Cherry dreams

I meant to cut the grass. Instead I reached for the cherry tree. The red fruit hung low, skin tight and glossy. I took one between my lips, let my tongue roll over the smooth curve until the sweet-sour juice burst across it. The taste spread warm and wet. Another. Another. My free hand slipped under my shirt, cupped the heavy weight of my breasts, thumbs brushing the stiff nipples that pushed against the thin cotton. The lawn could wait. Juice ran down my chin, trickled between my fingers, soaked the cotton. I pressed harder, hips rocking, the hard seam of my shorts rubbing where I needed it most. Every bite made me wetter. I closed my eyes, let the next cherry slide deep across my tongue, and moaned around it.