Cherry season

She stands among the trees in a thin summer dress, the sunlight cutting through the leaves to kiss her bare thighs. When the fabric slips from her shoulders she lets it fall, stepping out of it without hurry. Her skin is warm from the day, pale where the sun hasn't reached. She reaches up for the ripest fruit, standing on tiptoe so the curve of her ass lifts and tightens. One hand cups her breast as if weighing it; the other plucks another cherry and brings it to her lips. Juice runs down her chin. She doesn't wipe it away. Her fingers trail lower, between her legs, and she parts them just enough to touch herself while the dogs nose through the fallen fruit at her feet. She tastes another cherry, tongue flicking the pit, then lets her hand move faster. The garden is quiet except for the soft sound of her breath and the wet click of her fingers working between her folds. Her hips rock against her palm, slow at first, then urgent. When she comes her knees give and she sinks to the grass, still holding the branch above her, cherries swinging just out of reach.