The Girl In The Garden 1

Please note that this is very short, and more psychological than sexual.

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All that summer the lord would spend more and more of each day just watching the wild girl. He'd sit and gaze at her sweeping the bare earth of her home in swift strokes with bundled twigs, or gathering sticks from his woodland for a fire. He'd watch as she squatted to prepare it, catching his breath at a glimpse up the belted rag she wore. It would slip from time to time as she worked, freeing a full round breast, and both its soft paleness and the hot blush of her cheeks gave away that she had known another life. But her arms and legs were now brown and slender, well-muscled from hard work, and generally dusted or caked with mud like her tangle of dark hair.

He would watch her eat the food that he brought - sometimes it was just a piece of meat for her to cook on the fire, sometimes it would be fineries fully prepared by his kitchen. Although served without silverware or bone china, still she ate it gracefully with her dirty fingers. She would lick the grease from her fingertips, sometimes catching his eye, and his heart would turn over.

She would sleep curled in animal furs, beside a dying fire, and he would sit gazing until it was pitch black and cold, and then gather himself and pick his way back through the gardens in the dark, ruining his fine clothes.

She showed him no shyness, although he sensed an inner struggle, and he would watch her scrub herself over a pail of warm water, her nipples angrily hard as she cupped and splashed, rubbing her armpits or squatting over the buckets to clean her cunt. He couldn't take his eyes from the thick hair almost hiding her lips, and he enjoyed the scent of her before she washed it away. He felt that she dwellt on her scrubbing there more than she strictly needed to when he was watching, and on occasion she would turn her back to him as she cupped handfuls of water to wash between her cheeks. After these episodes he would retreat in a hurry to the gardens, to relieve his burning desire. He barely needed to touch his cock and it would erupt ferociously and spatter the leaves, hanging in strands (he imagined her finding it, exploring it with her slim fingers).

He would see her walk a few hundred paces from her shack and squat by a bush to pee. She met his eye as she gushed a hot torrent onto the soil, splashing her bare tanned feet. Another time - she hadn't seen him - from a distance he watched her dig a hole with her hands, and noted the concentration in her face and slight pink of her cheeks as she squatted over it and glanced around herself furtively. She buried it efficiently, and straightened her rag-dress as she strolled back.

Later in the summer, he would hold her hands, and her feet, and play with her fingers and toes. She smiled, but they didn't exchange words. When she lifted her feet to his hands, he could rarely take his eyes off her little cunt-lips, and she watched him looking. She glistened slightly between them.

One evening, she touched herself for him, after an hour of his foot caresses. He recognised her concentrated expression, and the earth-floored room was filled with the heady scent of her trembling slit, and the wet lapping of her fingers playing there. She moaned as she came, and he did too, trying to burn the image into his brain. He took her slippery fingers in his mouth and licked her nectar from them greedily. He pulled his cock free and pumped it in his hand, knowing he would come any second. Her eyes on his, she knelt before him without a sound, and opened her mouth. Her lips never touched him, but he came with such violence that his knees buckled slightly, and she made a small noise as it shot into her throat. More and more spurts came, and it spilled from her open mouth once he had filled it, and dangled from her chin onto her throat. She closed her mouth, and he watched her swallow, her eyes smiling.

One morning he received a letter that filled him with horror. It decreed that her penance was completed, and she was free to return to her distant wealth and priviledge. He sent a messenger through the gardens to let her know, though he knew it was a cowardice he would always regret.

He didn't sleep, just mourned in the darkness for the certain loss of his wondrous garden creature. The next day he left it many hours before he meandered through the gardens, trying not to know that he was checking. He didn't change his pace as he approached her hut, and steeled himself for heartbreak.

In the same instant, he heard the stiff bristles of her twig-broom scratching the ground, and saw her slender figure sweeping. She saw him and paused briefly, beaming a radiantly reassuring smile at him, and then continued her sweeping in the sun. His glee was inexpressible, and he was thankfully relieved of expressing it by centuries of social etiquette. Instead, measuredly, he adjusted his pompous clothes, and took up his position watching her go about the daily maintenance of her simple shack, as drifitng dust caught beams of sunlight here and there.