This story draws parallels and is inspired by KD Grace's published work "Cherries in Season".
*****
The sky was consumed in a dreary overcast, plashes of rain smeared the window as the drizzle set in. Frail foliage stripped of all produce was showered in the late afternoon sprinkle, the soil beneath turning to mud as it soaked up mizzle. The bed of dirt outside had begun to dampen and transform from solid to viscous, dark brown pools of mud fitting in with the darkened sky.
Mora pressed her hand against the window, feeling the frigid glass and relishing the warmth and comfort of the bedroom more than before. "You hear that, Miel?" She whispered. "There's a storm coming."
Mora's hand sought her wife's forehead, fingertips cautiously grazing along her smooth skin, ascending into the fields of opulent orange hair she tended to so diligently. Miel squirmed along the mattress, wriggling in place while Mora gingerly ventured through the apricot valley atop her lover's scalp.
The woman upon the mattress could only picture what her wife was wearing that afternoon. All she could manage to see was the mild shimmer of a sensual red glow filling the room. The rest was obstructed by the blindfold. She was left in the dark.
A mild unease persisted within her being, a subtle yet distinct tingle in her tummy knowing she was powerless.
Knowing she was Mora's plaything.
The farmer's hand had begun to grow more brazen, teasingly descending to Miel's cheek, then to her neck and finally settling upon her ample breast, forcing a breath of shock out of her.
Mora snickered, her finger scritching against the ropes driving through her bosom. Each rope was accompanied by another as they stretched above, below and in between her milky mounds, each end tying into a thick and firm knot behind her back. Anticipation had begun to get the better of Miel, ever increasing excitement from the deprivement of stimuli an accelerant to her breathing. Mora giggled.
"Excited, are we?"
The hold on her breast was gone, the sensation of gliding moving back into her hair. "You'll need to wait a bit. Maybe you should have a snack?"
Sensations dissipated once more as the bedroom floor creaked. Mora had stepped away from the yearning woman in the bed.
"I don't want a snack," Miel whined. "I want you. I hate it when you tease me like this."
"Do you?"
"Yes!"
An evident lie. Mora didn't seem to mind, though, laughing to herself as she made an exit. Miel was left to herself, left squirming in her cuffs and bondage, left wondering where her woman could have possibly gone.
Gentle footsteps echoed throughout the house, gradually growing more faded as seconds ticked by. "Is she going to leave me here?" Miel wondered silently. The cool wind from the overhead fan breezed against her curvaceous form as she fidgeted with her restraints, spreading her wrists apart as far as the chain allowed her to while her mind wandered.
Her blank driftings were impeded, the welcome feeling of Mora's finger grazing against her naval snapping her back into reality. A gentle plop could be felt upon the bed, the bound woman left questioning what it could have been.
Her internal inquiry was left unanswered, the lone finger resting atop her stomach slowly trailblazing upward to the ropes. Faint rummaging was barely audible beneath the low hum of the fan, though the nefarious giggle of Miel's partner was unmistakable.
"What are you up to?" She called out. Silence. Nothing but the still atmosphere greeted her call as Mora continued to stir, plotting some dubious deeds. Consternation began to brew inside Miel. "Mora? Hun? Are you-" She was cut off. A rotund and miniscule orb had been placed into her mouth. A blueberry. If not for a moment, it appeared to have quelled her, a delightful moan of pleasure escaping her lips as the ball was crushed into a delectable burst of juice.
"I said you would feel better after, didn't I?"
The farmer clicked, rolling another fruit in-between Miel's lips. It was slightly larger this time. Her tongue flicked and fondled this sphere, finally pressing it against her teeth as it began to secrete its delicious nectar. A particularly plump cherry, one freshly picked that morning. The pleasant taste of morning dew was still present on its outer coating, each hit of flavour a delicious dose of familiarity.
One last thing slithered inside her mouth. It was a tongue. It was the warm and flat and slippery tongue she adored every time it met her own. Without hesitation, Miel's tongue embraced Mora's, repeatedly licking the tip of hers up and down before they became intertwined. Mora savoured the fruity residue within her woman's saliva, an effective aphrodisiac as her glossa continued to poke and prod within Miel's damp mouth.
