Holly in the Garden

"We went to Wolverbeck Hall & Gardens last week," Mum announced as we sat at the kitchen table. "Have you ever been there?"

I turned briefly to look at Holly, sitting next to me, before I answered, and her face gave nothing away. "Yes," I replied, turning back to Mum. "I once had a work away day there. Nice house, lovely gardens."

But I wasn't thinking about my own experience.

"You've been in Wolverbeck Gardens too, haven't you Holly?" I added, waiting to hear what she'd say, knowing that a particular verb could be inserted between the 'been' and the 'in'.

"I had a lot of outdoor sex in my early twenties," Holly once told me, as we lay together talking, after (non-outdoor) sex.

"Any particular favourites?" I had asked, trying not to sound too eager to hear about her sex life before me. We'd tried a bit of al-frisko in the early years. On a coastal headland, Holly had unexpectedly pushed me against the rocks, unzipped my fly and swiftly jerked me off. A few months later, towards the end of a friend's wedding reception, I'd hitched up her dress and fucked her in a secluded hotel doorway. But it soon petered out. Perhaps she'd already had her fill.

"Well, I did it once in the garden of my old house on Summerton Lane," she said. "During a house party. That was fun."

"And then there was that time I sneaked into the gardens at Wolverbeck with a boy from the rugby club."

And then her phone had rung, and the moment had gone. And though I wanted to hear everything, from start to finish, I never found the moment to bring it up again. Decided it would be weird to keep probing; left it to my own imagination instead.

So here I was, in a pause in parental conversation, filling in the blanks in her Wolverbeck story, which I knew I'd never know.

The hall was in the suburbs, round the corner from the rugby club. It must have been late June or early July: their end-of-season parties were legendary, though I never went to one.

Just after midnight, the evening almost over. Cider-aroused, skirted and bare-legged, Holly was dancing, and singing, and twirling. Sticky floor, sweaty bodies, and then a last-gasp try from one of the boys she fancied. His hand round her waist, her hand quickly on his as he spins her to face him. Sudden, passionate kissing. His hands straight on her arse, pulling her against him. The thrilling shape of his hard dick pressing against her through his jeans.

An idea.

Holly grabs his hand and leads him away through the open fire-door. Outside in the warm evening air she kisses him again before marching him down the road. Round the corner, a gap in the hedge line: the seclusion of the Wolverbeck car park.

Now to do it properly. Tongues entwining, hands all over, bodies locked together. And then Holly sees the knee-high wall, topped with a slatted wooden fence, and grins, and turns away from him, and climbs onto the wall.

With her waist now at his eye-level, he moves forward to grab her again, and Holly lets him. She places a foot on the first wooden slat, stepping up, and then his head is under her skirt, and his hands are inside her panties, and Holly holds that position. He begins to roam, pulling her knickers to one side, and he is kiss-biting her arse, and soon his fingers find her clit, and maybe that's as far as she will move.

But she pulls herself up again, another step onto the fence, and after the briefest pause he deftly pulls down her knickers. Holly lets him explore her freshly bared flesh for a moment, then steps out of the panties, carefully over the fence, and jumps down onto the lawn below.

She turns briefly to watch him follow her, then at the point he is straddling the fence, Holly skips away towards the trees, out of sight. Stepping behind a trunk, pressing her back against it, she hears him land on the grass.

Listening intently, Holly thinks he's near and steps out to hide behind another tree. And then she gasps and laughs as he grabs her, and his lips lock against hers, and his hands are on her tits, and Holly reaches to unfasten his jeans and force them down along with his underwear.

His dick springs free and she turns away against the tree and in a moment she feels his hot, hard shaft pressed against her bare arse. He lifts her skirt with one hand, positioning his dick between her legs with the other. With a sidestep to the left, Holly makes herself available, reaching down to help guide him to the opening of her already slick cunt.

In a strong, slow thrust he is inside her, filling Holly gloriously. She moans involuntarily, his groin against her arse, forcing her hard against the tree as he fucks and fucks and fucks her.

Just the right height, just the right size, just the right rhythm. Holly gasps then squeals in shock and pleasure as an orgasm suddenly overwhelms her, just as he begins to grunt, and there, there, there, she feels him pump his cum furiously inside her, rough against the bark, in the dimly lit gardens, in the still summer night.

Or it was nothing like that.

Not unexpectedly, Holly chose not to share her garden sex story with my mother. Perhaps one day I'll get the real version out of her. For now, my fantasy will have to do.