Trimming the Sweetheart

He didn't like gardening. "I'm not into this agricultural stuff."

"It's only once a year," she said, and so he found himself wearing baggy, button-up army shorts left over from boot-camp and a tatty old gardening shirt with holes in it.

She didn't have anything to wear either. Dressed only in her own disreputable gardening T-shirt, she rummaged through the laundry. Eventually she spotted the shorts her little sister left in the lime tree. Sis hung them there to dry the time she was pushed in the pool, and forgot to take them home. She got them down and examined them dubiously.

"These have taken so much weather I'm surprised they haven't rotted. Oh, well..."

As she wiggled them over her naked rump he noticed appreciatively that, while they might have been just right for her little sister, they were definitely snug on her.

Once in the garden, he was quickly demoted to sweeping up cuttings as she pruned and chatted.

"And this is Antique Silk, the bride's rose," she said, pointing.

"Ahuh," he said dutifully from his squatting position, watching her bend over. The too-snug shorts outlined her every bulge and he felt himself hardening. The central seam was pulled taut and he fascinatedly watched the seam yielding, stitch by stitch.

The mischief surged within him as his cock surged within his own shorts, tenting them under his pole. He undid buttons to ease his constriction. He was surreptitiously edging up behind her when she straightened up and moved onto the next, and smaller, bush. She seemed vaguely surprised to find him so close behind her but paid no special heed.

"And this is Cecile Brunner, my favourite. Also known as the sweetheart rose."

"Ahuh."

She seemed to want more.

"That's nice, um, sweetheart."

Satisfied, she planted her boots firmly either side of the bush where they sank into the yielding soil. He remembered the bloom from that bush -- small, tight, pink, aromatic buds that reminded him of, well, her. His excitement grew at the memory of the sweet scent of the sweetheart rose.

She bent over the small bush and then squatted a little to get down to it. She remained focussed as he manoeuvred into position behind her. Drawn irresistibly by the sight of her tightly-packed flesh moving under the stretched cloth, his hand went out and his thumb-nail raked firmly back along the straining seam, from clitoris to anus.

She squawked, as he knew she would, and straightened reflexively, as he knew she must, and he heard a few more stitches part as her buttocks clenched defensively. But she was hampered by her wide-spread feet sunk into the mud and she teetered precariously.

"Hey!" she cried out in protest. His long arms flashed out to grab her hips but not to steady her. He pulled back firmly, cupping her butt cheeks in his grubby, soil-encrusted hands. Her feet trapped, she could only bend her knees and let him take her weight in his cupped hands.

"Honey! What are you doing?"

He gave a low, throaty chuckle as he lowered her butt down his stomach. Clamping his fingers, he squeezed her butt-cheeks, hard, and was rewarded by the hoped- for feeling of stitches breaking in dozens as the abused seam gave up all resistance. Gasping, but too precarious to wiggle, she understood him in a flash.

"No, honey! The neighbours!"

But he carried on lowering her 'til she could feel the tip of his eager cock probing at her entrance.

"No, honey!"

"Oh, yes, honey."

He lowered her until the head of his cock was lodged firmly inside her and then, squashing his hands together until the tips of his grimy middle fingers met each other over the cloth protecting her tightly- wrapped clitoris, he massaged gently left, and right, and left, and right, and...

"No, honey! No, honey! Oh, God..."

He felt her moisten and slid her slowly down his pole. He let her weight press him down 'til his butt rested on the heels of his boots. He leaned back, his lean belly making room for her butt as her whole weight rested on his pelvis, her heels jammed in the mud out in front of her.

"No, honey, not outdoors..." she whispered but sighed and wriggled into him as he lifted her slowly up and let her sink slowly back as his middle fingers remorselessly continued to juggle her trapped clitoris left, and right, and left, and right...

The shrill clatter of a small motorbike engine invaded their quiet cul-de-sac. "Shit! The postman."

They froze. They were just hidden -- or were they? -- from the post-box by the straggly yellow banksia. The motorbike paused by the gate and idled noisily. They could hear the postman whistling as he riffled amongst his mail. If they moved, he would see them. They mustn't move.

But his fingers carried on, left, and right, and left, and right... The noisy popping of the motorbike engine paused for a moment and he heard her making tiny sniffing noises, frantically trying not to gasp as she resisted coming to a noisy climax in front of the postman.

The postman thrust their mail into the post-box and he called "Good morning. Nice day for it." The little motorbike engine roared to rackety life and it accelerated away. She gasped and cried out in the safety of its noise and he felt her start to convulse around his cock. He held her tight, rubbing steadily left, and right, and left, and right, until it was over.

She wrenched herself out of his grasp and rolled onto the path, resting her face in the crook of her arm while she caught her breath. Then she blushed crimson and scrambled for the safety of indoors.

"Hey, I'm not through with you," he called after her,"Don't leave me just as I'm getting into this agricultural stuff. Just when I've found my furrow to plough."

"I'll be in the shower if you need me," she said primly. Buttocks clenched firmly, she minced, fiery- faced, in at the front door.

"Oh, I definitely need you," he said and followed her in.

Next morning, the gardening tools had a thin film of rust from the dew.

Thank you for reading me. I would be pleased to hear from you, at FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not you liked my story, and why.

The Stories of Father Ignatius are to be found at http://www.asstr.org/~FatherIgnatius/Stories.html