Rose Garden Promises

I was finishing up in the rose garden when I heard giggles and whoops coming from inside the house. The white silk curtains were billowing out the open French doors and streaming across the flagstone patio.

I crossed the lawn with a bucketful of rose blooms ready for Flora to arrange in vases throughout the house. In early autumn, the best way of prolonging the late blush of blooms is to pick them on a daily basis.

My name’s Charlene, and I’m the gardener at The Willows, the country homestead of Flora and her family. Most of the time her twin daughters are away at boarding school, and I never knew her husband, long since departed. I graduated five years ago with a degree in horticulture and a burning passion for Flora, whom I met when I was on a placement at the local nursery.

Not that Flora knew that I longed for her lissom limbs to be entwined around my shoulders and my face to be busily buried in her twat. Oooooooooh, noooooooo. And to Flora I was Charlie the Gardener, though I did notice that whenever I wore my tight khaki shorts with my Blundstone boots and work socks, she often stayed on the terrace and watched my departure down the driveway at the end of the day. I always sashayed my arse a little as I went. Once she even ran her hand down one of my long tanned leg, telling me she was sure she saw a bug on me. I dunno about that, but it sure felt good!

Not that that particular fantasy had any chance of coming true today. I was about to leave as soon as I deposited the cut roses on the patio, and Flora was out, not due back until late that evening.

Then I remembered that Flora’s girls, Daisy and Marguerite were coming home this weekend, and I guessed the noise coming from inside the house heralded their arrival. The girls went away at thirteen, the week after I started the job. I had watched them grow up in that weird way that happens when you only see people every few months at vacation time. Now they were all grown up, and gorgeous. Just last month they had held their eighteenth birthday party here on the lawns. It was the social event of the summer season, and I made sure the gardens were outstanding. I hadn’t attended the party, not being a friend of the girls, but I had heard Flora making arrangements for months as she sat on the pool terrace talking to caterers, decorators and party planners on her mobile phone.

I neared the open window and was sure I could hear more than two voices. I recognised those of the twins, but there was someone else there as well – no doubt a school friend. It was a deep, husky, you might even say almost sultry voice, which sounded more mature than the girls’.

The words “They were caught by Miss Beveredge and expelled” drifted out on the breeze.

“Well they deserved it for THAT!” exclaimed one of the girls.

At that moment, just as I stepped onto the patio from the lawn, Marguerite emerged through the cloud of billowing curtain, attempting to tame it. As she gathered the fabric up in her arms and reached for the door handle, our eyes locked before I glanced past her and into the room in the next instant. Marguerite looked like a subject from a Botticelli painting, long, golden, tightly wavy hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back, framing an alabaster pale face. She was wearing a completely transparent dress made from some soft floaty material, delicately embroidered with scattered leaves and buds. The dress was gathered and drawn tightly under her high and firm breasts, the tops of which strained unencumbered from the top of the low-cut bodice. Underneath she wore nothing other than a tiny thong.

Under normal circumstances I would have been entirely captivated with this beauty, but in that instant I was looking past her into the room at the most extraordinary scene. Marguerite’s twin sister was crouched on her hands and knees in front of one of the white, over-stuffed sofas. I drew in my breath as I took in what I was seeing. Daisy was completely naked . Her smooth and flawless buttocks were pointing in the air. Daisy is as dark-haired as Marguerite is fair, and as beautiful. Where Marguerite’s blond locks cascade, Daisy’s hair is blue-black, and styled into a sleek bob, not a hair out of place. Her perfect bare breasts were pointed to the floor; the nipples extended an inch from the rounded orbs, her head was thrown back and I could see her lips were parted. But what was most extraordinary was that she had a length of gold chain attached to her left nipple, looped through a glinting nipple ring, and the other woman who was unknown to me was holding the other end as she stood over Daisy with a short handled whip in her other hand!

I suppose the woman was somewhere close to 40, but it wasn’t her age I was pondering as I took in the scene before me. She stood about 6 foot tall, legs akimbo. She wore nothing but a harness from which stood proud an enormous latex dildo. I’m no stranger to chickdicks, and this one looked a beauty.

I heard a small intake of breath as Daisy registered my presence just outside the open door. We all froze as if elements of a tableau.

The momentary silence was broken by Marguerite. “Oh, fantastic!” she gushed, without a scintilla of embarrassment. She indicated towards the bundles of roses I carried, “Mum didn’t tell us you were here. Come in and lay them on the table.”

I stumbled backwards slightly, tangling one foot with another, my workboots causing me to make an ungainly stagger. Marguerite reached out to steady me, and managed to pull the curtains such that we both became entangled in them, and began a blind dance with each other, swathed in metres of fabric. Eventually we fell together into the room, and the curtains came crashing down around us. We were sprawled across the parquetry floor, a curtain rod clattering along the floor, bound together in swathes of fabric and strewn roses. It was all over in a matter of seconds.

The next thing I became aware of was a pair of hands unwrapping me and assisting me to my feet from behind. The girlcock she was wearing was jabbing into the middle of my back, so tall was my rescuer. Daisy, meanwhile, had rolled onto her side and was curled up, knees to her chest, laughing uproariously.

Marguerite was released first, and now stood in front of me offering a hand to help me up. I took it and with the other woman helping from behind I was soon on my feet again. I could feel a bit of stinging from a couple of places rose thorns had penetrated my skin.

Daisy managed to uncurl herself and also stood, ushering me towards the nearest sofa. “Charlie. . . what a surprise!” She sat down next to me and picked a petal from my hair.

I could feel the dryness in my mouth as the absurdity of the situation, and the utter embarrassment I felt caught up with me. I looked at her face, then my eyes travelled down to her naked breasts, then I looked cross at the curtainy mound, at the beautiful buxom brown-skinned butch with the protuberance. She was now busy trying to scoop it all to one side. She was bending over, her arse facing us, the strap of her harness dissecting her perfect glutes.

I gulped and managed a dry “Errr, thanks!”. Marguerite approached from the other side carrying a tumbler with a colourless liquid I assumed was water. I grabbed it from her, and before she could speak I took a huge swig . Gin!!! I almost spluttered it out, but being partial to a gin or three, I relaxed into its taste and at last let out a huge sigh.

Daisy started giggling, and soon the four of us were splitting our sides with the relief of laughter.

“Well”, I said, “I see you have arrived home.”

“Yep, said Daisy. We got the early train up. Oh, you wouldn’t know Shayla. She’s from school.”

I must have frowned a little because Marguerite hastened to add “Shayla is one of our mistresses at school.”

“Well, I can see that!” I exclaimed, and we all collapsed into fits of laughter once more.

“No, she teaches Latin. She’s a Latin Mistress” Daisy explained, though tears were now rolling down her face. “But, I suppose she does fit the other description admirably as well! Shayla was at school with Mum. They learned everything they know together. Mum entrusted us to the school knowing Shayla was on staff. She trusted Shayla to crack the whip with us!”

Shayla turned and her liquid brown eyes lit up as she appraised me and took in my reaction to the continuing banter. I became aware that the seam of my workshorts was biting into my clit and slit, and that I was soaking wet. In fact I had never before been as aroused as I was right now. Not even all the times I had watched the twins’ mother as I worked.

I took a few more sips from the glass, and leaned across Daisy to place the glass on a small table at the end of the sofa. As I reached across, Daisy leaned forward slightly, and my arm brushed lightly against her bare nipples. She then took my hand and, holding it against one of her breasts, used her other one to fold my hand around her orb and apply pressure, to indicate I should squeeze it. Before I could even react, I felt another pair of hands unbuttoning my shirt, as I realised Marguerite had knelt before us. “Won’t you join us for an aperitif before dinner?” she purred.

To be continued . . .