Apple

By: Blue SunriZe

"You're like forbidden fruit…"

His back is facing the dresser's lamp, causing limited visibility of his facial features. The dimness of the room causes a shadow to shield his manifestation from me, but I am not blind to the intensity of gaze.

"I know I should stay away, but every time I bite into your core, my appetite craves you more."

The television acts as background noise, emitting sounds from a reality show about unbecoming black women, a normality in today's society. Ordinarily, if I was in my home, locked in my room, snuggled under my blanket, my attention would be absorbing every inch of the degradation.

Instead my auditory senses listen as he cleans from dinner, hold minor chit-chat with his brother, and even relieves himself in the bathroom. The familiarity of the sounds is my aphrodisiac because the precipitating noises transport past experiences to future anticipations. Waiting for his return, my nipples harden and my center moistens under the thin fabric of my nightshirt.

Switching from lounging on my left side, my hands are position behind me, propping my erect figure. Potent scents of professional hair care products still linger from an earlier press and curl. My long, black hair preserves his favorite feature.

My face.

He approaches me cautiously and precisely like a farmer peering at his first harvest. On the inside, my hormones are soft and mushy, like a crushed grape.

Or like a girl preparing for her first.

However, every time is like the first.

But, while every time is like our first, it's not because as delicately as he commences, the ground eventually breaks as he rakes into my soil with his garden tool.

Each knee creates indentations as they asynchronously make contact with the bed. His abrasive yet gentle hands glide up my freshly shaven thigh sending razor blades throughout my body, never breaking the trance as his warm breath caresses my face and soothes me like after shave gel.

"Well you know what they say…" I whisper, one hand stroking the elongated, center of his beard and the other balancing myself, his sensual proximity arching my body. "… an apple a day, keeps the doctor away."

Our lips overlap, and our tongues intertwine. His kisses are sweet like a ripe Granny Smith, and I devour his mouth as the bed sheets greet my soon-to-be disrobed back.

My pelvis pillows his, and his body blankets mine. While his kisses are succulent, I yearn for something more… sacchariferous.

Breaking our oral exchange, I tap his chest, signaling him to rise. I slide like butter from underneath him and resembling a Uno playing card, we reverse positions.

Shirt bunched to his neckline, I maze my tongue throughout his abdomen eventually mapping it to his treasure chest. Unfastening his pants, I feel like a humble child on Christmas – politely unwrapping the gift, but anxiously awaiting the content inside.

His nature greets me, and not being rude, I latch onto it like a firm handshake, stroking the length of it.

He moans.

My tongue is a jealous little thing, and soon I am licking his shaft up and down like a trampoline. I encircle the head like a merry-go-round.

Motioning to remove my glasses, he stops me. "No, leave them on." He instead tugs at my nightshirt. "But take this off," and I comply.

Enough of the games, I engulf his penis like cotton candy.

I close my eyes, heightening my other senses. His groans are as pleasing as children's laughter. The aroma of his most intimate area is as delightful as funnel cake. Slurping his pulsating member is as sacchariferous as a snow cone. I massage his inner thigh like an oversized stuffed animal.

Six Flags: Great America.

Now it's my turn to be softly tapped, signaling me to rise. On my knees, he guides my legs and anchors them on either side of his shoulders. My vagina hovers over his watery mouth, and he aims it at his target like a missile.

I moan.

He alternates between flickering, lapping, and sucking. I rhythmically begin to ride his face.

An image of a screaming toddler emerges. The disgruntle child is thirsty, and her mother hands her a sippy cup full of apple juice.

My pussy is thirsty; his mouth, my juice box.

A construction worker on a hot summer day indulges in the first sample of a refreshing drink. His reaction?

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Exaggeration, maybe, but the quench of his thirst would be just as satisfactory.

Calming from my high, his voice sobers me. "Let me stand in it."

After collapsing on the bed, still flying through space from my supernatural orgasm, he climbs out. Currently, he is at the edge of the bed, pants around his ankles, masturbating.

Crawling to accompany him, I rotate 180 degrees. Back bowed like an arrow, I'm the ideal bull's eye. His dart pins my board.

He exhales. I inhale.

Thanksgiving Day, when I am a child, I play with an array of cousins. Some I only see once a year and others serve as my best friends. First cousins, second cousins – it doesn't matter. We come together in unity. The men congregate over football and beer in the living room. The women cackle and cook in the kitchen. The children are restricted to the play area, traces of my mother's childhood splayed throughout the bedroom. The fragrance of food sneaks and creeps within the house like a theft in the night.

"Dinner's ready!" Big Ma would exclaim and like a herd of animals, we stampede into the dining room.

After grace, conversation, laughter and memories piece our family puzzle. However, the masterpiece isn't complete without Grandma's apple pie for desert.

Biting into the pastry, the gooeyness envelopes my entire being like fog.

Our foreplay is Thanksgiving dinner; his penetration, my apple pie.

And it envelops my entire being like fog.

He retracts from me, and the sound of lust making is replaced by the rustling and urgency of him stepping out of his pants and ripping his shirt from over his head. I wiggle my ass like a worm to entice him, and like a fish in the deep blue sea, he takes that bait.

His jagged fingernails hook into the flesh of my hips as he reels back like a fishing pole and slams into me repeatedly. The possessiveness of his hands on my hips drives me crazy, but at times he lets me take the wheel. He relinquishes his hold, and I crash into his pelvis like a drunk driver.

And like an accident victim, he moans.

Restoring his grip with his left hand, a sting overwhelms my backside. It burns like fire, but fizzles like smoke.

"Yes, spank me! Spank me! Spank me!"

Several times more his right hand serves as a paddle, and he breaks our connection once again. Flipping me like a pancake, his tongue swirls in my syrup. Piercing the air with my treble cry, his dick feeds my vagina while I swallow his tongue.

I taste myself.

Wanting to explore the depth of my cave, he places my ankles adjacent to his ears and bends me as narrow as an acute triangle. His "Indiana Joan" crooks greater than 90 degrees in my cavern, curling my toes. My size nine feet decorated in turquoise polish frame his face.

A picture is worth a thousand words.

He shovels my sandbox, and meeting his thrusts, I ride him like a tidal wave. My fingers tiptoe to his nipples, and I pinch and twirl them like a ballerina.

He loves it.

The uncomfortableness of fucking in my glasses is a minor trip in the race. My toe slightly aches, but I can still run.

The melody of sounds, sensitizations, and motions reminds me of tropical punch. A concoction of various fruits, a spectrum of bitter to sweet, and a rainbow of colors blend in perfect harmony.

We're creating music.

Nearing the end of our song, he crescendos his final note: "Oh, fuck!" Withdrawing, he beats his penis on my mound like a drum, and his seed covers it like a choir robe.

He cleans me off like a baby, and I gather in the fetal position. He peels around me like an orange, and like a banana, I curve into him.

Planted in a versatile upbringing, I sprang into adulthood like a stout, thriving tree, opportunity branching in various directions. Life's mishaps delay my leaves from blooming, prolonging my nourishment like a Chicago Winter.

My dream career is the water; strong interpersonal relationships are the oxygen; and rays of laughter, entertaining, and sexuality beam from the sunlight of an undeniable bond.

He completes my photosynthesis.

An electronic jingle disturbs our serenity like a dandelion in a tulip bed, and his eagerness to answer is as harsh as frostbite on sprouting produce in spring.

"Hello babe."

Even The Garden of Eden, the most prolific estate known to man occupied a serpent.

Wife.

-End