This one is for you, my nest.
I come home one day to find you out back in the garden; you’d come home from a long day at work, ready to relax, only to remember that you’ve got a ton of stuff to take to the tip, and it has to go in the morning – so you’d better load up the car tonight. By the time I get home, you’ve spent an hour carrying armfuls of heavy rubbish; you’re sweaty, dirty, and sore. I float in, cool as a breeze after having been in an air conditioned office all day, to see your back muscles flex as you pick up the last load. You turn around, look me in the eye, and drop it where you stand.
I chuckle. “Long day, lo-?” I start asking, but before the words are out of my mouth, your lips are pressed against it and you’re clutching me with soil-crusted fingernails, not giving a shit if you leave streaks on my pale peach blouse.
You are ravenous.
You charge, forcing me to the trellis against the back wall of our building – the one with the overflowing plum-colored bougainvillea – and crush the flowers with my back as my purse slides down my arm and slips to the ground. “Stay,” you order me, as you rummage for something among pots, tools, and patio furniture. You find a length of twine underneath a pair of gloves and swiftly tie my wrists together like a boatswain before attaching them to the trellis above my head.
You unbutton my blouse and shove the top of my undershirt under my tits, letting them spill out so you can apply vacuum pressure to my nipples; I’m so taken with surprise that it’s a few minutes before I realize that the neighbors could see this. All of them. The thought of it makes my cunt burn. I want to get on my knees in the earth and take you in my mouth, only I can’t.
As soon as I think it, your belt is unbuckled and your cock is out, popping up from behind the confines of your jeans. Watching you stroke yourself and not being able to touch you is torture and rapture. You reach under my skirt and move my knickers to the side so you can gather up my nectar with your fingers to use as lube to stroke yourself with. I watch you take the flowing juices from my body and use them as your own, wanting to tell you that it’s not fair – if you’re going to smear them on your dick, do it by sliding into me – but I don’t. Instead, I watch wide-eyed, heart thudding, as you continue to wank with fervor.
Suddenly you stop. You press your mouth to my ear and whisper, “Do you want my cock inside of you?” I choke back saliva, and before I can answer, you’re on your knees, yanking my knickers all the way down and my skirt all the way up. “Well done, love,” you say, taking a hooked finger and drawing silky webs away from my thighs. I whimper.
You draw up a chair, tell me to spread my legs as wide as I can, and continue wanking. Deep into your reverie, you stand up and leave me alone outside for a minute, exposed for all the world to see; you come back, work a large dildo into my cunt, and tell me to clamp my legs. You sit back down and watch me intently while stroking yourself until your pleasure forces you to close your eyes halfway; I try to clench the dildo hard enough to make myself come, but I’m not quite there. Perhaps you take pity on me seeing me strain – or perhaps you just want to fuck me. In any case, you stride over, take me down from the trellis, and lead me in by the twine, assuring me that the best is yet to come.