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Garden Sex: The Plant Whisperer’s Garden

He doesn’t know I’m watching him, yet. Thinking of garden sex. His back to me in the garden. He’s wearing work gloves, baseball cap, jeans and a faded t-shirt. Brownish grey curls sticking out of the back of the cap. The Plant Whisperer is doing what he does – he’s examining the plants, surveying what needs work and how. Talking to them, wordlessly. Whispering.

He shakes his gloves off when he sees me and catches me with an arm around my waist, plucking something fragrant and holding it under my nose with his other hand.

“Smell this.” he says. Then kisses me, gruffly. “Delicious right? Speaking of delicious, taste this” and he plucks a ground cherry from its cover or a mulberry from a tree and feeds it to me. Then bores me with stories of what the flowers he plants today will look like next year.

He smudges me with pigments and anoints me with oils.

Feeding me, painting me, healing me. The garden seeps into me through him. I crave garden sex.

When not with the plants he’s boyish and shy, and not quite effective on the ground. He floats here, in the human world, like a seedpod on the breeze. His thoughts shapeless. There’s brilliance, but it passes through magical filters and can get him into trouble. But in his realm, that of the plants, he is the king of the garden. He lays me down on soft ground cover.

We are naked. Garden sex.

Images of butterflies and songbirds flit behind my eyes as his hands delight my body. Weathered hands, wounded from thorns, scarred from brush. Cupping me, jiggling me.

He’s into breasts. He grabs mine with those raw hands. The loose skin and responsive, malleable flesh undulates under his kneading.

The sounds of cicadas buzz through the air, and heat and sweat hang in the summer afternoon. When I place a hand on him, moisture forms between my skin and his. It’s hot. It’s wet. I’m wet.

He rolls back and opens his arms, and I kiss his sun-damaged neck and blow cool air across the hair on his chest. Making my way down his torso. He hums and relaxes. His cock jumps as I purse my lips and jet air flow along it from tip to base. Blowing across his balls and back up to the tip.

He is sensitive, and purring.

The blowing has me salivating, and spit drools out of my mouth onto the head of his hard cock. I rub it in, gently, making circles to disperse the wetness. I’m still blowing air on him, but the moisture takes over and drowns his cock – and then I am licking him. Lapping his cock with broad tongue against the underside. Tickling gently along the head and around every ridge.

“You’re so gentle.” he says, which I understand as a request to give him more pressure.

I deny the request for a while, continuing to lightly cover his dick in sweet kisses. Widening my mouth around him and running my mouth along him like corn on the cob with a typewriter reset. I purse my lips too small for his head to fit and force them down around him. He sucks his breath in, moaning, gasping.

I give him what he wants. His dick in my mouth full force. Wet, sloppy, eager sucking. His back arches. My hands snake up through the green to find his. I put his hands on my head. He gently tilts my head, directing my angle while his fingers massaging my occipitals as I get genuine on his cock.

A slight breeze rustles the foliage. Weighty fruit bends branches. Melons and squash plump and heavy pull away from the stalks. Ants swarm burst fruit.

I suck him until I feel a yearning for something else. My cunt swells, calling his name. Deepening well of need. Then I am slowly crawling up his body. Kissing him.

He smiles and stretches a hand through the garden to pluck a sprig of spilanthes, placing it between our lips. The metallic numbness radiates through our mouths. He presses his dick up towards me.

“Can I put it in your special place?” he asks, knowing already that it’s a yes. I am already in his special place, how would I deny him entry to mine? I want his garden sex.

And so with hands grinding through the ground cover into the dirt, I lower myself onto him in one swift stroke. His spit-wet cock squeaks through the ring of my outer cunt and then blends into me. And I fuck him.

Garden Sex

And I fuck him. 

Hands in the dirt, snake in the grass. Over his shoulder worms burrow into the topsoil as I grip and massage his cock with my pussy. Sucking his cock with my cunt, riding him. His hands dance across my back, looking for the most traction. They land along my ribs and compress me, forcing me to slam down on his hips a little harder.

I lean over to kiss him, mouth stinging as the numbness wears off. Drops of sweat drip down my nose and onto his chest, neck, face. We kiss. Deeply. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth matching the rhythm of his fuck as he pushes up against me. A gust of wind shakes through the heavy air. An apple falls from a nearby tree, thunks on the ground and rolls.

We are caught in the fuck for a what seems like the life of a tree.

Breath. Moans. His when I push down, mine when he pushes up. I am filled. I run my hands on his chest, leaving dirty streaks that turn to mud in his sweat. The smell of the basil and rosemary mingles with the smell of my cunt and the air is filled with garden sex and chlorophyll.

The heat and humidity build and I smell rain in the air. It arrests me. I stop in place. Roll off. The pressure is changing.

An inchworm makes its way along my leg in our pause. 

His hands are on my breasts again and he launches off the greens and onto me. I brush the flecks of dirt and pieces of plants off of his back as he slides his dick across my clit, searching for home and yet not eager to find it. My clit swells at the sliding motions of his solid, spongy tip and I moan, unable to prevent my hips from shifting to receive him.

And I do. The magnetic click again of insertion as he finds my pussy and slides deep inside me, yelping and grunting as my cunt fills with him. He fucks me, moaning.

It is as primordial as the growth of plants. The spread of life for life’s sake. His cock cracks through my clench like a sprout through concrete. The Plant Whisperer grows into me. Expanding and unfurling as my cunt relaxes, allowing him, receiving him. He fucks me.

“It feels too good.” he says, stopping.

“You could take a break. Do something else. Hook up the irrigation.” I quip.

And he does. He pulls out. His gritty hands against my inner knees, pushing them open as he lowers his mouth to my sex. He wastes no time. He doesn’t tease. Relentlessly tonguing my cunt. Fast, and hard, and broad, hitting my whole clit in staccato ways that make me jump. Too much, too fast.

But that is life. No holding back. Sunshine. Water. Xylem and phloem. There is no choice. There is no relief. It is relentless and ongoing, with death only creating more life. No end. Only fractal, mushrooming expansion into the golden mean. I surrender.

My heels dig into the ground as the front advances. The air is wet and thick. My cunt is wet, and his cock is thick. It’s too hot.

I’m too hot. Hit with a wall of heat. I’m flinching against the flicks of his tongue and he feels me jerk and deepens his lick, fast and wide in sideways strokes across my clit and I feel the flywheel catch and the tension build. I open my eyes and see the leaves against the sky, fluttering in the wind that breaks the spell and cuts a passage through the hot air. I come screaming his name as the first drops fall on us. The rain is warm.

I am still shaking as he pulls off me and kisses me, his mouth warm and wet from licking me. His cock finds my cunt again and pushes deep inside for more garden sex.

“Oh so perfect.” he says, fucking me, holding me. My insides shudder against him.

He breaks through all restraint as does the rain, and we are drenched as he drives deep and hard.

I feel the harvest. The reaping. The smell of petrichor, raked leaves, and rot. In him is the frenzy of growth, and death. The ferment that feeds the soil. Fungal blooms stealing nutrients and fencing them to the plants. I feel thorns, creeper vines, and poison. And deep inside him, dormant, wintering seeds that cast their hulls in his ache to come.

“I’m going to pull out.” He says. Short moans break free from us with his last strokes, shallow and precise. The fat splatters of raindrops on broad leaves build into a constant chorus.

And he does pull out, and he comes a waterfall over my belly into the garden floor. Rain swirling his spurts into the loamy, wet dirt. The storm passes as quickly as it came, and the sound of the rain crackling and deepening into the earth is all that’s left as he collapses on me. Spent. Picked.

More about The Plant Whisperer:

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