Clara’s Fig
by Danielle SchlossShe pulled the round, smooth green fig out of her brown bag and fingered it lightly. Holding it by its stem, she admired its graceful form, caressed its smooth skin. Bringing it to her nose, she sniffed at the perfume, slightly sweet and hidden.
Gently, she split it open. The inside was humid and dark red, a pool of syrupy liquid gathered in its very centre. She brought the open fruit back up to her nose, and inhaled again deeply, feeling the fruity scent enter her very pores. Her blue eyes lit up with eager anticipation as she opened her mouth to take a large bite.
“That looks delicious!” came the interjection from the man sitting next to her.
Arrested in her action, she turned to see who the rude interloper to her pleasure was. A tall, curly-haired man sat next to her, the only other passenger in the carriage, a wide smile on his face as he had apparently been observing her gastronomic antics carefully. She did a double take. The fig in her hand was certainly most enticing. The man next to her was too.
“Yes, they come from my garden.”
Her hands were each occupied with a half fig, otherwise she would have stretched out her hand and said “Hi, my name is Clara” to make sure that the conversation would carry on. Cursing herself for a lame answer, she tried to decide whether to proceed with the delectation of her fig or whether to delay gratification and go for the man.
Too late, he smiled and turned back to his newspaper. Clara waited a moment to see if he would look up again and when he did not, turned her full attention back to the fig. The juice had spilled over and begun to run down the side of the half fruit. She raised it to her mouth and licked the skin slowly. The juice was sweet and sticky, melting in her mouth before she could swallow. She swept her tongue round her lips, collecting the last drops. She opened her mouth, approaching the half fig to her lips.
“Quite a fig!” he exclaimed.
“Indeed, it is perfectly ripe” she responded, feeling somewhat foolish. She wondered what to say next. He got up and excusing himself, said he was going to get some coffee.
She turned back to her half fig. She brought it back up to her mouth and, opening her lips, delicately bit into the flesh, savouring the slight crunch of her teeth breaking into the skin, then the smooth glide as the soft flesh within gave way to her touch. Her mouth exploded with the sweetness of the fruit and as she absorbed the nectar, her whole body slid back into her seat, sliding downwards with sensual pleasure. She closed her eyes, barely daring to chew to make the pleasure last longer. Too soon, the mouthful was finished, and she opened her eyes to look at the next bite she would take. The fig glistened in its seedy redness, embedded in a soft white coat wrapped in its green mantle. The sunlight caught the different hues of burgundy and red, the brown of the delicate seed, and the transparent syrup which flowed between the flesh and the seed.
“A real specimen!” he laughed.
He was back, holding a steaming cup of coffee, its odour wafting through the carriage, effacing all other smells. She felt indignant that the coffee overrode the delicate perfume of her fig. She remembered that the sap of the fig tree was an irritant.
“Enjoy your coffee,” she said curtly, annoyed. He may be good looking but her fig was truly orgasmic. She straightened up and raised the rest of the first half to her mouth. As the fruit came closer to her nose, she caught its honeyed odour and paused to savour the smell. Closing her eyes again, she breathed deeply into the fruit then popped the rest of the first half into her mouth. It was somewhat larger than she had anticipated and filled her cheeks, making it difficult for her to chew. She paused, allowing the fruit to melt gently with her saliva, slowly crunching her teeth down. Juice ejaculated inside her mouth, dripping slowly down her throat. She swallowed languorously, then began to chew. She could hear minute crunches as the seed popped under her teeth. The sweetness was unbearable. She uncrossed her legs.
“Seems to be an experience!” he noted, sipping at his coffee.
“Indeed. “ She wondered why he didn’t mind his own business. There was still a half fig in her right hand, which had now become sticky with juice. She transferred the fig to her left hand, and looking the man straight in his eyes, began to lick each finger slowly, intently, lasciviously. He stared.
She turned back to the fig. It glistened moistly. She thought about the preference fig trees have for light soil and sunshine. The half fig was almost heart shaped. The fact that it was in many ways self-sufficient, like her. An internal flower, blooming inside the infructescence, waiting to grow and ripen. She turned it, admiringly. She thought about how some kinds of fig had a small orifice, barely wide enough for the fig wasp to slide into. She stretched her tongue and licked the centre, at the same time sucking up the seeds. She crossed her other leg. The full sensation of sweetness, stickiness and substance absorbed her consciousness. Grasping the stem, she peeled off the outer layer, revealing a fluffy white skin between the seed and the cover. She stuffed the skin into her mouth, chewing rapturously as the neutrality of the skin balanced the previous intense sweetness.
“Not as good as the inside, hmmmmm?” he queried.
“Every bit as good, I assure you:” He nodded sagaciously and stepped out of the carriage again.
The fig nestled in her hand, nude in its whiteness, vulnerable and immobile. The inner pith was soft against her fingers. It made her feel like a predator. Refuting the feeling quickly, she put the fig into her mouth, skin, seed and juice, held it there immobile. She pushed her tongue around its contours, feeling its slow disintegration. She swallowed once, then began to chew, almost imperceptibly. She could hardly bear to have the sweetness disappear. She blinked slowly, intent on the last sensations, letting the bitter sweet sensation of the ending permeate her. And as the last drops slid down her gullet, she sighed contentedly. There was a deep silence in the carriage. She had not noticed his return. “And now will you do the same to me?’” he asked quietly.
