Two words…garden porn. Oh yes! ‘Tis the season, and I’m most definitely addicted. Do you have any idea how many luscious, deliciously explicit garden sites there are? Though I like pretty flowers just fine, and though nice, plump red strawberries growing in my garden are enough to get my heart rate up. And cherries! Cherries are in season right now! OMG! What they do to me when they burst in my mouth all juicy and sweet! But what really gets me going, what really makes me quiver all over is vegetables. My, oh my, how I love to look at sites that sell vegetables, or sites that give advice on how to grow vegetables, or sites that show photos of really well put-together veg gardens. Does it get any better than that? OK, so it does get better than that, when my own crop of luscious phallic courgettes and sweet corn and cucumbers come on (oooh, pun intended)!
Oh, and the garden centres! I adore the earthy scent of fresh compost and fertilizer, of greenhouse heat and rank, growing plants, all overlaid with the scent of espresso from the coffee shop. And it’s not just the scent that I love, it’s the feel of a quality wooden handled hoe or a trowel resting in the relaxed, but firm grip of my hand. Did you know that some are designed especially for a lady’s light hand, while others are thick and long and heavy and manly. Oh, and the gloves! There are multi-coloured, oh so soft, gloves to protect my hands while I’m groping and tugging in a weedy bed. Not only do gloves come in all different colours, but the also come in all different textures with grips that are soft and cottony, or rough and rubbery, depending on what you want to grip, of course. The hard, choke-
the-chicken grip used to pull up a fistful of weeds is quite different from the delicate sensitivity and finger action necessary for teasing out buds and pruning delicate foliage. In addition to gloves and tools and the olfactory feast all around, there are metres and meters of gossamer thin garden fleece all ready to caress my plants with that peek-a-boo hint of what lies beneath on a frosty spring night. Of course there’s not much need for that now, but netting – lovely green and black netting, some rigid and stiff, some soft and stretchy.
And the plants! This time of year plants that aren’t just loaded with gaudy blooms already are heavy and swollen with buds about ready to burst, but stiff phallic shoots are coming up everywhere, and the heady scent of new growth is intoxicating. I’m a little behind on my courgettes this year, but I’m anticipating a lovely crop in August and September. My mother always said that sweet corn should be knee high but the 4th of July. Mine was. Right now, it’s almost like I can see it growing if I watch long enough. My mouth waters just thinking about the oral pleasures yet to come!
Personally, I don’t think it’s any surprise at all that I go both ways – erotic writer and vegetable gardener. Gardening and writing erotica — the best of both worlds! And inspiration. Wow! My veg are all well established now. The corn is well up and so are the courgettes. The beans are blooming and setting very tiny beans, and the tomatoes are blossoming too. Next to the harvest of first fruits, I absolutely love that moment when the seedlings first push up through the soft earth with just the tiniest hint of pale plant flesh pressing through the glossy black compost, it’s a 
teasing par excellence. My breath catches, my heart races and I’m positively bouncing with excitement.
I’ve written about naughty things to do with carrots and courgettes, and I’ve written about kink amid the topiary. It’s true, getting down and dirty among the growing things makes me hot, and sometimes sore. I finished out the flowerbeds on Sunday, digging and watering and patting in place. There’s still dirt under my nails and my shoulders ache. Then Sunday evening I squatted in the rich earth amid the strawberry patch picking and sniffing the astringent sweet scent — and tasting, of course! Yes, it was good for me.
And here’s a little Garden Porn to inspire you today from my story Allotted Views!
My story from the Immoral Views anthology.
When the mysterious ‘Woo Woo Man,’ JONATHAN takes on the thin strip of bramble-infested ground in the Blue Bell Street Allotments, veg gardener extraordinaire, ROSE, whose bedroom window overlooks his ‘small holding,’ wonders what idiot would take on such a project. When she ‘accidentally’ sees him chanting a bit of woo-woo and having a midnight wank under a full moon in his newly rotovated plot, she suspects his methods aren’t found in any RHS manual.
As watching his late night garden antics becomes more for voyeuristic pleasure than for sussing out sound horticultural practices, and as Jonathan’s garden grows more exquisite with every wank, Rose begins to wonder if there just might be something to a little sex woo-woo in the garden. But can she learn Jonathan’s secret without him learning hers, or will she be forced to come clean?
Excerpt:
I appreciate a good garden way more than most, and I completely understand wanting to get onto the patch as early as possible – especially when it’s that time of year, when there’s so much to do and enthusiasm is running high. But it was midnight, for fuck sake! I had work in the morning. This was not neighbourly behaviour.
I was seriously considering giving him a piece of my mind or throwing something at him. But then he took off his shirt. He just slipped it right off over his head like it was something completely normal to do in the allotments in the middle of the night. The light from the streetlamp that shown across the alley behind my house lent just enough to the ambient moonlight that I could see his nipples bead to hard knots in the slight chill.
I like nipples. I like them a lot. I don’t care which sex they belong to, when they tighten and strain beneath a shirt, I get wet. I can’t help it. I can’t keep myself from imagining what’s causing those lovely, tense mini-erections – even if it’s nothing more than too much air conditioning in the frozen food isle at Sainsbury. Nipples are such a lovely reminder that we’re not nearly as in control of our biological functions as we think we are. And when someone is brazen enough to bare their nipples like roseate pebbles turned over in perfectly smooth tilth, well I’m completely in awe. And this man’s points were pink and stiff and yummy above rippled areole that made me want to touch, made me want to tweak and stroke and tongue, made me wish I had my binoculars handy.
It quickly became evident that it wasn’t the late night chill stiffening the man’s nips, at least not entirely. Before my eyes, he stepped out of a pair of ratty Birkenstocks and slid baggy cargo trousers off over his straight hips and the pillowed swell of his bottom. He kicked them carelessly to one side. Apparently the occasion had called for commando,
and I didn’t have to endure more disrobing before I was treated to the full-on.
He was heavy, but not yet erect, hanging as though the weight of his cock was too much to comfortably bear so precariously stretched between his thighs. It sprawled over the rounded outward press of his balls in their cushion of springy curls that looked nearly transparent in the pale light.
The moon was a burnished disk, peeking through the branches of the lime trees on the far edge of the allotments. He stood with his back to it and his expanding personal geography facing my window. Then he raised his head, and my heart did a guilty flip-flop, certain he’d caught me watching. But he couldn’t possibly see me, I reassured myself as he stood there with eyes lifted, chest rising and falling beneath the twin peaks of those exquisite nipples, rising and falling almost as though he were about to lift his voice in song and serenade me. But serenading wasn’t what he had in mind.
With a scooping motion, he cupped his left hand beneath his balls and lifted and caressed and fingered, causing his burgeoning cock to loll from side to side, flopping heavily and expanding in anticipation until it bounced stiffly over his pouch. I held my breath. My pulse was a frantic flutter against my throat. My eyes stung from not blinking, not wanting to miss anything. Then his right hand took control of his penis with a firm grip, a gardener’s grip — a gardener who knew the proper use of his tools. At the moment of contact a shudder ran up his straight spine, and a tight grunt followed by a throaty sigh escaped his parted, full lips.
It wasn’t until then that I believed the man was actually going to do it. He was actually going to have a wank right there on his well-rotovated allotment. And at that same moment, my own plan of action became equally evident. I was not going to go back to bed and give the man his privacy — privacy he didn’t even know he’d lost, so would obviously not miss. I was going to stay right where I was and watch. I was going to watch until the fat lady sang, and I was going to have a little fiddle of my own. If he could be so brazen to cause such a disturbance just below my window on a work night, then I could be brazen too. I worked hard, damn it! I deserved a little pleasure. One hand had already pinched my nipples to sympathetic peaks beneath my night shirt; and with a slight shifting of my hips and opening of my stance, the other found easy access to the slick pouting response that happened as automatically, under the right stimulation, as the little vixen offering her swollen cunny up to her fox when she was in season. Biology can sometimes be so yummy.
Down below me, the man was whispering some breathless chant over and over again as he tugged at himself. He stopped long enough to spit on his hand and give his cock a good lubing up with his own saliva. Once he was lubed, his chant got slightly louder, something about mother earth and fertile, bountiful gifts. I figured the guy was into some serious voodoo, but who the fuck cared? He could believe the world was spawned into existence by a pregnant turnip as long as he kept doing what he was doing beneath my window.
His eyes were screwed shut and his brow was furrowed in deep concentration. The action had shifted to a lot less hand and a lot more pile driving with his hips. His balls bounced. His ass clenched. The muscles in his thighs bulged. And I held my breath, riding four fingers and rubbing my nub like it was a good luck charm. Maybe it actually was. Just when I was beginning to wonder if my puss was going to explode and launch me into orbit, Voodoo Man came. Extraordinarily, he spurted an arching fountain of semen, first in my direction with a hefty grunt. Then he turned with stiff, almost military precision and, directing his cock like it was a garden hose, spurted his load almost equally in each of the other three directions of the compass, like white con trails in the rising moonlight, extending outward across the 
dark earth. He dropped to his knees and lifted his arms into the air. He said something in a breathless voice, something about blessing the fruit of his labour, while I stood shuddering against my hand until I was convinced I’d break something. I hoped whatever deity he was petitioning was a very demanding one, one who expected lots more such worshipful displays.
At last, when he’d caught his breath, he stood and dressed. Then he sat quietly on the rock and finished his drink. That done, he peed generously out over his small holding. After all, every good farmer knows the fertilizing value of a little urea. Once he was tucked and tidied, he gave one last glance around and squeezed back through the make-shift gate.
