With irritating causal certainty, she seeps. It’s too soft. Then comes back into conscious, permitting her to devour; to absorb the orchestral sensations in her mouth, and nose, and body. Mammalian. Nuanced. Sugar isn’t enough. The fridge, door open, whirs into life as the cold continues to flood into the kitchen. Her mouth is dry. The red has subsided and given way to darker kisses. Drifting as she leans on the counter-top, she is briefly but completely transported back to the table. Has to have. Her brain whites out for a fraction of a fraction of time. And pushes his face into her. She knows what she wants. Then, it gives way as the capillaries of the flesh beneath collapse. Some acrylic. Stinging sour at once gives way to sweet, heady, perfumed scent and taste. ‘Please.’
The floral scent of the nectarine is soft. Push inside me.’
One, then two, then three fingers crammed happily, far-too-tightly inside. He’d just fuck off to bed. She picks up an apple, and considers it. Her wrists bound to the table legs at one end, and long, long loops passing around and across the back of her neck, fixing her rigidly.
