Immoral Views

by Kay Jaybee

  “Looks good,” I said, trying to cover my embarrassment at being caught watching. “I can’t believe what you’ve done with such a derelict piece of ground. Looks like you know your way around a veg patch.”

  He offered me a full-lipped smile that I could have happily licked off his face. “Oh it wasn’t really derelict,” he said. “It just needed the right touch. Besides, I’ve been gardening all my lives.”

  All his lives, did he say? He’s been gardening all his lives? I braced myself for what I was sure would be a drawn-out rendition of past lives on parade. A recounting of his past lives would have no doubt been easier to handle that what actually happened. His face was suddenly serious.

  “Some of the folks in the allotments tell me you’re a keen gardener too. Well, quite a bit more than a keen gardener, actually, Rose.”

  He blushed and it was lovely the way the colour spread over his bare chest making the rise of his nipples seem like fresh water pearls.

  “They told me your name too — spoken in reverent tones, I might add. Is it okay if I call you Rose?”

  ‘”Yes, fine. Rose is fine,” I replied breathlessly, suddenly wishing I hadn’t seen him, nor he me. But he was happy to chat.

  “A fitting name, actually, Rose.”

  “I suppose.” I found myself blushing. “Though I’m not all that keen on flower gardening. But then what were my parents going to call me? Carrot? Celery?”

  He chuckled politely at my bad joke and then offered me a crooked smile.

  “As for the garden….” He held my gaze, and nodded over my fence. There was expectation in his voice. “Well, I’ve shown you mine.”

  My breath caught in my throat. The blush returned with a vengeance and, to my horror, I could feel my own nipples threatening to drill their way through my T-shirt. Just then my phone buzzed, and I was saved by the call I’d been expecting from the States. Afterwards, when I got up the courage to look back out my bedroom window, he was gone, and there was a lovely young hibiscus planted in the southeast corner of his plot. I was disappointed, but relieved at the same time. I couldn’t keep from wondering if he suspected that I knew his secret, though in all actuality, he seemed a lot more interested in mine.

  That night I went to bed wondering if I should maybe take up wanking in my own garden. I’m always happy to try the latest horticultural techniques, and often with surprising results. But I must have been really tired to even consider the masturbation method as a valid way of upping garden productivity.

  Later, I was awakened by whispers. My heart went into overdrive with a rush of anticipation. I rose and walked on tiptoe to the window to peek out. Sure enough, there was Voodoo Man, but this time he wasn’t alone. The woman he was with, for lack of a more fitting term, was voluptuous. If he was voodoo, she was voodoo squared. She wore a dark gown with a tightly fitted bodice from which her very ample breasts mounded like large scoops of vanilla ice cream crowded into a small dish. The dress must have been corseted at the waist because it beautifully accentuated hourglass hips and buttocks that looked like they must be completely luscious for her to sit upon, or for anyone else to fondle. The long skirt swished with a silken hiss teasing its way between her thighs as she walked. There was a mountain of pale curly hair caught up on top of her head in a generous clipping of crystals and feathers.

  “Oh, it’s lovely, Jonathan.”

  Her voice was a honeycomb-dipped contralto that I felt down low between my hipbones.

  “Then you’ll do it, My Lady?” He took her hands in his, raised them reverently to his lips and kissed her pale knuckles. “You’ll bless it with me?”

  “Of course I will, Jonathan, darling. Of course I will.”

  She stood unmoving while Jonathan slid the white poet shirt he now wore off over his head and fumbled his way out of his cargo trousers. It was the way his cock rested unsubstantially drawn up against his balls that told me the man was nervous. But his spiky nipples told me he’d get over it.

  With a melodramatic flutter of her long, heavy sleeves, My Lady lifted her arms into the air and motioned Jonathan to do likewise. Then her voice got even lower as she earnestly entreated the blessing of the earth for the feeding of her children. That done, she held her arms out to each side, palms delicately cupped, facing upward, and nodded her consent, casting a demure glance down the pale valley between her breasts.

  With fingers that were visibly shaking, Jonathan undid the tight cup of the bodice and My Lady’s bosom tumbled free just as she was saying something about all of us suckling at nature’s breasts. With one hand, fingers sparkling in sliver spirals of rings, she pulled him to her, first one tit and then the other. Each time he nursed and caressed and slurped her ripe strawberry nipples, she spoke a few words into the silent midnight air. And each time she gave him suck, his cock stretched and expanded and reached for her until it pressed its way into the dark satin folds of her skirt.

  She stepped back slightly and offered him her hand. With his cock leading the way, he guided her to stand in the middle of the garden between the beans and the brassicas. There she squatted wide legged, and for a second I thought there would be more urea. But instead of peeing, she took a handful of soil, lifted it into the air in front of her and let it fall between her fingers. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but suddenly she stopped speaking, stood and motioned him to her again.

  This time he undid the rest of the dress, and it fell around her ankles like a chrysalis being shed, brushing cabbage leaves and bean poles in its fullness. Then, with him holding her hand, she stepped free of the dress to stand tall and shimmering and completely naked in the muted touch of the sodium streetlight. She was Rubinesque in the most exquisite way. There were no protruding bones, no sharp edges, just soft pillowed curves that begged to be touched and nuzzled and fondled.

  I had a lover once who’d made a fortune working in the city. One year, for my birthday, he took me to a very expensive hotel. I remember languishing on a bed mounded with satin pillows of every shape and size. I remember how, after too much expensive fizz, he undressed me slowly and settled me into the middle of them all. I felt them against my cheek, hugging the sides of my breasts, sliding feather-soft over my nipples, shoving in between my legs as he removed my panties and arranged me like I was some kind of jewelry displayed on a bed of velvet. I relished their softness and resilience as he carefully positioned them beneath my hips until I gaped before him at the perfect angle for his explorations, at the perfect angle for his mounting. The contrast of his hard thrusts and pants above me, and the lush, forgiving caress of the pillows beneath me was sensory overload that sent me into orgasmic bliss. Sadly the man wasn’t nearly as memorable as that delicious mound of pillows.

  My Lady was like that. There was no part of her I wouldn’t have loved to pull to me and bury my face in. Almost unconsciously I found myself leaning forward toward her, nearly out the open window. She walked naked amid the ordered rows of tomatoes and carrots. She fondled the long leaves of the sweet corn, stroking them to her breasts, lifting them to her nose and inhaling their scent. She ran bare toes upward along the feathery greens of the carrots like a ballerina, each movement, each interaction making her more desirable, more exquisite in the shadowy light. And yet, Jonathan didn’t touch her, though his erection told me he wanted to badly enough. He simply followed her around with a proprietary step made comic by the bounce of his cock.

  At last she turned to him and he nearly ploughed into her.

  “Jonathan, my darling, I offer myself to you for the blessing of this lovely garden.”

  When he hesitated, she chuckled softly and ran a hand invitingly down the expansive curve of her hip.

  “Come now, darling, there’s no need to be shy. Our pleasure is a part of the magic.” She turned her back to him and bent forward so that the lush pillows of her buttocks faced him, and faced my window. I grabbed at the buttons of my ni
ght shirt, clawing it free so that my own small breasts could take in the night breeze, so that my pussy rubbed unhindered against the chair I’d left in front of the window after Jonathan’s first worshipful wank – just in case.

  “Don’t be shy,” she whispered. “Just for tonight, I am the goddess, you are my consort, and the great yoni that birthed all things into existence will be honoured by our offering. My pussy is yours until the magic is completed.”

  Perhaps it was her sudden use of nasty language in a situation which up until now had seemed rather formal and reverent in spite of the chavish undertones of sneaking a fuck in the allotments after hours. But more than likely it was just the close proximity of her luscious bare ass cushioning said puss. Propriety gave way to lust. I held my breath, and my cunt trembled and clenched as he reached for her. He kneaded her ass cheeks in hard, probing caresses, which she seemed to like, if the little kitten sounds coming from her throat were any indication. She bent forward a little more and with one sparkling hand cupped a buttock and pulled herself open like ripe fruit ready to be eaten. The tight knot of her anus puckered and relaxed at the gust of his breath, though that’s only speculation on my part. Certainly my own anus clenched in empathy at the nearness of his face to her lovely nether grip.

  I expected him to shimmy his thick fingers down over her perineum to part the heavy folds of her labia, only now revealed as she bent still further to offer him a better view. But instead, he buried his face in her crevice, and she gave a tight little yelp of surprise as he began to eat his way along the sumptuous path to her cunny. I barely managed to stifle my own yelp at his face-first plunge, but I liked him so much better for doing exactly what I would have loved to do.

  The sound of his oral explorations carried in the night time quiet even over the heavy breathing of all three of us.

  “You taste sweet,” he said, “and you’re so slippery.”

  “Being around growing things arouses me so,” she replied. “When I smell the earth all ripe and ready, when I see new buds bursting and spreading, I get all squirmy and juicy and I want to have sex on the ground under the moon. I want to rut like a wild animal, like our ancestors did, like we were intended.”

  The view for me was exquisite as I stroked my own wetness, vaguely aware of the mess I was making on my chair, but not caring. My Lady’s clit was marble hard and nearly as big. I know that because Jonathan told her so, a revelation that made her wriggle her pale bottom back against his mouth and open her legs still further. I was sure my clit could have matched in size and tightness, as I tweaked it between my thumb and forefinger. Though I couldn’t see her cunny, I could see the clench and relax of his pucker, and when he moved just right I got the between-the-thighs view of his weighty balls and distended cock.

  “Fuck me, Jonathan,” she hissed between her teeth. “I need you to fuck me. I need to cum.”

  And there’s the rub of it, I thought. In the end, it really is all about sex, and I would have gladly fucked either one of them. But I still wasn’t convinced it was the secret to a good veg patch.

  Jonathan pulled away from her, his face shining with her juices, and I swear I could smell pussy on the soft night breeze — pussy other than my own. When he pushed his penis up into her, I heard the slurp of her wetness. I figured the whimpers and grunts of need that followed didn’t really have too much to do with serving the goddess, but then what the hell did I know? What the hell did I care as long as we all came? And all three of us were so damn close that a feather of a breath would have sent us toppling over the edge.

  Then My Lady gasped and began to keen, “Oh my goddess, oh my goddess.....I’m cumming! I’m cumming!” And she wasn’t quiet about it either. So, in spite of his reverence for the woman, Jonathan shoved the hand that had been kneading great fists full of her swaying breasts against her mouth to silence her. She had just managed containment when he pulled out of her so quickly that she nearly lost her balance. To her squeals of delight and praises of the goddess, he shot arched streams of semen onto the brassicas and beans, and I practically juddered myself off the chair as my own orgasm hit.

  After they’d caught their breath, he helped My Lady back into her dress. All the while she spoke in hushed tones about the goddess’s blessing on Jonathan’s garden, and what a gift he had. I wondered if she was talking about his skills as a gardener or his skills as a lover. Neither seemed to be lacking as far as I could tell. Then, when they were both dressed, just before they left, she turned to him and gave his cock a stroke through his trousers.

  “Keep the ground fertile, Jonathan. Keep the ground fertile.”

  I could have kissed her for that, had I not been watching uninvited. Because the very next night, Jonathan took her at her word. He was back, cumming on the tomatoes and courgettes. And I came with him, a heavy dildo shoved into the juicy squelch-squelch of my pussy — one that I’d bought that morning at a shop I pass on the way to work. I bought it because I thought it was shaped particularly like him. The surrogate appendage was enough to give me several good orgasms while I watched him tug and stroke his own appendage, and even ride a long middle finger knuckle-deep into his anus. Three nights in a row, on the advice of My Lady, he came over his veg, and I came in sympathy, every night having multiples, every night drenching myself shamelessly, every night pushing my body over the edge into mindless trembling pleasure. My god, it was amazing!

  But it wasn’t just the mutually exclusive sex we were both enjoying. It was the fact that, I swear to god, every night he wanked, the next day his veg looked bigger and greener and better. There were tomatoes coming on his vines way earlier than on mine, I could see the bulge of the beginnings of sweet corn on his heavily tasseling plants, and he was harvesting young courgettes and carrots by the basketful. I was seriously beginning to think maybe I should stop wasting my wanks on watching him and tend to my own garden. But then again, I couldn’t really believe that the act of wanking or the spilling of large loads of jizz were really causing the increased growth in Jonathan’s garden, could I? These were not techniques mentioned in any of the RHS manuals or courses nor, as far as I knew, were they mentioned in any of the latest papers on cutting-edge gardening.

  Part Two

  ♦♦♦♦

  I’ll admit I did give it a try — in the name of science and experimentation, of course. I got up very early and went into my garden just before dawn. My property’s very private, but I still felt strange getting naked outside, so I wore my nightshirt for easy access. I sprawled on a blanket next to the peas and barely got my fingers in my pout before I promptly fell asleep. In all fairness I’d been working long hours and I had stayed up the night before to wank with Jonathan. I woke up with the sun in my face and couple of starlings on the birdbath eying me suspiciously.

  There was no denying Jonathan’s garden looked better than mine. And by any other standards, mine looked damn good in spite of my lack of time to spend in it. I really couldn’t believe that garden sex would make things grow better. Logically it just didn’t make sense. Even if jizz was a good fertilizer, Jonathan at his most virile, and he was very virile, wouldn’t be able to unload anywhere nearly enough of the good stuff to do the job. Maybe there was something in the soil in Jonathan’s plot. Maybe the same thing that made the brambles and nettles grow so well made everything else grow well too.

  But the garden mystery aside, there was the sex, and I couldn’t get enough of it. In spite of the fact that we’d never even shared a handshake, it was like I suddenly had a lover; a lover I couldn’t get out of my mind, a lover I waited for, planned for, and fantasised about. The fact that my lover and I never actually had sex together didn’t make me feel any less like a giddy schoolgirl, a very naughty giddy schoolgirl.

  So when Jonathan arrived at his usual time, a little before midnight, I was waiting for him, chair pulled to the window, dildo at the ready, along with a few other items I might need, including a
discrete pair of binoculars and a nice bottle of wine. There was no vibrator. I couldn’t risk him hearing the noise. I had perfected my technique and now always laid a thick terry towel to protect the chair. Each time I watched Jonathan spreading his seed, my own resulting flood got heavier and heavier. Jonathan had his ritual, and I now had mine.

  He was in the poet’s shirt when he arrived. I liked that on him. It made him look all Shakespeare-in-Love, like he very well could have come to serenade me. He’d only ever worn it when he came to the garden with My Lady. Strangely, this time he didn’t undress. He only undid his trousers and extricated his already heavy cock. This time he stood closer to my window than usual, making it difficult for me to see him without lifting my butt off the chair and leaning uncomfortably forward. Before I could get the angle just right and reassure myself that I was out of his line of sight, he called up.

  “Lovely night, isn’t it? Full moon, you know. Too nice to be cooped up in there.”

  I froze, my heart hammering between my breasts.

  Before I could gather enough wits to make an excuse, he added, “Oh it’s alright, I know you’ve been watching me. I don’t mind. Really I don’t.”

  I stood on my tiptoes and craned my neck to see him standing looking up at me, still in his clothes, still stroking his meaty cock unselfconsciously through his open fly. I stood there silently not knowing what to say, feeling the burn of embarrassment up my cheekbones, feeling the Pavlovian ache of my nipples at the voyeuristic feast they were still anticipating. Yet I was unable to move away, though I felt I should.

  “You owe me,” he said. “I’ve shown you mine, and I still haven’t seen yours.”

  He was right, of course. It was only fair. The goose had come home to roost. With legs trembling so hard I feared I’d topple over, I stood on tiptoes in front of the window, took a deep breath and untied the satin robe I’d taken to wearing for easier access. Then I let it fall open to reveal my breasts and tightly trimmed pubic curls.