Pêche Poussé

A friend went out to a fancy French restaurant looking for an amazing meal, spare no expense.

“Please won’t you prepare your very best dishes for me, chef’s choice.”

Course following course. Every one, a triumph. Each, better than the other.

Finally, the dessert course . . .

The maître de arrives tableside with a cart on top of which is a pyramid of the most exquisite, colorful ripe Peaches — Texas Peaches — precisely placed on a gold tray surrounded by pink roses. He is accompanied by a gorgeous young lady wearing a peachy pink outfit with a short skirt with lots of ruffles and petticoats. The maître de selects the prime most Peach, inserts a fork into it and proceeds to peel the juicy fruit in one deft movement. He then smugly presents the peach to the diner.

On cue the young lady lifts her skirt. It is clear to be seen that she is not wearing any panties. And, as smooth as a peach herself. The maître de gently places the juicy peach between her soft ingénue thighs, whereupon she proceeds to wriggle and writhe, squirming and gyrating around the peach between her legs.

After quite a long time she stops and the maître de lifts up the peach and exclaims, “Voilà, monsieur, Pêche Poussé!”

Shocked, the man blurts out, “No way am I going to eat THAT Peach!”

The maître de diplomatically rejoins, “Ah, monsieur, the PEACH . . . you do not eat.”

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