originally from Modern Wife http://www.modernwife.com/fruit-women.html
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...
Tom Bolling's home page