Message-ID: <17678eli$9811302024@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/17678.txt>
From: Angel_wet <sponge_kite@nym.alias.net>
Subject: Tomato Bitch
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.moderated
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <19981122123353.16003.qmail@nym.alias.net>



	"So where are you from?"  I asked her.  Being on the
bridge relaxed me: the traffic there was dense but the noise seemed 
muted by the breeze, or the flow of water underneath us, or the
vibration of the concrete.  The engine fumes dissipated instantly
in the open air.  Interference brushed off into the open space
around us, and I felt alone with her.  But I couldn't think of what 
to say, so I asked her that.   
	"From Svitlaskianda," she said, "Which is part of what you
call Far East Asia.  But via the South Pacific, and via North 
Boston."  
	"Wait...Far East, North Pacific, South..."
	"It's a strange history," she said, "If we ever have
a few hours I'll tell it to you."
	I stared at water below us.  There were no well-formed
reflections of the city on the river's surface -- neither the
tall, angular, monochromatic towers, nor the lush green sloping
banks -- everything sort of churned together, shapeless and 
mottled.
	"I don't think I could talk about anything at all for a 
few hours," I said.  
	She looked at me curiously.
	"Knowledgeably, I mean.  I don't think there's any
subject in the world I know enough about to just...lecture for 
whole hours."
	She nodded with a trace of smile.  "I guessed that about 
you: that you got bored quickly."  For a few seconds I could see 
the grey flow of the river reflected in her eyes, then she looked
up to watch the sun slash itself on the tall skyscrapers.  I 
hoped the bleeding light would last a long time, mesmerize her 
with its poignant colors, lock her in with emotion.  But it didn't;  
after a few seconds she stood back from the rail, and said, "Right, 
I have to go now."

* * * 

	She said one night that she was an aspiring salad, that
she wanted to be laid down in her bathtub or better yet on a huge 
platter next to many pounds of trimmed, peeled vegetables: elaborate 
fan arrangements, edible mosaics, intricate sculptures of jicama and 
carrot.   
	"You can be my dressing," she said.  "And you can take
the photographs."
	She wasn't laughing.

* * *

	"This thing about salad," I started to question her about
it a few days later, but I stopped myself 'cause I realized it 
wasn't all that extreme.  It could just be a mood: not necessarily
some deep-seated psychological thing that she'd have to work out
with decades of psychoanalysis or drug abuse or rampant 
promiscuity.  I could imagine a lot worse things from her.  
	Yes, okay, once in a while we broke out of the ordinary 
sexual practises for college-age Americans in '99: I'd arrange 
slices of mild radishes on her tummy, build little pyramids of 
carrot sticks over her breasts, stuff like that.  She'd close her
eyes, moan in a tiny, childish way, then eventually stop me: grab
my wrist -- my fingers still holding a wedge of carrot, a 
celery stick -- and grip me almost desperately.  Like I was 
guiding her into an overgrown vegetable garden where she knew I'd
throw her to the ground behind a row of bean stalks and force
to behave in ways that hurt or confused or dizzied or panicked her.
	But it stayed mild for a long time: she didn't become
a salad, I just garnished her sexuality a little.  Then, like so 
many right-wing nitwits warn us mildly experimental sex will do,
it got serious.  
	We were eating dinner.  She hadn't touched her 
salad.
	"I want you to pelt me with tomatoes."
	I stared down at my plate for about two minutes.  
I lowered my fork toward the grilled halibut, then stopped; my
mouth seemed too dry to put anything in it, so I just waited
for something else to happen.
	"I've thought about it very carefully," she said after
a silence, "And I know it might sound a little unusual to a man
with your warped conservative background, but it's the only
way our relationship is going to grow."
	My jaw muscles tightened; I could feel my face radiate
heat.  I looked up at her face -- its earnest, innocent 
expression -- and I felt really irritated.  I was conservative,
she said?  That's what the problem was?
	"All right," I heard myself say, voice tense, clipping my
words, "No problem: I'll pelt you with tomatoes.  Do they have to 
be organic?  'Cause those ones are a little expensive if you're 
just going to be pelting someone with them." 
	
* * *

	Many an evening she had me -- how shall I put it? -- dress
her in salsa.  I worked on my aim, and got quite good.  I had some
fancy shots: turning my back to her, tossing the tomato up over my
shoulders so that it landed smack on her prone chest; making her stand
naked in front of the open third story window, pretending to be 
some obnoxious neighbor, whipping the tomato up at her ass.  Sometimes
I experimented with firmer produce, such as red onions.  This
enraged her, though; she said it wasn't pain that she was after at
all.
	One day at the supermarket she couldn't control herself: she
told me to do it there, in front of everybody.
	"Okay," I said, grabbing a cluster of tomatos still attached
to a green stem, "I'll go over to the meat section, you stand right
here.  Let's see if I can make it." 
	"Oh, Christ, Paul, you're getting too complex."
	"Isn't this for my pleasure, too?"
	"I'm not your basketball hoop."
	"Well, I'm sorry, but this whole practise makes me feel
very degraded.  If I'm going to put up with your wild perversions,
it has to be fun for me."
	She frowned, rolling her eyes, then turned.
	"Hey!"  She called out to a uniformed grocer.  He glanced over 
-- a corpulent, moustached, middle-aged man -- and she walked up to 
him, grabbing a hothouse tomato from a neat sloping stack.  "Would
you throw this at me?"
	I was outraged at her.  How could she let another man
pitch fruit at her?
	"No," the man said, shaking his head. 
	"There, see?"  I proclaimed triumphantly: "I'm the only guy on 
the planet who'd tolerate your weirdness.  Now stand right there."

* * *

	Sometimes she didn't clean herself off very thoroughly after
our sex-games, and one time a tomato seed remained stuck on one of her
inner labia.  It germinated, sprouted a tiny but determined root, and
unfolded two tiny, pale green leaves.  
	"Look," she said, spreading her labia proudly.  "Isn't he
amazing?"
	"Yes," I said, "Quite.  Quite amazing that you're starting
a vegetable garden in your pussy.  Want me to call your parents
and tell them the good news?"
	She declared herself pregnant, and refused to have sex
anymore.  
	"You'll break it with your dick," she said.  "No.  I want
it to mature and bear fruit."

* * *

	I was pretty frustrated not being able to have sex with her, 
and I began to wonder.  I pilfered a few especially soft, ripe
tomatos from the permanent stack in her kitchen and took them home
with me.  Standing in front of a full-length mirror, I splatted one
of the fruits on my chest.  Its skin ruptured easily, and I smeared
the pulp all over my nipples, my belly, down to my pubic hair.  The 
liquid seemed surprisingly cool, and the coolness seemed to penetrate 
my skin, making me shiver.  While the pulp was smooth, velvet-like,
the seeds had texture, scraping slightly at my skin, making goose-
bumps on my flesh. 
	The next night I sliced a few carrots length-wise and, lying on 
my bed with an erection, made a little teepee around my penis.  I found 
myself thrusting up inadvertently, smashing the teepee to bits.  I
imagined great shrines of produce constructed around my phallus, 
which would act as a pillar, and then as the ram-rod.  My penis could
create, but could also destroy.  I felt awed by my masculine power.
	When the seedling in her vagina died and she went into a
period of mourning, I began trying to construct a catapult with 
which to hurl tomatos at myself.  
	"There's no reason to accept her limitations," I muttered
to myself as I ripped open a box of over-sized elastic bands.  "I
could use eggs."  Imagining the sensation of shells fracturing on my 
body, spilling the soft emryos and whites all over me made my head
spin.  "I could use chops, steaks, fish filets..."  The image of
flesh slapping, pounding against me was almost too much to bear.
	
* * *

	When she dropped out of school and returned to Svitlaskianda
I was naturally a little disappointed, but I was no longer dependant
upon her for my pleasure.  She had opened a whole new chapter of
lewd delectations for me; had planted a garden of delights.   
	
	
	
	

	  	


-- 
+----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+
| <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> |
| Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>