Figs
An erotic short story
Audio taster read by Charlotte
Figs have such a rich symbolic history that they’re almost impossible to separate from sensuality. They’re sweet, lush, slightly decadent, associated with fertility, abundance, temptation, the Mediterranean, late summer, ripeness, and hidden interiors. Even the act of opening a fig carries a kind of metaphorical charge. In this short story I took it a little further. I hope you enjoy it.
Seven ripe figs lay on the wooden chopping board, skin a dark, ridged purple, fading to green at the tips.
She loved the preparation ritual they had established over the last few months. He was waiting for her in the bedroom, wearing the soft shirt and loose trousers that still smelled a little of the outdoors. They were both relaxed after a lazy late summer afternoon spent lying together on the grass in the dappled sun, reading and drinking tea.
The sharp serrated knife in her hand glinted as it caught the late afternoon sun slanting in at the kitchen window. She took a steady breath and immersed herself in the moment, conscious of her bare feet on the cool kitchen tiles, her free hand resting on the wooden countertop. Then she selected a fig, and in a small precise motion, sliced off its green tip and halved it lengthways. The fig fell open, red seeded flesh exposed like a secret. She divided each lush half lengthways again with the blade, creating four perfect jewelled quarters.
She imagined lifting one of these to his mouth. The pause before. The small, inevitable parting of his lips. The moment where he stopped thinking and simply allowed. The giving, the receiving, the anticipation. All it required was a slowing, a presence, and trust. A willingness not to deny, minimise or push away.
It had started in the spring – almost by accident – while they were sharing a bunch of grapes in the kitchen. Practicality had turned into intimacy, which was beautiful in its own way, but they had discovered an exchange with an inherent erotic charge. They experimented with various fruits over the summer, enjoying the wholesome sweetness of colourful flesh, the juice as a refreshing prelude. Plump strawberries, tart raspberries, soft ripe peaches cut into chunks, cool melon slices. But figs were their favourite. Decadent and exotic, hidden colour deep and rich, succulent flesh, each fig erotic in and of itself.
She discarded the tip and placed the quarters on the porcelain dish that had become part of their ritual. Open sides facing up, always. Then she dealt with the next fig, and the next, severing tip from body, slicing and turning until all were ready. Twenty-eight glistening pieces of treasure, loosely arranged in a shallow cream-coloured bowl.
The air was pleasantly warm, the occasional hum of traffic giving way to expansive silence. Spaciousness. The ritual required spaciousness. She picked up the dish and walked towards the bedroom, her light summer dress swirling at her knees. At the doorway she lingered a moment. He was half sitting, half lying against two pillows. Relaxed. Peaceful. Waiting.
He opened his eyes at the sound of her footsteps, and she noticed a small smile play at the corners of his mouth. The kind only she recognized. She sat down on the bed and placed the dish between them.
“Are you ready?” she asked, quietly.
“Yes,” he said.
She selected the first fig quarter, her thumb pressing gently into the flesh, exposing even more of that deep, honeyed red. For a second, she just held it there between them, suspended – an offering, but also a question. Slowly, carefully, she brushed the fig against his lips like a scarlet promise. He bit into it, taking half, eyes locked onto hers as he chewed and then swallowed.
“Mmmmm.” He opened his mouth for more.
She smiled and offered him the remaining half, stroking his face with her hand, feeling the muscles in his jaw move as he chewed. His trusting mouth opened so willingly to take the next from her, and the next, tasting, savouring, swallowing, waiting for more.
Receiving from her felt strangely intimate, as though she were nourishing something deeper than hunger.
This time, she didn’t rush. The next quarter she held up between them, so the fading afternoon light caught the glistening, jewelled centre. She watched his gaze settle first on the fruit and then on her.
“Patience,” she murmured, the word a soft vibration in the quiet room.
She leaned in closer, the scent of the sun-warmed grass still clinging to her skin, and pressed the flesh of the fig gently against his lower lip first. A bead of sweet, crimson juice pooled there. He caught his breath, a sharp intake of air through his nose. She let the fruit slip past his teeth. As he bit down, she allowed her fingertips to linger, brushing against the warmth of his lips, catching the stray drop of sweetness with her thumb. She brought her thumb to her own lips, tasting the rich, earthy flavour of the fig mixed with the heat of him. He reached up, his hand steady and warm as it wrapped around her wrist, not to pull her away, but to anchor her there, right at the edge of the bed.
This had become their occasional but sacred ritual. He allowed her access to this ordinary, yet primal and private act of tending to him, trusting her with the intimate mechanics of nourishment. And always, sooner or later, it led them somewhere deeper.
Thinking of this, she selected a crimson quarter for herself as he watched. She sucked on it a little, pulling seeds and flesh into her mouth, savouring the delicate flavour before biting into it, chewing and swallowing, just as he had done for her.
“Mmmmm yes, these ones are really good,” she said.
“They really are, I think they’re the best ones yet,” he replied. “Delicious.” He half-smiled at her again, his dark eyes glinting.
She felt heat pooling between her legs, glanced down, and saw the bowl was half empty now. It would be soon.
She chose the biggest, juiciest-looking fig for him, and held it ready. He looked straight at her as his lips parted, and the sweet intimacy of it almost took her breath away. This time he bit the first half and then took the second piece greedily, chewing and swallowing almost before she could offer more.
“My turn,” he whispered, his voice a little lower now, the quiet spaciousness of the room suddenly feeling beautifully, thrillingly small. He reached across and pulled her over so that she was sitting astride him. His strong arms circled around her and drew her closer, so he could kiss her neck. She felt her whole body melt into him, his broad chest against her, his toned belly against the gentle curve of hers, and lower down, the unmistakable twitch of him hardening under her. Her own pulse throbbed hot between her legs as she felt his need rising to meet hers.
He kissed her mouth now, feather light and then insistent, testing, teasing. Giving and receiving. The taste of fig, sweet, dark, lingering, threaded through the kiss.
Without thought, her hand moved down below the waistband of his trousers, wanting to feel his now obvious, hard length straining against her. He groaned as she made contact there, squeezing the swollen tip gently with her fingers. She leaned close to his ear, her breath warm against his skin.
“Yes,” she sighed. “Good.”
He turned his attention to the delicate hollow beneath her ear and kissed her there again and again, spurred on by her quickening breath.
She cried out as he whispered softly in her ear, “When the dish is empty, it will be your turn to be filled.”
This then, was the heart of their intimate, primal ritual, nurturing and erotic, tender and savage.
Still sitting astride him, she took just two more pieces for herself. He watched her as intently as if he had never eaten at all, his fingers rising to stroke one of her nipples which, visible through her light bra and thin dress, hardened under his touch. She angled her body closer in response and might well have relented and pulled down his trousers so he could enter her there and then. But when she moved as if to, he took her wrist again and reminded her with a look that she had a job to finish.
Only a few pieces remained. She fed them to him slowly, though patience was becoming harder to maintain. The final piece she shared with him, face close to his as she took her half and gave him the rest. As they finished it, they were already kissing and pulling clothes off. Her light summer dress was pooled on the floor in an instant, followed by his shirt and the scrape of his loose trousers being kicked away.
He had been hard and ready a while, and she was slick against him, hot and aching for his touch. The deliberate, languorously built patience of the last hour collapsed into something hungrier.
Yet they had learned never to rush the final threshold. He reached down between their bodies first, his hand, warm and sure. She moaned as he began to stroke her clit, his fingers circling with a beautiful friction that made her arch into his hand, her breath catching sharply in her throat. One arm circled his shoulders as she pressed her face against his neck, a soft sound escaping her despite every attempt to remain patient.
“Now,” she pleaded, the word little more than a breath.
“Yes,” he murmured against her skin. “Now it’s your turn.”
Only then, when she was completely open, did he lift her slightly by the hips. He guided his hard, straining length against her wetness and sank up into her in one deep, unhurried stroke, filling her, exactly as he had promised. She gasped at the stretch, her body tightening around him. They stayed like that a moment, breathing together, foreheads touching, the empty bowl resting on the bed beside them.
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Delicious indeed !!!