by Kay Jaybee
He caught his breath, I’m sure I heard him, and I like to imagine I saw his cock surge at the sight of me. But in all honesty, I was so totally nervous I could barely breathe.
Then he chuckled lazily. “I meant your garden, actually. No wait!” He lifted his hand as I rushed to cover myself. “Please don’t do that. I like this even better, really! I prefer this to your garden.”
I let the sash drop and the robe fell open again. I leaned out until my breasts had cleared the window ledge and were suddenly centre stage in the moonlight.
“What you did to your garden, can you do it to mine?” I asked.
“Maybe,” came the reply. “If you want me to.”
For an endless moment we stood there staring at each other, him with his cock in his hand, me with my tits shining in the moonlight. A rose by any other name would be as exposed.
At last I released a long sigh. “Okay then, come on over.”
With the robe flouncing about me like a Super Girl cape, I grabbed the bottle of wine and stumbled downstairs. He was waiting for me at the back gate.
I threw it open and pulled him in, going straight for his mouth. Those pouty lips always making him look slightly brooding had been driving me crazy for weeks now. They were warm and responsive, parting to the touch of mine, yielding to the flick of my tongue. His arms slid around me, pausing for a caress of my nipple-heavy breasts, then sliding down to cup my buttocks and pull me close enough to press his penis, hard and upright, low against my bare belly. The wine bottle slid from my fingers with a muted thunk onto the grass.
“My garden…” I managed to gasp, just as a finger snaked curiously between my butt cheeks.
“I have a confession to make,” he said as he pulled away. “With all I’d heard about your garden, about your gift for it, I couldn’t resist having a peek over the fence. They say you understand the earth, they say you intuit things most people miss completely.”
I felt a knot in my stomach that had nothing to do with sex, and the ache spread upward as I stepped back. “People talk,” I replied tightly. “Doesn’t mean anything.” I started to turn away, but he grabbed my hand.
“So why did you give it up, teaching, I mean? They say they’d never known anyone so young who understood gardening so well.”
I tried to pull my hand free, but he held me.
“I wanted to eat.” My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard. My stomach twisted like I’d just opened myself clear down to the navel for the whole world to see. But it wasn’t the whole world. It was Jonathan, and he would understand. “I wanted to eat, and I wanted to be able to keep this.” I nodded into the dark depths of my garden. “And I wasn’t making nearly enough money for that.”
“Show me,” he breathed.
With him still holding my hand I led him past the long hulk of the greenhouse, deeper into the forest of dwarf fruit trees and past heavily laden raspberry canes. I heard his breath hitch as I guided him past the strawberry bed, plants weighted down with ripening fruit. I led him past the potatoes and the already spent asparagus beds. As we entered between the rows of bean poles, he stepped out of his Crocs almost as though he were stepping onto holy ground.
“My goddess,” he sighed. “It’s incredible.”
“Worth working a job in the city for,” I breathed, feeling the tightening in my chest that I always felt when I thought about my garden, when I thought about what I created anew every year. “Besides, it won’t be forever, then I’ll be free, and there are so many things I want to do here. But I’ve never blessed it like you have.” I threw a backward glance at his cock, feeling my face burn even in the cool breeze. “Can you do that? I mean, can we do that, or do I have to be a high priestess or something?”
He pulled me to a stop, then slipped both arms around me from behind so I could feel his eager erection against my butt, feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back.
“But you don’t believe in any of that stuff, do you?”
His hot breath against the nape of my neck was driving me crazy, his right hand slid up under my open robe and cupped my breasts, rolling and stroking my nipples in turn until I ground my ass back against him.
“Does it matter?”
“It’s sympathetic magic. That’s important.” He nipped my earlobe between his front teeth. “Come to think of it, though, I doubt anyone is more sympathetic to the earth than you are.”
He scrunched up the tail of my robe and fingered his way into my ass crack again, pausing to thumb my back hole with just enough pressure to make me squirm and drench myself, before he slipped fingers over my perineum and down between my swollen folds.
“Wait,” I gasped. “Don’t we have to be naked?”
With a quick schuss and a tug, the hand that had been caressing my breasts pulled the robe off my shoulders and down my arms, then he raked it free from where it lodged between us.
“There,” he said. “That’s half the task done. Now shall you undress me?”
He kissed my neck and I felt delicious gooseflesh crawl down between my breasts.
I turned to face him. “Is that okay if we do it that way?”
“We’re making this ritual,” he said, holding my gaze. “Whatever we want is okay, and I want you to undress me.”
I couldn’t argue with his logic. I slid my hands into the waistband of his open trousers and pulled him to me, finding no underwear interfering with my caress of his ass, which tightened and clenched beneath my fingers. With sweeping motions that cupped and fondled his roundness, I eased the trousers down over his hips, kneeling as I did, so close to his body that his cock brushed my cheek, so close that the pungent, spicy scent of male sweat and arousal nearly overwhelmed me with the desire to take him in my mouth. The light curl of his fingers in my hair let me know he wanted that too.
I felt him tense, felt the rush of his breath on the top of my head as I pushed aside the hem of the poet shirt where it draped over his erection and took him into my mouth. I swirled my tongue tentatively around the underside of his cock, feeling the ridged helmet surge. I pressed my tongue against the slit of it, tasting the salty sweet seep of pre-cum. His fingers tightened.
“Don’t stay down there too long.” His words were clipped short with arousal. “I might lose my will power and let you swallow what belongs to the earth.”
Jesus, why did that sound so sexy? It was voodoo nonsense to the core, and it made my pussy gape and swell.
“Plus,” he whispered, pulling me to my feet and planting a warm kiss on my lips, “I want the pleasure of being inside the woman who’s been watching me all these weeks. Knowing you were watching, playing with your pussy, stroking your breasts, cumming when I came, knowing that made my job even more pleasurable.”
He shrugged out of the poet shirt and dropped to his knees, pulling me down onto the ground. He somehow managed to spread my robe beneath me, before trailing kisses over my breasts and down my belly. When his teeth raked the pebble of my clit, I felt the gush of my own need. He lifted my legs onto his shoulders and pushed in close, his tongue splaying me in long, flat slurps, and every effort he made to lick me dry only made me wetter, heavier. When I was sure I couldn’t stand it anymore, when my pussy felt as heavy and as full as the plums swelling on the trees, he must have intuited that with the same sense of magic that compelled him to empty himself on the earth. He pulled away from me, his face glistening from my flood. Then he knelt between my legs and arranged my bottom on the slope of his thighs. I watched him as he admired me, fingering my wet slit open, stroking and tugging at my distended labia, sliding his thumbs up each side of my clit until it felt at least as big as his cock.
“The view from down here’s exquisite,” he breathed. “Even better than I fantasised. There’s nothing in the whole world lovelier than a woman’s cunt all splayed and swollen, ready to fuck. It’s the perfect garden at the peak of
ripeness.”
As much as the voodoo talk turned me on, the fact that he understood a garden, understood my garden, turned me on even more. I spread my legs and lifted myself closer.
The sound that came from his throat was hungry and feral. “I’m about to burst,” he grunted. “But I don’t want to cum until I’ve felt what it’s like to be inside you.”
With a sigh that he caught at the back of his throat then held with exquisite tension, he pushed his way in slowly, luxuriously, teasing me inch by inch over him and stretching me around him like a tight glove. With every ounce of control I had I held still and let him ease his way into me, feeling like every cell of my pussy was alive with sensation. And when he was in, all the way in, he stopped for a breath, tweaking and stroking my clit, watching me as though he were trying to unravel some magical secret that lay at my core.
When I could stand it no more, I arched up and tightened my grip around him. He sucked breath between his teeth, and his eyelids fluttered like moths around a streetlight. He cupped my ass and began to thrust, slowly, deeply, sinuously. It was like an agonising, deliberate tease, until I wrapped my legs around him and kicked him with my heels. And, like a horse given his head, he began to jack-hammer, somehow managing to rake my clit with every single thrust.
I was there, right at the edge, straining and grunting, and I knew he wasn’t far behind me. Just as colour exploded behind my eyelids and my pussy convulsed, he pulled out and let me writhe out my orgasm while he unloaded in viscous spurts at the foot of my runner beans.
Then, one hand still on his cock he stood and walked around my garden, stroking leaves and sniffing blossoms and stopping to wriggle his toes in the earth.
“Exquisite,” he sighed, half to himself. “Even more so than I could have imagined. Lovely. So lovely.”
Still lying on my robe feeling my juices drip down my pussy and over my perineum, I watched him, and listened to his half-whispered monologue about discovering the treasures of earth’s bounty and discovering the treasures of our own hearts – some such.
He picked up a handful of earth from between the carrots and onions and sifted it through his fingers.
“Your garden needs the juices of a woman,” he said, speaking at last to me.
In spite of the fact that I’d just been fucked between the bean rows, I found myself blushing again.
“What? You want me to pee on it?” I forced a laugh. “Well, I suppose I could do that, though I rather think there may be more effective methods available.”
“Possibly helpful,” he replied. “But not what I meant.”
He reached out his hand to me, and I scrabbled to my feet and came into his arms. When I rose on my toes to kiss him, he slipped two fingers into my pout and sighed.
“You get really wet, don’t you?”
He brought his juicy fingers to his lips and licked them.
I blushed again. “You might have had something to do with that.”
He smiled in response but held my gaze. “You can get a lot wetter, if you really want.”
He returned his fingers to my pussy and extended the middle one to rake across my g-spot, causing me to gasp with the startling surprise of pressure.
“Shall I show you?”
He pressed and released, pressed and released in tight little circles almost, but not quite too hard. He did it in such a way that I couldn’t resist bearing down. I was swollen wide and open, and the act of bearing down rubbed my whole cunt against his flattened palm. Still holding my gaze, he pressed harder, withdrew and slapped the splay of my cunt in quick succession.
And I came. I came in gushes down between his fingers and onto the ground leaving little dark wet spots in the earth. I yelped my surprise, and the air was suddenly ripe with the scent of hot, wet pussy. Before I could speak, he did it again, and this time the urge to bear down coupled with his sharp slaps and the hard press of the heel of his hand against my splay resulted in a liquid hiss that squirted then dribbled down my legs. Before I could panic, he put his arm around me and held me, held me close while he continued to stroke my g-spot.
“You didn’t know you could do that, did you? You didn’t know that your juices, your lovely female cum is as precious to the earth as my semen is.”
I wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous. I wanted to tell him he was talking voodoo again and I didn’t believe any of it. But then I was the one who had asked him to ‘bless’ my garden. Plus it was damned hard to think about anything but the river gushing from between my legs and the pleasure buzzing upwards from my cunt clear to the crown of my head.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” He spoke between kisses and nips, his tongue flicking and teasing my mouth. “It feels better than anything you’ve ever felt before.”
He pressed and slapped and I gushed and squirted and shook all over with wave after wave of pleasure coming so close together I could no longer tell when one wet gush of orgasmic bliss ended and another began.
With me still drenching myself and the ground beneath me, he lifted me onto his renewed erection, just lifted me as though I were weightless, and cupped his hands under my bottom for support.
“That’s right,” he whispered against my nape. “Give your garden what it needs, Rose, and you’ll be richly rewarded.”
He rocked and thrust and swayed in me until every part of his body was tense. Somewhere between the gushing and rocking and grunting, I’m sure we’d forgotten to breathe. I felt like I might never need to breathe again.
I know this sounds totally mad, but I felt like I was the sky spread over the earth. I felt like every time I bore down, every time Jonathan’s cock stroked my g-spot, I bathed my garden in some kind of voodoo fertility magic that I could almost feel rushing from the top of my head, down my spine and out onto the earth beneath me, maybe even spreading to fertilise the whole of the Blue Bell Street Allotments and even the whole neighbourhood.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Jonathan breathed in my ear. “I know you do.”
I just nodded and bore down, wrapped around him tighter than ivy on a tree trunk, feeling him so far up inside me that I couldn’t tell where he left off and I began.
I don’t know how it happened or how we managed it without damaging plants. It probably was just that we’re both such consummate gardeners that even in our deep unconscious, we’re protective of what’s green and growing. But somehow we half tumbled, half lay down in between the carrots and onions, rolling and writhing, coated in earth and sweat and the fragrant secretions of sex that seemed to be increasing exponentially.
When Jonathan growled out his release, just managing to pull free of my pussy, I followed suit, offering up my own ejaculation in heavy squirts onto the rich, dark soil. Suddenly I was the earth goddess with my consort making the ground fertile and green. For the extended length of a very wet, very intense orgasm, I ruled the world and all life in it, and my consort worshiped me with his cock and his semen. I could almost feel growth bursting all around me, rippling up through corn and courgettes, tomatoes and beans, meristems stretching and reaching, buds swelling and bursting, and I was there at the centre of it all. For a few seconds I could almost believe that I might have even been the cause of it all.
When the riotous celebration of all things fertile settled to quiet tremors low in my belly and Jonathan’s cock relaxed wet and sticky against his thigh, we lay in each other’s arms where we’d crawled between the spinach and cabbage, spent and gasping, coated in the thin layer of sexy mud and dust we’d made. The night sky turned above us with Cygnus flying endlessly overhead and the Plough circling around the invisible tether of our myopic little universe. We breathed in the scent of ourselves and the pungency of tomato vines and onion sets. Somewhere in a nearby tree a tawny owl trilled and we both sighed our delight and snuggled closer.
Jonathan spoke softly against my ear. “You’re right, Ros
e. This place, what you have, what you’ve done, is worth doing a job in the city for.” He ran a splayed hand up over my breast and caressed my nipple to a high peak. “But don’t forget why you do it. The blessing is yours to give whenever you want. Yours to give and to receive.”
I’m not saying that I’m a convert. And, in all fairness, since that first time I’ve shown Jonathan a thing or two he didn’t know about gardening. I’ve shared a few of my own secrets he was happy to receive. But I’m not a convert. I don’t think there was ever anything to convert really. The magic has always been there. We walk through it daily, breathe it into us every second we live. It’s just that I never really factored my place in the natural world into the equation of life, nor my need to actively celebrate that place. Sex and earth and growing things and lust so bright it’s blinding — all these things belong together as surely as night and day. Jonathan hasn’t cornered the market on that bit of magic. It’s obvious really. It’s there for everyone to see. And here’s me so close to the earth and my beloved plants, always invited to the party but never quite getting there. I’m surprised I didn’t see it before. I may have arrived at the soirée late, and reluctantly. But now that I’m here, I plan to make up for lost time.
Painted Pussycat
♦♦♦♦
by Rebecca Bond
Chapter One
♦♦♦♦
It was the buzzing of the needle that got to me first. As soon as the artist fired up the equipment my curiosity was piqued. As soon as the needle pierced the flesh of my best friend I was hooked, mesmerised by the artist at work. It was beautiful.
Yes, ‘beautiful’ is exactly the word I would use to describe my first experience at the tattoo parlour. I was a young nineteen year old and as wholesome as they come. The thought of getting a tattoo had never even crossed my mind. I had always deemed them to be ugly markings of troubled souls. Yes, I am also a snob. Was a snob. That day, the day Alicia made me go to the parlour with her, it changed. Everything changed. I changed.
