Hello again, you will probably remember me from Gardening 1, a story about old Bill who came to help me keep our garden trim, but he finished up trimming me in a big way, his huge old cock taking over my life, making me his sex slave. I would do anything; yes, anything to feel his cock inside my wet and very willing pussy.
We also shared long and leisurely sessions in my bedroom—no, it's not my bedroom, it's our bedroom. I share it with my wonderful husband, Pat. He has wanted me to share my body with a strange man, even suggested we go dogging, but I feel so exposed and quite honestly frightened at the thought of all the men there wanting to touch my body or wanting to take Pat's place between my legs.
But he has no idea that he is already sharing with that old rogue he hired as a gardener. I've wondered once or twice if he has suspicions, but I think it was my guilty conscience making me pick up on little things he said and did around me. But he would come out and say something if he thought I was doing it behind his back.
I think you will easily remember the size of Bill's big old monster, but just in case you didn't read the first story, I will remind you. It is over two inches thick and about ten inches long; bigger than I ever imagined a man could be. It made me its captive. I wanted it so much—whenever he was absent, I longed for his wonderful sex.
When he arrived in the mornings, I waited with bated breath until he came to the kitchen door for his cup of coffee. Coffee wasn't what I was waiting for. As soon as he stepped in the door, I wanted him so much; his dirty old clothes, his rough unshaven face, even his big beer belly all seemed so attractive to me, but it wasn't any of those that I needed. It was that monster lurking in his trousers I wanted.
To compare him to my husband is like trying to pass King Kong off as Brad Pitt; every thing about them was so opposite. Pat was tall, trim, athletic, and always smart even when he was relaxing at home, and so god damn handsome. Bill was short, fat, and never seemed to wash; in fact, he smelt of stale beer most of the time, probably because he always had a bottle with him and drank two, sometimes three, with his lunch.
He would sometimes take me over the breakfast bar without taking his trousers off. He would just bend me over and unzip himself, knowing I would be wet and very willing. The thought of him had me on heat for hours before he came to work. He was just so sure of himself, and of me wanting him.
He never asked me if I wanted to make love, or fuck, as he called it. I had been so well conditioned to his cock that he didn't need to ask; he knew how much I wanted that huge chunk of meat. I had become addicted to his cock, and he was well aware of the fact.
Please don't think I'm complaining, because it was exactly what I wanted from him. Neither of us were "in love", we just both needed sex and this was the perfect arrangement—mutual satisfaction, twice a week, every week. I even dreaded going away on holiday because it would mean not getting old Bill's cock for however long we were gone.
Perhaps this all sounds a bit like a good marriage, but there was a big difference. I was married to a wonderful man and I was being seriously unfaithful to him, but couldn't help myself, didn't want to help myself, I wanted my cake and to eat it; a recipe for disaster, you might think.
I knew the risks I was taking. It was becoming easier to hide my infidelity from my husband. I was becoming quite a good liar, but to his credit, he continued to improve, and we made love in several new and quite exciting ways. The better he became at loving me, the worse I felt about my deceit.
One morning, Bill arrived. He was looking more respectable than I had seen him for some time. He had obviously washed and shaved and even had a new jacket. Well, not brand new, just not as terrible as his usual one. He came into the kitchen, taking off his Wellingtons, and leaving them at the door. He seemed a little strange, not the usual self-assured Bill I knew so well.
He sat at my breakfast bar toying with his coffee, not looking at me in his usual predatory way, as if he could devour me any second. I was wearing just a thin robe, slipped on as I got up to see my husband off to work. Even he had patted my bum as he left for a day's hard work, telling me how sexy I looked first thing in the morning, but Bill was deliberately not noticing my blatant state of near nudity.
Not able to stand it any longer, I asked him what was wrong. He looked at me and said, "We've been fucking each other for a year today, and I wanted to do something special to remember that first time. I want you to come down to the potting shed dressed just like you are."
Now, you might remember we have a large garden. It's fairly private, but the potting shed is right at the bottom, and it's overlooked by several neighbours. Dare I walk down my garden in this filmy little scrap of lace? Was he testing my devotion to his big old cock? Well, if he was, he must have been pretty sure of my willingness to do as he asked, because I stood up. "What are we waiting for?"
He walked behind me, telling me the rising sun was shining through the material, exposing my curves to him. I thought, Yes, and anybody else who might be looking. What would my neighbours think of me leading my old gardener down my back garden with nothing but a sheer wrap covering my naked body?
It was with some relief that I opened the shed door and slipped inside, away from the prying eyes of the people in the houses on either side.
"Take that thing off. I want to see you naked," Bill said. I simply did as he asked. Did he tell me to take it off? Yes, I'm sure he ordered me to strip in front of him in my own potting shed, just as I'm quite sure he knew I would do it without question.
