Feeling Fruity

This is a confessional by a friend who wants to remain anonymous. The story is hers, but the words chosen to tell it are mostly mine.

Her name isn’t Emma, but that’s what I’m going to call her. She’s a grown woman of 27, with a young son and happily separated from the boy’s father. The father is still around and their relationship is much stronger now that they’re not living together, have got some ‘space’ and have stopped having sex. Emma doesn’t want him back; he doesn’t want her back and the meals and socials that they share are enough for both of them. They’re being adults. They’re being parents. It’s working for them.

Emma’s biggest problem, she says, is tiredness. There just aren’t enough hours in the day. Emma’s son, Joshua, goes to bed at about 8 PM, which leaves Emma with a little ‘adult’ time each evening. He is a great sleeper and he slumbers from 8 in the evening until 7 in the morning, regular as clockwork. Emma often laments that there’s not much time to find love after all the cleaning is done and preparations have been made for the next day.

She enjoys long hot baths and glasses of red wine but she admits that lately, more and more what she is missing is a nice big cock to play with. Apparently, lying in her bed with just her hands for company isn’t enough. After a fit of giggles, I suggested buying some toys, but Emma refused as she once caught Joshua using one as a palm tree in his castle, and it was only by chance that she noticed before her parents did.

But that’s enough background. This is where the real story starts. During a recent tidy-up, Emma had found a packet of unused condoms in her bedside table. Sadly, they had gone well-beyond their use-by date. So… Emma found herself with a packet of old condoms and no-one to share them with. She felt a bit sad and low at first, seeing the used condoms as a metaphor for herself, for her life. Was she also passed her sell-by date? But the condoms also got her thinking about what she had been missing for so long.

She tried to ignore the condoms and the thoughts that had been awoken by their discovery and just go to sleep… but even after a relaxing bath her body was excited and tingly. Something had been re-awakened. She lay in bed rolling her nipples and thinking, or rather fantasising:

So there I was lying in this great big bed with my mind running back to various sessions of lovemaking. Not just Joshua’s father, although he was such a big man that just getting him inside me would have me panting and half way to orgasm. There had been other men, both before and since. All had had their merits. As I remembered happier, hornier times, my hand slipped down under the covers and my fingers ran over my groin. With my left hand, I squeezed my breasts, pinched my nipples and began to feel the frustration rising again. It had been so long, too long. A woman has needs. This woman does anyway. I needed something inside me.

As I imagined being penetrated, the tingles ran down into my belly. My belly is very flat now. I’m proud of it and feel very sexy after all the dieting and exercising. I worked hard for my belly… it is my evidence, my reward. Men are looking at me again. I’ve seen them ogling me. I know that they are imagining doing things to me. Rude, lewd, crude things. I just wish one of them would get on and actually do it. I’d loved to be fucked again. Not even love. Lust would be good, great even. Just a man who wanted to jump my bones, and wasn’t too afraid or too respectful to actually tell me.

Still fondling my breasts, I stroked up and down my belly, and onto the top of my thighs and back up to my breasts. As I explored, my hands went close enough for me to know I was wet. I ran my hands all around the top of my legs just barely touching the smooth, but spiky, place where my pubic hair should be. My pussy is bare and part of me likes that I’m keeping it that way just for me, because I like it that way. But I would like to share it, to feel someone else’s fingers running over the sensitive skin for a change. Or their mouth.

I run the fingers of both hands over my mound and down, pulling in opposite directions to separate my lips. I can smell my musk even through the sheet I have hiding my naked body.

I let the entire length of my right finger drag back up over my clitoris… and know instantly that I am going to need more than my fingers tonight. I think about what I can use, now that I have deprived myself of sex toys. Something cock-shaped. Something phallic. I get up and explore the bathroom, trying to find some inanimate object to have sex with. Toothbrush? Too small. Toothpaste tube? Too weird. The old shampoo bottle would have been good but this one has wide shoulders. I go into the kitchen and immediately spot the bananas in the fruit bowl. I almost laugh at the perfection of them. So many women must have done what I’m about to do.

I pick the biggest one and separate it from the bunch and return to the bedroom. Opening my bedside cabinet, I fumble for the condom and stretch it over the banana, trapping any nasties inside.

The banana looks surprisingly good wearing a condom. It looks surprisingly cock-like. In fact, if I pulled down a man’s underwear and found something like that, I’d be thrilled. Maybe not quite so yellow, but in terms of shape and size…

I feel pleased with myself. It was a good choice.

I’m naked, lying on the bed with my legs spread. I am so excited that I can feel juices escaping as I rub the length of the banana over my pussy. It feels so naughty. To masturbate with a piece of fruit, pretending it’s a cock. I’m slippery, but add a little extra lubricant anyway as it’s been such a long time since I’ve been fucked. And that is what I’m going to do. I’m going to fuck myself. Slide it in and out, hard and fast.

Using the fingers of my left hand to pull open my labia and guide the tip, I grasp the root and angle it so the curve is pointing up towards me. The damn thing feels too cold to successfully imagine it to be a real cock as it makes contact with my pussy. The fantasy might be ruined but I don’t care. Plus, I know just how to warm it up.

I slowly force the nose of the banana into my pussy, delighting in both the dirtiness of what I’m doing, and the physical stretch as it penetrates me. It feels so good to have something inside me again. I feel like a woman. And a rather dirty, sexy woman at that. I push and pull it in and out, feeling it dragging on my flesh. They’re just gentle strokes with nothing too deep, just to get me used to it being in there. Then I change my grip and shove the whole thing up inside. I love the contrast of the hot and cold banana, the base is deliciously cooling, soothing even as the flesh-warmed tip drives up towards my womb. I just hold it in place, savoring the sensations of a whole banana inside my pussy. Reveling in the naughtiness of what I’m doing.

It feels so good to have something inside me again. Something to provide resistance as I finally relent and rub my clitoris for the first time.

Oooh yes! That feels very special. I tug on the base of the banana, moving it around inside me. It works well, I can feel it sliding against my sensitive innards. My heart is starting to race as I tug the root, forcing the mouth of my vagina to stretch open around the thicker shaft before easing it back in. I do an inch at first, then I run four or five inches free of my body, before sliding them back in. I repeat the process for the next few minutes, fucking myself with this wonderful piece of fruit, luxuriating in my ability to control the build-up to my orgasm.

I slide half of the banana into my pussy and then squeeze down with my pussy muscles to force it out. I do it again and again, enjoying the sensations until I feel like I might accidentally pee.

I settle down to make myself come, starting to run fantasies of past lovers, of the men I’ve had in this bed. I can feel the heat rising. My body is craving the sweet release of an orgasm… and it’s getting late. I reach down and get a good grip of the banana. I can’t see it going in and out of me but I can picture it in my mind’s eye. I’m settled and ready to go over the brink. The fingers of my right hand are rubbing my clit as my left hand is hidden behind my upturned thigh, using the banana as an improvised tool to fuck my pussy. It works well. I can do it as hard and as fast as I want with both hands.

It’s wonderful. I want to come now and settle on a fantasy. I am frigging faster and faster, trying to accentuate the steady fucking of the banana. This new fantasy isn’t of a guy. It’s of a girl with a strap-on. She’s the one fucking me. My legs start opening and closing on their own. I can feel my juices running freely down the crack of my arse and know that I’m going to have to sleep on the other side of the bed tonight.

I’m going to come. I keep frigging my clitoris hard and fast, rubbing back and forth right on top of my exposed nub as I shove the banana in and out. I can hear myself moaning and feel my body lifting off the bed, searching for even more stimulation. It works – the banana is dragged inside as my pussy flexes and the shocking depth of the penetration as it nuzzles against my cervix takes me over the edge. I’m coming, and it’s so much better, so much harder as my muscles grip, biting down on the phallic fruit inside me. Every pulse, every pleasure is intensified. I might be being quiet, but that’d because I’ve had a lot of practice. Inside, I’m silently screaming with joy at what I have done for myself.

The final act is to extract the banana. It’s a sticky, slippery mess. Even after I peel the condom off, the once bright skin is a mass of brown bruising from where my hungry pussy’s muscles have damaged the fruit.

Through habit, I tidy-away the evidence, hiding the banana in my lunch box for work the next day. Then I slip into bed, feeling happy and more satisfied than I have in months, or even years.

Nobody suspected a thing as I ate the ‘used’ banana, although it did draw a comment as looking ‘a bit sad’. It brought a whole new round of sexiness as I found myself imagining that I was giving a blow job in front of them all. That got me thinking… if only I could admit to thinking these things to someone, perhaps I’d be able to get what I really want and leave the fruit in the basket, where it belongs. Until then though…

I hope “Emma” likes this story when she reads it. One thing’s for sure, I’m never going to even look at the contents of her fruit bowl again.