We stop at farmers' markets whenever we're on the road, especially in July when the peaches come ripe, timed with the Perseid meteor showers. We get enough fruit to sate any summer hunger, not just peaches but whatever is juicy and sweet, bearing it away in brown bags like we are smuggling jewels.

At the bed and breakfast we get a room overlooking the Pacific -- we can see it from our bed and from the huge Jacuzzi in the bathroom. It's the honeymoon suite, though we are not married, just fucking like it's the only thing we will have to do for the rest of our lives. We've come equipped with candles to make the Jacuzzi room a wet cathedral of fuck. We stay in the water all weekend, except when we're in the bed. We get out to pee and refill the water bottle so we don't pass out and drown.

We float one at a time, holding each other's heads. He can reach my pussy too because his arms are so long. He sits on the tile edge while I suck his cock, then we switch places. I brace myself on the edge while he fucks me, and we fuck as often as possible. It doesn't matter if he's hard -- we both have fingers and tongues, and a bag of sex toys too if it comes to that.

He tells me to close my eyes: His voice is my blindfold. His hands roam on me everywhere, warm, wet as the water. He has turned on the jets and positioned me over one. Everything about me is open, so open, except my eyes. I can picture him anyway, his hands covering my breasts, sliding down, sliding back up to grasp the back of my neck, pulling me in for a wet and melting kiss. I float in his touch, in our sex, like a lotus on a pond, anchored.

A cold something interrupts the warm. Cold and completely smooth, not icy, but a shocking cool compared to warm water and hot kisses. He runs the thing up and down my body, rolls it really, it seems round or ovoid. I still do not open my eyes. Over my nipples, the coolness tugging them into even tighter erection. Down my belly, giving me the ripply butterfly feeling I sometimes get when I'm touched there. Between my legs, of course, everything we play with goes between my legs, smooth and chill on my clit, nuzzling my cuntlips apart.

It feels like it wants to enter me, nudging the way his cock does, and rounded like a cockhead; but so much cooler than his cock, a little bigger too perhaps. Pushing in -- he's lubed it, whatever it is, it stretches the lips, slides in and in. He makes sure it happens slowly. It is big, I realize, not the size of a fist, but big enough that I have to fight with myself a little to take it.

Suddenly it slides all the way in; it's passed the midpoint and the slide is unstoppable, I'm filled.

He tells me to open my eyes.

There on the edge of the tub one of our paper bags of fruit sits open, full of gleaming red plums not quite the size of a fist.

"Do you want another one?" he asks, and holds one up for me to bite, juice running down my chin, down my tits.

Ah, the bounty of summer. We eat more plums while he fucks me, his cock nudging the fruit and barely fitting, juice running everywhere. Laughing.

Carol Queen has a doctorate in sex, and she worked very hard on her labs. She is the author of The Leather Daddy and the Femme, Real Live Nude Girl, and Exhibitionism for the Shy.