In August, I order peach pie
French vanilla ice cream on the side.
Whole wheat? Don’t be silly.
Indulgence doesn’t come in half measures.
Sit close and we’ll share.
Close your eyes.
Flaky crust, rich with butter.
Lucious peach, still warm
melting chill of cream.
Taste summer and see;
A picnic blanket
the wind flares my sundress,
I feel the sunlight between my thighs
I hold my hat and laugh
the long blue ribbon like a rippling stream
I am poised, like a kite
ready to catch the wind.
“All that in a single bite?” you ask.
“All that and more.”
My hand on your thigh under the table
I feel you shift, desperate for my fingers to find you
find you hard and aching,
tight against you jeans
You lean forward,
as if to brush a crumb of crust from my lips.
I slowly lick it off,
“Peach pie is so lusicious,” I sigh and take another bite.
Close my eyes again and give in to delight,
a sigh that is almost a moan,
a quiver that is almost a shudder.
“The pure sweetness of summer,” you murmur.
“Have a taste.”
I hold out the fork.
I lick my lips, just in case any stray crumb lingers there.
Your eyes close.
I don’t need to ask what you see.