One Sunday Afternoon…

March 1, 2009

by Madame O.


As on any other Sunday afternoon I felt the depression creeping into my body… I knew it was coming although I woke up filled up with energy, reason, a purpose in life. Yes, my heart said, it’s Sunday, and if you don’t do something about it, it will creep up on you as it always does, and you will end up with the worst kind of insomnia. Sunday night, cold bed-purposeless life- horrid emptiness, insomina.


So, what to do? the television had reruns on, the coldness crept into my apartment as it always ends up doing, so, what then?


Supermarket time was the only thing I could think of. My pyjamas, my long Sunday partner, warming me up as the cold appeared around me, well, I couldn’t bear to be separated from it, so I just put a long coat on, buttoned up, and went to buy milk, vodka, and whatever else I thought my depression could crave.




Even though I go to other places to buy fruit, it thrills me to touch the cold, refrigerated, almost unseemly real fruit that just spreads there, waiting to be chosen by an unlucky hand.


The empty excuses to go to the supermarket dissapeared from my mind as I touched the round, cold apples.




I loved the texture, and my fingers, warm a moment ago inside my coat pockets, turned icy cold. I loved that feeling, and I loved touching the silky texture of the peaches.


I went from one aisle to the next, touching the fruit, smelling it, and starting to feel some warm craving creeping over me on this lazy, grey, afternoon.


I couldn’t resist it, and as my left hand caressed the pomagranates, my right hand slid between my coat buttons, and up my pyjama shirt, icy cold fingers on my nipples.


The oranges, the melon, and the apples again, the red apples. My right hand slid between my legs, and I touched myself, feeling how my wetness warmed up my fingers. I changed hands, and I groaned.


I guess someone was watching me, but I didn’t care, I kept on touching the cold fruit, the strawberries, and caressing myself.


I forgot the milk, and the vodka, and I did see some dark shaded form, probably a man, taking the apple that had woken me up, unlike Snowhite.


I wonder what kind of dreams he had that insomniac Sunday.


– Kelly A.K.

          is a writer living in Mexico City.  She is currently working to complete her thesis on three different manifestations of the story of Sleeping Beauty.  Read more of Kelly’s excellent erotica on her blog,


– posted by Lily


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