches me. Two fingers, forked, press on my mound, one to each side of my clitoris. My slit opens. My clit’s engorged head protrudes from beneath its hood. Holding me like that, my naked clit exposed, Tiffany lifts the orange section to her mouth. Delicate little bites clean the pith away. A nibble exposes the tiny sacs of juice along its narrow edge. She rests that naked oozing slice between my parted lips with the raw edge gently pressed to my clit. Her fingers slide it, up, down, up, frotting my clit delicately. Her free hand guides my fingers to take the segment and continue the subtle teasing. Once I am moving the slice to her satisfaction, not too quickly, without too much pressure, just enough to tantalize, she lets me take over.
It’s the banana’s turn. Tiffany pushes back half a foot. Her left fist wraps the base of the firm yellow stalk. The nails of her right hand slit the tip, vertically. She peels the sections of yellow skin down slowly, baring the ivory column. Three strips of skin dangle over her left fist.
Tiffany changes her grip. Holding the very base of her fruit in her fingertips, she makes a ring with the fingers of her right hand, around the stalk, below the skin. Her hand runs upwards, smoothing the banana’s foreskin back into place, then down, exposing the flesh once more. As she slowly masturbates the banana, she lifts it, an inch at a time, towards her open mouth.
Were I a man, and the banana my cock, I’d have been sore pressed to resist grabbing handfuls of her hair and dragging her parted lips down, hard. As it is, my pressure on my orange slice increases. I feel tiny plump sacs burst, each “pop” a minute kiss. Juice runs down, trickling into my sex.
Tiffany’s raspberry lips purse on the tip of her banana. She kisses it. It presses upwards, forcing entry. Half the banana disappears into her mouth. Her cheeks hollow, then relax. She sucks rhythmically, in time with the banana’s thrusts into her mouth.
She removes the banana, glistening wet, and slurps up its underside with a flattened tongue. Holding it still, she bobs on it, fucking it with her lovely mouth.
My orange slice disintegrates under my fingers. I shrug and reach for another piece. As I separate it from the remains of the orange, Tiffany takes the first pulpy piece from me. It replaces the banana, in her mouth. Her eyes roll with pleasure as she sucks the mixture, orange juice and my juice, before spitting the mess into her palm. Grinning, she reaches between my thighs and prods the sodden and crushed segment into me.
Insistent fingers slide the pulp between my inner labia, then press it up behind my pubic bone. They rotate it on the engorged mass of my G-spot. Citric acid tingles until my seepage dilutes it.
Smiling sweetly, Tiffany takes a third segment, then a fourth. Each orange-slice is poked and prodded until it is snug and secure, packed into the slight internal cavity. Not content yet, she selects grape after grape. Each is wetted, cleansed, in her mouth, before it is added to the fruit cocktail she is preparing.
I relax my internal muscles to make room. Although I twitch inside, I resist the urge to squeeze. The fruit becomes a weight that distends me and threatens to slither lower. I frown in concentration. My unspoken instructions are to hold the soggy mass, but so gently that not a single grape is crushed; no whole segment of orange bursts.
Her fingers pinch the lips of my sex together, taking some of the strain. With six quick neat bites, she devours her banana. Tiffany hands me the second one to peel for her. When it is bare flesh, she takes it from me. Her tongue laves it. Sweet lips purse to smear her drool over its length. When it is glistening wet from end to end, she presents it to my sex. The pinching fingers part. I feel the mess of fruit move but before it can extrude, the banana blocks its path.
The banana prods. The fruit is forced back up. With the bulk of the banana added, I am gently but firmly distended. A third of the banana disappears, then a half, three quarters, and at last, the entire length. I am. full.
Tiffany takes my hand and guides it to cup my sex to keep the mess confined. She takes a napkin and leisurely wipes her fingers. My need to expel, to evacuate, becomes urgent. She knows that. That’s why she takes her time, moving her chair away, taking a cushion and arranging it precisely on the floor and laying down, on her back, with it supporting her head.
“I’m ready,” she tells me.
Holding my sex, legs spread awkwardly; I hitch myself off the table. I duck-walk to my lover and squat, knowing how obscene a picture I make, lowering my sex towards Tiffany’s face. When the lips of my sex are three inches from the lips of her mouth, her finger touches my thigh, halting my descent.
“With cream,” she says.
I bite my lip and nod. The heel of my clutching hand moves aside. I wet one finger of my free hand. It finds the pink pea of my clit. I flick, left-to-right, right-to-left. My clit’s nerves scream for more, more, more . . . I obey. Faster and faster, I whip that morsel of pulsating flesh, driving it, and me, into no-thought, no will, just raw need. Likely, my face screws up in concentration. No matter. Tiffany can’t see my face. Her eyes are focused on my bulging, fruit-filled, vulva.
It becomes too much. My twin needs, to climax and to void, peak. Deep inside me, an inexorable hand squeezes. Orange slices are crushed. Grapes pop. I can feel their small explosions. My vagina squirts tears that add to the lubrication.
I can resist no longer. With one mighty clenching, I eject the fruit mass in a long lumpy stream, directly into Tiffany’s avid, open mouth.
And Tiffany eats her breakfast.