Greenhouse Emissions

"How's this, Roger?"

Forty-seven year old Roger glanced up from his floral display to see how his assistant, Alyson, handled hers.

"Excellent," he commented, with a slight nod of his head.

"Thank you." Twelve years Roger's junior, Alyson smiled warmly at her gardening mentor.

"You've become quite good at this."

Ever since the younger woman began training with him, he grew more and more impressed with her quick grasp of information about plants and how to care for them. Gradually, at the same time, a yearning blossomed within him to take her into his arms and profess how much he really cared for her.

But, no—that probably would never happen, considering the age difference. Besides, she probably had lots of young men vying for her attention.

Better to keep his feelings to himself, then, and not let them get in the way of the work.

These exotic floral arrangements comprised only a small part of the total array of foliage that lay within his Victorian Grand Lodge greenhouse. Two waist-high parallel shelves of colorful flowers ran the thirty-foot length. Here and there, bags of potting soil leaned against a rail while, in some areas, fine sprays of water lightly moistened leaves and petals of mature flowers as well as the newly planted seeds and bulbs of others.

He absent-mindedly ran his fingers through the soil in front of him, and felt its soft texture. He always marveled how it gave life to so many beautiful things.

Here stood Alyson, another attractive product of the soil, so to speak—keen to learn all about it, and entirely unaware of his desire for her. Perhaps, in some way, the desire reflected a need for someone else to share his passion.

Roger watched the way her fingers caressed the petals and leaves and stems, and wished he could caress her body that way.

Everything about her excited him. Her long brown hair that curled at the ends; her soft hazel eyes; the way her summer dress clung to her body in the humid air of the greenhouse, and the moisture that glistened in the hollow between her breasts.

Roger shook his head. He had to stop thinking about Alyson like this. She was his assistant, nothing more. "What time is Mr. Nicholls coming to look at these?" asked the young woman.

"In an hour," Roger replied. "Will everything be ready by then?"

"Long before that; I'm just about finished."

"Good." Roger saw one of his plants droop slightly. "Could you reach me one of those support sticks, please?" He gestured to a pile of rods that leaned against the shelf on the other side of Alyson.

"Sure."

Alyson went to retrieve one of the sticks when she suddenly shrieked and fell to her hands and knees.

Roger bent down immediately and grasped her upper arms from behind. "Alyson! Are you all right? What happened?"

"I feel stupid," Alyson returned. "I tripped over my own foot!"

"Let me help you up." Roger gently but firmly guided Alyson to her feet, and then turned her around. Her face flushed with pink color.

For the second time that day, their eyes locked, and before Roger realized it, his lips met hers.

A second later, he pulled away.

"I—I'm sorry, Alyson. I shouldn't have—"

The woman reached up and placed her fingers against his mouth. "Roger," she whispered. "I rather liked that. Please, do it again."

Her gaze danced across his face. He drew her closer this time, and placed his mouth on hers.

For a moment, Roger felt a slight tremor in her lips, and then it left as her tongue slowly insinuated itself into his mouth, and entwined with his.

When they broke, they held each other tightly. Alyson buried her head in Roger's shoulder while he kissed her neck and breathed in the lingering scent of her cologne.

"Oh, Roger," she murmured into his ear. "I've wanted this for so long..."

"I—I didn't know," he stammered.

"You're so wonderful as a man and a gardener," she continued. "I've been looking for someone as sweet as you've been to me these past few weeks." He pulled her away. "I've been looking for someone like you, too," he confessed at last. "But I never dreamed—"

"Make love to me, Roger. Here. Now. I want you so much!"

She caught his hand and dragged him a few feet away from where they stood. She glanced at the shelving where fresh potting soil had been spread in preparation for new plants.

She unbuttoned the front of her dress. Two halves fell apart, and revealed small but taut breasts and a closely cropped crotch. "Too warm for underwear," she commented. Then she said, "Lift me up."

"What?" Roger looked a bit stunned. His eyebrows furrowed in consternation.

"Lift me on to the shelf," Alyson explained as her hands caught his belt, unclasped it, and then pushed his pants so they dropped in a heap to the floor.

Alyson stroked Roger's already hard cock through his shorts. She pushed them down to join his pants, and then she grabbed his firm length and moved the skin back and forth. "Mmm, what a lovely stalk," she said. "Part my petals and put it in. Fuck me, Roger. Fuck me here, on the potting soil."

The gardener finally broke from the daze brought on by Alyson's confident, but not arrogant forwardness. He placed his hands on her waist and lifted her onto the shelf so she could sit safely enough without falling off, but also give him easy access to her flower.

Alyson spread her legs. Roger knelt down, leaned forward and licked her clit, his tongue flicking and twirling around the bud, then sliding it slowly in and out of her hole. She smelled heavenly, like roses, tasted sweet and delicious like honey. That, mixed with the aroma of the fresh potting soil, filled his head with an almost hypnotic stupor, one in which he reveled.

Alyson's hands caught his head, held him, and guided him. After a few moments, she said, "Come up, Roger. Please. I want you in me."

Roger rose and gently pushed his cock into her waiting, watered hole. Her legs entwined and locked behind his back, drew him in.

"Thrust! Oh, thrust, Roger!" She urged him on as he banged into the very depths of her. "But tell me when you're ready to come," she cautioned. "I don't want you to come in me." She reached beside her and scooped mounds of potting soil onto her breasts and belly. "Here," she said as she patted herself. "Do it here. I want to watch you spill your seed on me."

The suggestion surprised Roger, but it excited him all the more.

Sweating, groaning, moaning and grunting, the two of them ground together, their sticky flesh melding slowly to the potting soil. Alyson screamed as an orgasm rippled through her body, and the sight and sound pushed Roger to the edge.

"I'm going to come!" he gasped.

Alyson unclasped her legs. Roger withdrew himself, and quickly aimed his cock at her face.

His body jerked spasmodically as he shot his jism again and again, long white streams spewing onto the potting soil that stuck to Alyson's hot, wet body.

"Yes! Yes!" Alyson shrieked with delight.

As his final spasm subsided, Roger reached up and kneaded Alyson's breasts through the warm, moist, dark, life-giving soil. After giving a heavy sigh, he grinned at this beautiful young woman who had fulfilled his dream.

"We must try this greenhouse effect more often," he suggested.

Alyson grasped his hands and squeezed them. She nodded enthusiastically, and returned his grin.