It's mid afternoon and I stand at my kitchen window watching the young man work in my garden. There are certain advantages to having a great deal of money. Indulging my hobbies is one of them. My husband is rarely home. Wife seems to be my job description. Viewed that way as much by me as my husband. Somewhere around year two, when I complained of missing him, he told me to get a some hobbies. So I did. This house, its garden, and the young men I hire to work around it. Redoing the kitchen garden is always my favorite project. Seems I have it redone every year.
He looks hot out there, sweat rolling off his bare chest. Muscles flexing as he moves the grey slate into the dumpster. He runs his hand through his hair. He has quite a reputation already. I have heard he has a brilliant mind, though he seems to like to settle things with his fists. His mom thought some physical labor might help. I have another idea. I intend to find out, exactly what he is made of.
I want him a little more uncomfortable, a little hotter, more weary, edgy. I keep watching, I love the lean long shape to his body. He has a soft happy trail leading into soft jeans barely hanging on his hips. His chest is still smooth, his shoulders are broad, his waist is narrow, he still has that hollow look. He pulls the white wife beater from his back pocket and wipes the sweat from his face. Runs his hand through his hair again. I grab two glasses and pour lemonade for us.
I continue to watch him move. There is something tense, wound tight in him. He works hard, harder than most of these rich twits. These boys don't work for their paycheck, they work to keep daddy's credit card. The money they earn in a summer wouldn't pay for one of their nights out. The three largest landscape firms in the area are know for the rich boys they hire. Placing them carefully, making sure even though they are working, they are making the right connections.
A piece of the rubble shifts, coming down on his fingers. He throws his head back, swearing, stabbing his fingers into his mouth. Then he is shaking the hand flexing the fingers a grimace on his face. That's my cue. I pick up the glasses and head out to the garden. I stop in front of the mirror in the mud room. I turned thirty four my last birthday. Anywhere, but here I would be mistaken for my early twenties. But, this is sunny southern California, nothing is what it seems.
My golden hair is pulled tightly off my face, high on my head, cascading down my back from a pony tail. From head to toe my skin is a polished bronze, flawless. My large blue eyes are rimmed in kohl, the lashes long and lush. The gloss on my lips gone, probably from chewing them while watching him. I quickly apply a fresh layer of forbidden red gloss. I pick up the glasses and head for the back yard.
I can feel him watching me as I make my way to the kitchen garden. He should be watching, I work hard to look like this. I spend four days a week in the gym, two at the salon, and my husbands fortune to hang very expensive clothing on the results. I am Laurel Forested, rich bitch, trophy wife to Robert Forested, the owner, CEO, and general prick of Forested Lumber.
I hand him the lemonade, he takes the glass and downs the liquid. I take the empty glass, stepping in as close as I dare. If I took a deep breath my chest would brush against his. I hand him the lemonade I intended for myself.
"It's starting to shape up our here. It looks like hot, tiring work. I thought you could use a break." It's my opening shot, let's see how this goes. How easily can I provoke him?
"Ya, think" he kind of mumbles He can't keep his eyes off me. I have watched them travel from my high and perky breasts to my long bare thighs. From the bulge in the front of his jeans, he is already distracted. I step back, and start talking about my plans for the garden. I point to the different beds, making sure to stretch and bend giving a full view of my body. Then I see it, a weed in the herb bed, I bend from the waist, stretch, and pluck the offending bit of green.
He snarls "Nice ass" gotcha I think to myself. I straighten, look him square in the eye, and I slap his face. I slap him hard, it snaps his head, and leaves a clear hand print on his cheek. His mouth drops open in shock, before he can recover, I grab his chin. I hold his face still and I kiss him. I kiss him hard. I nip at his lips, biting, pulling, relentlessly until they part. Our tongues tangle, then he is kissing me back. Really gotcha, I think, stopping the kiss. I slap his face again, harder if that is possible, turn on my heel and walk back into the house.
I can feel his gaze following me. I am sure I know the expression on his face. Confused, hot, horny and angry. In a word perfect. My walk to the house is slow, controlled, deliberate. I am wet, there is tension in my lower belly, excitement, anticipation. Every step moves the fabric of my bikini against my parts. It is exquisitely excruciating. Once in the house, I let my control go, I practically sprint to the kitchen. I want to watch him, need to watch him.
I gaze out the kitchen window. He is still standing exactly where I left him. His gaze is fixed where I disappeared from view. His right hand is gently caressing the still visible hand print on his cheek, his left is running over the bulge in his jeans. I see his hand tighten squeezing himself. I climb onto the counter, sitting with my feet in the sink, I watch him. His hand continues to fondle himself, I am sure he wants nothing more than to pull his cock out, and jerk it to a cum.
He stands there for a good ten minutes trying to puzzle it out. My right hand is kneading my left breast, I roll my nipple between my index finger and thumb. Tugging, I feel the liquid flooding between my legs. I unscrew the handle from the sprayer, and turn on the water. I move the stream of water so it flows over my body, as I continue playing along my skin with my right hand. My perfectly polished red nails glint as the sunlight hits them, tracing circles playing with the water. Every inch of my skin is alive, the tension in my body building. I move the stream of water with my left hand, holding the hose at the spray connection. The moving focal point of the water and my nail tips dance. My back arches, almost begging me to hurry. I flood my belly button with the spray following it with the edge of my nail just circling the rim.
I need to slow down, I want to relish this moment. I look at him, he continues to work. He stops and looks towards the house as if he can feel my eyes on him. The memory catches him, he runs his palm over over the now faded hand print. The bulge has returned to the front of his jeans. He moves his hand over his clearly uncomfortable erection. He adjust himself, runs his hand through his hair, and goes back to work.
My left hand is now working my right breast, rolling the nipple pulling twisting. My right hand trails the water, my nails play in my soft neatly groomed triangle of pubic hair. My left hand is trailing my nails along my neck and over my collar bone. The young man outside is a walking hard on and I intend to harnesses that energy and direct it.
The water flows through my hair and over my smooth labia. My left hand has started across my abdomen, the gentle swirl of my nails, pushing me. My right hand moves closer the pressure of the water driving me right to the edge. My hips rock against the stainless steel edge of the sink practically begging me to let go. I look out the window again, at first I can't see him. Oh, he has his back to me, the waist band of his jeans sags at the top of his thighs, the band of his boxers cups the lower edge of his butt. I close my eyes, I imagine that butt, his butt peppered with my red hand prints. I plunge two fingers in. Moving them furiously, I shatter. Breaking into a million pieces floating lost. I collapse onto the counter, panting. I am still recovering when Izzy arrives her arms loaded with groceries.
"New boy toy Laurel?" She ask raising one eyebrow and eyeing the mess I have made of her immaculate kitchen.
"Maybe, Izzy, maybe more." I wink grab my bikini and head for my room. Warren Hallay, the troubled young genius, with a troubling past. The young man who's uncontrolled anger is unraveling him. Control, it is all about control. The dominant who has the need to control everything in their world. And the submissive who needs only to control everything within them self, abandoning all control of the world beyond. Warren Hallay needs to learn to control what is within, I will teach him.
My rooms my glorious rooms. Even after twelve years it still seems a dream. There are definitely advantages to having money. I met Robert Forested, Robb, heir to the Forested Lumber dynasty, at Harvard. He was there both on merit and on money. I was there strictly on merit.
I was born near the D. My parents were from the suburbs. We were the working class poor. I was smart, always, I was double promoted twice. I was nine years old and about to start eighth grade. Then my life started to change. A school counselor suggested a therapist to help me adjust. Still, consider a rich man's folly, there were few choices for therapists My parents took me to a highly recommend shrink, and they joined the parents group. Thank God for automobile industry insurance. The shrink was in an upscale neighborhood, my parents made influential friends.
I was soon going to a prestigious private school, on a full scholarship. That life required disciple and control. I carried a full load of AP classes, got straight A's, did debate, belonged to the garden club, played a sport, every season, did ten hours a week at the boys and girls club, and drank a fifth of rum a day. I was there and I didn't belong really. I was too young and too poor. I had to prove I deserved the opportunity I was being afforded. Fundraiser, yes sir, I'd love to work as a waiter. Oh, you need someone to talk about the difference a scholarship makes, yes sir. I did it, everything that was asked.
My academic record and my seven hundred and twenty SAT score, got me into Harvard on a full ride. That and the recommendation letters from every Harvard alumni with a child at the school. One hundred and thirty in all.
