Fiction – A Partridge In A Pear Tree

Inspired by the 12 days of Christmas, somehow this turned into another summer story. Seems I’m longing for long, hot, lazy summer days again!

Merry Christmas x

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She knew he would be waiting outside her window, it had become a ritual now. Every year, around the same time. He came home to help on his father’s farm at harvest, as he did every year, just as her parents went on their annual wedding anniversary weekend to Cornwall, giving her an excuse to come back and house sit.

She thought back to the first time, the summer after her sixteenth birthday. It had been a cloudy, overcast day, and she had come home from school to change into a sweatshirt. Standing in her bedroom in just her bra and panties she rummaged among the clothes cursing her personal untidiness. She didn’t know what had prompted her to look out of the window when she did. It was probably that a slight movement had caught her eye, but she liked to think it was some kind of sixth sense. The tree was full and leafy, heavy with ripe fruit, the ideal hiding place. It had been his jeans that had given him away- a flash of blue against the browns and greens.

Lucy smiled as she remembered the shock she had felt when she had realised that there was someone outside her bedroom window, watching her dressing. That first time she had hurriedly drawn the curtains, as she had the second time it happened the following year, even though she had been fully clothed that time.

The fourth year had been the deciding year, the year she had made her mind up that if he was going to make his annual pilgrimage, she would at least make it worth his while. She had stood in front of the window in her underwear that year, slightly unsure of herself and awkward. Year five saw her topless, and year six threw caution to the wind and saw her fucking her then boyfriend on the desk in front of her window.

Over the years she had started to look forward to this time of year, and the visits from Tom Partridge. When they met in the village they hardly spoke, barely acknowledging each other past the usual neighbourly pleasantries. Their bond remained unspoken, yet she could see that intensity and desire burned in his eyes every time he looked at her.

The pear tree was ageing, the fruit slightly gnarled and pitted, but its trunk was as strong as ever. It would still hold his weight without any trouble. This time, the tenth anniversary of that first visit, she had a surprise ready for him. She only hoped the shock wouldn’t make him fall out of the tree. Lucy put the kettle on to busy herself in the kitchen, and waited.

She didn’t have long before she heard the familiar creak of the garden gate and saw Tom sneaking in and creep towards the old tree. The way he swung himself up into the branches with such ease amazed her. While the leaves of the tree obscured her view of him slightly, she was sure his eyes were searching for her at her bedroom window. “Not this time”, she grinned to herself, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach. Gulping down the remnants of cold tea, she grabbed the blanket she had earlier placed on the back of the kitchen chair, and headed outside.

She had to try her hardest not to look up into the tree as she walked towards it. The key, she knew, was to make it look as unplanned and as innocent as possible, although she felt sure he would know it was anything but. Spreading the picnic blanket out under the shade of the fruit tree, she was sure she could sense his puzzlement as the script they played out every year deviated from the usual.

Once the blanket was in place, she stepped onto it and let the loose robe she was wearing slide from her shoulders, although she found herself wondering how it managed to slip off so easily when surely every single goose-bump would hold it up? She stood, head bowed for a split second, feeling her reserves flood away and desire begin to rise. Her gaze grazed her erect nipples, and she wallowed in the tingle of the blood rushing to her cunt, before slowly sinking, first to her knees, then onto her haunches, where she paused again for a split second, before lying down on her back, closing her eyes and spreading her arms out in the shape of a crucifix.

She knew he must be looking at her, admiring her pale skin and the pinkness of her nipples. She hoped he could feel her arousal as she imagined his eyes sweeping the curves of her breasts, the slight dip of her belly and the outline of her hips. Lucy wondered idly whether he could see how swollen her cunt was, how the sticky juices were pressing the tops of her thighs together.

Her thoughts were interrupted in the most frightening and unexpected way, as a ripe pear disengaged from the tree and fell down beside her, missing her by only an inch or two. She jumped and squealed slightly, before bursting into raucous, throaty laughter, which was stopped in its tracks when the second pear fell hard onto her right thigh. “OUCH”, she cried, somehow sure that this particular pear had not made its own way off the tree, but had received a helping hand.

She was rubbing the sticky spot where it had fallen, sure it would result in bruising the next day, when the next one rained down onto her stomach, oozing slightly as the overripe flesh of the fruit met her own, quickly followed by another one just under her left breast.

It was not until this point that she looked up into the tree for the first time. He was holding another pear in his hand with a thoughtful and calculating look in his eye. Her eyes blazed a challenge at him and the next fruit landed on the blanket next to her right breast, causing her to throw back her head and close her eyes once more, arching her back and spreading her legs in invitation, and causing the finely balanced pears to slide off, leaving their gloopy trail on her body. She inwardly thanked God that there  didn’t appear to be any wasps in any of the pears that had fallen down – while she had nothing against a little bruising, she did think that wasp stings might kill the mood somewhat.

As she lay there in expectation of the next blow, she was surprised to hear his voice hurriedly utter four words. “Rub them on you”. Doing as she was told, she grasped the pear that she instinctively knew was softest, and started to smooth it on her breasts. She felt the slightly mealy flesh disintegrate and coat her in a film of sticky juice, mirroring the effect it was having in her pussy. Lost in the pleasure of her own sensations, it took her a while to tune in to hear the moaning that was coming from seven feet above her, but she smiled as the audible cue told her what she had suspected.

There was not much left of the pear once she had smeared it over her belly and haunches, and it was the little stalk that made contact with her clit before her fingers did, mingling the sap on her digits with the juices of her cunt. The familiar trembles in the soles of her feet told her that she would not take long to orgasm if she let herself continue, but she didn’t know if she would be able to hold back for very long, as she quickened the pace, discarding the stalk and now furiously rubbing her clit.

The moaning in the tree above her grew louder and more guttural, while her own breathing grew shallower and heavier. She dipped her fingers into the sticky juices between her legs, before shoving them in her mouth and greedily sucking on them. The taste of ripe pear mingled with her pussy juices tasted delicious, and she briefly regretted that Tom couldn’t taste them too.

As she lustily sucked on her fingers, she looked up at the tree to see Tom’s erect cock springing from his jeans. The view of him stroking his thick cock spurred her on to place her fingers back between her legs and glide her fingers over her sodden clit.

The next thing that hit her was not a pear, but a short stream of milky white juices over her midriff and breasts, as Tom ejaculated over her, tipping her over the edge into her own shuddering orgasm. When it subsided, she lay back on the blanket, exhausted, and burst into unstoppable laughter. She could see she would have to start planning what was going to happen the following year…

Kinky Shoes of the Week – Hello Mary Jane

I have a very high instep, so love a shoe with a strap to keep my feet from falling out of it. I therefore love a Mary Jane.

Good girls wear Mary Janes, right? They’re prim and proper, and reminiscent of schoolgirls with plaits, pleated skirts and white ankle socks.

What I love about these is that they subvert that ever so slightly. The heel is a little bit too high, and a little bit too tapered for a good girl. The front isn’t perfectly round – instead it hints at a cheeky point. And then there’s the colour – a deep, wine red burgundy that’s most definitely adult.

Finally, though, what is it about patent leather? Does the high shine reflect what you want to see in them? Polished enough, maybe you will catch a glimpse of what is hidden further up the leg? Can you see a reflection of my panties? That of course assumes I’m wearing any….

On Heat and Heat

I’ve never really realised how much the weather affects my moods until over the last couple of years. I don’t just mean light levels at the nights draw in, but also how my own levels of desire seem to be directly linked to warmth. Looking back at some of the stories I’ve written, it’s noticeable to me that a lot of them take place in the heat of a summer’s day. It’s easier that way – fewer clothes meaning more of a body on show, for starters. I guess it’s just not really considered sexy to be layered up in various jumpers, hoodies, pairs of socks etc. I’ve noted it as a challenge to myself to try and write a story based in cold climes! I’m thinking lots of open fires will be required!

In the meantime, I’ve taken a break from my tumblr, which was consuming me somewhat (although I had forgotten that these posts are set to automatically link there!). Maybe the lack of constant visual stimulation is also having an effect on my lack of muse? Whatever it is, I hope I don’t have to wait until next spring to be inspired again…

Will You Still Lust Me Tomorrow?

There comes a time in our lives when the realisation hits that we are no longer in the first bloom of youth. For some, it is earlier than for others. What happens to love and lust as we get older? Does our perception of what is attractive change? Does a winning smile take precedence over a rock-hard set of abs? Does a good sense of humour make up for drooping breasts? No longer does a penis stand as proud as it once did. No longer is a pussy pink and juicy.

Is love more important than lust as we get older?

Will you still need me,
Will you still feed me?
When I’m 64?