Hello guest! (Level: guest) Log in

You can change the width of the story text shown below:
Use how much percent of the screen width?

[ default ] [ 10% ] [ 20% ] [ 30% ] [ 40% ] [ 50% ] [ 60% ] [ 70% ] [ 80% ] [ 90% ] [ 100% ]

Options: Plain text or PDF (fanclub only!) version  |  Mark story  |  Mark author

Don't forget to vote for this story, in the yellow voting box below the story!

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

dark soil around their bases free of a single weed. He was on his knees, the sun warming his back, the earthy smell a balm to his academic mind. This, he thought, was real. This was control.

"Still plantin' 'em that deep, Professor?"

Ethan didn't have to look up. The voice was a grating intrusion, as unwelcome as the crabgrass that tried to invade his patch. Gus. He'd arrived with a thud of his heavy boots on the grass path, his large shadow falling over Ethan's work.

"They seem to be doing just fine, Gus. Thanks." Ethan kept his eyes on the soil, pulling at a stubborn root.

"Gonna suffocate the roots," Gus barreled on, ignoring Ethan's curt reply. "A real gardener knows you gotta let 'em breathe. You professors, always got your heads in a book, don't know a thing about the real world."

Ethan finally looked up, his gaze traveling over the man who was the antithesis of everything he valued. Gus was a man in his early fifties whose body had long since surrendered to neglect. His plaid shirt, perpetually untucked, failed to conceal the soft, prominent gut that hung over the belt of his stained work pants. His face, ruddy and coarse, was dominated by a thick, fleshy nose and large, watery eyes that had a way of staring just a little too long, as if they were searching for something to criticize. A few oily gray strands were combed over a balding, sun-spotted scalp. He gestured with a thick, calloused hand, his fingernails rimmed with a permanent crescent of black grime.

"I'll keep that in mind," Ethan said, his voice flat. He turned back to his plants, a clear dismissal.

Gus just chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound, and lumbered over to his own chaotic plot. Ethan could hear him muttering to himself, the sound a low, constant irritation. The peace of the garden had been broken. It always was when Gus was around. He was a weed in human form, and Ethan didn't have a tool sharp enough to root him out. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to reclaim his calm, focusing only on the feel of the warm soil in his hands.

"I come bearing gifts," Nora's voice, bright and clear, cut through Ethan's concentration. He looked up from his work to see her walking down the grassy path, a wicker picnic basket swinging from her hand. The sight of her, a vision of domestic perfection against the rustic backdrop of the garden, made his chest ache with a familiar warmth.

She set the basket down and leaned in for a kiss, her lips soft and tasting of the sweet iced tea she'd brought. "Thought you might be hungry."

"Starving," he admitted, his hands covered in dirt. "Let me just wash up."

He walked to the small communal tool shed at the edge of the plots. It was a rickety structure that smelled of rust, oil, and potting soil. He placed his private, leather-bound notebook—the one he always carried—on a dusty wooden table and turned to the spigot in the corner.

As he was scrubbing his hands, a sudden, violent gust of wind tore through the garden. The shed's poorly latched door was ripped open, slamming hard against the outer wall. The vibration was enough to send the notebook skittering across the table and tumbling to the packed-dirt floor. It landed with a soft thud, falling open.

Ethan's back was turned for no more than five seconds. When he turned back, wiping his hands on a rag, Nora was stepping into the shed to retrieve it for him. He watched as she bent down, the simple movement causing her sundress to ride up the back of her thighs, offering him a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, pale skin.

She picked up the notebook. For a single, charged moment, she stood completely still, her gaze fixed on the open page. Ethan saw her posture stiffen, her shoulders becoming rigid. He saw her chest rise and fall with a quick, sharp breath. Her eyes scanned the page, her full lips parting slightly.

'Fantasy #14: The Gardener.

Nora in the community garden. The sundress. Gus, the fat, sloppy groundskeeper from the next plot over. I want to see him put his dirty, calloused hands on her. I want to watch him press his soft gut into her perfect ass as he "helps" her with some flimsy excuse, some broken tool.

To see her smile at him, to flirt with him, to give that disgusting man a taste of what he can never have, all while I watch. The thought of his grime on her perfect skin... the way he would look at her... it's unbearable. It's perfect.'

A single, sharp breath. A tightening in her chest. The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the ink on the page and the sudden, roaring heat that bloomed low in her belly, a dizzying mix of shock, violation, and a terrifying, thrilling flicker of understanding.

Then, just as quickly, the moment was gone. She snapped the book shut. As she stood and turned to him, her expression was perfectly, terrifyingly neutral. Ethan's stomach tightened.

"Oh, thanks, honey. Clumsy of me," he said, his voice a little too loud in the small space.

Nora handed him the notebook, her fingers brushing his. Her voice was calm, almost melodic.

"You should be more careful with your thoughts, Ethan."

He forced a laugh, taking the book from her. "Right." He thought nothing of her words, a simple platitude. He was just relieved she hadn't seen the grocery list he'd scribbled on the inside cover. He was so, so wrong.

"Everything looks so good," Ethan said, trying to steer the afternoon back toward normalcy. He gestured toward the picnic blanket Nora had begun to lay out. The nervous energy was still buzzing under his skin.

Nora didn't reply. She was staring past him, her gaze fixed on Gus, who was now wrestling with the pull-start cord of a weed-whacker, grunting and sweating with each failed attempt.

"One second, honey," she said, her voice strangely flat. Before Ethan could react, she cut him off and started walking directly toward Gus.

Ethan froze, the picnic basket forgotten in his hand. He watched her cross the thirty feet of grass that separated them, her sundress swaying around her calves. What was she doing? He'd been so fixated on her earlier, on the vision of her domestic perfection, he hadn't paid much attention to Gus's increasingly frustrated grunts and muttered curses from the next plot over. Now, he could see the man wrestling with a stubborn weed-whacker, yanking the pull-start cord with futile, jerky motions, his face a mottled red from exertion and irritation. Gus kicked the machine, then wiped a grimy hand across his brow, leaving a streak of dirt.

Nora approached him with a slow, deliberate grace, her smile a gentle, almost innocent curve of her lips.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, Mr. Henderson," Nora's voice carried back to him, sweet and melodic, yet with an unnerving undertone Ethan couldn't quite decipher. "That looks awfully difficult. It seems quite determined to stay put. Is there a trick to getting these things started? Ethan struggles with ours too, so I thought I'd ask a real expert." She laid on the flattery thick, her head tilted slightly, her eyes wide and guileless.

Gus, who had been hunched over the machine in frustration, straightened up immediately, his eyes widening as he took in the vision of Nora standing before him. The irritation melted from his face, replaced by a wide, self-satisfied grin that split his ruddy, coarse features. He wiped his hands on his stained work pants, then ran a hand over his balding scalp, trying to smooth the oily gray strands.

"Well, well, look what the garden brought in!" he boomed, his voice thick and jovial, a stark contrast to his earlier grunts. His gaze lingered on Nora for a beat too long, raking over her sundress. "Interrupting? Never, sweetheart. Always got time for a pretty face. A trick? Nah, just takes a bit of elbow grease and knowing how to handle your equipment. Man's work, mostly. But I can show a pretty lady like yourself a thing or two." He gestured for her to take the handle.

Nora's smile softened further. "Oh, would you? That would be so helpful. I'm afraid I'm completely useless with anything mechanical." She took the handle he offered, holding it awkwardly, almost daintily. She gave the cord a weak, almost comically feeble pull, the engine sputtering pathetically before dying with a whimper. "Oh dear," she sighed, her brow furrowing in a show of charming helplessness. "I told you I was useless!"

Gus seized the opportunity. "No, no, sweetheart, you're not holding it right. You gotta get a good stance. Here, let me show you." He moved with an unsettling quickness, stepping directly behind her.

Ethan watched, his blood turning to ice, as Gus pressed his entire soft, heavy body against Nora's back. His prominent gut molded into the curve of her spine, the rough fabric of his plaid shirt abrading the delicate cotton of her sundress. Ethan could almost feel the warmth radiating from Gus's unwashed body, the faint, stale scent of sweat and cigarettes that must be enveloping Nora. Gus wrapped a thick, greasy arm around her waist, his hand coming to rest firmly on her hip. Ethan could see his thumb press into the soft flesh just above the waistband of her dress, a possessive, intimate gesture that made his stomach churn. Gus's other hand reached around and completely covered hers on the plastic handle, his calloused, grimy fingers pressing into her soft skin.

Gus's breath, heavy and warm, ghosted over Nora's ear. "Now pull," Gus instructed, his voice dropping to a low rumble, intimate and possessive. "You gotta brace yourself against me. Lean back a little. That's it. Feel my rhythm."

Ethan couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He just watched, a silent scream building in his throat. This wasn't just the fantasy; this was a grotesque, living version of it, unfolding before his eyes. The sight of Gus's large, unkempt body engulfing his wife's slender frame sent a sickening wave of jealousy and rage through him, instantly, shamefully, overshadowed by a tidal wave of pure, physical arousal that made his cock throb painfully in his jeans.

Nora pulled the cord again, leaning back into Gus as instructed. The engine sputtered weakly, then died with another pathetic cough. "Oh, still nothing!" she exclaimed, feigning a slight stumble that caused her to press back into him more firmly, her perfect, round ass molding against his groin for a prolonged moment. "Am I doing it wrong?"

Gus's voice was husky now, barely a whisper. "Almost, almost! You just need a little more... oomph. Here, let me adjust your grip." His hands became bolder. The hand on her hip slid slightly lower, brushing the curve of her buttock as he "adjusted" her stance. His other hand, still covering hers, squeezed gently. He leaned his head closer, his unshaven cheek almost brushing her hair. "You gotta really feel the machine, sweetheart. Let it become part of you."

As Gus adjusted her, Nora subtly shifted her weight, allowing her hip to press deeper into his hand, her buttock to brush his groin again, making it seem like an accidental consequence of her "clumsiness." Ethan's chest tightened, a desperate, silent plea for her to stop, even as his body betrayed him with its insistent, throbbing ache. He felt a primal urge to rip Gus away, but another, darker urge, the one born from his hidden notebook, commanded him to simply watch.

"Just one more big pull, sweetheart," Gus murmured, his voice thick with desire, emboldened by Nora's seeming compliance and the sustained physical contact. He pressed himself more explicitly against her, his erection now undeniably firm against her. "Give it all you got. Don't be shy."

Nora took a deep, slow breath. As she exhaled, she whispered, her voice barely audible, "My goodness, Mr. Henderson, you're certainly putting your whole effort into this, aren't you? I can feel it." Her words hung in the air, innocent enough to dismiss, yet loaded with undeniable double meaning.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she pulled the cord one last time, simultaneously grinding her perfect, round ass against his groin with undeniable intention. It wasn't a bump, or an accident. It was a slow, controlled rotation, a true "grind" that left no room for doubt about its purpose.

A loud, guttural grunt escaped Gus's lips, his eyes rolling back slightly. His grip on her tightened almost painfully, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hip. He was momentarily lost in the sensation, a dazed, animalistic sound escaping him.

Nora slowly turned her head, her face now inches from his. Her full lips were parted slightly as she exhaled a soft breath. She looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes meeting his directly, holding his gaze with an unnerving intensity. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on her lips, a hint of dark amusement, a silent acknowledgment of the power she now wielded. Her voice was a low, throaty whisper that seemed to carry directly into Ethan's core.

"Wow. Mr. Henderson. You really know how to handle your tools." The word "tools" lingered, heavy with unspoken implication.

Then she pulled away, gracefully, almost chillingly detached. She left Gus standing there, swaying slightly, dazed and breathing heavily, his face flushed, eyes glazed over. He could barely comprehend what just happened. He was a man utterly undone. Nora didn't rush, didn't apologize. She simply stepped back, brushed her hands together as if dusting off a little dirt, and turned to walk back toward Ethan, her hips swaying with a new, emboldened confidence he'd never seen before, leaving him paralyzed by a toxic, unbearable mixture of horror and the most intense, shameful arousal of his entire life.

She reached the blanket and knelt on the grass, her movements fluid and unbothered. She looked up at him, a placid, almost sweet smile on her face as she opened the wicker basket. "I packed that chicken salad you like, honey. And some of those homemade cookies." Her voice was even and melodic, as if she were commenting on the weather.

The plastic snap of the container lid was the sound that broke him. The thought of eating, of sitting here on this patch of grass and pretending that nothing had happened, was a grotesque impossibility. Without a word, Ethan knelt and began shoving everything back into the wicker basket with stiff, jerky motions. He snatched the sandwich she'd just unwrapped, cramming it back into its bag, his knuckles white.

Nora simply watched him, her smile never wavering. When he was done, she stood up gracefully, brushing a single blade of grass from her dress. A silent understanding passed between them: the picnic was over.

The walk to the car was a new kind of quiet, different from the comfortable silence they had shared that morning. The air between them was thick and humming with unspoken things. Ethan didn't look at her, but he was acutely aware of the sway of her sundress beside him, the confident rhythm of her steps on the gravel path. He risked one last glance over his shoulder. Gus was still standing there by the silent weed-whacker, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a grimy hand. He was watching them go, a dazed, greasy smirk on his face. The heavy thud of their car doors shutting felt like the closing of a tomb.

The drive home was a vacuum. The only sounds were the tires humming on the asphalt and the faint rattle of the untouched picnic basket in the back seat. Nora stared out the passenger window, her reflection a ghostly image against the passing trees. Her face was placid, unreadable, giving nothing away. A faint, high blush still colored her cheeks.

Ethan's hands were clamped around the steering wheel, his knuckles stark white against his skin. His mind was a frantic loop, replaying the scene with Gus over and over. Her voice. The way she leaned back. The way he held her.

He risked a glance at her. She was so calm. Too calm. The woman beside him felt like a stranger, an elegant, beautiful stranger who had just, for some inexplicable reason, pressed her perfect body against a man like Gus. A man whose filthy hands had been on her hips, whose groin had been touched by her ass.

A hot, thick pulse beat low in his gut. It was a vile feeling, a venomous cocktail of jealousy and rage. But beneath it, deeper and more powerful, was a current of pure, raw arousal that horrified him. He had to shift in his seat, the pressure of his erection against the denim of his jeans becoming a painful, throbbing ache. He felt sick. He felt alive. He gripped the wheel tighter, focusing on the road ahead, trying to outrun the image seared into his brain and the terrible, wonderful feeling that was consuming him from the inside out.

Request from webmaster Art:
Don't forget to vote for this story in the yellow voting box below!
Authors really appreciate the votes and it only takes a few seconds!

Options: Plain text or PDF (fanclub only!) version for easy saving or printing

ESmail: Click here to send a private message to InfiniteEleven (with ESmail, the site's internal message system)

Authors appreciate feedback! Please vote, and write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!

Profile for InfiniteEleven, incl. 4 stories Add this author to your favorite author list Add this story to your favorite story list Send this story to me through email

Give your opinion about this part: (You can vote for each part separately) select here 1 (terrible) 2 .. 3 .. 4 .. 5 (reasonable) 6 .. 7 .. 8 .. 9 .. 10 (excellent)

Send feedback to this author: Your name: Your message to InfiniteEleven:     (You are not logged in, so you can't send private messages) Public: post this message in the public feedback below