Erotica

Shades of Green

I don’t think she’s wearing panties

I don’t think she has underwear on. I mean, I know she’s not wearing a bra — every time she stands her breasts settle beneath thin cotton and the material clings to a sheen of sweat, accentuating the subtle swell of her soft nipples — but I don’t think she’s wearing panties either.

There’s something inherently erotic about gardening — that raw, vibrant connection to the fertile, giving earth — but watching a beautiful woman crouching to tend to her crop, in a dress unbuttoned to mid-thigh, is exquisitely enticing. Every time she moves I see a little more, but never quite enough to be certain.

I guess that’s the point: she’s teasing her neighbour, tantalising him with glimpses, tormenting him with never knowing.

I could just ask her, I suppose. “Claire, darling, did you take your underwear off after lunch?”

She looks up, eyes widening to enhance her faux-innocent smile. “No! Or… It’s a hot day and I thought I’d be more comfortable in just a sundress. Which do you think?”

She swivels towards me and briefly parts her knees, to better inform my opinion.

“I think you’re a dirty girl.”

She wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a dark smudge of rich soil. “I’m gardening. It’s dirty work.”

“You’re being very cruel to Mr Elliott.”

“No, I’m being kind to Mrs Elliott. Her borders have never looked better, because her husband’s been looking for excuses to stay in the garden. He’s done more weeding today than the rest of the summer combined.”

“And if he has any strength left, she’s going to get fucked hard tonight.”

“That’s what my garden does to men, is it?” Claire parts her knees again, and leaves them parted. “Makes them want to fuck?”

The answer to that question is tenting my shorts. “Join me in the greenhouse and find out.”

Her knees slam together. “No! In case you’ve forgotten, the greenhouse is made of glass, and people in glass houses shouldn’t fuck. Teasing Mr Elliott is one thing, giving him a live sex show is quite another.”

“I’m going to bend you over the potting table. All he’ll see is two people enjoying vigorous horticulture.”

She looks at the greenhouse, and across to the Elliotts’ fence, judging the angles. A persuasive picture is forming in her mind. “He’ll know exactly what we’re doing.”

“I’m counting on it, and so are Mrs Elliott’s begonias.”

“I’m sticky. I should shower first.”

“Why? It’s clean sweat, honestly earned. You smell like mown grass and good soil, hard work and sunshine. So why not sweat some more, and add a new scent to the mix?”

She grins. “You’re a bad influence.”

“On a bad girl. Get in the greenhouse, I have seed to sow.”

The atmosphere under glass is tangible: a thick blanket of heat stitched through with the sweet, heady scent of the tomato plants Claire re-potted earlier.

She’s standing in front of the table, looking out at the Elliotts’ garden. “He’s gone.”

I lift her hair to kiss the salt from her neck. “You sound disappointed. Did you want him to watch?”

“Maybe.” She starts unbuttoning her dress. “The table’s high enough that he wouldn’t see much more than when I sunbathe topless.”

“His wife doesn’t let him in the garden when you’re sunbathing.” Two open buttons is enough room for me to slip a hand through, to caress the slick slope of her breast and tease a rosebud that Mr Elliot has only glimpsed. “Keep going.”

“Do you want me to take it off?”

“No, but open it all the way down. Our neighbour deserves a pay off to make up for your provocation.”

She looks up from her buttons. “He’s back!”

He is. He found a tin of creosote somewhere and he’s busy touching up his immaculate fence. He should probably look at that — rather than our greenhouse — if he wants it to remain immaculate.

Claire hesitates for a second, but then makes up her mind: she continues, more seductively now, taking her time over each button and swaying her hips as her hands descend.

My hand traces a path down her stomach, following the narrow gap her fingers leave behind. With two buttons left, I can finally reach between her legs and confirm my suspicion. “You are a dirty girl! You’re loving this.”

She stops swaying swaying to thrust her ass back against my bulge. “You seem to like it too. So,” she pops the last two buttons fast, then stands with her arms at her sides, “Unveil me.”

Mr Elliott forgets his fence — and his wife — as I slowly open Claire’s dress. A scant centimetre of pubic hair visible above the table edge will answer the question he’s been asking himself all afternoon. It’s an answer that must intrigue him more than her sweat-sheened breasts, because he doesn’t raise his eyes from the promise of pussy.

I’m a little envious of his view, but I can do so much more than just look. I tug the collar of her dress down with one hand, the straps falling from her shoulders to her elbows, and I raise the hem with my other hand. Bundled up and twisted, the fabric forms a loose restraint which pulls Claire’s arms back and thrusts her chest forward.

She reacts encouragingly. “Ooh, kinky! Why have we never tried bondage?”

“You were never such a bad girl.”

I use the dress to pull her arms up behind her, forcing her to bend over. Her breasts briefly pass through Mr Elliott’s eyeline before they’re pressed against the compost still littering the wooden surface.

I have the better view now: her ass, toned by digging and weeding, is almost as inviting as her pussy. Those taut curves, and her willingness to be bound and bent over, make me wonder.

I pick up one of the thin, wooden rods lying on the table. “What is this?”

Claire turns her head to see. “It’s a tomato cane, for— Oh! Is it for bad girls?”

We’ve never tried spanking before either, but there was no trepidation in her question, only eager curiosity. “You tell me. Should bad girls be punished?”

“Maybe. Gently though! At first. Let me decide how bad I am.”

“Of course.”

How hard is gentle? I try a cautious flick of my wrist, which ends in little more than a tap.

She’s disappointed. “Mm-hm. I think I might be badder than that. Much badder.”

I draw back a little for a faster stroke, elbow and wrist working together to produce a short swoosh that ends in a satisfying thwack.

“Ngh! Yes! That is — Ow! Ow, ow, wow, that’s hot. And it’s exactly how bad I am. Do it again. Punish me until I need to be fucked.”

I’m not quite sure I want to do it again. The mark I’ve left on her otherwise flawless bottom is quite dramatic: a thin pink line, slowly rising into a welt, with deeper red stripes blooming above and below it. But she asked for more, and the bloom on her butt is reflected in her glistening labia, so more is what she’ll get.

I suspect striking the same spot again will be much more painful, so I aim for the unblemished skin above. Another thwack, and another encouraging noise from Claire. She’s up on her toes now, as though her ass wants to be closer to the cane.

A third stroke, below the first, produces less encouraging noises: a sharp squeal, rapidly followed by sobbing and snuffling.

Filled with instant remorse, I drop the cane. “Christ, Claire! I’m so sorry!”

“No! Don’t stop, please! I need more, I’m almost there.”

I’m not sure what’s happening, but if this is what my wife needs, this is what she’ll get. I pick up the cane and give her one more stroke, aiming for the top of her thighs, hoping the skin there might be more resilient than her ravaged bottom.

When the cane lands, Claire gasps and beats a fist on the table. “Fu-u-uck! Finish me? Please!”

She never comes from fucking, so ‘finish me’ means ‘finger me’, and she never wants to do much after an orgasm, so in practice ‘finish me’ usually means ‘finger me then finish yourself’. But her ass says she’s earned that much, at least, and cupping her pussy confirms the effect the caning’s had on her: she’s as hot and wet as the garden after a summer storm.

I thrust a thumb inside her, curling down to find her G-spot, and slide two fingers between her lips and onto her clit. This, we have done before. I know how this works, how to do it right, how she likes it.

Normally, I’d kiss her neck and whisper sweet nothings while I get her off, but normally I can reach her neck, because normally her head would be down, resting on a pillow. Today, she’s holding her head up, looking out of the greenhouse, directly at Mr Elliott.

Our neighbour has abandoned his creosote. His left hand is gripping the top of his precious fence; his right is out of sight, but from his grimace of concentration I imagine it’s holding something even more important to him.

He can’t stop staring at my wife any more than she can stop staring at him. I can feel her pussy tighten as I move my wrist; I can see his face tighten as he moves his. And then I watch his mouth fall open as Claire cries out, “God, yes!”

I think my wife and my neighbour just had simultaneous orgasms.

As she clenches and spasms around my thumb, her body — and her sobbing — subside. Usually, I stroke her bottom while she comes back down to earth, but one glance at those welts is enough to remind me this isn’t a normal day. However much she enjoyed receiving that damage, she’ll be tender now. I free her arms from their bonds and stroke her back instead.

After a moment to recover, she pushes herself off the table and turns round. She looks up at me, her face a mess of tear-streaked compost. “Sorry. I know you wanted to fuck me but my god, being caned is so good! I needed that release. Thank you.” She goes up on her toes again, to plant an earthy kiss on my lips. “I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.”

Now I’m jealous of my neighbour: at least he got to cum. On the other hand, he has to clean his fence before his wife finds out, whereas I get to clean my wife.

I drag a fingertip up Claire’s belly and show her the muck I’ve collected. “You really are a dirty girl.”

She looks down at the muddy smears on her breasts, and smiles. “It’s beautiful: I’m at one with nature, and my nature. But I should definitely shower now.”

“No need. I can hose you down here.”

She looks across her vegetable patch to the reel mounted on the garage wall. “The hose won’t reach into the greenhouse.”

“I’ll do it outside.”

“You expect me to stand naked in the garden, so Mr Elliott can see exactly how filthy I’ve been?” She grins. “Only a very bad girl would do that… and she’d want to be punished for it afterwards.”

I had no idea what seeds I was going to sow when I followed Claire into the greenhouse, but strange shoots have sprung up. Whatever grows from them is likely to bear succulent fruit.

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