Part One

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Ever since I’ve lived here, I’ve looked out my bedroom window at the Blue Bell Street Allotments across the fence and felt a bit smug. I have a huge back garden. I can plant all the veggies I want on my own property, which is a good thing because the waiting list for allotments is now averaging three years.

Every year beans and brassicas and sweet corn and numerous exotic crops patch-work the several acres of the Blue Bell Street Allotments, which practically explode out of the locked front gate in an avalanche of fruit and veg and flowers and herbs. Every patch has a purpose; every corner is filled to capacity with growing things. Every patch, that is, except the long narrow strip of land directly across the fence from me — a veritable jungle of brambles and nettles and cleavers sandwiched between the brick wall that separates my property from the allotments and a scraggly hawthorn hedge that someone planted as a windbreak, who knew how long ago. This was no-man’s-land. My Secret Garden with stickywilly and thorns and stingy things, all the weeds that my nightmares are made up of. Add to that a narrow window of opportunity for direct sunlight only in the middle of the day, and it was no wonder the allotment from hell was left to the brambles. Then Jonathan took over no-man’s-land. Unorthodox didn’t begin to describe his methods.

My first surprise came when I returned from the May Day holiday to find the spot had been cleared of all but a few choice brambles already covered with blossom and young berries. They had been secured artfully to the garden wall like wisteria on the side of a picture-book cottage. I could only imagine the scratched arms and nettled knuckles. Who on earth would take up such a project?

My second surprise came when I saw the strip of ground had not been covered with the usual heavy black polythene. A couple of seasons under black poly was the typical cure for such a weed-fest. If ever there was a stretch in need of the cure, this was surely it. But instead it had been well rotovated, ready for planting. Some overenthusiastic newbie, I figured, who had no clue what he’d be up against. I’d give him a couple of weeks at best, and when the weeds started coming back and bringing friends, he’d throw up his hands and jump ship.

My third surprise, and the biggest yet, came just after midnight that same night. I heard rustling below my window. Since I’m a bit of a nature fan, I shuffled from my bed, bleary-eyed, expecting to view the resident vixen and her dog fox, who had been noisily rutting in my back garden recently. There was no vixen. There wasn’t even a neighbourhood cat on the prowl. Instead, a man pushed his way through a make-shift gate at the end of the hawthorn hedge. At first I thought maybe he was an intruder, but there was nothing on that nasty little patch of ground worth intruding for, so I figured this was my first encounter with the lucky gardener.

And indeed, he walked around the patch like he was surveying his kingdom, fondling the blossoms on the brambles, fingering the newly rotovated earth. At last he heaved a satisfied sigh that rose above the silence, divested himself of the battered rucksack that had been hanging precariously off one shoulder and excavated a flask. He poured something steamy into the cup, took a tenuous sip of it and winced. Then he sat it down on a large rock, which until now had been hidden in the jungle of weeds, wiped his hands on his trousers and had another look around.

I appreciate a good garden way more than most, and I completely understand wanting to get onto the patch as early as possible — especially when it’s that time of year, when there’s so much to do and enthusiasm is running high. But it was midnight, for fuck sake! I had work in the morning. This was not neighbourly behaviour.

I was seriously considering giving him a piece of my mind or throwing something at him. But then he took off his shirt. He just slipped it right off over his head like it was something completely normal to do in the allotments in the middle of the night. The light from the streetlamp that shone across the alley behind my house lent just enough to the ambient moonlight that I could see his nipples bead to hard knots in the slight chill.

I like nipples. I like them a lot. I don’t care which sex they belong to. When they tighten and strain beneath a shirt, I get wet. I can’t help it. I can’t keep myself from imagining what’s causing those lovely, tense mini-erections — even if it’s nothing more than too much air-conditioning in the frozen food isle at the supermarket. Nipples are such a lovely reminder that we’re not nearly as in control of our biological functions as we think we are. And when someone is brazen enough to bare their nipples like roseate pebbles turned over in perfectly smooth tilth, well I’m completely in awe. And this man’s points were pink and stiff and yummy above rippled areole that made me want to touch, made me want to tweak and stroke and tongue, made me wish I had my binoculars handy.

It quickly became evident that it wasn’t the late night chill stiffening the man’s nips, at least not entirely. Before my eyes, he stepped out of a pair of ratty Birkenstocks and slid baggy cargo trousers off over his straight hips and the pillowed swell of his bottom. He kicked them carelessly to one side. Apparently the occasion had called for commando, and I didn’t have to endure more disrobing before I was treated to the full-on. Suddenly the scent of new growth and rich earth wafting through my open window was competing with my own rising scent, and the night had turned strangely warm and moist. I shoved a hand over my mouth to keep from gasping my surprise and stepped back slightly so I was out of his line of sight, but still able to see the frontal salute he unknowingly offered me.

He was heavy, but not yet erect, hanging as though the weight of his cock was too much to comfortably bear so precariously stretched between his thighs. It sprawled over the rounded outward press of his balls in their cushion of springy curls that looked nearly transparent in the pale light.

The moon was a burnished disk, peeking through the branches of the lime trees on the far edge of the allotments. He stood with his back to it and his expanding personal geography facing my window. Then he raised his head, and my heart did a guilty flip-flop, certain he’d caught me watching. But he couldn’t possibly see me, I reassured myself as he stood there with eyes lifted, chest rising and falling beneath the twin peaks of those exquisite nipples, rising and falling almost as though he were about to lift his voice in song and serenade me. But serenading wasn’t what he had in mind.

With a scooping motion, he cupped his left hand beneath his balls and lifted and caressed and fingered, causing his burgeoning cock to loll from side to side, flopping heavily and expanding in anticipation until it bounced stiffly over his pouch. I held my breath. My pulse was a frantic flutter against my throat. My eyes stung from not blinking, not wanting to miss anything. Then his right hand took control of his penis with a firm grip, a gardener’s grip — a gardener who knew the proper use of his tools. At the moment of contact a shudder ran up his straight spine, and a tight grunt followed by a throaty sigh escaped his parted, full lips.

It wasn’t until then that I believed the man was actually going to do it. He was actually going to have a wank right there on his well-rotovated allotment. And at that same moment, my own plan of action became equally evident. I was not going to go back to bed and give the man his privacy — privacy he didn’t even know he’d lost, so would obviously not miss. I was going to stay right where I was and watch. I was going to watch until the fat lady sang, and I was going to have a little fiddle of my own. If he could be so brazen to cause such a disturbance just below my window on a work night, then I could be brazen too. I worked hard, damn it! I deserved a little pleasure. One hand had already pinched my nipples to sympathetic peaks beneath my night shirt; and with a slight shifting of my hips and opening of my stance, the other found easy access to the slick pouting response that happened as automatically, under the right stimulation, as the little vixen offering her swollen cunny up to her fox when she was in season. Biology can sometimes be so yummy.

Down below me, the man was whispering some breathless chant over and over again as he tugged at himself. He stopped long enough to spit on his hand and give his cock a good lubing up with his own saliva. Once he was lubed, his chant got slightly louder, something about mother earth and fertile, bountiful gifts. I figured the guy was into some serious voodoo, but who the fuck cared? He could believe the world was spawned into existence by a pregnant turnip as long as he kept doing what he was doing beneath my window.

His eyes were screwed shut and his brow was furrowed in deep concentration. The action had shifted to a lot less hand and a lot more pile driving with his hips. His balls bounced. His ass clenched. The muscles in his thighs bulged. And I held my breath, riding four fingers and rubbing my nub like it was a good luck charm. Maybe it actually was. Just when I was beginning to wonder if my puss was going to explode and launch me into orbit, Voodoo Man came. Extraordinarily, he spurted an arching fountain of semen, first in my direction with a hefty grunt. Then he turned with stiff, almost military precision and, directing his cock like it was a garden hose, spurted his load almost equally in each of the other three directions of the compass, like white con trails in the rising moonlight, extending outward across the dark earth. He dropped to his knees and lifted his arms into the air. He said something in a breathless voice, something about blessing the fruit of his labour, while I stood shuddering against my hand until I was convinced I’d break something. I hoped whatever deity he was petitioning was a very demanding one, one who expected lots more such worshipful displays.

At last, when he’d caught his breath, he stood and dressed. Then he sat quietly on the rock and finished his drink. That done, he peed generously out over his small holding. After all, every good farmer knows the fertilizing value of a little urea. Once he was tucked and tidied, he gave one last glance around and squeezed back through the make-shift gate.

Things got hectic after that. I had a series of back-to-back business trips, barely managing time to tend my own veg patch now burgeoning with soft, young carrot leaves and exotic lettuces. Time was when I could while away hour after hour with my plants. In those days, a teacher’s schedule afforded me plenty of time, but a teacher’s salary didn’t leave me with much to live on. And so I had to seek a new livelihood – one that now kept me out of the garden far too regularly. In any event, my beans were just beginning their climb up the poles and I was nearly ready to set out the sweet corn. But Voodoo Man had been very busy while I was away.

I could only assume he had access to a greenhouse somewhere because his puny stretch of land was awash in green, and the plants looked way too healthy to have been purchased in some garden centre on a lark. I felt a tightening of envy in my chest at the combined sight of healthy courgette plants already starting to sprawl beneath dapper sweet corn tall enough to provide a veritable forest of leaves for the fledgling blackbirds to hide under. But the real twinge I felt was at missing the numerous wank sessions to the Goddess of the Veg it must have taken to get this kind of growth this early. I immediately felt guilty. How could my pussy take priority over my gardener’s desire to know his horticultural secrets? I should behave like the professional I was. I should just introduce myself and invite him over for coffee — interrogate him properly about his techniques.

But I didn’t.

Voodoo Man must have had his days free because I never saw him working in the evenings when I had time to garden. What bits of my weekends that were left to me after my day job took the lion’s share, I spent in my own beds with little opportunity to spare for a peek at the allotments. But there was no doubt in my mind the man knew what he was doing.

Then one afternoon while working from home, I happened to glance out my window and see him pruning tomatoes in nothing but athletic shorts and a hideous pair of dark green Crocs. Before I could glance away he smiled up at me and waved.

“Looks good,” I said, trying to cover my embarrassment at being caught watching. “I can’t believe what you’ve done with such a derelict piece of ground. Looks like you know your way around a veg patch.”

He offered me a full-lipped smile that I could have happily licked off his face. “Oh it wasn’t really derelict,” he said. “It just needed the right touch. Besides, I’ve been gardening all my lives.”

All his lives, did he say? He’s been gardening all his lives? I braced myself for what I was sure would be a drawn-out rendition of past lives on parade. A recounting of his past lives would have no doubt been easier to handle that what actually happened. His face was suddenly serious.

“Some of the folks in the allotments tell me you’re a keen gardener too. Well, quite a bit more than a keen gardener, actually, Rose.”

He blushed and it was lovely the way the colour spread over his bare chest making the rise of his nipples seem like fresh water pearls.

“They told me your name too — spoken in reverent tones, I might add. Is it okay if I call you Rose?”

‘”Yes, fine. Rose is fine,” I replied breathlessly, suddenly wishing I hadn’t seen him, nor he me. But he was happy to chat.

“A fitting name, actually, Rose.”

“I suppose.” I found myself blushing. “Though I’m not all that keen on flower gardening. But then what were my parents going to call me? Carrot? Celery?”

He chuckled politely at my bad joke and then offered me a crooked smile.

“As for the garden….” He held my gaze, and nodded over my fence. There was expectation in his voice. “Well, I’ve shown you mine.”

My breath caught in my throat. The blush returned with a vengeance and, to my horror, I could feel my own nipples threatening to drill their way through my T-shirt. Just then my phone buzzed, and I was saved by the call I’d been expecting from the States. Afterwards, when I got up the courage to look back out my bedroom window, he was gone, and there was a lovely young hibiscus planted in the southeast corner of his plot. I was disappointed, but relieved at the same time. I couldn’t keep from wondering if he suspected that I knew his secret, though in all actuality, he seemed a lot more interested in mine.

That night I went to bed wondering if I should maybe take up wanking in my own garden. I’m always happy to try the latest horticultural techniques, and often with surprising results. But I must have been really tired to even consider the masturbation method as a valid way of upping garden productivity.

Later, I was awakened by whispers. My heart went into overdrive with a rush of anticipation. I rose and walked on tiptoe to the window to peek out. Sure enough, there was Voodoo Man, but this time he wasn’t alone. The woman he was with, for lack of a more fitting term, was voluptuous. If he was voodoo, she was voodoo squared. She wore a dark gown with a tightly fitted bodice from which her very ample breasts mounded like large scoops of vanilla ice cream crowded into a small dish. The dress must have been corseted at the waist because it beautifully accentuated hourglass hips and buttocks that looked like they must be completely luscious for her to sit upon, or for anyone else to fondle. The long skirt swished with a silken hiss teasing its way between her thighs as she walked. There was a mountain of pale curly hair caught up on top of her head in a generous clipping of crystals and feathers.

“Oh, it’s lovely, Jonathan.”

Her voice was a honeycomb-dipped contralto that I felt down low between my hipbones.

“Then you’ll do it, My Lady?” He took her hands in his, raised them reverently to his lips and kissed her pale knuckles. “You’ll bless it with me?”

“Of course I will, Jonathan, darling. Of course I will.”

She stood unmoving while Jonathan slid the white poet shirt he now wore off over his head and fumbled his way out of his cargo trousers. It was the way his cock rested unsubstantially drawn up against his balls that told me the man was nervous. But his spiky nipples told me he’d get over it.

With a melodramatic flutter of her long, heavy sleeves, My Lady lifted her arms into the air and motioned Jonathan to do likewise. Then her voice got even lower as she earnestly entreated the blessing of the earth for the feeding of her children. That done, she held her arms out to each side, palms delicately cupped, facing upward, and nodded her consent, casting a demure glance down the pale valley between her breasts.

With fingers that were visibly shaking, Jonathan undid the tight cup of the bodice and My Lady’s bosom tumbled free just as she was saying something about all of us suckling at nature’s breasts. With one hand, fingers sparkling in sliver spirals of rings, she pulled him to her, first one tit and then the other. Each time he nursed and caressed and slurped her ripe strawberry nipples, she spoke a few words into the silent midnight air. And each time she gave him suck, his cock stretched and expanded and reached for her until it pressed its way into the dark satin folds of her skirt.

She stepped back slightly and offered him her hand. With his cock leading the way, he guided her to stand in the middle of the garden between the beans and the brassicas. There she squatted wide legged, and for a second I thought there would be more urea. But instead of peeing, she took a handful of soil, lifted it into the air in front of her and let it fall between her fingers. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but suddenly she stopped speaking, stood and motioned him to her again.

This time he undid the rest of the dress, and it fell around her ankles like a chrysalis being shed, brushing cabbage leaves and bean poles in its fullness. Then, with him holding her hand, she stepped free of the dress to stand tall and shimmering and completely naked in the muted touch of the sodium streetlight. She was Rubinesque in the most exquisite way. There were no protruding bones, no sharp edges, just soft pillowed curves that begged to be touched and nuzzled and fondled.

I had a lover once who’d made a fortune working in the city. One year, for my birthday, he took me to a very expensive hotel. I remember languishing on a bed mounded with satin pillows of every shape and size. I remember how, after too much expensive fizz, he undressed me slowly and settled me into the middle of them all. I felt them against my cheek, hugging the sides of my breasts, sliding feather-soft over my nipples, shoving in between my legs as he removed my panties and arranged me like I was some kind of jewelry displayed on a bed of velvet. I relished their softness and resilience as he carefully positioned them beneath my hips until I gaped before him at the perfect angle for his explorations, at the perfect angle for his mounting. The contrast of his hard thrusts and pants above me, and the lush, forgiving caress of the pillows beneath me was sensory overload that sent me into orgasmic bliss. Sadly the man wasn’t nearly as memorable as that delicious mound of pillows.

My Lady was like that. There was no part of her I wouldn’t have loved to pull to me and bury my face in. Almost unconsciously I found myself leaning forward toward her, nearly out the open window. She walked naked amid the ordered rows of tomatoes and carrots. She fondled the long leaves of the sweet corn, stroking them to her breasts, lifting them to her nose and inhaling their scent. She ran bare toes upward along the feathery greens of the carrots like a ballerina, each movement, each interaction making her more desirable, more exquisite in the shadowy light. And yet, Jonathan didn’t touch her, though his erection told me he wanted to badly enough. He simply followed her around with a proprietary step made comic by the bounce of his cock.

At last she turned to him and he nearly ploughed into her.

“Jonathan, my darling, I offer myself to you for the blessing of this lovely garden.”

When he hesitated, she chuckled softly and ran a hand invitingly down the expansive curve of her hip.

“Come now, darling, there’s no need to be shy. Our pleasure is a part of the magic.” She turned her back to him and bent forward so that the lush pillows of her buttocks faced him, and faced my window. I grabbed at the buttons of my night shirt, clawing it free so that my own small breasts could take in the night breeze, so that my pussy rubbed unhindered against the chair I’d left in front of the window after Jonathan’s first worshipful wank – just in case.

“Don’t be shy,” she whispered. “Just for tonight, I am the goddess, you are my consort, and the great yoni that birthed all things into existence will be honoured by our offering. My pussy is yours until the magic is completed.”

Perhaps it was her sudden use of nasty language in a situation which up until now had seemed rather formal and reverent in spite of the chavish undertones of sneaking a fuck in the allotments after hours. But more than likely it was just the close proximity of her luscious bare ass cushioning said puss. Propriety gave way to lust. I held my breath, and my cunt trembled and clenched as he reached for her. He kneaded her ass cheeks in hard, probing caresses, which she seemed to like, if the little kitten sounds coming from her throat were any indication. She bent forward a little more and with one sparkling hand cupped a buttock and pulled herself open like ripe fruit ready to be eaten. The tight knot of her anus puckered and relaxed at the gust of his breath, though that’s only speculation on my part. Certainly my own anus clenched in empathy at the nearness of his face to her lovely nether grip.

I expected him to shimmy his thick fingers down over her perineum to part the heavy folds of her labia, only now revealed as she bent still further to offer him a better view. But instead, he buried his face in her crevice, and she gave a tight little yelp of surprise as he began to eat his way along the sumptuous path to her cunny. I barely managed to stifle my own yelp at his face-first plunge, but I liked him so much better for doing exactly what I would have loved to do.

The sound of his oral explorations carried in the night time quiet even over the heavy breathing of all three of us.

“You taste sweet,” he said, “and you’re so slippery.”

“Being around growing things arouses me so,” she replied. “When I smell the earth all ripe and ready, when I see new buds bursting and spreading, I get all squirmy and juicy and I want to have sex on the ground under the moon. I want to rut like a wild animal, like our ancestors did, like we were intended.”

The view for me was exquisite as I stroked my own wetness, vaguely aware of the mess I was making on my chair, but not caring. My Lady’s clit was marble hard and nearly as big. I know that because Jonathan told her so, a revelation that made her wriggle her pale bottom back against his mouth and open her legs still further. I was sure my clit could have matched in size and tightness, as I tweaked it between my thumb and forefinger. Though I couldn’t see her cunny, I could see the clench and relax of his pucker, and when he moved just right I got the between-the-thighs view of his weighty balls and distended cock.

“Fuck me, Jonathan,” she hissed between her teeth. “I need you to fuck me. I need to cum.”

And there’s the rub of it, I thought. In the end, it really is all about sex, and I would have gladly fucked either one of them. But I still wasn’t convinced it was the secret to a good veg patch.

Jonathan pulled away from her, his face shining with her juices, and I swear I could smell pussy on the soft night breeze — pussy other than my own. When he pushed his penis up into her, I heard the slurp of her wetness. I figured the whimpers and grunts of need that followed didn’t really have too much to do with serving the goddess, but then what the hell did I know? What the hell did I care as long as we all came? And all three of us were so damn close that a feather of a breath would have sent us toppling over the edge.

Then My Lady gasped and began to keen, “Oh my goddess, oh my goddess.....I’m cumming! I’m cumming!” And she wasn’t quiet about it either. So, in spite of his reverence for the woman, Jonathan shoved the hand that had been kneading great fists full of her swaying breasts against her mouth to silence her. She had just managed containment when he pulled out of her so quickly that she nearly lost her balance. To her squeals of delight and praises of the goddess, he shot arched streams of semen onto the brassicas and beans, and I practically juddered myself off the chair as my own orgasm hit.

After they’d caught their breath, he helped My Lady back into her dress. All the while she spoke in hushed tones about the goddess’s blessing on Jonathan’s garden, and what a gift he had. I wondered if she was talking about his skills as a gardener or his skills as a lover. Neither seemed to be lacking as far as I could tell. Then, when they were both dressed, just before they left, she turned to him and gave his cock a stroke through his trousers.

“Keep the ground fertile, Jonathan. Keep the ground fertile.”

I could have kissed her for that, had I not been watching uninvited. Because the very next night, Jonathan took her at her word. He was back, cumming on the tomatoes and courgettes. And I came with him, a heavy dildo shoved into the juicy squelch-squelch of my pussy — one that I’d bought that morning at a shop I pass on the way to work. I bought it because I thought it was shaped particularly like him. The surrogate appendage was enough to give me several good orgasms while I watched him tug and stroke his own appendage, and even ride a long middle finger knuckle-deep into his anus. Three nights in a row, on the advice of My Lady, he came over his veg, and I came in sympathy, every night having multiples, every night drenching myself shamelessly, every night pushing my body over the edge into mindless trembling pleasure. My god, it was amazing!

But it wasn’t just the mutually exclusive sex we were both enjoying. It was the fact that, I swear to god, every night he wanked, the next day his veg looked bigger and greener and better. There were tomatoes coming on his vines way earlier than on mine, I could see the bulge of the beginnings of sweet corn on his heavily tasseling plants, and he was harvesting young courgettes and carrots by the basketful. I was seriously beginning to think maybe I should stop wasting my wanks on watching him and tend to my own garden. But then again, I couldn’t really believe that the act of wanking or the spilling of large loads of jizz were really causing the increased growth in Jonathan’s garden, could I? These were not techniques mentioned in any of the RHS manuals or courses nor, as far as I knew, were they mentioned in any of the latest papers on cutting-edge gardening.