The Smell of Apples is a little piece I wrote for Alison Tyler’s Smut Marathon and where it tied for first place. And as with a few of my pieces there, I thought I’d show it to you guys here as well. Thanks to anyone who voted for me!
It’s a bit on the adult side, so proceed with that in mind.
The smell of apples, slowly disintegrating in my fruit bowl always brings you back to me. It’s in the slightly acidic aroma they take on when the brown spots appear; and I start looking around for the last bees of the season, yellowing leaves and your flushed cheeks, your glossy, dilated eyes as your fingers clutch at my hair.
There is little left of our youth – the apple trees were cut down many years ago, and the land was covered in sweeping mono-cultures I don’t recognize. There was a pond once where we lay, watching dragonflies curl up their spindly tails in mating, but someone filled it in. My parent’s house is gone, too. We used to sit on the porch in shorts and tees far longer than the weather really allowed in that last fading summer before we left for college, flashing each other little bits of those forbidden patches of skin. They tore that down first; even before everything else went.
The village in which we grew up treats its sights like my brain tries to treat memories: slowly disintegrating, tearing them down and filling them in one by one, until I can barely remember what your cunt tasted like, and how you used to bite the fleshy root of your thumb to quell your moans. Your hands, wrists, and lower arms were always covered in bite-marks after spending an afternoon with me. The sight made me flush with pride; but then, you know that, and always flashed your hand at me over the next few days. So I would see, so I would remember.
That’s what I want to tell you most of all: I remember; you held on tighter than houses can, and ponds and even trees with their roots that reach deep in to the earth.
Sometimes, I bite my hand when I get off and it helps me stabilize the image of your face as I cum. There you are, smiling your cocky smile, one eye-brow in a perfect arch to order me on my knees. It was playful and almost innocent; I was your prisoner, your slave, your servant and I snuck out at night to be with you, to bury my face in your cunt under those apple trees.
I curled my tongue against your clit; you pulled at my hair, dragged me closer. There was strength in that grip; I remember that, too. It was a strength that overcame the cooling season, and anyone’s ideas of how a girl like you was supposed to behave. You were the brave one, always. And you held me there, safely pressed between your legs, so that I was free to get lost in you.
The smell of fallen fruit cannot be parted from you. I bite into an apple even now and all I taste is you. That’s why they always rot in my fruit bowl, and why still keep buying new ones.