FIVE A DAY

Friday nights were special. They’d both finished work for the week and had enjoyed a bottle of Rioja with their supper. She, slumped out on the sofa, and he in the armchair opposite were both watching the Tele. There was nothing much on. A repeat of “Friends”, an episode of “ Will and Grace” and the reflection of the moving images and studio laughter flashed around their moodily lit living room while the two contemplated a weekend off.

“Mint tea?” He asked her when the commercial break appeared. “Or more wine?”

“Another glass would be nice”, she said flashing him a genuine smile and waiving the nearly empty glass towards him. He got up and went out to the kitchen returning with a newly opened bottle of Spanish red and the fruit bowl.

“Thought you might like some fruit.” He said as he topped up her glass with the wine.

“Thanks love. Maybe later.”

It was during “Desperate Housewives” that she reached down into the fruit bowl and carefully selected a banana. She peeled it completely and threw the skin across the room into the open fireplace where it lay like a giant yellow spider on the hearth. She put the exposed fruit back into the fruit bowl and then using both hands undid the top button on her jeans and wriggled out of them raising her buttocks from off the sofa. Her knickers too followed the blue denim down her legs and in a flash she lay there with nothing on her bottom half. He looked across at her with a frown and an open mouth. The television soap bounced off her smooth bare skin. Nothing said she reached for the peeled banana and slid it between her legs. She handled the fruit carefully and slowly so as not to break it and inch by white inch the peeled banana disappeared, reappeared then disappeared again. He could just make out the slight rocking motion of her hips as they rose up and down on the sofa. Her left leg, the one nearest to him, slid to the floor and her body moved and stretched as though to take in more of what ever it was on offer. The banana vanished. She raised her right hand, the one that had been guiding the banana, and bought its sticky fingers up to her mouth. Her eyes were closed, or so he thought, and she licked each finger in exaggerated turn.

Her left hand found the fruit bowl again and this time a pear appeared. He was stuck to the armchair and swallowing hard. His heart was racing unhealthily. “Desperate Housewives” had taken a back seat.

The pear was studied and with her teeth, the stalk was bitten off and spat out on to the carpet somewhere. Thin end first, the fruit was persuaded to follow the banana and bit by bit it too was encouraged into her vagina. The bulbous end of the pair took some effort but she took it in her stride, letting out a considerable moan, almost a cry, while the green fruit was being pushed in.
He was beside himself. Mightily uncomfortable with probably the biggest erection he’d ever had in his life before. He couldn’t move. Dare not. She took in some grapes, a very messy pomegranate that had been too ripe for eating and was half way through a Victoria plum when her orgasm arrived.

“I can’t stand fruit,” he said as he rushed from the room with his hands clasped over his penis.

“Fuck the governments recommendations,” he shouted coarsely.

“I do,” she said with a healthy smile.