Give Flowers, Give Head

He was handsome in a way that made me resent him. Rich hair, sharp eyes. The low sun honeyed his bare chest.

"You like the garden?"

"Yeah, love it. I love flowers," I looked at my shoes, "just love them."

He clapped his gloves together, then threw them on an oak stump, "That's why you're here," his gaze swam over me- my too-long arms, my too-warm shirt, buttoned to the neck, "you want to see the garden again?"

"Yes," I lied, "exactly."

He speared his long shovel into the dirt and flashed me a look, "Take off your tie."

I turned. The house was just visible through the trees, gables peeking through the lavender.

"Here?"

He said nothing.

I rolled my tie- Italian silk, gift from my mother- and slipped it into my pocket. Cicada song walled around us.

He walked to me. Closer, closer, till his heat filled my head. He traced a calloused index over my collarbone, my neck, my earlobe.

"You haven't shaved. I like it."

"Thankyou," I blushed. My politeness felt like an artefact. Like another tie, or cuff links.

He smirked, a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth, "Would you like to get on your knees, now?"

We locked eyes. I fell, slowly. The dirt gave beneath me- soft and smelling of petrichor.

He wore thick cotton trousers. I leant towards him and pressed my cheeks, mouth, nose against the fabric. I wet my open mouth on him, swirled my tongue against his outline. He was hard.

Something came over me and I ravaged him, rubbed him, until he clutched handfuls of my hair and rocked his hips into my face.

"I want your cock," I said.

"Say please."

"Please."

He unclasped his belt, veins working along his toned forearm. It was beautiful- standing pink and furious against his dark curls. I looked up at him.

He gazed at me, eyes fixed and half-lidded with desire.

"Open your mouth."

Heat flared in my stomach and rushed south. I parted my lips.

"Good," he lowered himself to my mouth and eased inside.

My lips pouted over the swell of his head. I tongued the smooth tip, then suckled on him. In, out- I bobbed my head.

I hadn't always liked this- fast and dirty in a nightclub bathroom, or slow and quiet in an unfamiliar bedroom. But this was different. I needed to suck, needed to gag. I needed it to stretch me, fill me up. Wetness dripped from my chin. "Please will you fuck my mouth?"

He grinned, and, with a low growl, buried himself inside me. Water pricked behind my eyes and spilled over my cheeks. I relaxed my jaw and breathed. He was hot, thick, salty.

If someone were in the house, could they see me- kneeling in the same outfit I'd worn at the conference, sucking dick like it was the last thing I'd ever do? Could they see how hard I was? I didn't care.

The gardener filled me again and again, with sure, deliberate strokes. I closed my eyes to the wet, slopping rythm. The sound was so lewd, it was hard to believe it was coming from me.

The gardener thrust, filling me to the root. "Fuck," he twitched inside me, "Take your trousers off."

I fumbled with the catch, yanked them, and my underwear, over my hips. My prick was aching and hot to the touch.

He jerked his cock in front of me, close to my mouth, but not touching.

"Fuck," he said again, "fuck," then he gripped his crown and rubbed. A fluid rope of cum spurted above my pubes, the tip of my cock, my hand.

The afternoon had faded and the liquid was almost luminescent against my dark hair. I smeared it along my length, thumbing the underside of my head. I wanted him to see me come.

"That's it," he said, "look at me."

My arm was a blur, my hand pumped harder, faster. I whined, erupting over my clenched fist.

I gasped for air, aware of how I must look, convulsing in the dirt in front of an almost-stranger.

But the gardener just laughed- a soft, teasing chuckle. He offered a bronzed hand to me and I stumbled to my feet, adjusting my shirt.

He looked over his shoulder, "I can see them in the house- you'd best leave. Dinner's ready."

"Shit."

"Go as you are. Well, with trousers. Go to dinner with me all over you."

I looked at the creamy mess below my belly, then at him.

His face glowed, soft laughter tugging again at his eyes, "no one will know."

I smiled back, shaking my head. The idea appealed to me, somehow. I pulled my pants over my wet crotch. It felt filthy. I liked it.

"Here," a sprig of lavender twirled between his fingers, "a souvenir."

I giggled like a schoolboy, "thankyou."

"You're welcome."

I walked back to the house. Laughter and clinks of cutlery breezed toward me. The doorway glowed warm in the blue twilight. A glance back- the gardener was gone. I tucked the lavender into my shirt pocket and stepped inside.