The Wrong Reunion

I didn’t know whether I felt incredibly excited, or ridiculously stupid. But I lay on my back and spread my legs anyway, while he slipped a grape inside me, then knelt at my feet with his mouth wide open. “Come on Jenny, give it a go.”

Sinking into my vagina, the grape felt cold and hard, a bit like a pebble in your sock, and only slowly did it warm up and soften. But no matter how hard I tried, which muscles I flexed, I couldn’t expel it – and I certainly couldn’t send it shooting across the room. “You’ve been watching too much Asian porn,” I chided him gently. “They probably do it with mirrors, anyway.”

He knelt forward and pressed his lips to my labia. “I’ll just have to get it out myself, then.” His tongue eased in and, for a moment, chased the slippery fruit through my folds; he made contact and I felt the tight suction as he pulled it out, took it into his mouth and chewed, the motion of his jaws electric against my soft flesh. “Hey, that’s good,” he breathed. “Mind if I have another?”

I sat forward and stroked his head. “Go ahead. Just take a little longer looking for it, this time.” My eyes closed, I braced myself for the alien entry, then relaxed back into its removal, twice, three times, four… until finally he decided to share his bounty, and slipped a juice-drenched grape into my mouth from his, at the same time as he pushed his prick into my puss.

“I’ve never fucked a fruit basket,” he whispered as his rocking hips began to push him in deeper, but any smart retort I might have conjured was lost as the most incredible orgasm began building in my gut. My legs wrapped round his waist, my nails raking the flesh of his back, my own hips grinding against his, I cried out in joy, just as he, too, groaned his own climax, but my own sensations were so intense that I barely felt his excitement. Instead, all I could muster was a weak hiss, “well, people always say fruit is good for you.”

That was the first and only time we slept together. It was the last week of college, the last chance to do all those things you’d forgotten to accomplish over the past three or four years. For me, that meant bedding the cute guy who’d been hovering at the back of Sociology all term; for him… well, I think that’s obvious. And I wouldn’t even get to spread the word around the campus on the sexual telegraph that all the girls subscribed to. I was flying out first thing tomorrow, halfway across the country to Chicago, to the new job… the new life… that was awaiting me.

I never forgot the grapes, though, and when I asked my friend Lisa… to whom, of course, I confided all my secrets… if she was going to join me at our year’s 10th anniversary reunion, it turned out that she hadn’t, either. In fact, that was the first thing she said – “hey, maybe you’ll see the grape-boy again. You’d better get some practice in.”

I laughed. “No, I’m too old for learning new tricks.” Besides, since that night, I’d actually seen the kind of films that obviously inspired grape-boy’s imagination, the showgirls whose quims could send a ping-pong ball ricocheting against the far wall, and I really didn’t find it that attractive a trick. “I’ll just stick with what I know I’m good at.” It was only in the back of my mind that a little voice was wondering whether Lisa had a point….


I saw him as soon as I walked into the gymnasium. Lisa had cried off from coming along … too many old ghosts attended her years of Higher Education… so I flew in alone, only to hook up with a gaggle of old acquaintances at the airport luggage claim. We shared a couple of cabs to our hotels downtown, dutifully filling one another in on everything we’d done in the last ten years, and slipping in the gossip we’d heard about other people.

There was some juicy stuff there as well – the prim and proper Little Miss who wore her virginity like an Easter bonnet, was now onto her third husband. The know-it-all weasel that dropped out in our second year was now a rising star in mid-western politics. And that guy I saw on a VH-1 oldies show a few years ago, who I thought looked vaguely familiar, was indeed the same one who once dyed his hair three colors and insisted he was the new Boy George. He never quite got that far, but he did form a band, make a video, have a hit – and now he’s a DJ in the Pacific Northwest. Good for him.

There was more rumor to relish once we got to the college, one reason why I didn’t zero in on grape-boy… I have to stop calling him that; Michael, his name’s Michael… immediately. But I felt his hand on my shoulder within five minutes, anyway.

“Hello, stranger.”

I turned. “Hi….”

He was in computers now… isn’t everyone?… still living in Florida, still single, still cute. And that latter feeling was obviously mutual; we’d not seen one another for a decade, but the spark that blazed between us during our last days at school, which we’d only ever confronted that once, was still afire. A few other guys I’d once dated passed by; we smiled, nodded, exchanged the necessary pleasantries, but I always turned back to Michael at the first opportunity, and it was obvious that he was doing the same thing.

Finally, he popped the question. “Look, rather than stand here all night blanking everybody else, how about we split? This thing’s going on all weekend, after all.”

“Okay. What hotel are you staying at?”

“I’m out by the airport. You?”

“Downtown. It’s a lot closer. Come on.” I took his hand and led him through the crowd; then he took the lead and drew me to his hired car. “You navigate, I’ll drive. What with all the new building going on, I scarcely recognize the town any longer.”

We arrived at my hotel, handed the valet the car keys, and I was glad I’d put out the extra few bucks and booked into one of the best. Crisp sheets on the bed, instantaneous room service, a well-stocked mini bar and… I have to admit, this detail took me completely by surprise… a complimentary bowl of fruit in my room. An apple and an orange, two fleshy bananas and, yes, a healthy bunch of grapes. You cannot argue with Fate, I smiled to myself. Some things are simply meant to be.

We kissed – tentatively at first, a little nervous, a little shy. But my tongue had a will of its own, wrapping itself around his, rediscovering the taste of his mouth, the strength of his lips, the sharpness of his teeth. His hands were on my breasts, pressing them against my body and slowly grinding the flesh against my rib cage, my rock-hard nipples compressed against the firmness of his palms, as he backed me towards the wall. He stepped back a little once we reached it, and his fingers deftly undid the buttons of my blouse, his mouth still welded to mine.

I reached behind me, unclasping my bra. Sliding under the material, his hands returned to my breasts, caressing their bareness, kneading the flesh while his thumb idly flicked at my nipples, sending sudden jolts of pleasure whispering down my spine. I wrestled to get at his shirt buttons, felt his wiry chest hair against my fingertips, and I broke his grip, broke his kiss, and took one of his lead-pellet nipples between my lips.

His hands were on my ass now; mine was tracing a sharp fingernail above the waistband of his pants, dipping occasionally beneath the fabric to scratch a vertical path from his belly-button down; it was a bit of a squeeze, but my hand forced its way down the front of his trousers, my fingers reaching… his cock was hard and pointing straight up; I curved my hand and two fingers and my thumb grasped its head and squeezed lightly. Roughly, his hands had hitched my skirt up, were making their own way down the back of my tights, his fingers tracing a blunt path down the crease of my ass. They paused at my anus, lingered for a moment and then continued on their journey, to the very edge of my vagina.

I could feel how wet I was, and shivered as one probing finger began smearing my juices back round towards my ass, rubbing them into the soft skin and poking, tentatively again, at my ass-hole. “Okay, where is this going?” I wondered. “Because he’s not going to start shoving fruit up there… I don’t think.”

Releasing my light grip on the greasy head of his penis, I unbuttoned his waistband and slowly unzipped his pants, pulling down his underpants as I did so. A breath of musk touched my nostrils and a tremor of fresh excitement washed through my pussy as I took his surprisingly thick shaft in my hand. Michael half-sighed, half groaned, and his free hand shifted from my back to the top of my head, gently but firmly trying to push me down.

I stood my ground. I don’t know why guys always do that – if a girl wants to suck him, she’s going to. She doesn’t need encouragement, and she certainly doesn’t need force. Instead, I kissed his chest; let my lower lip bruise his nipple before baring my teeth and biting it lightly. Now both of his hands were on my head, and I broke away from him altogether. “I think I need to lie down,” I whispered and walked to the bed, pulling my tights and panties off, shrugging away my blouse and bra.

I crouched on the comforter, watching as he undressed, gasping as I saw how far and straight his cock stood out from his body, eight throbbing, fat inches, with the pre-cum forming a thick, viscous drip from the tip. He joined me on the bed and I kissed him hard, tracing my fingers across his belly, through his groin, around the tops of his thighs. His hips were shifting with my movements, trying to direct his cock into my hand, but I was faster than him, running my fingertips behind his knees, then up and across his buttocks.

“Touch me again,” he breathed, and I let my hand move to his scrotum, pushing my thumb into the tight skin that stretched across his hard balls. I massaged them with my palm, while I worked my way up to squeeze the very base of his dick between my index and middle finger. His hand was on my mound now, palm flat against my pubes while the very tip of his middle finger forced itself between the lips. I ground myself against it, the motion rippling against my clit as I forced his finger in deeper; then rewarded him by taking him fully in my hand, slowly jerking him.

His juice pooled thick on my fingers, his smell was heavy in my nose. Without letting go of his penis, I pushed him backwards, his legs dangling off the end of the bed, and held his cock straight up in the air. Then, moving to kneel on the floor between his legs, I lowered my head and ran a questing tongue across him; my tongue tingling as it swept through the sticky coating that seemed to be flooding out of him. I worked up a blob of saliva and let it drip down, swirling it into his own juice with my tongue, then took him into my mouth.

“Oh Jenny, yeah!” He half-growled, half-groaned his approval, as I gave his helmet a firm suck. “Eat me, eat me all up.” I opened my eyes and gazed up his body; he lay completely askew, his arms and legs a jumble of angles, his own eyes tightly shut. Every movement I made, though, brought another exhortation, a series of increasingly explicit orders and instructions that thrilled me to the core: “Bite me… yeah, like that. But deeper… I want to feel your teeth at the root… you make me so hard, baby… oh my God, that’s right, that’s it… hold me there… don’t move… now suck me like you’ve never sucked before….”

I obeyed every one, tightening my lips even more firmly around him; “oh Christ, Jenny, your mouth feels like a cunt… better than a cunt…. Don’t stop….” Don’t worry, I don’t intend to. Even when his pleas for me to suck… suck deeper… harder… gave way to a string of savage invective, grunts of “slut” and “whore” that would normally have sent me storming from the room, they merged magically into the pounding of the blood in my ears, and I continued relishing, almost worshipping, that hot, seemingly endless shaft, my lips pursed around his flesh, clinging tightly to the hot, salty skin, while one hand held him firm and upright, and the other slid wildly across his thigh.

He clutched my hair, pulled my head up roughly. “Tell me how much you love it… love sucking it.”

“I adore it… so hard, so firm”; I knew exactly what he wanted to hear me say. “You fill my mouth, I want to suck you forever. And when you cum, I want to taste every drop.” Yet, even as my words were devoted to the matter in hand, and his cock shivered with excitement at the devotions that I dedicated to it, my mind was planning the evening’s real highlight… the main event, as it were. I’d long since moved the fruit bowl off the table, to the floor by the foot of the bed. Now, ending the conversation by taking one of his balls deep into my mouth, I reached out and plucked two grapes off their stalk, and rolled them in my palm, warming them just enough that their entry into my body would not come as such a shock.

“But now you have to do something for me,” I whispered, kissing his cock, then his stomach, then slowly up his chest, while my fingers slipped the first grape into my dripping hole. His hands were at my waist, hauling me up his body; with one last heave, I was astride his face, my pussy just inches from his mouth. His tongue snaked out; I felt it at my lips and sank down, enveloping it and then clenched my muscles, seeking out the grape, forcing it to the front… of course I’d spent the last week practicing…. I pushed it onto his lips.

I saw surprise in his eyes, then shock. His hand reached up, pressed beneath my thigh to investigate the surprise intruder, looked at it and then realization dawned. He returned it to his mouth with a long, drawn out “mmmmm.” Then – “any more in there?”

I laid the other grape on his mouth. “You do it this time.”

His tongue pushed forward, carrying its little load to deposited deep within me. “Now take it out again,” I whispered, and I felt his tongue again, seeking, searching, lolling inside me, as it sought out its treasure. This time he took it straight into his mouth, bit down and then swallowed.

“More!”

I rolled off him, reached for the full stalk of grapes, then changed my mind and picked up one of the bananas as well. I peeled it slowly, with that exaggerated motion that you sometimes see in super-suggestive comedy films; only Michael wasn’t laughing. Rather, his eyes were almost bulging as he watched me remove the skin, snap the fruit in half, and then very slowly slide it inside me.

He almost leaped onto me, burying his face in my crotch, his entire mouth working to extract the fleshy, disintegrating mass from my wet folds; as I felt the last morsel move out, and felt him chew and swallow, I took the other half and placed it lightly against my lips. “Fuck me with it.” I knew that my own fluids would quickly reduce it to pulp, but Michael was even quicker.

His fingers seized upon the slippery fruit, scrambling to keep their grip as he pushed it in, pulled it out… it felt strange, like being fucked by something that wasn’t, despite its shape, meant for fucking – which, of course, was exactly what was happening. Two plunges, three, and then the banana collapsed into mash, and he was fishing it out with his tongue again.

I slipped my hand between his face and my sex, pushed a finger inside me and smeared the banana around my clitoris. “There. Lick me there.”

He obeyed, but I saw an idea forming in his mind. His hand snaked down to his own loins and began pulling at his dick, returning it to its earlier rigidity. Then he rose above me and entered me hard, plunging into the banana soaked mess, soaking his cock in that fascinating cocktail. I knew what was coming; squirming out of his grip, now it was my turn to pull his loins to my face.

The scent was overpowering – pussy and prick and banana, smashed together into one cloying, heavenly brew. I clamped my mouth over his cock and began devouring it, knowing from the pulsing of his balls that, any moment now….

His cries predicted his climax by seconds; he came so hard that I had to turn my head away, simply to catch my breath and swallow the first overpowering mouthful. I felt a hot splash across my cheek and into my ear and then, true to my earlier promise, took him back into my mouth, sucking out the final spasms of sperm, as I felt my own orgasm quivering on the brink of explosion. I reached my hand down and began flicking my clit, harder and harder; I came with him still in my mouth, hot and soft and sticky; and almost choked on him when my own cry burst forth.

We lay silent, drained. Once he breathed, “that… you… were fantastic,” and I handed him a freshly picked grape. “You weren’t so bad yourself,” I smiled, and shunted myself down to rest my head on his stomach, gazing at his penis, waiting for it to rise again.

He did not disappoint me, but this time when we screwed, we did it without the fruit – not necessarily because we wanted to, but because there’s not much you can do with apples and oranges. But the mini-bar served up its own share of pleasures… I should think most girls have blown their boyfriend after taking a mouthful of brandy, but until you’ve had it dripped on your clit, then slowly lapped away while the stinging leaves you pleading for release, you’ll never know the intensity of the orgasms that have built up inside you.

We never forgot how it all started, though; we never forgot the grapes; and, if I didn’t ever master the art of shooting them across the room, I found could at least squeeze them so they dropped from my snatch to his mouth; and one, I even squashed sufficiently that you’d have thought he’d found a barrel of wine, so gratefully did he lap down the juices. And when he came one more time, in the early hours of the morning, the last of the grapes was balanced on the end of his cock, held in place by my lips, and swallowed as hungrily as all of the others, a squishy, salty, bitter-sweet concoction that I wished we’d thought of earlier. Still, there was always tomorrow night….

Three exhausting, heavenly… oh, and reunion-filled… days later, home again, I dropped round to see Lisa, to tell her how the weekend had gone. “And was grape-boy there?” she wanted to know, as I reached the end of the gossip and news.

“Oh yes,” I smiled. “And he’s still as fruity as ever.”

We chatted, as girls do… and then she said something strange. She called him Brian.

“No, it was Michael.”

“No it wasn’t… Michael was that guy from Miami, right? The one you went to…” and she rattled off a few long-forgotten concerts that had passed through town. “Brian was the grape-boy. Look, I’ll prove it.” She crossed the room, reached up for a box on the top shelf of her closet, and pulled out a dog-eared old photo album; she flicked through a few pages and then produced a postcard. “You sent me this right after you got into Chicago.” And there, as a bold PS: “and don’t forget to ask me about Brian Winder.”

Oh shit…. So Michael… Michael was a guy I’d slept with a few times, but broke up with – oh, sweet irony – because I didn’t like the way he talked to me in bed. Brian, on the other hand… again, oh shit. I read the last line of that incriminating post-script. “I’ll never look at fruit the same way again.”

“Never mind, Jenny,” Lisa patted me on the shoulder. “Neither will Michael.”