One Woman’s Struggle with Seeded Fruit

It all started on a white leather sofa in Sarah’s living room. There was a selection of cheeses and a gathering of olives, both green and black, cradled in a glass bowl on a Perspex coffee table. She offered me an olive, or maybe a cuboid of feta, and I politely declined.

Sarah started to yap ceaselessly about her new house. I found it difficult to listen to her, not just because she was a terrific dullard, but also because I was distracted by the radiant glow of the olives that I had previously rejected. Now I wanted one. Just one semi-spherical nugget of black Italian joy would have been enough, but I had already refused Sarah’s offer, and I didn’t want to gather a reputation for capriciousness.

Thankfully I am infamously resourceful when it comes to acquiring Mediterranean appetisers, and I interrupted Sarah to ask her about Noel Edmunds’ autobiography, which she promptly left the living room to fetch. In her absence I cheekily popped an olive in my mouth and molested it with my tongue. I bit down on the perfectly smooth fruit and was surprised to find a hard stone at its centre. I was not used to eating olives with their central stones intact, but then Sarah has always been rather modern.

I looked around for somewhere to discard the stone, but Sarah’s minimalist-chic interior design provided neither nook nor cranny for me to deposit my seed, and so I kept it in my mouth and held it underneath my tongue.

Sarah re-entered the living room carrying “What’s the Deal with Deal or no Deal?” and stroking Noel Edmunds’ bearded face. I smiled politely as she started to read an extract about Noel’s recent failure to pay his TV licensing fee and the resultant court summons. I tongued the olive’s stone behind my fixed grin.

Sarah had been reading for fifteen minutes when my boyfriend Mark rolled out from under the sofa. Then a number of friends and family members emerged from various locations around the room. My parents unraveled themselves from the curtains, my little sister climbed out of a decorative piano and my best friend Julie rappelled down from the light fitting. The word “surprise” rang out from their mouths in unison; indeed it was.

Before I had a chance to express my confusion Mark was down on one knee with a ring in his hand. The last time Mark had a ring in his hand I couldn’t walk for a week. I was a little bit uncomfortable about accepting his proposal with the stone of a black olive in my mouth – it seemed like some kind of obscure snub – but I loved Mark and I was overcome with joy. I threw my arms around his neck and thought about how best to deposit the stone, but it was impossible to do so gracefully while everyone was watching me. I kissed him timidly, being careful to shelter the stone from his wandering tongue.

Things started to escalate at a blistering pace. One of the walls of Sarah’s living room was lifted into the air to reveal a chapel. Yet more of my friends and family were sitting in the chapel’s pews and a vicar was waiting patiently at the altar. Mark wanted me to marry him immediately; it was an idea he had conceived after watching a video on YouTube. Sarah and Julie strapped me into a perfectly-fitting white wedding dress and my father grabbed my arm and led me down the aisle. I was dying to get rid of the stone in my mouth but the attention of my friends and family was inescapable.

The vicar sped through the formalities and dived straight in to the meat of the marriage ceremony. I was slightly hesitant but it was clear Mark had put in a titanic amount of organisational effort into the day and I didn’t want to ruin his plans. When I used to imagine my wedding day I didn’t envisage making such a lifelong commitment with the stone of a soft Italian fruit between my teeth, but I suppose nobody is fully prepared for the gritty reality of matrimony. I said yes and kissed him with reticence.

Once legally wed we were hastily transported to an extravagant reception, where we ate lunch and listened to the speeches. It was difficult to eat my food around the unforgiving hardness of the stone. I hardly said a word to anyone, being so self-conscious of the remnant of olive in my mouth.

At various intervals I tried to get rid of the stone by sneaking off to the toilet on the premise of urinary release. The problem was, every time I went into a stall to urinate Mark followed me in and emptied his bladder through the V-shaped gap between my open legs, as is the ceremonial tradition in Slough. In Japan they call this activity “Ming Shui,” which is Japanese.

The more that time passed with this lie between my teeth the more significant it became. If someone discovered my hidden truth after all this time I would never be forgiven. There were no olives served during the meal, which was an oversight on Mark’s behalf, so the natural assumption would have been that I had deliberately entered into matrimony with the core of an olive in my mouth as an allegorical symbol of betrayal; in traditional Slough culture this represents the harbouring of another man’s seed and invalidates the marriage ceremony if discovered.

In the evening Mark and I went home and christened the marriage bed. I couldn’t refuse his lascivious advances on our wedding night, even if I was far too distracted by the stone to feel remotely aroused.

I started to perform fellatio on Mark; as I am wont to do. I tried desperately to shield the stone away from contact with his penis, using my tongue as a barrier. I found this difficult, despite all the practice I’d had during the day at maneuvering my tongue. Troubled by a lapse in concentration, the stone slipped out from under my tongue and was forced into the urethral opening of Mark’s manhood. The pressure down his sensitive urethra instigated a sudden and violent orgasm. Unfortunately the stone was firmly lodged in his penis and wasn’t moved by ejaculatory pressure.

I heard a deafening pop and opened my eyes to see that Mark had exploded. The shrapnel from his mangled body coated the walls and ceiling and the bed was covered in blood. The stone from the olive lay in the centre of the mess, and eventually over time a beautiful olive tree grew in Mark’s place.

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