Mrs Reagan's Gardener

A notice in the newspaper caught the eye of genial Molly Reagan, a mother of two and wife of an overworked husband who'd insisted in moving out of her beloved apartment eighteen months ago to a house with a big garden.

Well, Molly now lived with diminishing resentment in a lovely house which she cleans and keeps tidy but the garden is a mess. The advertisement stated – 'Call Tom the Gardener to tidy up what your husband won't do'. Molly flushed when she thought of one small garden he could attend to as often as Tom wished but then chastised herself for being so disgusting. She made the call.

"Tom, this is Molly.

"Yes, I'm aware it's a lovely name. I want some gardening done; I would like a price"

"You don't do house calls to give estimates - why not?"

"Oh, you work only by an hourly rate? Well, how much work do you do in an hour?

"An hour's worth in an hour is not a helpful answer Tom.

"I'm not wasting your time, Tom. I'm trying to get a handle on this. Can you give me references?

"They are written reports from satisfied customers usually who state that you do a thoroughly good job and left them very well pleased.

"Saying you don't go in for paperwork is no use to me, Tom.

"What do you mean I can stick my garden? That doesn't sound very nice.

"Oh well, come and work for me for four hours this Wednesday afternoon.

"You go bowling on Wednesday afternoons. But you can come in the morning? Very well, here is my address – yes I will serve a hearty morning tea and coffee again at 11:00. And yes you can use one of our showers.

"Thank you Tom. Yes, I will be out of bed at 9:00. Goodbye."

Wednesday began like any other weekday morning. David the husband who Molly saw on week days from 8 o'clock the previous evening to 6:30 the next morning when he'd drive off to the station to catch the 6.45 for his law office in the city, leaving her either sexually unsatisfied because he'd not 'done it' or sexually unsatisfied because he'd left her with a deposit of semen after a quick bang before he jumped out of bed. He'd not have time to really get her away and then to cuddle her.

She'd drift back to sleep then her alarm would go and she'd shower, wake the children, ensure they ate their breakfast and walk the short distance to the corner and wait with them and some other mothers for the school bus.

Then…? Not a great deal, really, apart from watching morning TV before it became boring enough to make coffee then she'd begin cleaning the house.

When they lived in the apartment she'd see the girls off to school then enter the coffee shop below their apartment building to be greet by up to a dozen friends – they'd drift off to their apartments and then she'd join several of them to go shopping and then lunch where they'd start off with a martini and…well, that life had ended in emptiness for her.

Tom the gardener had sounded like a tired old man, but waiting for him she fancied him as a blond big-chest hunk from one of those underpants ads – and visualized running her hands over his 6-pack stomach to find what was being unsuccessfully concealed by his incredibly white briefs. Feeling aroused she raced in and turned on TV as a diversion and listened to a boring head going on about the mistreatment of animals.

Molly had lived her entire life in Faulton City and environs, but had traveled to Boston several times, New York every two years or so and to law conferences in Chicago, LA, Dallas and Philadelphia. Aged 32, she thought there ought to be more to life than watching morning TV and fanaticizing about an old gardener, turning him into something he wasn't.

Socially her problem was her neighbors – David had purchased the only decent house in the street with the best views of the lake, and the women in the street showed only stiffness and deference to her as her husband was an attorney in the city while theirs worked locally in motor service centers or owned small businesses or were assistant managers at the mall or cut up meat or cut grass at the country club or drove a cab.

The doorbell went – the cheeky man, it was the front door bell. She checked her hair and lipstick in the mirror and was wearing an old shirt but crisp new white shorts as he was only a gardener which rated him marginally below a carpet cleaner demonstrator. Had he been someone coming to talk about life insurance or joining a Dining Out Club she'd put on full makeup, one of her new bras and a low-cut slinky dress just to enjoy watching the eyes roam and the guy fluffing his lines and having to start again.

"Yes?" she asked, opening the door as if expecting no-one.

"Gosh, I was expecting a fat, sour-faced dame looking to be seduced."

Resisting a great urge to slam the door and race to get David's handgun, Molly said stiffly, "Pardon me?"

"Sorry, I have a weird sense of humor. I'm Tom the gardener."

"Tom who?"

"Just Tom will suffice. Pay me cash and no-one will know I've been here."

"Are you an alien?"

Tom's confidence drained from him and he looked around nervously – but the nearest neighbor was fifty meters away and inside her house watching morning TV.

"Er."

"What kind of answer is that?"

"Can you keep your mouth shut?"

"Pardon me?"

"If I tell you, will you keep it confidential?"

"Yes, but come in for coffee – remove those boots, please and next time kindly come to the rear door."

"I'm a front door man."

Molly couldn't prevent the blush, knowing he didn't mean that. At least she didn't think he meant it as a sly ambiguous reply. He removed his boots and followed her to the kitchen. She was certain she heard him breath, "Nice ass" but he immediately coughed and that confused her.

"My sister married this American who runs the Faulton City Mall and I came over to visit her and liked the place so much that I've stayed. They have self-contained living quarters above their garage and stables - they live outside the city – so I've been living there. I crossed into Canada officially and then sneaked back in so the authorities don't know I'm here."

"So you are an alien. Where do you and your sister come from?"

"New Zealand."

"Where's that."

Tom rolled his eyes and explained until he said 'by Australia' and she made the predictable response, "Australia, oh yes, Crocodile Dundee."

He finished his coffee and said, "Right, I'm here to attend your garden."

Molly was quite sure his eyes were focused on the table trying to bore through to gaze between her legs. She crossed them tightly but the feeling of visual penetration remained.

"Mow the lawns first, and then report to me for further instructions."

"Where's the mower."

"In the storeroom."

"Where's the storeroom?"

Molly realized he hadn't been to their property before so of course would have to be brief thoroughly. She attended to that.

Molly had said the lawn mower was a pig, it took David twenty or more attempts to get it to start and it made such a noise that some neighbors became quite hostile.

There was no sound of action, so Molly went out to find out where her money was being spent. Tom had the mower in pieces and was washing something he called an air filter under the tap and then he flushed out something called a fuel filter, re-set what he called the gap of the points and then used some tape he fetched from his truck called a high temperature thermal tape to wrap around a pipe leading into the muffler.

"This is costing me a half hour of you time."

He look looked at her and said, "You're cute".

She raced off in panic, slamming the door behind her but going to the window to watch from behind the curtain for a minute or two.

A few minutes later she hear the mower start and purr into action – a smooth, constant sound that sounded no louder than the fridge-freezer. She looked out the window and saw he was moving the lawn, catcher on and not leaving a trail of clippings that David always said was 'self mulching – good for building up the soil'.

Molly went out at 10:00 to call him in for morning tea and couldn't believe how well manicured the lawns were. She found him at the compost bins that had been shifted and rebuilt far straighter and more solid looking than she'd ever seen then and they were half filled with lawn clippings.

"Tom you are absolutely marvelous," she said as he sat at the table.

"You don't looking too bad yourself, Molly," he said, eyes boring into her breasts. At that Molly felt her nipples stiffen and she went weak at the knees.

"I-I'm just a housewife, Tom."

"Housewives have the same needs as everyone else, Molly."

"I think you should be out gardening," she said weakly.

Rising from his chair has stepped towards her. His smile was warm, his whole demeanor non-threatening so she felt no fear. He grasped her around and thighs and lifted her in one smooth movement on to the table and let go of her. She was breathing a little heavily marveling at his strength.

"Pull down your shorts, Molly."

Her mind screamed 'No!' but her hands ignored that frantic message and pulled down her shorts, dropping them to her ankles. He placed his hands on the top of her briefs and said, "May I get rid of these?" She nodded, hearing no inner warning that probably would have been ignored and with two powerful rips he allowed the ravaged piece of the garment to fall to her ankles. She stepped out of those pieces and her shorts and kicked them to the floor.

Her clipped hairy centre was now exposed to him. He sniffed at it and she felt herself release moisture.

"May I lick you?"

"I need to shower first, David always makes me shower."

Tom ignored that and spreading the flaps he dabbed with his tongue a few times along the length of her exposed vulva and flicked the clit twice. She twitched and moaned and leaned forward, grabbing two handfuls of hair on his neck. His tongue penetrated her and soon he added fingers. Her juices were running and her feet shuffled from the effect of her upper body squirming.

He pulled away briefly to say, "Finger you clit."

"I can't, I never touch myself."

"Rubbish, finger you clit."

They were soon working in tandem until she squealed, shuddered and ejaculated, drenching his already wet hand and mouth.

"Yummy, you taste good."

"Oh Tom, you shouldn't be saying things to me like that."

"Oh, aren't I naughty."

She giggled, and jerked again.

"Ohmigod, I'm rarely like this," she said. "I feel as if I'm on fire and want my body invaded."

He seized her thighs.

"Oh Tom, don't fuck me, will you promise?"

"The thought had never entered my mind," he said, untruthfully and smiling sardonically.

He eased her off the tabled and allowed her to side down him until her pussy was at the top of his cock. She squirmed in his arms.

"Are you trying to allow it to enter you?"

"Yes, yes – come on, don't fuck around."

"Yes, ma'am, he said, lowering her a little more and thrusting up his hips. His very erect cock slid into her very sloppy and very hot pussy, making sexually arousing slurping noises.

Tom, his face a little red from exertion and sweating, said, "Pull your tits free so I can slurp them." She hastily obliged and they began fucking and grunting and making wet slapping noises as she was now sweating and leaking fluids.

"I should have taken my trousers off," he groaned. "They're going to be a real mess."

"Too late, I'm cumming," she shouted, "Eeeeeeeeee-hah!" her pussy gripping Tom's cock and milking it. "Aaaaghaaaaah! he shouted, pumping her full of cum.

They sank to the tiled kitchen floor, pussy juices, sweat and cum over them and leaking on to the floor.

"I'm sorry, it's a real mess."

"Don't be sorry – that the heartiest fuck I've ever had, even better when I was gang-banged on the night of my graduation ball."

Tom failed to show up the next Wednesday so Molly phoned the mall, found out the name of the chief executive. She contacted his personal assistant, requesting that she call Mrs Maple-Smith and ask her to call the number Molly gave her. She had to do it this way because the mall would not give out Mr Maple-Smith's home phone number which was unlisted.

Mrs Maple-Smith called back and Molly learned that the previously Friday morning at dawn the immigration service raided their apartment above the garage and apprehended Tom. He was deported to Canada and now was back home in New Zealand writing his new book about the warm-heartedness of American women.

"You sound a lovely woman Mrs Reagan – may I invite you to lunch with me on Thursday," said Mrs Maple-Smith. "I feel rather cut-off in this community, finding it difficult to make friends. I have two young girls and a workaholic of a husband."

"I'd love that, please call me Molly."

"Ah, Molly. Tom told me two nights before his apprehension that he'd met this wonderful woman called Molly. I'll be so interested to find out what impressed him about you."

Molly put the phone down, breathing heavily. Was that a veiled invitation to a lesbian encounter or what? She'd always been interested to find out exactly what lesbians do. Her fingers reached for her clit.

THE END