Jamming

Jamming, like making jam. No, keep reading, plow through, there is a story at the end, I promise. 

I'm notoriously bad at choosing fruit. To the point that I've been told many times, we're out of apples but don't buy any, I will buy them myself. 

I have no problem choosing vegetables, zucchinis, cucumbers, carrots, an occasional daikon, all firm, not too long, not too thick, just the right size. Or bananas. Or ginger, but that's a story for another time. 

So here I am, making another small batch of jam out of wrongfully chosen peaches and plums. 

And now the story. 

She slides back on the edge of the bathtub, now her naked bum, a living metaphor of a low-hanging fruit, a peach or an apricot specifically, a super magnet to his eyes and lips. Suffice to say that a drunken lounging in an empty bathtub with a bottle of quickly diminishing whisky never paid off so well.

Drowning in a heavy scent of vanilla, probably from the body wash she used after, well, after the unfortunate events of this never-ending night, he tips the bottle again. Vanilla, no siree Bob, he will show Her Highness that vanilla he is not.

He leans over to the right cheek. At first, it's just a kiss, his teeth graze over the soft flesh, sucking it in to leave a mark. He licks the sting away. His hands push her hips down to hold her in one spot. The encouraging moans she makes, and the way she slow rolls her hips despite his tight grip. He lounges into the same spot, now biting into it harder, holding onto it, waiting for her to move away, out of his reach, but she doesn't. She wiggles and moans and squirms but doesn’t try to move away. He lets it go and moves to the next spot, then the next one, and one more, closer and closer to her pinkhole.