Sleek black cats in heat sniff each other, warily, curious noses pressed up against pungent flesh and fur. They mate, loudly, amongst the chrysanthemums, to the gardener's amusement.
Resting underneath the shade of a willow, she watches them with detached interest; idly, her hand slips between muslin and skin to fondle an ample breast. Her cunt is tight, aching.
Out of her throat spills rich laughter, as the gardener realizes she is getting horny watching cats mate. Miss Amelia must get bedded. Soon. The gardener loosens her corset a little.
Spring had finally come to her garden. Everything was flowering or fucking; the thick scent of those activities reminded her that she hadn't been laid in a long time, not since that priest came knocking on her door last month. Goodness, that had been an excellent fuck. They had done it in the pantry, up against the wall, with her guests sipping rosebud tea in the next room.
While busybodies murmured gossip above the clicking of fine china, the long legs of their hostess were wrapped round the priest's hips, his hands cupping her generous buttocks bare beneath the froth of her skirts. Miraculously, her black hair was still knotted in a neat bun.
The discovery that Miss Amelia was not wearing any drawers had led to the passionate encounter. The priest simply could not resist the sight of her buttocks, upturned for his delectation, a slight, naughty blush staining their pale roundness.
Descending to the floor, the pair had knocked over a tin of flour, as well as a cup of sugar, but neither had cared, as he plunged his long-malnourished cock into her wet, hungry cunt. Despite decades of voluntary celibacy, Father Benning had impeccable sexual manners. He knew how to fuck sublimely, almost divinely, causing Miss Amelia to forget, for the first and last time, her other guests as she let out a loud moan.
After a brief silence, Mrs Madison had knocked on the door, solicitously, to inquire into the well-being of her hostess. "Is everything alright, Miss Amelia?"
"Mmm. Yes, Mrs Madison," Miss Amelia had replied, from her precarious perch atop the priest, as her confessor bit, gently now, on a swollen nipple, his cock angling to tickle a certain spot that nearly caused her to cry with boundless joy. "Father Benning is assisting me with certain matters of spiritual importance."
"Is that right?" Mrs Madison asked, as she opened the door.
Priest and lady froze mid-fuck; Mrs Madison surveyed the voluptuous scene, shocked.
The door shut, with a furious click, before opening again, hesitantly, curiously.
"May I join in?" the young matron shyly inquired.
Lacy, diminutive pink drawers fell to the floor as Mrs Madison raised her skirts and knelt before the startled pair, parting her dimpled knees to reveal a swollen, already damp cunt, framed by whorls of curly blonde hair. A hand dipped down to cup the puckered lips. A cool tongue parted lips, tasted honey. Mrs Madison was hungry for a good fuck, her splendid busom straining against the front of her dress. Apparently, young Mr Madison had been inattentive concerning certain matters, being both unimaginative and luckwarm.
When the trio emerged from the pantry, their attire was slightly rumpled, faintly dusted with flour. Miss Amelia could still taste the sensuous intermingling of sugar and cunt juice on her palm, a smell she missed dearly.
Shaking herself out of reverie, Miss Amelia decides to wash up at a nearby brook, for her afternoon tea. As a thick cloud of butterflies brushes past her, she revels, if briefly, in the movement of their wings, the velvet caress. Perhaps it was time to visit town again. She shudders. She would have to rub elbows with all those provincials, with their squeamishness and prudish ways. Most of their ilk did not interest her, except for those willing enough for an adventure. But they were few and often surprising. Reflecting on that sad state of affairs almost made her want to move to London, even thought to do so would mean leaving her beloved garden.
Musing, the gardener almost ruins a most opportune moment.
In her brook bathes a sylph. Partly submerged, the woman is young, all long thighs, nipples begging to be sucked and bit. Slight breasts, surprisingly tawny in the English spring, recalling the color of mangoes, of fragrant fruit from a faraway land, brought on a widefaring ship by her sea captain father. A child's memory is recalled, of sucking, salaciously, on a fleshy, slightly tart seed as she sat in the servants' staircase. At that age, it had seemed illicit, scraping at that succulent heart in the dark.
The gardener rests on the grassy branch, underneath a magnolia tree, quite gleeful at her luck. Perhaps she will not need to go to town after all.
Unaware of her leering observer, the silver-headed beauty languidly massages a soapy washcloth over the length of her limbs, between her legs, up against her young cunt. Lather trickles down a thigh. The girl's eyelids slip a little, as her brow furrows in lazy concentration. Yes, you scrumptious scone, scrub harder. Harder.
Miss Amelia is wet. She slips a hand up under her skirts, between her thighs, to the pre-cut slit in her satin drawers. She rubs her slightly callused hand along the velvet folds of her pussy, lifting her skirts just a little, to watch herself get wet, glistening in the sunlight that shafts through the tree branches. A magnolia falls, almost idly, as a breeze sends the tree shivering. The gardener's breath catches, as nimble fingers stroke her cunt.
She imagines a scenario where instead of a mango, Miss Amelia is eating out the cunt of the sylph. They are in a staircase. She has the sylph bent over the banister, hanging unto the rails for dear life as she wiggles her ass up against Miss Amelia, begging to be spanked, yes, spanked with a specially-made paddle enrobed in fur, only to moan as a hot, thick cock pushes into her cunt. A moan escapes.
