It is a summer day in deserted parkland, the grass crisp and greeny-yellow in the sun. We rest on our blanket in the shade of an old tree. I had brought a picnic, strawberries and creamy liquid chocolate in which to dip them; but she sleeps gently as I massage her back (her exposed warm and pale skin dappled by the shades of green leaves above, scattered through the branches). The food is all but forgotten.

But I have not forgotten.

Droplets of melted chocolate placed strategically along her spine pool and spread slowly to cover her back as she sleeps in the gentle sunlight. Her skin is beautiful, pale and creamy and delicate. I run my fingers across her, tracing the outline of the growing dark morass of bittersweet deliciousness. I cut up some strawberries and feel the juices running along the knife to cling at my fingertips. Half a strawberry is dipped in the chocolate. I worship my platter. When she awakes, her back will be clean and dry and smooth again, and when she eats (her delicate lips pursing gently around the strawberry as she pulls it into her mouth) she will detect a new hinted scent, a tiny nothing of flavour, and she will enjoy the taste all the more. Only I shall know that she tastes herself, and that taste (that knowledge) is wonderful.

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