Folding the laundry on this hot summer afternoon, I’m still thinking about it.
Sitting so innocuously amongst the unpacked groceries on the kitchen table. Nestled between the tomatoes, the fresh lettuce and goat’s cheese… the cucumber.
A magnificent specimen: firm-skinned and solid, with the most impertinent curve to it. It made me think of something else. I giggled to myself as I put oranges in the fruit bowl.
I glanced at it again. For just a moment, it seemed its firm outline throbbed. Shaking my head, I put the lettuce in the fridge, thinking salad would be perfect for dinner, after such a warm day.
“You’re going to top off a gorgeous salad tonight, Mr Cucumber,” I said, picking it up and looking it over, noticing the little indentation in the middle of one end, where it had been pulled off the vine. How like a little eye, I thought.
Then, I swear it winked at me.
The tape measure was already out of the drawer and wrapped around its girth before I even had time to question my actions.Seven inches in circumference. I squealed softly.
“Could I?”
It was organic, after all…
“Megan, don’t be ridiculous. Go fold the laundry,” I scolded myself, yanking open the fridge door and tossing it in the crisper.
So here I am, folding underwear, and all I can think about is the beckoning curve of that cucumber. Where it would touch me inside, if I actually did what I was imagining. If I actually did …
***
Washing abandoned. Skirt rumpled around my waist. Blouse and bra jettisoned, and no underwear in sight. The thought of its shape already has me throbbing and moist. I coax my clitoris into arousal gently, while caressing my breasts. Then as I feel myself getting wetter, I slide two fingers down into me. My internal silkiness expands in expectation. I want my little friend to feel perfect; I want to be wet when I devour him.
“Oh … God…” In he slides. Not before winking at me again, like a cheeky green leprechaun. I eat him up by little mouthfuls, allowing myself to adjust to his delicious dimensions. His topography fits my geography, and that wicked curve upwards kisses that place, that place which sends me into sensory whirlpools of delirious intensity, there on the underside of my navel.
Sure now that my movements are making the most of him, I prop my body up on several pillows, opening my legs so I can see myself reflected in the mirror at the foot of the bed.
“You are a wicked – wanton – mid-afternoon – harlot,” I admonish my reflection, dipping into myself at each word, admiring my flushed cheeks, the gleam in my eyes, and how deftly my sex is gripping my little morsel of pleasure. I guide him in and out, giving him more daringly to that hungry place inside me, building the intensity of sensations until each dive inwards is met with an outward rush of pleasure.
“Mmm – Yum!” The word is out before I can stop it. Although it’s rather apt in the situation.
“Oh, Mr Cucumber,” I gasp, my head dizzy from several orgasms. I watch the little harlot in the mirror as she removes the cucumber. Slick and glistening with juices, as if glazed in vinaigrette. I imagine he is rather pleased with himself.
I lie back, luxuriating in the post-orgasmic haze, cupping my breasts, gently stroking my torso, thoughts beginning to return to reality. A stripe of golden afternoon sunlight lies lazily across my body. Matt would be here in a few hours -what would I cook for dinner?
***
My lover pours the wine, as I serve up the roast chicken. I have opened the balcony doors, as there is finally a light breeze, easing some of the sultriness of the air into something more tolerable.
“What did you get up to this afternoon?’ Matt says.
As I hand the salad bowl to him, I try not to look too significantly at the contents.
Image: Public Domain
“Oh, I kept myself amused,” I say lightly, as I watch him take a generous serve, lettuce and cucumber spilling onto his plate.
“Good to see you’re a man who’s unafraid of your greens. They’re very good for you,” I remark, smiling.
“Well, I figure I’ll need all the energy I can get for later,” he teases, his mouth full. “That’s a great dressing on that salad. Sweet. Tangy.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Glad you like it.”
Under the table, I take my foot out of my sandal, running it up to the inside of his thigh, tantalizing his crotch with the wiggle of my toes. “I made it myself. In fact, you might say it’s a kind of aphrodisiac.”
He holds my gaze for a moment. “Mmmm. Delicious.”
“Uh-huh”, I say, taking a sip of wine and running my tongue over my lips. “Well, there’s plenty more where that came from.”
I smile to myself. I wonder if he gets it.
Never mind.
He will later.
© Adrea Kore 2013
(Not to be reproduced or reprinted, in part or in whole, without permission of the author)
This is a version of an earlier story of mine, published as Salad Days. It has a naughtier ending, and goes down well at readings.
Salad Days was first published in Little Raven I (2013), then reprinted in A Story-telling of Ravens (2014).
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