Gardening, Neighbors, Flashing, Sex

Author's Note:This is my entry in the Summer Lovin' Story Contest 2023 I appreciate your taking time to leave your rating and comments at the end; your positive responses if you enjoy the tale, and constructive feedback of any kind is always welcome.

Please note: this is fiction and fantasy—in a world where unprotected sex has no consequences or health risks—so please enjoy it as such. This story features exhibitionism and a woman having sex with two younger men including, anal, oral, and double penetration—that's your heads up in case this is not your thing. All characters are 18 or older. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely unintentional and coincidental.

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I froze, and my eyes popped open at my reflection. Holy shit! A myriad of thoughts raced through my stunned mind, along with some clarity. Oh my god, I can't believe this—but it explains a lot. Twisting in an awkward way to mimic my gardening positions while looking in the mirror, I saw with a mix of trepidation and unexpected titillation what Matt and James must have seen.

Thinking back on the previous few hours, understanding seeped into my psyche; I mentally replayed my earlier day from a different perspective.

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The mid-summer day was hot, and despite my loose clothes and hat, I knew I would soon be coated in a fine sheen of sweat. But working outside and creating beautiful and peaceful gardens was cathartic for me; it made me feel good. I relished the combination of solitude, physical labor, and repetition—the process was as rewarding as the result.

I didn't like wearing tight or restricting clothes outdoors—I covered myself enough to protect myself from the sun and rough earth. I was alone in my garden anyway, so I didn't pay much attention to my appearance. I wore my usual: loose tank top, calf-length cargo style pants (to protect my knees), and old deck shoes with no-show socks. My ensemble was topped off by a floppy-brimmed hat for working in the sun.

At 37, divorced for almost two years, I felt generally fit and attractive but was a bit less toned and carried a few extra pounds than in my college days. Not really overweight, just a bit fuller, a tad softer. I was also aware that I had reached the age where I might not be catching the eye of hot guys the way I used to. Or any hot guys lately, for that matter. It had been over three months since I'd been on a proper date and almost a year since I'd had sex. Other than with my vibe, that is.

Before heading out to the garden earlier that morning, I had automatically done a quick check to ensure I wasn't showing any bits I didn't intend to—a long-time habit of mine whenever I went without a bra. Bras were so hot and constricting, especially in the heat, so I tried to avoid them—my boobs were full, but not so big I always needed the support. And although most of my yard was screened, I was cognizant that I had to be at least a bit careful not to inappropriately show anything just in case I should encounter someone.

I stood by a mirror and turned to face different angles and positions. I stood straight, leaned forward, and lifted my arms up shoulder height; the sides in my tank top showed the slightest promise of side boob—nothing revealing more than a hint of the crease. I swung my arms forward and to sides, overhead, and leaned forward; nothing showed.

I turned around and checked out my butt: pants tight enough to hint at a nice round ass without being constricting or uncomfortable. I nodded to myself in the mirror. Good enough for yard work.

My house had a large backyard with gardens, pool, hot tub, and an outdoor kitchen. More home and yard than I could have afforded on my own—owning it was an excellent "fuck-you" to my ex, who had plenty of money. He had so much that he felt obligated to share his wealth with a second wife in another state. Thank god neither of us had children to complicate the mess our ex made of our lives. As a result, I lived without him in relative luxury.

I enjoyed creating, cultivating, and caring for the gardens, which formed a border along the perimeter of my backyard. A combination of walls, fences, trees, and bushes screened off the entire pool/hot tub and grill/kitchen areas from any view except my own house. Private, but plenty of open air. Private enough to not worry about swimming attire or excessive modesty, should one be so inclined.

The only portion of the yard visible to outsiders was a small section on the east side between the grill/kitchen area and large trees towards the back. That area could be seen from the east-side neighbor's second-story deck over a chest-high fence that provided an open sky and a lovely garden backdrop.

I spent a couple of hours gardening, and after a light lunch, I started to work on the east side, in the area visible from my neighbor's deck. I saw my next-door neighbor, Matt, and another man walk out onto his deck.

Matt was good-looking, friendly, and somewhere in his mid-twenties. We saw each other, and Matt waved and lifted his beer toward me in greeting. I nodded and waved back with my gardening trowel. The two men sat and focused on each other in conversation. I knelt down and went back to weeding.

About ten minutes went by, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the two men were standing, leaning on their deck railing, and looking in my direction. I angled my head towards them and lifted my chin in acknowledgment, but they didn't respond, so I resumed clipping some bushes. Maybe they didn't notice my gesture or weren't looking at me at all.

Yet, for some reason, I had that uneasy feeling of being watched, so after a minute, I casually glanced back at the men. They had their heads together, murmuring. I thought I saw them smirking knowingly and briefly glancing at me. At least, that was my feeling—but they weren't doing anything obvious or inappropriate. Just chatting, that's all; I'm being paranoid. At least, I think so.

I felt disconcerted and subtly glanced down at my front to see if anything was catching their eyes—nothing out of place, nothing showed. I shrugged and continued working, clipping, raking, collecting cuttings, and dumping them in a bin.

I had yet to learn what they were focusing on or even if they were actually watching me. I was nothing to look at—smeared with grime, sweat, a silly floppy hat, and baggy clothes—and what I was doing was as interesting as watching paint dry.

Occasionally, I would look over and make direct eye contact with the men; they didn't divert their gaze or act guilty as if caught perving or doing anything wrong. Instead, they would lift their glasses as if making a friendly toast, smile, and have a drink. Then they turned to each other and continued chatting.

I smiled and nodded a neighborly gesture and went back to work. I must be imagining things—must be the heat—they're not watching me. There's no reason to. They're just hanging out, having a few brews, nodding if we happen to make eye contact. I just happen to be in their field of vision. Nothing creepy or inappropriate here; just friendly, neighborly behavior.

It was hot. I sweated profusely, occasionally sitting up and wiping my forehead with the back of my arm. I would then wipe my moist arm on my shirt to clean it up. Sometimes I would hunch forward and use the bottom of my shirt to pat the sweat on my face. I was digging out a particularly stubborn root when a voice startled me.

"Hi, Crystal. You look like you're getting quite the workout here." I jumped. Looking up, I saw my neighbor, Matt, leaning on the fence, looking over at me. Smiling in a friendly, amiable way. "It's pretty hot today; you making sure you're getting enough hydration?"

I sat back on my heels, thinking it was an oddly formal phrase, but it didn't suggest anything more than casual banter. "Yeah, I am pretty warm. But I've been drinking plenty of water, so I think I'm sufficiently hydrating myself." I smiled wryly at my use of the same clinical term.

Matt had an easy-going, personable manner. Vivid blue eyes twinkled under dark tousled hair above solid cheekbones and jaw. He leaned casually with his forearms on the fence, an open beer in one hand, an unopened one in the other. "Care for a beer? Saves a trip inside, and it's nice and cold—tastes great on a hot summer day." Matt smiled and offered the can to me.

I felt a flutter of warmth in my belly and smiled. Is he flirting with me? I can't tell if he's just being friendly. The memory of Matt and his buddy watching me—ogling me? Flashed through my mind.God, I must've had too much sun; I'm imagining things here. Of course, he's just being friendly; get a grip, woman.

"That looks great, Matt, thanks." I took the beer, popped it open, and took a long, satisfying quaff. Mmm, that hits the spot." I said. "Who's the guy I saw you with before?"

"James—we've been good buddies since middle school. He's in town for the long weekend." I looked quizzically over at his house. Matt noticed and clarified. "He's seeing other friends now. He'll be back later tonight."

"Good friends are great to have. He lives some distance away now, I take it?"

"Yeah. But we keep in touch regularly and see each other two or three times a year.

Matt looked at me, a playful grin creasing the corners of his mouth. "You're certainly working hard out here—makes me feel guilty. Need any help?"

I smiled, took a swig of beer, and glanced at a small ornamental tree lying nearby, its roots wrapped in burlap. "Well, I could use some muscle to dig the planting hole for this fella," gesturing to the tree. "If you're serious about your offer to help."

Without a word, Matt placed his hand on the top of the fence, coiled, and sprung over the top, pressing down and using his arm as leverage. He landed deftly on my side without spilling a drop of his beer, arms out like a gymnast landing a flip. He then grinned at me, clearly proud of himself.

"I'd give that a nine," I laughed. "Ten for execution but just an eight for difficulty."

"Hey, just an eight? How many Olympians vault with a beer in one hand yet still master the strength, grace, and agility I just demonstrated?"

"Um, let's see . . . I'd say, nearly . . . one. Call it none." I laughed. "Besides, I think they discontinued the one-handed-over-the-fence-with-beer vault in about 1780." Matt simply grinned and shrugged good-naturedly.

I handed Matt a shovel and showed him where I wanted the tree. He stabbed the shovel into the ground and pulled off his shirt. "I'm already feeling the heat here and haven't even started my manual labor," he joked.

My eyes flared at the sight of his broad chest and shoulders. Chiseled arms, six-pack abs, defined pecs. I paused a moment and admired his physique. Damn, this guy's hot—pretty much the definition of a perfect body; wow. I felt a quiver between my legs, followed by a flash of embarrassment—or shame?

What am I, a teenager drooling over a cute football player? He's my neighbor, at least a dozen years younger than me. I shook my head slightly as if clearing unwanted thoughts. But hey, doesn't hurt to look, right? Guys always seem to.

"Well, you've certainly been doing something to keep in shape," I said, tipping my head as if assessing his athletic potential. Trying to keep things light and natural.

Matt nodded to me. "I try; I enjoy working out." He winked at me and turned to start digging. He pressed the shovel into the soil and glanced at me over his shoulder with a nod.

I felt somewhat flustered again. I was not used to men flirting—if that was what was happening—with me. Certainly not by someone who looked like an Adonis, and not for many years.

"I'm going to pop inside to visit the little girl's room; I'll be right back," I said. "Grab you another beer?"

"No thanks for now, I'm good. Might take you up on that offer a bit later."

I turned and walked to the house. That feeling of being watched crept over me again, and I was certain Matt was still there, watching me walk to the house. Watching my backside. I wasn't sure how I felt about it. I didn't feel annoyed or irritated the way I thought I should; instead, I felt flattered. Maybe I was imagining everything, but the thought of a handsome younger man interested in looking at me gave me little butterflies. If he were watching, his expression suggested pleasure, not disgust.

Inside, I peed and then drank some cold lemonade. I wondered again if the men really were watching me—ogling me—and if so, why? I considered that perhaps I was showing some skin when I moved that didn't show when standing still. Or if certain positions changed things. I felt uncertain and slightly aroused at the thought.

Standing before my full-length mirror, I struck various poses. First, I checked that my butt crack didn't appear when I crouched or bent forward—nothing there. Then, I leaned forward and inspected the gaping front of my top. At the most extreme angle, I saw the top curves of my breasts until they disappeared into the shadows and folds of fabric. Nothing really showed, and from any distance, certainly nothing to see.

I twisted sideways, lifted my arms, and moved to the sides; no side boob. I was sweaty, and my shirt was damp—I pulled it tight across my chest and could see the outline of my nipples. I felt a flutter in my belly at the thought of the two men seeing me like that. But you had to look close to see; there was no way the men could have seen that from far away, and I never stood with my shirt pulled tight like that anyway.

Then, a thought occurred to me: I wasn't seeing all the angles I would do while gardening. I turned sideways to the mirror and knelt, reached forward as if digging with a hand trowel, and curved my back as if trying to get pressure. I tipped my head to the side to see in the mirror.Bingo!

That's when I saw, with some shock, what they must have seen. My boob. My entire boob, including my nipple, was visible from the side. After recovering from my initial brain freeze, I discovered that when I reached and bent in specific ways, which happened to be the very movements I did when digging, weeding, and working the garden, the sides of my tank would gape perfectly for maximum viewing of my breasts. No wonder I didn't notice before; it never occurred to me I would be exposed like this. And no wonder the men were watching me so intently.

I moved my arm and rocked forwards and back as if digging or weeding, which caused my boob to sway freely and openly, on display through my tank's deep side gap. It would have been even more visible in the bright sunlight. I twisted and changed positions in a forward crouch, and my shirt fluttered, briefly showing both tits before settling back down. I might as well have been working topless. I was surprised to feel a flash of excitement at the idea.

I took solace in knowing that I wasn't imagining after all that the men were staring at me. I was giving them repeated, live-action shots of my tits. The realization caused my pussy to tingle. Good grief, I can't be liking this; I should be embarrassed and horrified. But I wasn't. A pleasant flutter in my crotch betrayed that I was turned on instead. I had just discovered that I had a hidden exhibitionist streak.

I stood, emotions and thoughts racing. Feelings of excitement and flattery battled social pressures that told me I should feel shame and guilt and cover up before going out again. But I really didn't want to.

My young, adventurous, inner minx rationalized getting out and having some fun. Matt's already seen my tits; what difference would it make if he saw them again? My prudish, grown-up self argued back. He's only seen you from far away and by accident. What you're contemplating is slutty, immature, and inappropriate.

Risky and adventurous won. Fuck it—Matt seems to appreciate me, even if I'm much older. It's sexy and arousing to know I've accidentally given him some eye candy; it will be fun and hot to show him again, but pretend I'm unaware. I haven't felt attractive to a guy like this in a long time; maybe I'm imagining things, but what the hell, what can it hurt? Worse comes to worst, I can always claim I didn't realize I was flashing.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and grinned; I had decided to take a walk on the wild side.

I finished my lemonade, then took a minute by the mirror to confirm my "best" poses and angles before I headed back out to the yard. I felt a flush of warmth that had nothing to do with the hot summer day and everything to do with anticipation and nervousness. I planned to have some risqué fun in the sun, come what may.

Matt had the new hole nearly entirely dug when I returned. I appreciated watching his muscles flex and ripple in the sun as he worked, enjoying the sight. His skin was glistening with sweat, which highlighted his exquisite physical definition.

"Lookin' good," I called out, my voice dripping with innuendo. "Just about perfect."

Matt glanced up at me and quirked one eyebrow with amusement. "We are talking about the hole I'm digging, I assume." He crooked his arm and flexed his bicep several times, grinning at me.

"Of course. What else could I possibly mean?" I bit the corner of my lip coyly. I can't believe I'm flirting like this—so obviously. This could turn out badly if I'm reading the situation wrong. Fortunately, I was reading things just right.

"Hmm. Couldn't tell ya, I'm sure." He leaned on his shovel. "This looks about right for you?"

I admired his manly pose. "Mm-hm, yes, sure does."

"For the tree," Matt said dryly, his eyes twinkling.

"Yes, of course—the tree. Looks great; let's get this baby planted," I said.

We lifted the tree by its root ball. Well, Matt did most of the lifting, while I mostly balanced it to keep it from tipping. We lowered it into its hole, and while Matt straightened it by the trunk, I knelt and started scooping dirt with my trowel to backfill the planting.

I made sure I angled myself so the side gap of my shirt would open, knowing Matt would have a clear and much closer flashes of my naked breast if he looked from the right position. Of course, I didn't know for certain he was looking, but the idea was exhilarating.

Matt dropped down and started scooping loose soil with his hands from the opposite side of the hole—less than three feet from me. I glanced at him and nodded my gratitude, smiling inwardly at his obvious repositioning. All the better to see you with, my dear.

We scooped the fresh dirt with our hands and trowel, filling the hole around the tree and packing it down. My movements gave me opportunities to reach, crouch and push in ways that I knew maximized brief glimpses of my boobs. I was caught up in the adventure, unconcerned about modesty or the appropriateness of what I was doing; to the contrary, I found it thrilling that Matt was seeing flashes of my bare breasts. I'd never done anything remotely like that before. I felt naughty and sexy.

Matt tried valiantly not to be obvious he was peeking, but he was largely unsuccessful in being circumspect. He was definitely looking. And knowing that he was looking definitely turned me on.

We finished the planting, and both sat back on our heels, panting slightly with exertion and dripping with sweat. Matt leaned over, picked up his shirt, and used it to wipe the sweat from his face. "Whew, it is a scorcher," Matt muttered.