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Posts Tagged ‘garden porn’

Solstice Heat

 

Happy Solstice, my Lovelies! Here in England it’s a hot one. With no AC in the house and this kind of heat so unusual
here, we tend to get up close and personal with our Heat Waves and everyone finds relief in different ways. Personally I prefer a cold drink in the shade, when there’s shade to be had. Somehow being out in it makes me feel like a willing participant rather than a wilted victim.

 

 

And really, why not celebrate? This is the fecund time of year. Seeds become plants that bud and make fruit, and lordy, lordy, don’t we eat like kings on that delicious succulent summer fruit? Plants grow like mad. I swear I can almost see my sweet corn growing. I half expect to hear it whisper urgently, ‘feed me, KD’ as the neighbors and their dogs slowly begin to disappear. The old saying ‘Knee high by the 4th of July?’ Well mine is already that and more! Anticipation! An-ti-ci-pa-a-a-tion!

 

 

 

 

Lots of things grow and come to fruition in the heat. I suppose as a writer I love the idea of the whole growth cycle – a seed is planted, it sprouts, then grows into a plant, which sets blossoms, then produces fruit. For those of us who write, that fruit is often the source of new seed as well.

 

 

 

 

Being caught up in the world of Medusa’s Consortium with Blind-Sided and Buried Pleasures at the moment, the excitement of ripe fruit is more than just me checking out my crops in the veg patch every day and eating enough British strawberries to sink a battleship. But this time of year always reminds me that I live and move and grow and change within the cycle. The heat, that intense push to growth and maturity is a part of all our lives, and I do wonder at times if we are actually the metaphor for the wonderful turning of the year, for the ebb and flow that grounds us, even when it roasts us.

 

 

 

 

British Summer is notoriously fickle. Everyone who lives here will tell you that. But it’s also in-your-face brilliant, filled with birdsong, long hours of daylight, and more shades of green than the eye can take in. And if you don’t take full advantage, it’ll turn it’s back and howl in a storm. Mind you it will anyway, but that’s just a part of the adventure. “It was a dark and stormy night” is just the flip side of the “summer lovin’” coin. I get a good bit of both writing paranormal, and I appreciate both, even as I grumble about them.

 

Happy Solstice everyone! Smell the roses, dance in the water sprinkler, have a cold drink and read a good book in the shade. Can’t you just feel the growth?

 

Don’t forget Landscapes, my Medusa’s Consortium M/M novella, is a FREE Download!download at the moment. Landscaper, Reese Chambers, is just the kind of bloke who would appreciate the fecund British Summer. So be sure to download if you haven’t already. Then grab a cold drink, a spot of shade and enjoy the heat.

 

 

 

 

Landscapes Blurb:

Alonso Darlington has a disturbing method of keeping landscaper, Reese Chambers, both safe from and oblivious to his dangerous lust for the man. But Reese isn’t easy to keep secrets from, and Alonso wants way more than to admire the man from afar. Can he risk a real relationship without risking Reese’s life?

Note: Landscapes has been previously released as part of the Brit Boys: On Boys boxed set.

 

Landscapes Excerpt:

The moonlight was bright and Reese’s night vision was good, but the path was rocky and steep. He stumbled and went down on his arse, catching himself on one elbow and cursing as the sensation of pins and needles shot up his arm. He forced his way to his feet slipping and sliding the last hundred meters on the dew-drenched stones. He was just about to call out, just about to shout Alonso’s name when the man moaned softly and Reese stopped in his tracks. Not only was Alonso no longer curled on his side, but the man was naked. He lay flat on his back, his knees bent, bare feet resting on the bench, one arm flung over his face, the other curved down low across his belly, his fisted hand moving up and down the length of his cock.

Reese froze, unable to move, unable to breathe. Alonso Darlington was beautiful, like no one he’d ever seen. His body was sculpted, not like polished marble, but with the ruggedness of the rocks of the fells, like he labored to be free from himself, like one of Michelangelo’s prisoners. The muscles of his belly tensed and relaxed and convulsed and relaxed again in response to his stroking. The movement of muscle beneath skin on his biceps and his forearms, on the rise and fall of his chest, on the tensing of the chorded muscles in his neck and throat as he swallowed was like a hypnotic dance. The muscles in his thighs twitched and bulged as he rocked and arched upward until Reese could see the clenched half-domes of his buttocks. He could smell the nutmeg and yeast scent of his heat, charged through with the crackle of ozone. He stood frozen on the spot, his own cock responding to the sensory overload, even as his brain demanded he give the man his privacy, demanded with a sense of half-frightened urgency that he leave as quietly as he could, but it was too late.

Alonso’s arm fell away from his face and Reese could feel the nearly physical press of his gaze.

I’m sorry,’ he managed around a tongue that felt too big for his mouth. ‘I saw you, and I thought that … I’ll go now,’ but even as he said it, Reese stepped forward, feeling reeled into the man like a fish on a line. Alonso eased himself up on one elbow, not taking his hand off his cock, not taking his eyes off Reese. ‘I should leave,’ Reese croaked, but instead he stepped nearer.

In a move that was not quite human in its grace, Alonso sat up and nodded to the bench next to him.

Cautiously Reese sat down struggling to keep his eyes off the man’s cock. He could still feel Alonso’s gaze on him as though he were the one who was naked. ‘I thought … When I saw you out here, lying on the bench at this hour … I was worried.’

 

‘That’s very kind of you, Reese, but there’s nothing wrong with me. My … afflictions, don’t trouble me much. I’m not ill. In truth, I’m the epitome of health. I’m just … different.’

‘I’m sorry. Of course you would be out after dark. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’ll go now.’ But before he could stand, Alonso’s hand shot behind his head with lightning speed, fingers curling in Reese’s sleep-mussed hair, and in that instant of reaction, the second Reese gasped for his breath, the man’s mouth was on his, warm and hard and terrifying in its command, a command Reese could do little but respond to. Even as fear battled lust low in his belly, he parted his lips, opened his mouth, welcomed the search and conquest of Alonso’s tongue, his own the white flag that instinctively yielded all else beyond the breach, all territories beyond the invasion.

 

 

 

Shameless Selfie in the Veggie Patch with Surrogates

 

 

It’s the time of year when a woman’s thoughts turn to gardening — veg gardening, in my case. Ooh! I do love my garden porn, and Surrogates is one of my very best examples. Today’s shameless selfie is getting down and dirty in true garden porn fashion.

 

Surrogates Blurb:

DANIEL ALEXANDER III takes his marriage vows seriously. Until he gets the balls to ask his wife, BEL, for a divorce, watching each other masturbate is all he can offer his beautiful gardener, FRANCIE CARTER. But when Dan’s friend, SIMON PARIS, agrees to be his surrogate, affairs of the heart get complicated.

 

 

 

 

 

Crying over spilled seedlings — Surrogates Excerpt:

‘What am I, out of my fucking mind?’ Cassie shoved the basket of vegetables that would grace Dan and Bel’s table tonight onto the worktop in the greenhouse, and wiped frantically at her eyes with the backs of her hands. She wasn’t about to cry. She wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction.

They were going to feast on her vegetables to give them the strength and stamina to make their own entertainment. Wasn’t that what Bel said to Dan? Make their own fucking entertainment, and why not? The woman was his wife. And Cassie was nothing more than the hired help. The stupid hired help who didn’t have enough brains to stay away from her gorgeous boss! Make that her arsehole boss, she mentally corrected herself. She bit back a sob and grabbed a tray of basil seedlings from the incubator. Cook wanted a couple of new basil plants, since Bel now had it in her head that basil was the herb of eternal youth and had practically been grazing off the stuff.

‘Excuse me have you seen Dan?’

Cassie spun around and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of the unexpected man standing so close behind her. She dropped the tray of basil seedlings she’d just pulled from the incubator. Seedlings and compost exploded onto the floor.

And that was it. That was the straw that broke the gardener’s back. She’d babied those seedlings along for weeks now, keeping them safe and warm and trauma-free and now this. She burst into tears.

‘Oh god! Oh god! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Please don’t cry. Here, I’ll help you.’

But it was suddenly like the dam had burst, all these weeks of wanting Dan so badly, of knowing that no matter what he said, no matter how hot their wank sessions were, at the end of the day it wasn’t her bed he shared, all these weeks of feeling guilty because while he stayed faithful to Bel, she didn’t care, she would have fucked him in a New York minute if he just said the word. And she liked Bel, that was a part of the problem. Bel was okay. But still, she would have fucked him if he’d asked. But he didn’t. And it all bubbled up in the upside down tray of seedlings.

‘Here, sit down, please don’t cry. I’ll take care of it,’ the man was saying, guiding her away from the mess on the floor. ‘There, there. It’ll be okay. Basil seedlings are tough. They’ll be okay, just please stop crying. Can I get you some water? Aspirin?’ He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead he guided her to the stool near the work bench and pushed her gently onto it, then he scooped the spilled compost back into the tray and began to pick up the seedlings one by one and putting them back in. ‘There, there. It’ll be okay. You see, no damage, just a little spill. See? Not even one broken stem, don’t worry. These will be just fine.’

Even through the tears she recognized the untidy nails of a fellow gardener. It wouldn’t have mattered if his hands had been meticulously scrubbed and manicured, she would have known by the careful way he rescued the little basil plants, taking them gently by their stems and placing them carefully in the tray.

‘There, you see. Good as new,’ he said placing the tray onto the table next to the basket of veg. ‘Lovely veg, by the way,’ he added. ‘The courgettes are exquisite. ‘Did you grow them?’ He picked up the one that had been shoved up her cunt only minutes before and she burst into tears again. A courgette! She had actually been reduced to fucking a courgette.

‘Oh dear, Oh god, I’m so sorry.’

She scrabbled off the stool to make a run for it, anywhere but here, someplace where she could hide her humiliation. ‘Wait! Don’t run off like that.’ He slipped his arms around her and caught her before she could flee. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. Please at least give me a chance to apologize.’

‘No, no. It’s not you,’ she sobbed against his shoulder. ‘You have nothing to apologize for. You’re doing great, wonderful, actually. It’s me. I’m so stupid. So absolutely stupid.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I know stupid when I see it, and you’re not it.’ He tightened his arms around her and she felt good, solid muscle in the embrace. God, how long had it been since she felt good solid male muscle? She slipped her arms around his neck. He was tall, and as he tightened his embrace, he practically lifted off her feet. Tall and strong, she thought, as the muscles low in her belly gave a little quiver.

One large hand began to stroke her mussed hair. She hadn’t worn it back today because Dan liked it lose, but Dan never touched it, this bloke was touching it, gently, tenderly the same way he’d touched her seedlings, and her nipples beaded to a tight, nearly painful, press against the rise and fall of his chest. She could feel the heat of his breath against the top of her ear, which seemed to have accelerated a bit. ‘In fact, if that veg garden I walked past is your doing, then I’d say you’re anything but stupid. You’re an artist. I’m in awe.’

Then she did the unthinkable. She curled her fingers in his thick brown hair and pulled his face down to hers. A little sigh of surprise escaped his throat, but he didn’t resist as she brushed her lips across his, still standing on tiptoe. Instead, he returned the favour, cupping her cheek in his large hand and lifting her off her feet with the arm that now encircled her waist. And the brush of lips became a full-fledge assault, tongues sparring, lips crushing, breath coming it harsh little gasps. And it wasn’t just the mouth. It was the over-all effect of a real body, a real live male body barely able to contain the erection she could now clearly feel in his jeans. And just from the rub up, it made the courgette seem rather inadequate.

‘I don’t know you nearly well enough for this,’ he gasped when he finally came up for air. But before she could apologize for her unthinkable behavior, his mouth was up for round two, but this time, he lifted her bodily onto the work table, her legs falling open on either side of him, her dress scrunching until rough denim raked the moist satin gusset of her knickers. ‘You’ve rescued my seedlings and fondled my courgette. That’s good enough for me,’ she breathed against his mouth.

She was just getting ready to open his fly and free Simba when Cook called from the garden path.

‘Cassie? Cassie are you there?’

 Buy Surrogates Here:

Amazon UK
Amazon US
Amazon AU
Amazon CA
Barnes & Noble
iBooks UK
iBooks US
Kobo

Reviews:

 

“Full of quirky characters, kinky sex, unusual settings and clever writing, Surrogates is definitely an erotic romance novella I’d recommend if you’re looking for something a little different.” Erotica For All

*****

“This was an exciting and sexy read at the turn of every page, with a storyline that was so original it was brilliant. If you want a fun, fast read with great character flow and connection and hot sex on almost every page this is for you.” Midnight Boudoir

*****

“Surrogates is the perfect novel for any erotica reader out there… hot, sexy, sensual… it definitely defines erotica it in it’s own right. K.D Grace is one amazing author whose novels simply should be devoured!” A Redheads Guilty Reads

*****
“There are plenty of hot hot sex scenes and a case of mistaken identity and misunderstandings. It is a fun and quick read. Overall, very well written. The characters come alive on the pages and they feel real. I recommend it to anyone who likes short, erotic tales and who aren’t put off by some f/f action and threesomes.” Hearts on Fire Reviews

*****

“Surrogates is full of tongue in cheek comedy, and has just the right amount of erotica to fill readers minds with accounts of how both Daniel and Bel get their orgasms. This is a voyeur’s version of heaven.” 5 out of 5, Love Romance Passion

 

In Anticipation of Seedlings

 

In a few days it’ll officially be spring. I’ve been anxiously waiting for it since February’s dreary beginning. It feels like I’ve waited forever for winter to end, for the sun to shine again and the daffodils to bloom. Spring, we NEED you! I can feel it coming on everywhere now, and that means it’s time to think gardening.

 

Raymond and I got our corn and tomato seeds planted last Sunday. We managed it in a drizzle of rain, but we weren’t about to wait any longer. I check them every day, even though I know it’s still to soon for anything to germinate. At the moment they’re all settled nicely on a pine table in the kitchen looking very much like little pots of dirt. But I know there’s something wonderful happening down inside those little pots. This is veg gardener’s Christmas. This is anxiously checking the packages every day waiting for the gift, waiting for the surprise. And no matter how many times I’ve watched that germination process, it always is a wonderful surprise.

 

Here in the Soft South, with spring teasing and titillating us with delicious glimpses, it’s easy to catch the gardening bug. The beds have been weeded and this weekend they’ll be ready to dig. I’m truly excited for the first time since we exhausted ourselves in an allotment too big for us and, after two years of hard labour, had to give it up because it was just too much.

 

While the allotment experience was a disappointment, it was really no surprise. I’m greedy and biting off more than I can chew is my signature move. But this year the little pots on the pine table and the familiar comfy plot in our back garden seem less of a chore and more of a labour of love. This year I feel the waxing of the seasons and the need to touch the earth in a way that I haven’t for awhile. Creativity is played out in so many different ways, and there isn’t a more powerful metaphor for the creative process than growing vegetables. Being a part of the process, seeing it, touching it, and taking it into ourselves makes me feel connected to something greater than myself, something as old as time and as much of a mystery. Even though we understand the science of it, that doesn’t diminish the magic of planting a seed and getting a feast.

 

Every day now it’s light earlier, and the Dawn Chorus has begun in earnest. Every day now I wake up to the black bird’s song, and I find myself wondering, anticipating, what will grow, what will be born in the lengthening of days and the warming of the earth. Growing veg has a way of reminding me of my own creative efforts and how tied they are to my own waxings and wanings. As the season advances I’ll probably share way more pics of corn and beans and tomatoes than you could ever hope to see. And somehow amidst the compost and pots and plants and veg, hopefully some of that creativity will find its way into me and into the stories I tell.

 

Writing Compost

 

7July growth
Spring is in the air at long last! The birds are getting amorous. It won’t be long till the bees will be out pollinating their little socks off. It’s that time of year. Yup, that very fecund, fertile time of year when a woman’s thoughts turn to … compost!

 

Yup! You heard me right. It’s time, once again, to give some serious thought to compost. Most of you know by now that I’m an avid veg gardener. I’ve flooded social media with images of ripe, succulent strawberries, flirtatiously phallic courgettes and full-bodied, mouthwatering sweet corn. I’ve told tales of the allotment – some of them dirtier than others, and I’ve even written a fair few sexy encounters that take
cucumber 17 aug 1mail.google.complace in veg gardens. Gardening is one of the topics I’m almost as enthusiastic about as I am writing. That’s not terribly surprising since the two are so philosophically compatible. So today, in honor of the beginning of Spring, I’m talking compost.

 

My husband and I inherited our first composter from the people who owned our house before us. We were suspicious of it at first and more than a little intimidated by it. It looked like a Rubbermaid Dalek casting a long menacing shadow across our back lawn. We’d heard that if we put egg shells and fruit and veg peels, cardboard and tea and coffee grounds in the top that in a few months, we could open the little door at the bottom and the myriad resident worms would have magically transformed all that garbage into rich luscious soil. Then all we’d have to do was
shovel all that organic loveliness out into our garden.

Harvest 25 AugIMG00569-20130825-1722

I’ll admit, we were skeptical at first – I mean seriously – egg shells and veg peels in and rich, luscious compost out? I mean that’s just crazy talk, surely! Still, we did as instructed, every day adding coffee grounds and tea bags and other goodies worms and invertebrates love to chow down on. Then one day we took the plunge, slid open the door and there it was, all dark and rich and soft and warm, and smelling vaguely of citrus. We filled a couple of planters. We were planning to put in geraniums, but never got around to it. Several weeks later I noticed there were tomato plants coming up in the compost we had excavated. My mother used to call plants that came up where they weren’t planted volunteer and, sure enough, we had eight volunteer tomato plants, the result of seed not broken down in our strange compost-making Dalek.

 
We never did get our geraniums, but it didn’t really matter. Our eight tomato plants
yielded up their yummy fruit at the end of the summer, an unexpected, unintended First ripe toms 10 Aug 2013IMG00572-20130910-0951gift from our predecessors. The next year we actually dug a bed and planted corn and beans and squash. After that there was no looking back. Our one lone composter has been joined by three others, and twice a year we open the doors at the bottom and marvel at what an army of invertebrates can make from our kitchen waste.

 

The next year, as my sister and I shoveled bucket after bucketful of rich, loamy soil from our original battered, smudged composter and spread it in anticipation of the veg I’d be planting in May, I thought about how much writing is like composting. There are times when my efforts truly seem inspired. Those are the fabulously heady
times all writers live for and hope for, when every word shines the moment we write it down.

 

I would love it if everything I wrote would come forth fully formed and beautiful like Venus on the Half Shell, but more often than not my words are more like used teabags on an egg shell. More often than not, what I write is kitchen rubbish, the remnants of experiences already spent, the detritus of half-formed ideas that aren’t quite what I fantasized when they appeared so perfectly shaped in my imagination. Somehow they’ve turned to apple cores and coffee grounds by the time I manage to get them into words.

2015-06-27 11.36.59

My husband takes his lunch to the office, and he brings home his fruit peels and apple cores because he knows what they will become. He convinced the lady who
works at the office canteen to save the coffee grounds for him because he knows what the worms will magic them into in a few months’ time. It’s true, what we dig out of our composters is technically just worm poop. Oh, but it’s so rich, so fertile, so completely loaded with potential. My husband knows, as I know, what wonderfully succulent corn and tomatoes and green beans we’ll grow in that rich compost in a few months’ time.

 

Writing is no different. On the written page, the coffee grounds and apple cores of my everyday existence, the remnants of half formed thoughts, the grandiose ideas that didn’t quite have the magic on paper that they did in my minds’ eye will become compost, no matter how much they may seem like rubbish. Nothing can happen until I write those words down — no fermentation, no agitation, no digestion, no chemistry.

 

Writing imageBut once the ideas are words on the written page, the real process begins. I turn them and twist them and break them down and reform them until they become the rich luscious medium of story, until they are just the right consistency to grow organically
what my imagination couldn’t quite birth into the world in one shining Eureka
moment. It takes longer than Venus on the Half Shell, and it involves some hard work and some getting my hands dirty, and a whole lot of patience. But the end result is succulent and full bodied, organic and living. And my finger prints, my dirty mucky finger prints are all over it. It’s intimately and deeply my own, seeded in the compost of what I put down in a hurry, raised up in the richness of what I then cultivate with sustained, deliberate, sometimes desperate, effort. The result is achingly slow magic that lives and breathes in ways I could have never brought about, ways I could have never experienced in a less messy, less composty sort of way.

2015-06-27 11.40.19

 Happy Spring, everyone! May your compost be rich and your yields be fabulous.

 

Veg Patch Inspiration

2015-06-27 11.36.59Two 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-7July growththe-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 2015-06-27 11.40.19teasing 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! 

Allotted ViewsMy 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,cucumber 17 aug 1mail.google.com 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.

First ripe toms 10 Aug 2013IMG00572-20130910-0951It 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 Harvest 25 AugIMG00569-20130825-1722dark 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.

 
© 2017 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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