Tag Archives: the gardener

Surreal weekend

I’ve just spent the weekend with the gardener and his former girlfriend (the one I set him up with all those years ago, but now married to someone else)…

We stayed in a remote house in the Tuscan countryside, eating outside, watching the sun set over the hills and talking late into the night, drinking too much and snatching kisses and touches when she went indoors, or we were alone in the kitchen. It was not going to be possible to sleep together, the walls were too thin. Waking up hung over on Sunday, we spent the day lounging around,the three of us lying on the sofa together, snoozing and watching crap TV. She went to her bedroom to lie down, leaving us lying next to one another. He gently traced my curves with his fingers, from neck to thighs. Again, something thawed inside.

We drove back to the city in the evening and said goodbye. I could see he wanted to spend the night with me, my last evening before the husband joins me again. But she hijacked my evening, inviting herself for dinner. I wondered as we talked about marriage and relationships, how much she had picked up on the looks and touches of the previous night. I also wondered whether she too had been kissed and touched when I wasn’t looking. Two married women, a gardener and unsaid secrets. A most surreal weekend.

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The void

Strangely, the last few months have been a libidinal void. I’m not sure what happened. I suppose I was busy working, the husband was around all the time, geographically distanced from all my lovers and no time to meet new ones. Perhaps my London lover odyssey exhausted me. Perhaps I just needed to recharge. But I’ve been searching for that elusive tingle, that excitement, that feeling of standing on the edge. And so, returning to the scene of many crimes, I find myself in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. A city I left over a year ago, still tingling and raw from my first threesome with the American and Frenchman. A city full of memories – the gardener, the Italian, Eton boy and other late night fumblings.

Last night I saw the gardener again and I felt something begin to thaw behind my eyes. It was a dinner, another friend was there, so no chance to be alone. Looking at his tanned skin and lean muscles I could sense a distant, yet familiar sensation, a sort of light-heartedness. We chatted and laughed over wonderful food, hands brushing occasionally as we both reached for our glasses, knees touching under the table. Then, walking home again, we lagged a few paces behind my friend and I felt his hand reach for mine. It sent a little jolt through me. Perhaps it is the shock I need to wake me from my numbness, to pull me out of this void. I want to feel alive again.

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The Tuscan villa

The weather is beautifully hot today. Blue skies with just a hint of white and my skin feels warm to the touch. As I sit outside in the grass and feel the gentle breeze in my hair, I close my eyes and am back under the olive trees of that Tuscan villa.

It was a few summers ago when my affair with the gardener was in full swing. I flew into Tuscany late one Friday night after work. He was picking me up in his car. We hadn’t seen each other for about six weeks and my heart was racing as I stepped off the plane into the balmy night air. I was still dressed in my London work clothes – a black pencil skirt, white shirt and heels carrying my raincoat over my arm. As I walked down the steps from the airplane onto the tarmac I could see the lights twinkling from the surrounding hills and felt the day’s heat rising from the ground below. There is something magical about the Tuscan landscape. The air smells different, light, slightly scented. It carries you, lifts you.

I picked up my bag from the carousel and walked through the customs gate into the arrivals area. It is so rare to be met by someone at the airport. Usually I walk through the waiting crowd briskly, not making eye contact with anyone, secretly wishing that someone was there to meet me. There never is. But that night, I knew he would be in the crowd waiting just for me. I scanned the faces until I spotted him at the back, leaning against a pillar. He was still on his crutches, but looked so dashingly handsome in his trousers and tight t-shirt. So relaxed and tanned. He smiled as I walked towards him and pulled me into his embrace. He smelt of summer, of sun, of fresh air. I buried my nose in his curly hair and inhaled deeply. Such a world away from my air conditioned sterile office in a grey, cloudy London.

We walked to his car, chatting and laughing, both feeling the thrill of the weekend ahead. Despite his crutches he was able to drive and we whizzed through the Tuscan hills, winding our way up towards the villa where he worked and lived. After about a 30 minute drive with the windows open to the night air we arrived at a large cast iron gate and drove down a long path through a wooded area until we reached a clearing and the graveled driveway of the villa. It sat high up on a hill overlooking the valley below, the lights of Florence twinkling in the distance.  He lived in an outhouse in the gardens and parked in front of it. When the motor was silent all I could hear was the sound of insects. The villa was dark, the shutters closed. He led me into his house, offering me a cold glass of wine from the kitchen. Inside it was wonderfully cool. I kicked off my heels and took off my stockings enjoying the sensation of the cold terracotta floor on my bare feet. We stood in the kitchen looking at one another, our initial shyness wearing off and kissed passionately, holding our glasses of wine.

He had prepared a light supper and so we sat outside his house on the veranda with a candle, schiaccata bread, pecorino and salami, listening to the sounds of the night, chatting, laughing and drinking. I floated through those night time hours like one of the fireflies. When the sky began to change from a warm black to a cooler shade of blue, we went inside and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He undressed me in silence and I watched as he tugged off his t-shirt revealing his incredible torso (one of the benefits of having an affair with a gardener). We lay naked on the bed, touching one another’s bodies, re-familiarising ourselves with the other. I licked his shoulders, chest and stomach, tasting the salt of his sweat. Then took him in my mouth and slowly moved my head to the rhythm of his guiding hands. His  breath quickened and I let him come sweetly into my mouth, savouring every drop. He pulled me round, so that my hips were in line with his face and parted my legs, letting him bury his nose and mouth in my heat. He nuzzled and licked, stroking my thighs and ass as he did so. I felt the shiver of my orgasm and moved quickly to sit astride him, craving his cock inside me. His knee injury prevented him from lying on top of me and so I reveled in being in control, angling my hips so that his cock would thrust deep inside me. I circled my hips and leant back on my hands, giving him full view of my cunt. He understood exactly what to do and began to massage my clit as I gyrated on his cock. The blood rushed to my head as I arched my back and gave myself to him. My body collapsed to a shuddering orgasm and I fell back on the bed trying to catch my breath. It was too hot for sheets and so we fell asleep naked, my head resting on his chest. It was the start of an unforgettable weekend in the Tuscan hills. What I would give to be there right now.

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Hitchcock inspired

Rear window‘. One of my all time favourite films. If you haven’t seen it yet, watch it and luxuriate in the beautiful Grace Kelly, the dashing James Stewart and the heat of a New York summer. I watched it again recently and it reminded me of my own lover-in-a-cast experience. You would think that having a leg in a cast would hamper a man’s sexual appetite. I found it to be quite the opposite…

I suppose given the nature of his work, it was hardly surprising that the gardener injured himself on the job. He ended up in a full leg cast as the summer was starting. The timing was bad. I had just taken him as a lover and was excited by his strength and fit body. Within a few weeks, my hunk of a gardener was bed ridden and limping around on crutches. It wasn’t quite the image I had had in mind when getting involved with him. Nevertheless, his new invalid status meant he could not drive and so, feeling rather sorry for him, I offered our sofa bed for him to sleep on for a few weeks until he was in a better state.

He would spend the days lying naked (bar a pair of shorts) in the living room. I would go about my daily business, returning in the evenings and making supper for us both. He would hobble over to the large mahogany dining table, balancing his crutches against it, propping his leg up on another chair. The heat of the day did not subside at night and so he remained topless for dinner. I found myself looking at his body as we ate, feeling that prickle, that sense of desire and lust awakening. I touched his other (good) leg, moving my fingers up his inner thigh, finding a way under his shorts towards his crotch. His erection became visible and so I placed my other hand on top of his cock, rubbing it gently. He placed his fork down on the table and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensations.

I got up from my chair and knelt in front of him, pulling his shorts down far enough to expose his erection. Taking him in my mouth as far as he would go, I began to give him a blow job. Perhaps it is the Florence Nightingale in me, but I thought he needed a little bit of pleasure after all that pain. His breathing changed and he began to gasp. I looked up at him and he started to tear at my dress, desperate to see my breasts. I stood up, slowly and took a step back. Then unbuttoned the fastening on my dress, button by button as he watched. His eyes sparkled and I could read the same lust in his face that I was feeling.

As my dress dropped to the floor revealing my pink satin bra and knickers, he reached for his crutches and tried to get up. I helped him stand and he held onto the back of a chair as he slipped one of my breasts out of my bra and kissed it, suckling and fumbling for the clasp. When it pinged open and my bra fell from my shoulders, he could not contain himself anymore. The gardener lurched forward and pushed me, face forward over the dining table. I could feel the cool shiny surface against my breasts and his hardness against my ass as he leaned over me. He steadied himself, balancing on his good leg and then pulled down my knickers. I felt him find my hole with his fingers and then thrust his cock into me. It was my turn to gasp. Pushing myself up a little, so our bodies were touching, we fucked. He had a surprising amount of energy given his invalid status. He pounded and pounded, my hips hitting the edge of the table as he did so. When he lost his balance a little we changed positions, I climbed on top of the table, lying back with my legs open and cunt close to the edge so he could enter me again and balance against my legs. I could feel him deep inside me, the table was just the right height. We were both sweaty from the exertion and heat and I began to slip on the mahogany surface. It felt so lustful, so raw, so untethered. As he brought me to climax, I held onto the edge of the table so that force of our bodies colliding was increased. He came shortly after me, panting and sweating as he collapsed, bent over me.

Those weeks were intense – hours of heated sex, standing, sitting, lying on the dining table or sofa bed. My hips were black and blue from being pounded against the table edge and I got a thrill from inviting friends around for dinner, knowing that only ten minutes before they had arrived I had been fucked on the same table at which we ate. He was remarkably versatile given his cast. It was like having a personal sex slave at home… He couldn’t leave and so we made the most of our nights together I’m not sure if it helped or hampered his recuperation, but what a great way to be bed ridden!

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A long hot summer – the gardener

It was about three years ago that we met outside a bar. It was the springtime and the nights were balmy enough to drink outside. I had just got engaged and was there with my soon to be husband. The gardener was introduced to us by a mutual friend.

He had the air of someone who spends a lot of his time outdoors. A tanned face, a healthy glow in his cheeks and the stature of a man used to physical labour. As we said our goodbyes, I remember kissing him on both cheeks and feeling his hard biceps through his jacket. It was enough to make me curious about the rest of him. Shortly after that we invited him to one of our dinner parties, in the hope of setting him up with one of our younger single friends. He showed up with a homemade quiche and bottle of red wine. I was impressed with his cooking abilities (I’m a sucker for men who can cook). The dinner party took it’s course and he came across as the shy, bumbling Englishman when introduced to our friends. But there were moments of lingering eye contact across the dinner table and I decided to get to know him a little better.

The following week he and I met. We went for drinks. He had driven in from the villa outside the city where he worked and had parked his car a short walk from my flat. So, it seemed only polite to invite him in for coffee on our stroll home. I was also a little concerned about the amount he had drunk, given he was planning to drive. We talked, drank coffee and I teased him about setting him up with my younger friend. We moved closer to one another and he took my hand, playing with my fingers. The flat was silent. We both looked at our intertwined fingers, furtively glancing up in an attempt to gauge what the next step should be. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. And so we kissed, timidly at first and then with a heated animation. That first night was very innocent, just kissing and fondling. It was fun, like being teenagers again.

That was the start of my long hot summer with the gardener. He started to drive into town regularly. Monday nights became our ‘pasta & fuck’ night. I would make us dinner, the same pasta sauce every time. We would open a bottle of wine, talk, eat a little, fuck a little and then go back to finish the pasta and wine. It was such a wonderfully simple combination. No expectations, just chat, sex, food and wine. He had started dating the young friend I had set him up with. When coming into town to see her, he would arrive early and drop by my place first. Within a minute of opening the door to him, we would be kissing and stripping the clothes from one another’s bodies, moving towards the bedroom as we did so. His body was so firm and tanned. I loved to run my hands over his torso, tracing each bump and dip with my finger, licking his skin to taste his salty sweat. His biceps and forearms were perfect. Perhaps it is a little fetish of mine, but I cannot resist a man with well defined forearms. It gives me a sense of security, perhaps the feeling that those arms could protect me, carry me, caress me. It drives me wild.

After our heated sessions together, he would shower, dress and head over to his new girlfriend’s place, where he would usually have to spend the night. I got a thrill out of meeting up with him and her for drinks within an hour of having his cock inside me. I have often wondered whether he and I were most alike in that sense. He was and remains a bachelor, a guy who fucks around. He liked the thrill and danger of our affair as well. That summer we lived a risky life, so much deceit, so many lies, but what incredible sex we had and on many occasions the bruises to prove it. But that’s another story for another day.

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