The Fruit-Women

originally from Modern Wife

The Fruit-Women

by Gina Abuyan-Llanes

My husband tells me of a place where men can pick off women
from the trees, like fruits ripened in season, and have them,
suckle at them, sip and bite at them, as they will. The women
do not complain.  They let the men caress the fur of their
backs, their thighs, and legs, lick at their nipples and bite
their soft necks. It is no bother, as they were born -
blossomed - to be this way.

It is perhaps why my husband eats at me so. He doesn't tell
me whether he's actually been there or not, which leaves me
wondering whether the land of the Fruit-Women is just a
figment of his over-active imagination. The way he touches
the curve of my breast like it was an apricot, and the way
he stares at my nipples like they were the finest, juiciest
strawberries - "so pink, they're calling out to me", bites at
them like they were prime grapes, makes me almost sure he has
had his taste of those magical beings. Screw taste - probably
even a fill.

He grips at my breasts like grapefruits, licks at them like
they were overripe mangoes. If you've ever been to the
tropics, you would know how overripe mangoes behave: their
juices runs out faster than you can slurp, their sweetness
covering your fingers, smearing over your lips and chin and
neck, their fragrance enveloping your skin like smoke from
incense. A well-known Filipino poet once described "taking a
woman" as "taking a mango from its Southern tip" - from its
delicate end, moving up, tongue swirling swiftly while lips
pry back the soft skin, to the rounded apex. My husband tells
me my feet remind him of the manggang piko, a mango variant
smaller than the usual specimen, that sweetens even if its
skin is still green. It is the fruit of choice of many on a
hot summer's day, and excellent when eaten alone, with salt
fresh from the saltbeds, fish sauce, or with our tiny, native
chilies chopped up and ground fine.

"I can stare at your feet all day long," my husband is fond
of saying. He doesn't say if any of the Fruit-Women had taken
his penis and rubbed it between the soles of her feet while
he visited their enchanted kingdom, so I suppose that
experience is solely his and mine alone. There is nothing as
stimulating for pod-fetishists as to have their members
foot-handled by clean, smooth, shiningly-scrubbed feet, so if
your husband shows a liking for toes and ankles, it's high
time you experiment with some serious footsie.

The Fruit-Women have golden skin and hair, so bright and
dazzling they light up the dusky woods where they grow and
flourish like individual incandescent bulbs. The lucky
visitor can have his pick, take the woman by her neck and the
back of her knees, and fuck her right under the tree from
whence she came.  When she comes, her orgasm makes her skin
shine brighter, radiating sun-like beams and covering
everything else with a yellow, blinding glow. Her eyes
slightly open (they're closed all the time, you see), and
like those of real women, her pupils roll back into her head
in ecstasy. Her lips moisten, open, and her sighs, my husband
relates, are like a thousand carillons singing in your head
and in your soul. The Fruit-Women, he says, for those who
have yet to meet a True Woman, are the ultimate Fuck.  Which
is why men who get stuck in the Enchanted Fruit Kingdom
always have a hard time coming back to the Real World.

My husband likes to watch me while I come. Whether it's by
fucking, eating, or manually massaging my clit, he loves to
see me shake and quiver. It's not like anything else, he
says, and Fruit Women be damned. I have to give him credit,
too, for my body's response. When his fingers touch me, fold
back the folds of my mons and vibrates me, I am more than wet
and tingling. There is a fruit native to the Southeast Asian
countries that has no equal in the Western world-its name is
santol. Fleshy, round, and furry, the edible outer layer is
made of sour, pink flesh, perfect when pickled, refreshing
when newly-picked; underneath is the seed covered in its
cloudy, fibrous protection, an addiction to anybody who
tastes it. When the santol is overripe, the flesh bursts
through its skin, exposing its goodness to man, insect, and
bird alike.

I am like this when I come. And perhaps, you are, too. When
my husband kneads my clitoris and sucks at my nipples, I
explode: all my secrets come rushing through my pores, and
like the golden light and sighs which the Fruit Women give
off, my heat and my cries slice through all semblances of
propriety. My husband's fingers make me sing; who am I to
deny the voice with which my coming brings?

The only problem with the Fruit Women is that they aren't
made for every man's consumption. Some of them thrive after
being fucked by human cock; their pollen flies right off; you
can actually see the golden clouds of dust erupt from their
skin and float to other areas of the valley. Some, though,
like long-neglected fruits, have been known to wither and
fade away, leaving a thin sliver of golden skin on the mossy
floor. Still, some irresponsible, over-eager men who have
entered the meadow of the Fruit Women choose their produce
way before validity, and fuck them dry. In real-fruit terms,
we call this nakulob, or force-ripened before season. The
Fruit-Women who are plucked before proper harvest time are
prone to wrinkle and dry up just as soon as they orgasm.
Needless to say, they are left for dead. It is for this
reason that men who are to gain entrance to the Meadow are
screened and given a stern entrance test at first.

My husband has never explained to me how he earned the
privilege of visiting this magical place. My belief is that
he was probably allowed to enter even before he was born.
When we met, I knew he spoke to fairies and that animals
spoke to him, and that, being another extraordinary creature
himself, knew just how to feast on me like I was a Fruit
Woman: On one of our first dates, he bought pears instead of
mineral water because "they quenched thirst better and were
much cheaper-much more nutritious too" - and after he chomped
on the pears, licked at my clitoris like a wasp buzzes over
chico; sucked on it as you would a jackfruit; allowed his
tongue to dance inside my pussy like a connoisseur would the
finer segments of a mangosteen; and caught my cum like it was
juice dripping from a watermelon.

I may be far from being a golden-haired and skinned Fruit
Woman, but that's ok. As for visiting a land of golden-haired
and skinned Fruit Men, I still have to investigate if such a
land of turgid bronzen cocks and rock-hard marble chests
exists. You, of course, will be the very first to find out.
Till then...

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