Immoral Views

by Kay Jaybee

  He pressed his finger to Izzy’s lips as she tried to speak.

  “When he sent you away I tried to forget about you. But every girl I was with only made me think about you, and about how you made me feel when your eyes were on me. After you finished at Oxford I thought you’d come home, but you never did. I’ve been looking for you ever since.”

  They looked at each other, all the years of searching standing between them. Then Caleb leaned down and brushed her lips with his. The heat of his mouth burned her like a brand, and she arched up, her lips desperate to meet his again and again. Every time she’d ever imagined this moment danced through her head. She felt like she’d come home. With a sigh, she kissed him hard, their lips crushed together, tongues tangled in each other’s mouths, the most intense first kiss she had ever experienced. Izzy couldn’t believe that after all this time Caleb was finally where he should be, his body pressed against hers, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

  “Caleb...” she murmured hardly able to speak.

  “I’ve thought about you every day,” he whispered against her lips. “I tried to forget you but I can’t. I don’t care about your family or what they think. I need to be with you.”

  “How did you find me?” Izzy asked.

  “Would you believe me if I said your sister?”

  Izzy shook her head. “How?”

  “She told me about this place. Said it would probably be right up my street and that your dad knew some of the people that came here if I needed tickets. I got talking to a guy and he mentioned a girl called Isabella. I knew it was you straight away and I knew I had to come.”

  He kissed her again and she could feel his desire for her throbbing between his legs, pushing urgently against her thigh. Her body responded to his, her pussy soaking the tiny thong she’d only just slipped back into.

  “All the times I watched you with those girls,” she gasped, shifting her body so that his cock was pressing against her clit and pushing up against him. “I always imagined it was me you were fucking.”

  “I always imagined they were you,” he whispered. “It was so hot knowing that you were watching me fucking them. I would go home after and imagine you touching yourself again while I watched you. I wanted to watch you like you were watching me and then I wanted to fuck you.”

  She ran her hands over his body, his skin so soft and warm, and the muscles in his back taut and hard as he leaned over her.

  “Tonight I watched you, Izzy. And now….” Caleb kissed her, a deep, powerful kiss that turned her insides to mush and made her dizzy. “Now, I’m going to fuck you.”

  Izzy’s fingers pulled at the cloth separating them as Caleb tore her thong from her body. He felt just like she’d always imagined, his body toned and strong. The years seemed not to have aged him and she buried her face in his neck, inhaling the masculine scent of him.

  “I’ve waited so long Izzy,” he growled as he pushed her legs apart with his, his cock pushing against her. She clung to him, arching up to meet him, her lips seeking out his, needing to touch him, to taste him, to prove to herself that this was real. With a moan he sank inside her as she tangled her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, the smell of his aftershave taking her back twelve years to her parent’s garage and the raw desire she’d felt back then.

  His body was so powerful, his skin so soft, and his guttural moans and growls were animalistic. His fucking was raw and intense, just like he’d been all those years ago; and Izzy gave herself up to him, moving with him, matching his thrusts, her nails clawing at his back. He seemed to know exactly where to touch her, their bodies fitting together perfectly and Izzy felt as though she had finally come home.

  Caleb pushed her arms over her head, his tongue burning a trail over her throat, biting at the soft skin of her neck, pinning her down as he pushed deeper into her.

  Izzy watched his face as he thrust into her, his hair wet against his forehead, his dark lashes stark against the pink flush of his cheeks. Then he opened his eyes and smiled that same familiar smile and whispered, “Turn over baby, I wanna see you from behind.”

  He pulled out of her and Izzy rolled onto her front, her hands clutching the cushions as he pulled her hips into position. She was exposed for him, her wet slit glistening as he stroked the throbbing end of his prick between her waiting lips, his fingers probing the tight pucker of her ass. He slid slowly inside, watching as his cock disappeared into her. Caleb could remember the name of every girl he had fucked in the cool garage of Izzy’s parent’s beach house during that hot and sticky summer. He remembered how he’d felt knowing Izzy was taking everything in, that she was getting off on watching him. He’d known then that she was the only girl he could ever be with and now, finally, he was watching himself fucking her, seeing her face contort with pleasure as he filled her hungry, swollen pussy.

  He couldn’t hold back any more. He fucked into her, whispering her name, his fingers finding the little bundle of nerves that made her moan and cry out, her whimpers muffled by the cushions as he pushed her into them with his pounding, until Izzy screamed, her whole body tense as wave after wave of pleasure rocked over her. Caleb kept up the intensity of his thrusts, pushing inside her again and again, keeping her orgasm going as she whimpered beneath him, his eyes glinting a bright blue through his mask. Then, finally, when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, with a guttural roar, his body tensed and he pulled out of her, streams of hot white cum coating her back and her quivering bottom. Izzy felt the warmth of his spunk on her, exalting in the secret, dissolute and unrequited lust that they were finally free to share.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  And after all the times she’d heard those words, finally she could answer.

  “I love you too, Caleb.”

  Allotted Views

  ♦♦♦♦

  by K.D. Grace

  Part One

  ♦♦♦♦

  Ever since I’ve lived here, I’ve looked out my bedroom window at the Blue Bell Street Allotments across the fence and felt a bit smug. I have a huge back garden. I can plant all the veggies I want on my own property, which is a good thing because the waiting list for allotments is now averaging three years.

  Every year beans and brassicas and sweet corn and numerous exotic crops patch-work the several acres of the Blue Bell Street Allotments, which practically explode out of the locked front gate in an avalanche of fruit and veg and flowers and herbs. Every patch has a purpose; every corner is filled to capacity with growing things. Every patch, that is, except the long narrow strip of land directly across the fence from me — a veritable jungle of brambles and nettles and cleavers sandwiched between the brick wall that separates my property from the allotments and a scraggly hawthorn hedge that someone planted as a windbreak, who knew how long ago. This was no-man’s-land. My Secret Garden with stickywilly and thorns and stingy things, all the weeds that my nightmares are made up of. Add to that a narrow window of opportunity for direct sunlight only in the middle of the day, and it was no wonder the allotment from hell was left to the brambles. Then Jonathan took over no-man’s-land. Unorthodox didn’t begin to describe his methods.

  My first surprise came when I returned from the May Day holiday to find the spot had been cleared of all but a few choice brambles already covered with blossom and young berries. They had been secured artfully to the garden wall like wisteria on the side of a picture-book cottage. I could only imagine the scratched arms and nettled knuckles. Who on earth would take up such a project?

  My second surprise came when I saw the strip of ground had not been covered with the usual heavy black polythene. A couple of seasons under black poly was the typical cure for such a weed-fest. If ever there was a stretch in need of the cure, this was surely it. But instead it had been well rotovated, ready for planting. Some overenthusiastic newbie, I figured, who had no clue what he’d be up against.
I’d give him a couple of weeks at best, and when the weeds started coming back and bringing friends, he’d throw up his hands and jump ship.

  My third surprise, and the biggest yet, came just after midnight that same night. I heard rustling below my window. Since I’m a bit of a nature fan, I shuffled from my bed, bleary-eyed, expecting to view the resident vixen and her dog fox, who had been noisily rutting in my back garden recently. There was no vixen. There wasn’t even a neighbourhood cat on the prowl. Instead, a man pushed his way through a make-shift gate at the end of the hawthorn hedge. At first I thought maybe he was an intruder, but there was nothing on that nasty little patch of ground worth intruding for, so I figured this was my first encounter with the lucky gardener.

  And indeed, he walked around the patch like he was surveying his kingdom, fondling the blossoms on the brambles, fingering the newly rotovated earth. At last he heaved a satisfied sigh that rose above the silence, divested himself of the battered rucksack that had been hanging precariously off one shoulder and excavated a flask. He poured something steamy into the cup, took a tenuous sip of it and winced. Then he sat it down on a large rock, which until now had been hidden in the jungle of weeds, wiped his hands on his trousers and had another look around.

  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 shone 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 the supermarket. 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. Suddenly the scent of new growth and rich earth wafting through my open window was competing with my own rising scent, and the night had turned strangely warm and moist. I shoved a hand over my mouth to keep from gasping my surprise and stepped back slightly so I was out of his line of sight, but still able to see the frontal salute he unknowingly offered me.

  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.

  Things got hectic after that. I had a series of back-to-back business trips, barely managing time to tend my own veg patch now burgeoning with soft, young carrot leaves and exotic lettuces. Time was when I could while away hour after hour with my plants. In
those days, a teacher’s schedule afforded me plenty of time, but a teacher’s salary didn’t leave me with much to live on. And so I had to seek a new livelihood – one that now kept me out of the garden far too regularly. In any event, my beans were just beginning their climb up the poles and I was nearly ready to set out the sweet corn. But Voodoo Man had been very busy while I was away.

  I could only assume he had access to a greenhouse somewhere because his puny stretch of land was awash in green, and the plants looked way too healthy to have been purchased in some garden centre on a lark. I felt a tightening of envy in my chest at the combined sight of healthy courgette plants already starting to sprawl beneath dapper sweet corn tall enough to provide a veritable forest of leaves for the fledgling blackbirds to hide under. But the real twinge I felt was at missing the numerous wank sessions to the Goddess of the Veg it must have taken to get this kind of growth this early. I immediately felt guilty. How could my pussy take priority over my gardener’s desire to know his horticultural secrets? I should behave like the professional I was. I should just introduce myself and invite him over for coffee — interrogate him properly about his techniques.

  But I didn’t.

  Voodoo Man must have had his days free because I never saw him working in the evenings when I had time to garden. What bits of my weekends that were left to me after my day job took the lion’s share, I spent in my own beds with little opportunity to spare for a peek at the allotments. But there was no doubt in my mind the man knew what he was doing.

  Then one afternoon while working from home, I happened to glance out my window and see him pruning tomatoes in nothing but athletic shorts and a hideous pair of dark green Crocs. Before I could glance away he smiled up at me and waved.