An elderly aunt sent me a Christmas basket from Harry & David: nuts, pretzels, crackers, dipping sauce, salami, two kinds of cheese, a pair of apples, and seven ultra-luscious pears, one of which I plucked from its bed, rinsed under not quite ice-cold water, and presented to Emma. “This is going to be so good,” I told her. “So delicious. So juicy. So juicy that you’d better take off your shirt, lest pear juice dribble and splurch and stain the fabric.”

As Emma was holding the pear, I gladly assisted with the shirt removal. Then I stood back to watch. Emma smiled at me before taking that first bite. She nearly swooned from the pleasure of it. And sure enough, pear juice dribbled and splurched, some of it onto her chin, some of it finding her bared breasts.

Naturally I came to her aid. While Emma’s catlike tongue took care of the juice just below her lips, my lips tended to the juice on the slopes of her pear-shaped breasts and the buds of her stiffening, succulent nipples.

What a glorious feast! Before Emma had polished off the pear, I’d tended to the juice that somehow filled and overflowed her belly button, and then, hungrier than ever, gorged on the ambrosial liqueur that welled in the lubricious cup of her cunt.

Good as pear juice can be, nothing is better than Emma juice.