Meursault

Orchard

The apples were barely ripening as we kissed in the orchard for the first time. But children we were as our lips met clumsily below the boughs. As we conducted our infantile jests the apples above our heads were still unadulterated enough to hold their integrity. The weeks past and the last wisps of summer began to fade, no longer did we innocently frequent the orchard, our love no longer so juvenile. We still touched lips but consciously so, for we knew our lips desired more than just the touch and taste of other lips. For awhile we baited each other, allowing our lips to briefly reach towards the fruit before embarrassingly pulling them back, blushing scarlet as the apples flesh. Before long our lusting lips uncontrollably charged forwards, trampling through the orchard, greedily pulling at the forbidden fruit. Nibbling at first before lusting for more, a bite, a bigger bite, a whole apple, a whole box of apples. Soon enough the orchard was bare, apple cores rotted on the floor, and although separated both parties still sought more.

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