Revenge As Sweet As Honey

This was a guy I had worked for, for several years, negotiating millions worth of deals, most of which he took credit for with those above him, but he had, 'regrettably', decided that I was no longer needed, as part of reducing costs. False economy, but it dispensed with someone up and coming, who might threaten his position in due course. So I got shafted. Now, through his wife, I was shafting him.

The thought was satisfying, but it also intruded on what was turning out to be much more enjoyable than I had envisaged. I had seen the guy's wife in the photo on his office desk and knew that she was cute. Fucking her to pay back the guy for turning me over had been a fantasy right until he called me asking if I would do their garden make over, since he knew I was now in the gardening trade. That gave me the opportunity that I had not had before, and cornering her in their kitchen the way I had, had paved the way. Now it was happening, and later I would get to watch his face as I told him I had not just screwed his wife, but she had asked me to.

The thought was satisfying, but it also intruded on what was turning out to be much more enjoyable than I had envisaged. What was happening deserved my full attention. She deserved my full attention. So I closed a mental door, thoughts of the guy himself locked away behind it, and focused, on my cock inside her cunt, her breasts against my chest, the scent of her, the feel of her, the wetness of her, and the sheer bliss of making love to her, standing in that garden, beneath the summer sun.

Besides, she was having another orgasm, right beneath an apple tree.

That tender nub of her clit was performing beautifully. If the brains f men are controlled by their cocks, this woman was subjugated by a mere quarter inch of delicate flesh, smaller than the end of her own little finger, than her nipple stub, than the eraser on a pencil end, that protruded from a sheath of skin right at the apex of her slit. The sensations generated there electrified her entire body, all of her nerves tingling in response, muscles twitching uncontrollably, a switch flicked on, and every ounce of her was shuddering and spasming even as she held on to me for dear life.

I put my hand beneath her butt again, supporting her. The orgasm that had engulfed her had set off internal ripples through her lower belly, playing on my cock head and my shaft, much as a stone thrown in a pond will cause ripples on the surface, except this was flesh my cock was bathing in, not water, and I could feel each ripple squeezing and releasing its hardness, sending sensations through my own body in harmony with her own.

The ground beneath the apple tree had been kept well watered, and the grass, trimmed short, was lush. I bent my knees all the way to the ground, then leaned forwards, her torso now beneath me, her legs still gripping my waist, one of my hands under her back, the other, palm flat on the grass to take both our body weights.

I lowered her one handed, and her back pressed the mowed grass flat. I slid my feet back, straightening my legs, and her butt touched down. Her legs relaxed their hold, as did her arms. She lay flat, arms wide, legs splayed, a human cross, nailed to the ground by a single nail, my cock, still deep in her cunt.

It was time to fuck her.

Sod what had taken place two years before. Sod revenge. This was pure and simple pleasure. This was a beautiful, incredibly sexy fuck. I was in paradise. Adam and Eve, beneath their apple tree in Eden, could not have enjoyed the gift of sex more than I did then. Her cunt was a heaven of slick, warm, female flesh.

Screwing her was sheer delight. She was the perfect size, her cunt unused to the thickness and length with which I fucked her, slick and slippery with her secretions but fitting as neatly as a glove, tight enough to tease the sensitive helmet of my cock head with each of my remorseless thrusts, yet wet and welcoming.

She was not the kind of girl to lie immobile. Maybe for her husband, she did her duty in their bed, and lay still and thought of England while he fucked her, but once I started screwing her, she came to life, scrabbling at my back with her hands, pushing her butt from the grass to meet me as I plundered her cunt, each time the force of my thrusts hammering her butt back to the ground, ramming my cock as far as it could go, screwing it into her, angling from side to side, waiting for the critical moment when the floodgates would be opened and I would fill her with my semen.

For a split second, while I fucked her, I wondered if maybe it would be better if when that moment came, I just pulled out, and let my semen spurt into the air. I knew that if I did, this would be no small spray of creamy liquid onto her laser smooth mons and lower belly. This would be a gushing spurt, firing well beyond. If my cock stayed pointing low, it would hit her breasts and chin, spattering them with hot, white, semen. If it angled higher, the stream would pass right over her, and soak into the lawn. The first spurt would do that, at least. Others, less intense, would fall onto her face and body, coating her with warm, slimy, sticky come.

The condom that I had put back in my pocket when she had said I did not need to wear it, would not have contained what I knew I had to give. Whether it might have split, or simply oozed with the excess, I did not know. Both have happened to me in the past. But she had told me that I did not need to wear it, and I trusted her to know that I was not the kind of guy who was likely to pull out.

Trusting her to know that, the split second of wondering which I would do when the urge to release became too much, lasted no longer than the firing of a bullet from a gun, and mine was primed to fire, the safety catch released, only a gentle squeezing of the trigger needed. I continued fucking her and let the sweet sensations of cunt plundered by cock engulf me. I sensed the build up towards emission. I fucked on. The tightness of her cunt drew me ever closer to the moment of emission. Then, finally, I felt my semen rise.

I guess that human anatomy evolved to maximise the pleasure men and women both enjoy, so that they would want to mate, and reproduce, and spawn their successors, and ensure the species flourished, or maybe some divine presence just designed men's cocks and women's cunts, for that same reason, so that they would want to fuck each other, the better to ensure another generation follows each before it. Whichever, evolution or god-given, the sexual blueprint would be hard to better.

Not only does an erect cock make you want to penetrate and fuck, but flooding the cunt that you are thrusting into is sheer, ecstatic heaven. You feel it in your balls, as they begin to tighten, a delicious warm sensation. Then there is the massive spurt of semen, that shoots inside the penis shaft, the tube running though its length designed to be too narrow to let the semen pass without the blissful sensation being felt within. Then, arriving at the cock head, the spurt of semen hits an inner surface that redirects it to the eye, and sends tortuously exquisite signals of sheer ecstasy throughout the body. The head swells, skin tightening, still thrusting deep inside sweet cunt, skin on skin sensations that take the breath away, a million nerve endings screaming all at once, almost too much to bear, yet longed for and delicious. No wonder man fucks woman.

Blend all of that, with woman exploding in her own orgasm, grasping at her man, trembling and quivering with sensations he cannot sense directly, but doubling and trebling his own pleasure, as she bucks and squirms and squeals and gasps and cries out uncontrollably, until the cries become a whimpering, exhausted, sobbing expression of undiluted joy, and the sexual act is made complete and perfect, just as it was designed to be.

That is what took place in the shade of the apple tree, on soft lawn, on that summer's day in England. The trigger was softly squeezed, the semen flowed, it spurted from my cock into her cunt, full and thick and dense with healthy sperm, gushing, surging through my cock shaft, bursting from the head, filling her, bursting and crashing into her womb like sea storming a narrow cove, not just once, but gushing again, and then again, emptying my ball sac of every drop.

After, when the sensations had subsided, and once I had withdrawn, I lay beside her, and let her rest her head upon my shoulder, and I looked up through the branches of the tree above, still in blossom, no apples yet to declare my fucking her a sin, and I saw the clear blue sky blinking between white blossom and green leaves, and Eden, for that moment, was recreated back on earth.

Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes of quiet stillness later, she raised her head.

"Do you make love to all your client's wives?" she asked.

"Only if they have green eyes, and allow me to undress them without asking first," I said.

"How many let you do that?"

"Just one, so far."

"I'm glad."

So, for some reason, was I.

"What about you?" I asked her. "Do all the men who work here when your husband's not around, get to make love to you?"

"Only gardeners," she said, "and only if they undress me without asking first."

"So how many gardeners have done that?" I asked.

"Just one," she said.

I was glad of that as well, though it did not surprise me.

We lay a moment longer, then she said something intended perhaps to reassure me, or perhaps saying it out loud helped her to reassure herself.

"I don't feel guilty," she spoke with gentle clarity. "He deserved it."

I assumed she meant her husband, which made me wonder what he might have done to her to make her say that. I decided not to ask. I did not want to spoil the moment. It had been too perfect. Eden did not need her explanation.

**************************************************

"Thanks," he said. "The garden's looking really good. I think that this is what we agreed."

He held out a wad of cash. I prefer hard currency. I declare some earnings, but not all. I see no reason to give the tax-man any more of my hard-earned income than I have to. I have seen with my own eyes, so many city guys earning so much more for doing so much less, and paying negligible tax because of loopholes in the system. Not that I should complain, since I was once one of those city guys.

I had rehearsed this moment. This was when I would get my revenge. This was when I would tell him that I had fucked his wife. I even had a little speech prepared.

"It's fine," I planned to say. "Your wife already paid me. She's a great lay. After the way you fucked me over, I thought it only fair that I fuck you over too, and she seemed only too willing. Just for the record, I fucked her bare, and not just once. You can keep the cash. We're done."

The truth was that I did not need the cash. You do not make millions for clients in the city without stashing away something in your back pocket for a rainy day, or without learning how to make that stash work for you. I had more than enough, and I had a nice little place of my own. I did gardening jobs because I enjoyed the outdoor work. It gave me a healthier lifestyle than an air-conditioned city office, and it paid for a few holidays abroad each year.

The speech was not only ready, but I could have said so much more. I had been there the best part of a week, and that first day had not been the only time that I had fucked his wife. The second day she made me coffee and brought it out to me while I was still working, wearing a different apron, light pink, more embroidered flowers, waist tie, no breast concealing bib. It was all that she was wearing, and I did not need a second invitation. That apple tree had seen more action in a week that in its forty or fifty or however many years that it had been bearing fruit.

I could have told him that I had not just fucked his wife each and every day that I had been there, but that I had also licked her laser smooth pussy until she had pleaded with me to stop, so prolonged and intense was her orgasm. I could have told him that she liked to lick my cock clean after I had come in her, coaxing it back to full, proud erection while I lay beneath the same apple tree we returned to every time, and then squatting over me, impaling herself, so that she could ride me to yet another climax, inducing yet more live semen from my cock. I could have told him that she had even waited patiently for me while I bedded down his precious plants, kneeling on all fours in the shade beneath the apple tree, breasts undulating, deliberately teasing me with a butt sway, until I finally gave in and fucked her doggy, yet more teeming sperm hosed deep inside her willing cunt. I could have told him more, but instead I kept all that had happened to myself, and took the cash.

In the end, revenge was mine, not from telling him what had occurred each summer's day in his back garden, but just from knowing for myself how many times, and each and every way that I had fucked his wife. I did not need to cause her the problems that would inevitably follow had I told him, not just that I had fucked her, but just how willing she had been. Her reasons for allowing me to fuck her so frequently, and with such abandonment were hers and hers alone. That first time that I had fucked her, she had said that he had deserved it. I had never asked her why. That remained between the two of them. Their relationship was theirs, to work out, or to terminate, but it was not for me to blast to smithereens with the sexual hand grenade that was the truth of what had happened right beneath their garden's apple tree. So I kept my mouth resolutely closed and took the cash. I said some niceties and nothing more, climbed into my truck and drove out their electronic gate, for good, or so I thought.

That was a Friday. The Saturday I had no work to do, and my revenge suddenly seemed less sweet. I had got my own back, in my way. I had been shafted by the guy, and I had shafted him, even if he was unaware, but I was also missing something I had not missed before. I was missing her. Not just the sex, though I would not get to enjoy sex like that again, or not for quite some time to come, but it was her that I missed. Her green eyes, her smile as she walked out with coffee, two mugs, steaming, vapour rising around naked breasts, then later, her body next to mine after we had fucked, her gentle breathing. She had gotten to me.

You learn to live without the things you cannot have. There are other women, and you get your share of them, even if something inside is still missing, or was, until I got her call, one full year later.

************************

I swiped the green answer call icon on my mobile's touch screen.

"Hello," I said, trying to make it casual, and friendly.

At first I heard just gentle breathing. Then she spoke.

"I need a gardener," she said, her voice just as warm and soft as ever.

That voice brought back sweet memories, honey sweet. I recalled licking that sweet nectar from her slit, and wondered if the rattan table was still on the decking, with its glass top. I pictured her lying on it, while I licked her clean. I remembered the banned 'ana', playing it in and out of her slit. I remembered fucking her each day beneath the apple tree, and her lying, replete, beside me, and how good I felt in those moments.

"Okay," I said, "what is it you need doing?"

"You did some planting last year," she said. "It's all taken really nicely, but it needs attention, and I've bought some more plants. I wondered if you could bed them in for me, and maybe bring some more of the same seeds you provided last time, and plant them too."

She chose her words more carefully than I thought about them, or so I realised later. My immediate thought was that I did not really need the work, but it could be nice to see her again. Perhaps, just perhaps, I might get to make love to her again. That was how I thought of it, making love, not fucking, although making love can be just as passionate, as powerful, as intense, as all consuming. But I played it cool. She wanted me to do some planting. That was all she said. I took the job, and said that I would call round two days later.

Only when the call was ended did I think more deeply about what she had said. I had not brought any seeds with me the year before, and had not planted any in her flower beds. The plants had all been cultivated in a nursery, so that the beds would look well developed without the need to wait for further growth. The only seeds that I could think of that I had brought, I had planted deep into a delightful furrow that I had not had to dig, and that had nothing growing anywhere around, just the smooth, warm, whiteness of her flesh. The possibility occurred to me, that just maybe her careful wording was a coded invitation to plant some more of those same seeds, in that same place, which would be seriously nice to do.

The electronic gates opened for my truck. I drove in. She came out to greet me, wearing the same white wrap around skirt, same yellow blouse, same blue, flower embroidered apron, its bib covering her breasts. It felt good to see her. Too good.

"We can have coffee in the garden," she suggested. "I can tell you what I'm thinking of."

We went around the house, not through. She left me by the same rattan table and chairs and I made myself comfortable in one of the chairs while I waited for the coffee. When she came out again, she was carrying a tray with more than just two coffee mugs. I guess she had a sense of humour.

"I thought you might like something to eat," she said. "Is banana cake okay?"

Along with the coffees were two plates, each holding a slice of the dark brown cake, each slice glistening with a smooth layer of amber. I knew before I tasted it that the gleaming coat of amber had to be honey.

But she was making her intentions clear even more directly that those slices of cake and honey. She was still wearing the apron, but the skirt and blouse were gone, removed at some point while she had been inside, the apron tied around her once again. Beneath it, she was white complexioned naked, her modesty covered only by the apron, the blue bib hiding her breasts, and the knee length front covering what I knew was a permanently smooth, hair free mons with a perfect vertical slit. She might as well have been offering that slit on a plate topped with the banana cake and honey.

I played it cool again. I looked over at the flower beds ranged around the lawn.

"Like you said on the phone," I said. "Everything I planted for you seems to have taken well."

"It did," she agreed. "Although there's something else you planted."

Her green eyes twinkled with mischief as she put down the tray, set a coffee and a plate on the glass top of the table, right in front of me, and the other coffee and plate by the chair where she would be sitting, but instead of joining me, she went back to the kitchen, presumably to put away the tray. It gave me a great view of her naked back and butt and legs, only the blue apron string, with its butterfly bow knot, crossing her lower back. The relative privacy of stockbroker belt gardens has its benefits.

I was getting a hard on in anticipation. I was also getting a feeling of unease, a weird sensation in my stomach.

"There's something else you planted."

My memory is not perfect, and it had been a year ago, but I knew which beds I had planted for them, and there was nothing else that I could thin of, apart from the other kind of planting I had done, each and every day, without ever using the foil packet that had stayed in my shorts pocket, because she had told me not to bother, and to be honest, skin on skin just feels so much better.

She came outside again a moment later, carrying a bundle wrapped in a crocheted white blanket, and even as she walked towards me, my chest tightened with the realisation that this was the something else, and one of the several million long tailed seeds that I had planted to the correct, cock-length depth inside this woman, to maximise successful fertilisation, had definitely taken, and had grown within her until it was ready to emerge and face the world, protected by her love and by the crocheted blanket.