Miss Amelia's Secret

Sleek black cats in heat sniff each other, warily, curious noses pressed up against pungent flesh and fur. They mate, loudly, amongst the chrysanthemums, to the gardener's amusement.

Resting underneath the shade of a willow, she watches them with detached interest; idly, her hand slips between muslin and skin to fondle an ample breast. Her cunt is tight, aching.

Out of her throat spills rich laughter, as the gardener realizes she is getting horny watching cats mate. Miss Amelia must get bedded. Soon. The gardener loosens her corset a little.

Spring had finally come to her garden. Everything was flowering or fucking; the thick scent of those activities reminded her that she hadn't been laid in a long time, not since that priest came knocking on her door last month. Goodness, that had been an excellent fuck. They had done it in the pantry, up against the wall, with her guests sipping rosebud tea in the next room.

While busybodies murmured gossip above the clicking of fine china, the long legs of their hostess were wrapped round the priest's hips, his hands cupping her generous buttocks bare beneath the froth of her skirts. Miraculously, her black hair was still knotted in a neat bun.

The discovery that Miss Amelia was not wearing any drawers had led to the passionate encounter. The priest simply could not resist the sight of her buttocks, upturned for his delectation, a slight, naughty blush staining their pale roundness.

Descending to the floor, the pair had knocked over a tin of flour, as well as a cup of sugar, but neither had cared, as he plunged his long-malnourished cock into her wet, hungry cunt. Despite decades of voluntary celibacy, Father Benning had impeccable sexual manners. He knew how to fuck sublimely, almost divinely, causing Miss Amelia to forget, for the first and last time, her other guests as she let out a loud moan.

After a brief silence, Mrs Madison had knocked on the door, solicitously, to inquire into the well-being of her hostess. "Is everything alright, Miss Amelia?"

"Mmm. Yes, Mrs Madison," Miss Amelia had replied, from her precarious perch atop the priest, as her confessor bit, gently now, on a swollen nipple, his cock angling to tickle a certain spot that nearly caused her to cry with boundless joy. "Father Benning is assisting me with certain matters of spiritual importance."

"Is that right?" Mrs Madison asked, as she opened the door.

Priest and lady froze mid-fuck; Mrs Madison surveyed the voluptuous scene, shocked.

The door shut, with a furious click, before opening again, hesitantly, curiously.

"May I join in?" the young matron shyly inquired.

Lacy, diminutive pink drawers fell to the floor as Mrs Madison raised her skirts and knelt before the startled pair, parting her dimpled knees to reveal a swollen, already damp cunt, framed by whorls of curly blonde hair. A hand dipped down to cup the puckered lips. A cool tongue parted lips, tasted honey. Mrs Madison was hungry for a good fuck, her splendid busom straining against the front of her dress. Apparently, young Mr Madison had been inattentive concerning certain matters, being both unimaginative and luckwarm.

When the trio emerged from the pantry, their attire was slightly rumpled, faintly dusted with flour. Miss Amelia could still taste the sensuous intermingling of sugar and cunt juice on her palm, a smell she missed dearly.

Shaking herself out of reverie, Miss Amelia decides to wash up at a nearby brook, for her afternoon tea. As a thick cloud of butterflies brushes past her, she revels, if briefly, in the movement of their wings, the velvet caress. Perhaps it was time to visit town again. She shudders. She would have to rub elbows with all those provincials, with their squeamishness and prudish ways. Most of their ilk did not interest her, except for those willing enough for an adventure. But they were few and often surprising. Reflecting on that sad state of affairs almost made her want to move to London, even thought to do so would mean leaving her beloved garden.

Musing, the gardener almost ruins a most opportune moment.

In her brook bathes a sylph. Partly submerged, the woman is young, all long thighs, nipples begging to be sucked and bit. Slight breasts, surprisingly tawny in the English spring, recalling the color of mangoes, of fragrant fruit from a faraway land, brought on a widefaring ship by her sea captain father. A child's memory is recalled, of sucking, salaciously, on a fleshy, slightly tart seed as she sat in the servants' staircase. At that age, it had seemed illicit, scraping at that succulent heart in the dark.

The gardener rests on the grassy branch, underneath a magnolia tree, quite gleeful at her luck. Perhaps she will not need to go to town after all.

Unaware of her leering observer, the silver-headed beauty languidly massages a soapy washcloth over the length of her limbs, between her legs, up against her young cunt. Lather trickles down a thigh. The girl's eyelids slip a little, as her brow furrows in lazy concentration. Yes, you scrumptious scone, scrub harder. Harder.

Miss Amelia is wet. She slips a hand up under her skirts, between her thighs, to the pre-cut slit in her satin drawers. She rubs her slightly callused hand along the velvet folds of her pussy, lifting her skirts just a little, to watch herself get wet, glistening in the sunlight that shafts through the tree branches. A magnolia falls, almost idly, as a breeze sends the tree shivering. The gardener's breath catches, as nimble fingers stroke her cunt.

She imagines a scenario where instead of a mango, Miss Amelia is eating out the cunt of the sylph. They are in a staircase. She has the sylph bent over the banister, hanging unto the rails for dear life as she wiggles her ass up against Miss Amelia, begging to be spanked, yes, spanked with a specially-made paddle enrobed in fur, only to moan as a hot, thick cock pushes into her cunt. A moan escapes.

At this moment, the plot thickens, for the moan captures the attention of the girl, who screams. She is quite surprised, reasonably, at finding this strange attractive woman with her skirts frothing in her lap, who appears to be masturbating.

Who does not even cease what she is doing. Who does not even bother to say, "Excuse me." Instead, she smiles at the girl, a very sexy smile, a daring smile. The woman is daring her. "What's your name, little girl?"

The girl's hands, attempting, vainly, to shield her vulnerable (and quivering) nudity go slack. She is curious. A little aroused. Green eyes dilate.

Shyly, for all adventurers are shy, at first, unsure of their newly found courage, she wades through the brook, to approach the waiting woman. Uncertain, a flush staining her cheeks and other very mentionable parts of hers, the girl places Miss Amelia's hands over the firm slopes of her breasts.

"Sophie, ma'am."

Miss Amelia smiles that sexy, daring smile. She can feel Sophie's heart, trying to beat its way out of her ribcage. The slyph's other hand slides up Miss Amelia's thighs. A tuba bellows triumph in the gardener's head. Someone's getting bedded today . . .

Stays are loosened, a corset untied. A muslin shirt ripples over Miss Amelia's bosom; Sophie can make out the color of her nipples, pushing against the cream fabric, whispery, then damp under her wet palms. The shirt is unbuttoned, revealing raised flesh; a hand massages away the bumps, grooves, and shallow gullies carved by stays laced too tight, the way Miss Amelia likes.

Hands glides over slick skin, finds goosebumps, eases away shy hands to discover wetter secrets.

Sophie reclines on the grass, which slightly crunches beneath her weight. Leaves ripple; blossoms fall. The girl is dizzy; the scent of this woman, leaning above her, between her thighs. Disorientation. Only a few nights ago, she had lain with her man like this, his face scratchy with stubble. Harry had been quite serious too, his body massive and heavy and rough in her arms.

And there was pain too, at first, a lancing that took away her breath because she had not understood it. All he could say, as he heaved in and out, wincing and sweating all over her, was Baby baby baby yes yes my name say my name come on you love this come dont you love this baby don't you. After it was over and done with, after Harry had ejaculated and turned away to fall promptly asleep, she could only think, This is it?

But here was this woman, this woman with the sexy smile and a strong, resilient, soft body, a slightly different mirror of her own, lying between her legs, elbows on each side of her head. Her skirts froth over them, creating a tent of white muslin and red silk. Teasing. Not exactly touching, but close enough. She could hear bees buzzing, idly. Nuzzling open tight buds to get at the prize, the honeypot, the pollen sticky and sweet. She stretched upwards, arching so that she could feel her lover's body, goodness, breasts rubbing against each other, bellies nuzzling each other. Getting dizzy and dizzier.

A nipple, pushing, nuzzling the palm of Miss Amelia's hand, stiff, waiting to be pinched or bitten, gently now, the edge of teeth running over the tip, causing Sophie to sigh, gasp. Again, a gasp, squeezed between her pouty lips, as her lover seizes a stalk of heather and begins to tickle her with the feathery part.

Miss Amelia is quite adept with all flowers; after all she is a gardener. Once upon a time, she studied horticulture in a greenhouse set deeply in the French countryside. During the winter, she would fuck many a man or woman or both amongst the exotics, taking care not to trample the beauteous rarities in the fury of her boundless lust. This tight bud deserves special attention. The girl giggles. Then, a waiting silence, as the girl gets on her elbows to look down at her lover, kneeling between her thighs. A tickle of feather, along the swollen lips of her cunt. The stalk, hard, strange, exciting. Do you want it? Tell me. Right there, the stalk, just where Harry had been, only it was different. Teasing, a little in, a little out, but not quite, never all the way, although, with a slight spasm, her cunt tries to grip the stalk, to pull it into her tight wetness. In. Out. She arches her hips, needing.

You're so damp. And you smell so good. You smell of the darkness and of my garden and you smell of ripe peaches and you smell so delicious that I want to lick you all up right now. In fact, Miss Sophie, I might as well do it.

Sweet Jesus.

Sweet Jesus, indeed. A darkness lies heavy behind the eyelids. Ears so sensitive, she can hear the wings of a dragonfly sipping water, hear her lover's hands gliding, intent, intensely, along her skin, the sigh of the earth revolving, within the cradle of the universe.

Fingers push into tight dampness. Sound smothered. Two. Three. Four. Movement. Oh. My. Gone. The fingers are gone. She wants them to come back. Please.

A strange thickness, like-Harry-yet-different, rests there, right there, where she is suddenly alive, knowing. How? No matter, it's there, like-Harry-yet-wonderfully-different. Sophie straddles the gardener's hips, cunt pressed sopping wet against the tip of her cock. Her hand curves around the penis, pulls gently upwards. She wonders how it would taste, in the hot cave of her mouth. Dreaming, her tongue flickers out, over her own mouth, then her lover's.

Take me. Go on. Swallow me up with your cunt. I know how it will be like. You'll be tight, almost too tight, but if you sink down and let your slick little honeypot wrap round my cock, my girl's cock, you can take all of me in. That's a good little girl. Come on, push. Look, I'll do it to, fuck you, like you're fucking me. Slowly. Only at first, then

Goodness, you're so tight, baby. Sophie. Oh, honey.

faster harder you fill me up all of you oh

Limbs quake. A prayer of hips, grinding against each other, cunt tightly clenches round cock, two lovers gasping into each other's mouths. Tongues tangle. Implosion. Sighs.