In honour of my birthday, a special sweet treat involving the sensual textures and flavors of cherry, peach, plum, mango and banana. One cannot live on cunt juice alone, no matter how delicious and nutritious and organically beneficial. So to supplement my beloved diet of pussy nectar -- a scrumptious erotic fruit salad.
You are comfortably restrained in leather and chains, by my no escape, no mercy feasting harness. On your back, legs raised and held apart with a spreader bar, your luscious ripe peach totally exposed and vulnerable to my ravenous insatiable tongue and my lewd imagination. You're already wet and oozing when my mouth finds your secret sacred grotto and I eagerly slurp and swallow the sweet juice trickling down your thighs. Slowly and surely in primeval instinctive lust, I lapse into the eternal dance of lips and clit and tongue. Licking and flicking and slurping and sucking the sweet soft velvety flesh of your exquisite flower, petals swollen and glistening with dew, clit engorged and aching, a rigid electric pearl of pleasure. You cum quickly and suddenly and drench my face and mouth with gentle spurting streams of warm sweet sauce, flavoured with a hint of bitternut hickory. I swallow every delicious drop as my heart pounds in my throat.
I peel a hard unripe banana and slide it slowly into your warm sopping cunt, in and out in the age old ritual of filthy nasty fucking. You mew and moan in pleasure and delight as I increase the pace, and gasp when I withdraw it -- to suck your sweetness from the hot dripping dildo fruit. Then I fuck you again, the banana now sliding effortlessly in and out of your hot juicy mango. The sweet sauce from deep inside you is even sweeter than I had imagined and I suck the banana so greedily that it begins to soften, and eventually becomes a soggy mushy treat which I hungrily devour. Then I peel another banana and pump your pussy peach vigorously and without mercy, unperturbed by your squeals of delight and your spasming convulsing orgasms -- pausing only to gobble the essence of your womanhood. And so into the wee hours until there is no longer any fruit or juice to suck and swallow.
After a long memorable feast of intoxicating debauchery we collapse into a stupor of delicious over indulgence. It is most definitely not the last supper.