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Please note that this content is sexually explicit. We recommend that you should not read this content if you are offended by sexually explicit material.

The sky stretches out endless blue. I’m balanced on an upper bough of an elegant apple tree, bare feet dangling, taking little bites of crisp, juicy sweetness. The orchard sways down into a valley and then runs all the way to the horizon. The trees are heavy with fruit.

Sweat stings my skin where the backs of my shoulders are peeling and I’ve climbed up here to catch the cooling breeze for some soothe. Must wear sleeves tomorrow, even though it’s stupefyingly hot. Thank Christ for Christmas…. two days off. Two long summer days of swimming in the river and laying on the shady bank, reading and stretching out my exhausted body. The aching in my shoulders and neck is brutal, and by the end of the day my wrists are throbbing too. The pay is peanuts but the fresh air is beautiful and the apples are the best I’ve ever tasted. The crew are friendly, mostly travelling, like me, and often in the evenings we shun the cloying air of the corrugated iron sleeping sheds and gather around a fire, swapping stories and cooking spuds, passing around green ginger wine and the occasional spliff and sleeping on the ground or in hammocks. It beats an air-conditioned call centre by a long way, that’s for sure. The others are mostly seasoned, they tell me I’ll get used to it and loosen up soon, and that I’ll get faster too. They seem to pick twice what I do, using a deft single twist of the wrist every time. Up until today I was using two hands for each piece of fruit. I got a lot faster after some useful advice.

There was an ‘Oi!’ from the tree beside mine. He must have heard my low growl of frustration as I ripped a leafy branch off the tree – again. He grinned at me while I huffed, leaning awkwardly into the ladder while I tried to separate my apple from a proliferation of leaves. When I looked up he was grinning at me from under his sweat stained hat. ‘Watch’ he said. With his right hand he grasped the fruit with his palm and four fingers, placing his thumb where the stem meets the branch, lifted the fruit upside down and then – one gentle twist and the fruit was free. My jaw dropped – in frustration. Three days of wrestling and nearly falling off my ladder and nobody had told me – but then I laugh. He watched me try the technique. My smaller hand found it harder to encircle the width of the apple. I chose a smaller fruit and was delighted when it came away easily. I had to laugh.

‘Thank you’ was all I could say.
‘No worries.’

He tipped his hat and returned his attention to his tree. My little prize in my hand, I watched his style. He was looking to his next target while his hands worked. He was tall and brown, and immediately I fell for the rolling curves of his sun-flecked arms and shoulders as he reached and twisted. When he reached up I caught a delicious snatch of hip and belly between singlet and jeans. Just the right amount of flesh… enough to nibble. He must have felt me watching – another broad, cheeky smile came my way from behind dark shades. I returned the smile meekly and returned to my work with renewed energy. Maybe my body will cope better now that I’m not a ball of tension ripping trees apart.

It’s a stunning late afternoon, the mozzies are not out yet and I can see the sky starting to glow orange and pink around the low sun through fluttering leaves. I’m smiling to myself, enjoying the breeze, indulging in thinking about the smiley man and his beautiful arms, his gently curved belly, his cracked lips and bright white teeth. A slight overbite makes the smile boyish, but I have no idea how old he behind the sunglasses and hat.

As if materialising from my daydream, I spot him walking through the orchard toward me, a capricious blonde kelpie bounding along beside him. He makes his way through the long grass, his stride is long and languid. It’s still very warm – emerging from the shade in between the trees he pulls his t shirt over his head and throws it over a shoulder, revealing creamy brown skin over broad shoulders and those muscular arms. Head bent and arms swinging at his sides, he appears tired after a long day, his boots and jeans are dusty and worn.

He stops almost directly below me, between my feet I see him turn and sit on the grass, flick the laces of his boots loose and kick them off, strip off his socks. That must feel nice. Then he stretches out with arms behind his head, eyes closed. I don’t make a sound; just tuck my skirt up between my legs for a better view. I drink in his form outstretched below me. Time dawdles on this way, dragonflies hover and the dog races after a rabbit.

I take a bite of my apple and consider how good life is. The hat and glasses missing, I notice his messy hair and broad brow. I don’t think he’s washed yet. I can hear the laughter of the others in the river in the distance. Perhaps like me he is waiting for the rush to die down. Opening his eyes he looks directly up at me through the leaves, squints and tilts his head. I return his gaze and I stop swinging my legs. There’s that smile again. Irresistible.

I call ‘It’s cool up here.’ He springs to his feet and before I know it he’s sitting on a branch opposite me. I offer him my apple and he accepts.

‘Thank you for today.’

’Ts’orite. I didn’t want you falling off your ladder.’

We swap the standard ‘where are you from/where are you going, are you travelling alone’ information, I take note that he’s indeed alone, aside from the dog and a campervan. He drops the apple core and I’m trying to conceal that I’m talking more to his little creases of belly flesh than I am to his face.The sky is flushing fluorescent now over his shoulder and I can see the colour reflected on the skin of my legs. For a quiet moment we take one another in. My eyes follow thin lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. There is a light gloss of sweat across his brow, above his top lip and in the hollows above his collarbones. He asks me how I’m coping with the work and I laugh and squeeze the back of my neck.

‘How’d you think?’

‘You’ll be alright, just practise. You’ll get the hang of the bigger fruit too.’

We talk for a while. He’s softly spoken, spare with words and the smile seems to be a permanent feature. My back tells me it’s time to get down from the tree, I grimace as I stretch. He nods. We both climb down, he, easily, of course, and me, awkward girl style, chastising myself for feeling embarrassed. I let him lift me from my waist off the bottom branch and as I land on my feet, he doesn’t remove his hands from my waist and I don’t remove mine from the tops of his shoulders. Our smiles both widen and then – we both laugh and I take the opportunity to affectionately run my hands along his arms. He releases me. We’re still laughing as I sink to the ground and stretch out flat with a sigh of relief. He sits beside me, his back against the tree trunk with knees bent and he plucks a dandelion.

I lift each of my knees in turn, squeezing them in to my chest to release my tight lower back muscles and then adjust my skirt before swaying my bent knees from side to side, rolling my pelvis across the ground. It feels incredible. I’m concealing a grin because I feel like I’m in a movie, my heart is in my mouth. I tilt my head to look up at him, his head is lowered as he’s twiddling the flower, looking hard at it, but I think I can see the same kind of expression as the one I’m trying to hide. Without moving his head his eyes come my way and there’s no doubt, more grins, chuckles. He’s blushing, oh my god he’s blushing.

That’s more than permission, that’s a plea. In a flash I’m walking on my knees to him. He parts his legs with an intake of breath and I nestle mine in between and sit on my feet. My palms run down his solid thighs, he smooths his fingers up the length of my arms and my whole body starts sizzling with a rolling wave breaking deep inside my pelvis and a rush of wet warmth. He lowers his legs so that my palms are pressing on his hip bones and I lean in for the inevitable… his hands at the nape of my neck, I brush my cheek against his, he tilts his face to find my lips and the kiss is perfect – palpable restraint. I drinking in his smell of a long day of labour, earthy and tart. I reluctantly break the kiss and for the first time his smile is gone, replaced with wide eyes and an open mouth. His eyes travel to where he can see between my breasts hanging loose inside the green cotton of my dress, I sit back and wrestle it over my head. In my stillness then, I present my body to him like an offering and my gut turns with the feeling of exposure. For a moment I have to dig inside my mind for confidence to transform self-consciousness into thrill. His approving sigh relaxes me while he takes in my curves. Two palms cup my breasts; thumb and forefinger rest lightly on taut nipples. Covering one of his hands with my own, with the other I catch a finger over the waist of his jeans and slide it along to where a buttons are strained over full curve. I release the first button and then several more.

He releases my breasts to lower his pants. I give him room to pull them over his feet, allowing me a moment to take off my damp cotton knickers and enjoy the way his released penis with its tender skin bouncing against his thigh as though it’s been suddenly woken up. It looks how I felt a moment ago, slightly out of its element…

When he’s done he reaches for my hand and I walk my knees either side of his legs, breathlessly close to his body. My hands on his shoulders, his resting on my hips, the proximity of our sex is roaring at me. Looking down, I see he’s fully erect with a shining drop of moisture balancing atop the eye… it swells, trickles down the length of his shaft and he groans. His hands slide over my bum, gently pulling me toward him and I happily comply, his hands travelling back to my breasts where he holds them more firmly now and leans in with a low moan and takes a generous mouthful of my flesh, but all I can think about is my wet and parted pussy hovering inches from him. Lowering myself coerces him to release me, he wriggles down a little and I carefully I sit so that his length rests against my pubis and a taste of my moisture touches his thighs. I savour his anticipation a moment.

Leaning back, I press the lips of my pussy lightly on to the base of his cock, collecting his glistening moisture. I come a little closer to prop his cock against his belly, then I rise to caress the length of him with my own, and his fingers press almost painfully into my hips. Sliding down, now pressing my clitoris in, flicking my hips side to side to flick it over his firm base and release it from its hood. Again, up and down I slide and his eyes are closed, his head tilted back. As he becomes more rigid he’s pressing against me more firmly. I rise quickly to release him and then, looking down I nestle the head of his cock into the hollow of my opening and massage it with small movements of my hips. He surrenders and drops his hands to his sides. I balance there and sip at his juices with the curves of my hole, resisting his still-advancing cock and keeping my touch light. I finally admit him, leaning forward, foreheads touching, my hands resting on my thighs.

The pop of the head of his penis fulfils my expectations – I begin to sink, allowing the rounded tip, it’s firm ridge and an inch of his length before a moment’s pause where we both revel in deeper satisfaction. I hold release my breath and sink down further, taking him with incremental heightening and lowering. Each time I pull up the hard column becomes wetter and more ready for the next downward stroke. My eyes close to focus on the sensation, more intense, more full, stretching me open. Admitting his entire length, I exhale and allow my weight to completely sink down and it’s excruciatingly satisfying. Leaning forward to rest my head into his neck I start to grind my clitoris down onto his pubic bone, I’m full to overflowing and I find myself whispering ‘fuck’ into his ear. ‘Fuck’ he whispers back, taking my head in his hands, biting my neck and breathing forcefully into my blonde hair. I make it last, letting him take firm handfuls of hair close to my scalp behind my head and guide my face to his lips, where he plants kisses that begin soft but then tense when I squeeze the hard shaft inside me. The slow release of him is its own reward, just to the very tip and I begin again, this time he rocks with me in a slow rhythm, progressing deeper and deeper until we are again completely engaged, a mutual groan and a grind and then a slicker, slipperier ride.

‘Lay down for me?’ he asks, breaking my trance. A delicate disengagement and as I kneel my inner thighs slide against each other. His pubic hair is matted wet. He wastes no time nestling my legs apart with one of his own. I lay back with my knees parted wide and love being exposed to his eyes. He slithers his warm belly skin along mine, his deep searching tongue is in my mouth and immediately there’s a firm thrust all the way inside me and I’m gasping. Then his breath is in my ear, and I’m wrapping my legs around his hips to brace myself for hard pounding. He pounds and grinds, pounds and grinds, meets my eyes furtively and I offer him a nod and a whispered yes before a few last short, hard thrusts, his eyes squeezed shut, his face to the sky and he releases a strangled cry. I squeeze down on the pulsing inside me and drink it in as he lowers his body on to mine, breathing heavily with me.

Three, four, five and the pulsing subsides, my legs still wrapped around his hips I turn us together on to our sides, my head resting on his outstretched arm and we try to hold the moment still. We are spent, fulfilled, complete and come to rest nestled deep in green, drowsy kisses and stroking of faces, breathing slowing lazily until we drift close to sleep. Again, time dawdles on, dragonflies hum and the kelpie returns, flops down a few feet away and pants contentedly with lolling tongue.

© 2012 Nia Sims

Image: Nia Sims

Image: Nia Sims

Nia Sims is a fledgling writer from Melbourne’s western suburbs. She is enjoying her foray into erotic fiction, not least of all in the hope of securing an ‘autograph’ from Stu Lynch, fellow Little Raven contributor. Her hobbies include eating, sleeping, flirting and meditating in doctors’ waiting rooms.

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