Chapter 6
Zeke looked back from the door.
His wife was sitting up in bed, her face haughty, composed, aristocratic and her right hand was the only part of her upper body that was not glistening with spunk.
He shook his head. Confused, bemused and dumfounded, he left the room.
But his balls had been emptied -- oh, how they had been emptied! He felt a hell of a lot better. His wife had some funny quirks, but if she would give him a handjob like that once in a while; he figured he had no cause to complain.
He threw the soiled glove in the incinerator, thinking that he would have to remember to buy her another pair.
Hell, he would buy her a gross, if she kept on using them in that useful fashion.
He went out to his car.
A rangy, leathery fellow was coming down the road, pulling a cart full of gardening tools after him. An itinerant gardener, Zeke figured.
It meant nothing to him, for he did his own gardening and had no idea that his wife was susceptible to having her carnal furrows plowed and fertilized by passersby and tradesmen.
He drove off to interview would-be mechanics.
Candy, the would-be mechanic, said, "How do I look?"
"Delicious," Jack said.
She had put on a pair of overalls, with bib and shoulder straps. She wore nothing underneath and, as she turned sideways, he could see her tit resting inside the bib like a cantaloupe in a shopping bag.
"You think I ought to put some grease on my face?"
Jack grinned.
"I got some grease left in my grease gun," he said.
Candy giggled.
"It's the wrong color," she said.
"Got some shoe polish?"
"What a clever idea!" she squealed, clapping her hands together in delight.
She fetched a tin of bootblack.
Jack produced his grease gun.
Candy, deft mechanic that she was, jerked him off into the black polish. He had already spent most of his spunk in her cunt and mouth, but he had a pretty good dribble left and she nimbly pumped it out.
She licked his pecker head clean, knowing that a good mechanic always cleans his tools after work. Then she stirred the cum around in the polish with her index finger and smeared it on her cheek and forehead.
"Perfect," Jack said. "It'll fool anyone." Candy was pleased. It never hurt to look the part when you were applying for a job, she reckoned.
Candy went to see Zeke Washburn.
Catherine Washburn's composure vanished the moment that her bewildered but empty balled husband had left the bedroom. Her green eyes gleamed.
That had been the best drink of cum she'd had in ages; although, of course, she could never have admitted that to him, peasant that he was. Catherine was anything but a stranger to cum, but she had never known any man to shoot with such delightful plentitude. She'd had more cum at one time, but that was when she was giving head to the football team or gobbling the dicks of a dozen assorted strangers. She had been quite impressed with Zeke's seminal abundance.
She would never have stooped to suck hi cock, certainly, since he was a husband of the lower classes, but drinking his cum was a different matter, as long as he milked it out in dainty and tidy fashion -- while wearing a sill glove.
Husbands were husbands and cum was cum.
And she loved it.
As soon as the door closed behind the departing benefactor, Catherine began to lick her creamy lips, gathering up the jism that sparkled there. She cupped her fat tits and lifted them. Dipping her head down, she tongued his slimy jism from the heavy globes and the taut nipples.
She got hornier as she sucked on her nipples, and her pussy began to simmer violently. She rubbed her belly with her hand, and then she tongued her hand. She bent down to lap up a few drops of cum that had dripped onto the bed and were congealing in little ivory nuggets.
She wanted more.
She reached into her crotch and, using her hand like a scoop, gathered up a handful of cunt juice and delivered it to her greedy mouth. Cunt juice was not as tasty as cum, to her reckoning, but it was pretty damn good.
Then, her oral appetite slaked, she started to think about where she could find a man to deal with her burning cunt.
She wanted to telephone someone. Her pussy was so ready for cock that she knew it would be embarrassing to walk the streets -- with audible squishing emanating from her fucknest.
And she didn't want to prolong the encounter, for fear that her inspired cunt might just cream on its own, for she considered an empty-cunted orgasm a bit of a waste.
Then what should happen but that the doorbell was rung. The itinerant gardener had found a ripe garden.
Catherine opened the door.
She had pulled on a filmy negligee, which she held closed just below her tits. It was semitransparent, and a hint of her dark areolas could be discerned through the clinging material. The pert thrust of her nipples was evident, the sharp tips pressing out against the gown. And lower, the outline of her dark pubic mound could be seen and one bare thigh arched through the front of the robe. This wasn't really a studied effect; since she had no idea who was at the door; rather it was a casual thing -- she didn't give a damn who saw her sexy body. If it worked to her advantage in that the caller was a prospective lover, all well and good. If it shocked someone, that was just too bad, for she knew full well that the aristocracy were never overly modest in such things.
Lords and Ladies cursed like troopers, American Presidents spoke in expletives, and seeing herself on an equal level, she saw no reason why she should fail to flaunt her body.
The caller blinked when he saw her.
Catherine brazenly looked him up and down from head to crotch. He was tall and lean and fit. His angular face was weathered as a cowboy's. His brown hair was trimmed short and parted on the left.
Catherine noted these attributes. He was not exactly her dream man, not the vision she would have summoned up had she been calling her ideal lover, but neither were they a minus factor. She liked, tall, lean fellows and did not give a hoot for the length or style of their hair -- although, it is true, she did like a man who had a nice heavy pubic growth and hairy balls -- as long as they possessed a certain adequate prowess in bed.
But to her disappointment, she could see no promising bulge in the front of his chino trousers. Still, she reckoned, the man had not known what he was going to encounter at this door, since he was a total stranger, and perhaps a large cock lurked dormant in his pants.
She moved her hips a bit, so that the filmy negligee glided across her belly and her naked thigh thrust out a bit further.
He blinked again. He seemed speechless.
"Yes?" she said.
"Errr... did I wake you, Ma'am?"
She made an impatient gesture. The. Washburn's had no servants, but she said, "It's the maid's day off, I'm afraid... and the butler has been sent on an errand, with the chauffeur, of course. Thus, I find myself in the unlikely position of being forced to answer my own door. That is why I am wearing a lounging robe."
She thought about that for a moment. It didn't quite follow, did it? Oh well, she thought. She shrugged it off and said, "What may I do for you?"
"I'm looking for gardening work," he said.
As if afraid that she would not believe him, he gestured at the cart he had left on the sidewalk. Hoes and rakes and hedge trimmers bristled from the cart.
"My dear man," said haughty Catherine, wife of a prominent businessman, "surely you never for a moment thought that we did not have a full-time gardener?"
"Oh," he said, glancing at the yard.
Catherine was inclined to dismiss the impertinent fellow. She felt quite insulted that he should have believed, however correctly, that they needed a gardener.
But then she thought: A gardener... why, that's almost the same as a game keeper.
The concept was romantic. She saw herself a lady, wed to an impotent cripple -- for what was more crippling than being base-born? She saw that she deserved some romance.
She said, "But wait... I believe I do have a job of work for you to deal with... errr... with which you may deal, I mean to say. Please come."
"I'll fetch my tools," he said, turning away. In profile, she could make out a certain fullness at the front of his pants.
She said, "No need, my good man. Your implements are far too crude. You shall be supplied with the tool."
He looked a bit bemused, but he turned back and followed her into the house.
Catherine led him to the bedroom.
He said, "I don't do window boxes or potted plants, Ma'am. Or wax fruit."
He was looking around for a growth of some sort, obviously uncomfortable in a plantless boudoir.
Catherine held up a pair of scissors. "Are your coarse hands too clumsy to manipulate these instruments? Are your fingers too thick to fit?"
He looked at the scissors. He took them from her and made a few tentative snips at the air.
He said, "Well, I can use em, I guess. But what..."
Catherine smiled, sweetly at him. "I want you to trim my hedge," she said.
"What hedge is that, Ma'am?"
"This hedge," said the woman, and she flipped open the front of her negligee, revealing her abundant pubic growth.
The gardener blinked, but recovered quickly. He grinned in a Gary Cooper fashion and snipped the scissors again. He was obviously not as naive as he appeared.
"Why, I can handle that, Ma'am," he said.
"And handle it you shall, my good man," said Catherine.
Catherine slipped the gown from her shoulders and, stark naked, stretched out on the bed.
The gardener sat beside her.
He studied the job just as if he were faced with the maintenance of a formalized garden.
Catherine's bush was curly and dark, a wide triangle that reached out towards her hipbones. A thin line of black coils ran up from the top of the wedge to her navel. She opened her thighs a bit so that all of the job was revealed to him, and he nodded as he noted that her cunt was wet and parted, a swampy pink pool in the middle of the dark garden. Her clit stuck out like a marble statue.
This was a well-kept lawn, he thought. It needed only a bit of trimming at the edges.
"Can you do it?" she asked.
"Mmm-mmm. My name is Fellows, by the way. If I do a good job, maybe you could recommend me to your neighbors?"
"Certainly, Fellows."
He slipped the tiny scissors along the periphery of her cuntal mound and snipped a few errant hairs, trimming her bush into a perfect triangle. Then he snipped a hair or two off her cuntlips, very carefully. He slid a hand under her hips, lifted her slightly, and snipped at the line of hair that ran into the crack of her ass. He drew back and studied his handiwork. "That's it," he said.
"A job well done," she said, admiring the cuneal symmetry of her cunt-thicket.
"Anything else you want done?"
She smiled. "Why don't you look it over carefully, with your skilled eye, and tell me what you think?"
"Well, Ma'am... the hedge is neat as could be but, if you don't mind my saying so, your pool could use a bit of a cleaning."
"It's not stagnant, is it?" she said, horrified.
"Naw. Just swampy... needs to be pumped out."
"Perhaps if you were to suck it."
"Right you are, Ma'am."
Fellows sat up and put the scissors on the table. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it off.
"You don't mind, do you?" he said. "If I'm going to take a dip in the pool, I'd better get my duds off."
"Understandable," she said.
He stood up and opened his pants, let them drop, pushed his shorts down. His cock had started to harden and, freed of the underpants, it snapped straight out in front of him like a fleshy plowshare. Catherine saw that it would be a very useful tool for planting seed.
He kicked his shoes off, stepped out of pants and shorts and, naked, sat down again.
Catherine spread her thighs wide apart. Fellows buried his face between them. His tongue stirred the swampy oval gash, then stabbed up her hot cunt hole. He fitted his lips to her cuntlips and began to suck steadily while his tongue glided through the creamy slot like an eel through a pond. She could tell that this was not the first time that this skilled worker had sucked a cunt. And he was obviously a man who enjoyed his work, for he was grinding his head around in her crotch with gusto.
He spread her cunt wide open with his green thumbs, and sent his tongue slithering far up the tunnel.
He began to suck steadily on her clitoris. He blew up her hole -- no doubt to aerate the depths -- then drew back to study the results of his work. Cunt juice flooded her gaping slot and trickled down into the newly trimmed crack of her ass. Ducking in, he ran his tongue upwards in a broad, flattened slurp, lapping her from asshole to clit.
Catherine squirmed and moaned.
He lapped her slot, emptying it.
It filled up again instantly, creamier than ever, for this was no manmade pool but a natural spring bubbling from the depths of her loins.
Fellows set to work doggedly then, his mouth opened and clamped over bet cunt like a limpet. He sucked with a steady rhythm. Her cream trickled into his mouth with ever increasing abundance, and he gulped it down without faltering. His mouth was open wide so that he was sucking on her whole pussy, from clitoris to perineum, his lips unpeeled around the tasty morsel.
The wondrous thrill began to creep laterally across Catherine's belly and craw up her spread thighs. She closed her legs around his busy head, opened them wide, clamped them over him again. Her belly humped up and down and her hips rolled from side to side as she worked her cunt around in his face.
The thrill built higher and higher. Her hand groped down and closed around the hilt of his cock, as if, in the delirious and dizzying ride to her orgasm, she were grasping at a straw for support; as if, sinking in climax, she clutched at his stout driftwood, seeking a buoyant handhold to keep her head above water.
His cock flared mightily in her grip, the shaft expanding and the big shovel-shaped knob spreading out, so that it looked as if she held a trowel in her hand.
Electric spasms shook her loins. Her cunt creamed, the sluggish swamp becoming a tremendous, turbulent torrent that poured into his eager mouth as if a dam had broken somewhere far back in her cunt.
"I'm coming!" she cried.
He sucked voraciously.
Catherine spun to dizzy heights, hovered there in the suspension of reality, then came crashing down as her orgasm throbbed to its creamy conclusion.
Fellows continued to suck until he was sure he had sucked her dry.
She lay still, panting.
He looked up with his Gary Cooper grin, his smiling lips glistening with her pussy-nectar.
"Pool's empty, Ma'am," he said.
"I know," she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
"Of course," said randy Catherine, "now that it's empty, you have to fill it again."
Although Catherine never objected to sucking the cock or drinking the cum of a baseborn lover, she rebelled at the idea of kissing such a person on the lips.
She knew how to avoid that situation.
She had learned the trick from a dog breeder -- and, truth be known, from two of his German Shepherds -- and now she rolled nimbly onto her belly and rose up on her knees, so that her long, lithe body formed a tripod, supported at knees and head, with her firm ass at the highest point.
"Dog-style, huh?" said Fellows.
He didn't mind at all. He knelt behind, her upthrust ass and wrapped a fist around the root of his thundering cock. He gave it a push-pull to make sure it was cleared of obstruction and ready to plow that fertile furrow between her ripe thighs.
He fitted the shovel-tipped prick to her cunthole.
Catherine wriggled, eager for cock despite the lovely climax she'd pouted into his mouth. That was the way she was. Getting head made her want cock, and getting cock made her want head, and everything made her horny.
Fellows fed her two inches of pecker head.
She whimpered with delight. Her greedy cunt sucked on his knob like a vacuum cleaner, dragging him in.
He clamped his hands on her hipbones and aided her back onto his cock as if he were tilling on a boot. His whole big prick vanished up her hole, and his bloated balls jammed right against her crotch.
He started to hump her, but her cunt was clutching his cock so greedily that he could not withdraw.
She was squirming around on his prick, her ass describing wild arcs and her hips working like pistons.
Fellows placed his hands on her ass and pushed her off his prick so that only the tip remained inside her cunt. Then he switched his grip to her hipbones and dragged her back onto, the vibrant shaft to the root.
This initial in-and-out stroke loosened the ferocious grip of her cunt. He began to hump her with long, rippling strokes, gliding easily up the slippery hole.
Catherine, thrilled at having a huge pecker buried in her loins, said, "Oh, you glorious woodsman! You wondrous gamekeeper! You rustic marvel."
"Gardener, Ma'am," he corrected her. But her fantasy was not to be denied. "Say fuck," she whimpered. "Fuck," said Fellows as he shoveled his fat prick into her steaming snatch.
"Say cunt!" she wailed.
"Cunt!" he bellowed, getting into the spin of the situation as he got into her cunt to the depths.
"Say D. H. Lawrence!" she cried.
"D. H. Lawrence?" he said.
It satisfied her.
She buried her face into the pillow an reaching back between her legs, grasped by his swinging balls. She began to pull him in to her cunt by the balls, jamming her ass back to meet his cock as it plowed up the steam furrow.
His lean belly slapped her taut ass. Hi powerful strokes tilted her pelvis upwards that he was jolting her right, into the air an driving her head down into the pillow -- elevating the tripod of her position with the fury of his attack.
Catherine realized that her cunt had not been so violently plundered since that memorable afternoon when she had been fucked by the strongman of a passing carnival. Lost in lust, she cried. "Fuck... cunt... cock... suck... bugger... cum... cuntjuice..." and then she faltered for a moment, caught her breath, said, "pussy... spunk... assholes... balls..."
And of that choice catalogue of terms, two of them had struck the lusty gardener as having been neglected. Bugger and assholes. A wily look stole over his face.
Fellows was well-accustomed to planting seed in fertile fields, but it was seldom that he got a chance to plow a barren pasture. His patent harrow throbbed for a new field.
He pulled his cock out of her cunt all the way. Her cuntlips almost turned inside out as they struggled to retain a grip on his cockhead.
She wailed, thinking that he had slipped out by mistake, and her ass flew about as she waited for him to plow into her pussy once again.
But he rose up higher, so that instead of dipping into her cunt, his cock thumped on her ass.
He spread his big hands out on the cheeks of her ass and pushed them open, parting the crack and revealing the tight brown bud of her asshole.
She squirmed, not comprehending his intentions and thinking that, awkward working man that he was, he was floundering at this precision job.
He fitted the head of his dick to her assring.
"Not there!" she wailed.
"Lady," he said, "if you don't want it there you ought to put up a scarecrow."
He pushed his cock into her ass.
Catherine wailed as she felt that big spade shaped cockhead dig into her shitter.
He pushed again, feeding her the whole big head. Her asshole clamped, tight, around his stalk behind the knob.
It hurt for a moment. Then the thrill came, obliterating the slight pain -- making that pain no more than another tingling aspect of the thrill itself, adding a new dimension to her carnal pleasures.
Catherine saw that her back field had bee fallow too long; it was ready for the plow.
"Oh! Do it!" she wailed. "Fuck my ass!" Which was precisely what Fellows intended. He held her firmly by the hips and fed his dick to her ass inch by inch as Catherine writhed about, grinding her back as if she were screwing herself onto his prick.
His big cock slipped in to the hill, the flaring knob pushing into her bowels and his bloated nuts lamming into her abandoned cunt.
Catherine gasped as she felt her asshole full to the brim with pulsating pecker.
He held the full penetration for a moment, then began to plow in and out. Her asshole gripped him firmly, and her whole pelvis moved on his strokes so that he was not fucking into her but merely lugging her along as he humped.
But then her asshole adjusted to his bulk.
He began to bugger her truly then, long stroking his whole thundering cock into her ass, pulling back until only the head was buried, then plunging in again.
Catherine felt so full of cock that she looked down, at her belly to see if that big plunger was pressing a long furrow up along her torso.
Looking between her dangling tits, she saw his balls jammed into her cunt. She reached down and cupped those hairy nuts and began to rub them into her pussy and onto her vibrant clitoris, so that her cunt was not neglected while her asshole was so nicely pleasured by his remorseless fuckstick.
Fellows was rising to the peak. He had been aroused by eating her out and inspired by fucking her cunt; now she was squeezing his balls against her wet cunt and her tight asshole was working like a wringer on his cock.
He banged in savagely, growling and gasping. His hot reamer wedged into her asshole like a chisel, levering her loins upwards.
Catherine felt his cock spread and ignite in her ass. She fingered her clit furiously and worked his balls around in her cunt, desperately working to join him at the peak.
"I'm gonna fill your ass with cum," he growled as he poured the prick to her violently.
His words thrilled the lewd woman, who adored nothing more than being filled with cum in any hole.
Her pussy began to melt.
Then the gardener shoveled his spade into the hilt and spilled his fertile seed into her arid asshole.
Catherine felt his cum pour into her bowels in a steaming cascade. Her loins were incandescent with lust. Her pussy creamed, the hot juice overflowing onto his balls as it bubbled from her slot.
Snarling and moaning, Fellows emptied load after load of spunk into her tight ass, his whole lean body shaking and vibrating with the thrill.
Panting, he slowed, his labors done.
Catherine continued to grind her juicy ass against his belly and to work her cunt around on his emptied balls as she drained her own splendid orgasm to the termination.
She sank forward, coming off her knee and onto her belly. Her asshole slipped off his prong and a trickle of cum ran out of the tight hole and seeped down into her crotch, blending with the overflow of cuntjuice already there.
Fellows stretched out beside her.
"You have a green thumb, indeed," she said.
"And a brown dick," lie said.
But who could tend a garden without getting dirty?