The Gardener at the Country House and My Forbidden Summer

My grandparents’ country house on the outskirts had always been my refuge. Whenever the city pressed in on me too much, I’d grab the car and escape for a couple of weeks to that silence that smelled of wet earth and jasmine. There were no schedules there, no phone ringing, no one asking how I was doing. Just the warm wind moving the curtains and the sun slowly falling over the trees.

That summer, however, there was something different in the air. Or rather, someone different.

His name was Tomás, and he had been working the vegetable garden and the yard for a month, ever since the usual foreman retired. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with arms marked by years of work under the sun. He spoke little, just enough, but when he did his deep voice sent a shiver down my neck that took a while to fade.

I watched him from the terrace without him noticing. Or so I thought. I saw him kneel beside the rose bushes, cut stems with patient precision, wipe his forehead with the back of his arm. His T-shirt stuck to his back with sweat, and I kept staring longer than I should have, with my coffee going cold between my hands. The pronounced bulge under his work pants every time he bent over didn’t go unnoticed either, and I pressed my thighs together on the chair, feeling my panties get wet just imagining what was hiding in there.

This isn’t right, I thought. And I kept watching.

I’d been like that for three days, pretending to read, pretending to water my own plants in pots that didn’t need water, pretending his presence wasn’t rattling my pulse. Three nights too, sliding my fingers into myself in bed with my legs spread, biting the pillow while I imagined his tongue between my thighs, his cock driving into me to the hilt. Until the heat of Thursday afternoon made me lose patience with my own cowardice.

I went down to the kitchen, filled a tall glass with lemonade and ice, and stepped out into the garden with an excuse I didn’t even believe myself.

“Thirsty, Tomás?” I asked, and my voice came out firmer than I expected.

He looked up. The shadow of his cap covered half his face, but I noticed he took an extra second before answering. He set the pruning shears down on the soil and straightened slowly.

“Appreciate it,” he said, and held out a hand to take the glass.

Our fingers brushed. It was just an instant, nothing more, but we both felt it. He drank in one long swallow without taking his eyes off me, and when he lowered the glass a drop was shining at the corner of his mouth. My nipples were hard under my dress, pressing against the thin fabric, and he dropped his gaze for a second to my chest before lifting it again.

“It’s hot to be out here all day,” I said, looking for something to say. “If you want, you can come in for a while and get some shade.”

“Don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not bothering me. The house is empty. My grandparents aren’t coming until next month.”

I said it without thinking, and as soon as the words left my mouth I understood what I’d just admitted. That we were alone. That no one was going to show up. Tomás understood it too. I saw it in the way his jaw tightened, in the way he let a long silence pass before giving the slightest nod.

“Just a minute, then,” he said.

I led him inside. I could feel his presence behind me like a stream of heat, and I had to make an effort not to let my legs tremble as I walked. I knew he was looking at my ass, and I swayed my hips a little more than necessary.

***

The kitchen was dim, cool, with the shutters half closed to block the midday sun. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge. I left the empty glass on the counter and turned to face him.

Tomás was standing in the doorway, still, his hands still dirty with soil hanging at his sides. He was looking at me in a way that left no room for doubt, in a way I’d been provoking for three days without daring to meet.

“What are you after?” he asked quietly.

The question hung between us. I could have said anything. I could have made up a chore, offered him more lemonade, broken the moment with a nervous laugh. Instead, I took a step toward him.

“I think you already know,” I answered. “That you fuck me.”

No more was needed. He closed the distance between us in two strides and kissed me. It wasn’t a timid kiss. It was the kiss of someone who’d been holding back for days, hungry and hard, with his tongue pushing all the way into my mouth, one hand sliding up my waist and the other tangling in my hair and yanking my head back. I clung to his T-shirt, feeling the heat of his body through the fabric, his heart pounding as hard as mine, and his cock already hardening and pressing against my stomach.

“Wait,” I murmured against his mouth, and for a second he thought I was backing out.

I walked to the door and turned the key. The click of the lock sounded louder than it should have in that silence.

When I turned back, he was still where I’d left him, watching me with an intensity that raised goosebumps on my skin. I went back to him more slowly this time, enjoying the path, and laid my palms on his chest.

“You’re sweating,” I said.

“I’ve been working under the sun,” he replied, with a half smile.

“I don’t mind. I like that you smell like a man.”

I kissed him this time, setting the pace. His big hands wrapped around my waist and lifted me effortlessly, setting me on the cold counter. I let out a sigh when he opened my legs gently to fit himself between them, and the light fabric of my summer dress suddenly became an annoying barrier. I slid my hand down to his crotch without shame and squeezed over his pants. He was hard as a rock, and he growled softly against my neck when I took the whole shape of him in my hand.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I’ve had it like this for days.”

“It shows,” I said, squeezing harder. “You’ve got a huge cock.”

He kissed my neck slowly, and I threw my head back. Every brush of his beard against my skin pulled a shiver from me. I felt his fingers tracing the curve of my thigh, lifting the hem of my dress a little, stopping right where the waiting became unbearable. When he finally touched me over my panties, he gave a low laugh against my ear.

“You’re soaked.”

“I’ve been like this for three days because of you.”

“Tell me to stop if you want,” he whispered.

“Don’t even think about stopping.”

***

He lowered the straps of my dress one by one, with a patience that was driving me crazy, and let it fall to my waist. He spent a second staring at my tits, nipples hard and standing up, before dipping his head and sucking one into his mouth hungrily. I dug my nails into the nape of his neck and arched my back against his mouth. He licked it, bit it lightly, held it between his teeth while his free hand pinched the other one. I tugged his T-shirt upward and he ripped it off in one motion, letting it fall to the tiled floor. His torso was exactly as I had imagined during those three afternoons of spying from the terrace: firm, worked, with skin still warm from the sun.

I ran my nails down his back and felt him shudder. I liked having that power, knowing I was undoing him too. I fumbled with his belt and unzipped him, and when I slid my hand into his underwear and took hold of his bare cock I nearly ran out of breath. It was thick, hot, throbbing in my palm, the tip already wet with fluid. I wrapped my hand around the whole thing and started stroking him slowly, enjoying the weight and thickness.

“Oh, fuck, that’s nice,” I said against his mouth. “I want to taste it.”

I slid off the counter and knelt on the cool tiles in front of him. I finished pulling down his pants and underwear to his knees, and his cock sprang free, hard, thick, pointing right at my face. I took it by the base and ran it over my lips, wetting them with the tip before taking the head into my mouth. I sucked him slowly at first, tasting him, letting my tongue trace every vein. Then I took him deeper and deeper until I felt him touch my throat and had to pull back to breathe, a thread of saliva hanging from my chin.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he panted, a hand in my hair. “Suck it all.”

I sucked him with gusto, taking his balls in one hand and jerking the base with the other as I moved my head up and down. Every time I got him to the back of my throat, he let out a rough groan that made my legs clamp together. I ran my tongue under him, from his balls to the tip, and took him back in whole. My mouth was flooded with his salty taste, my jaw stretched as wide as it could go from how thick he was, and I loved it.

“Come on, stand up,” he said, tugging my hair to lift me. “I don’t want to come in your mouth yet.”

He lifted me back onto the counter, yanked my panties off in one pull, and spread my legs wide. Without warning he buried his face between my thighs, and when his tongue touched my cunt I let out a moan that surprised even me. He licked me from bottom to top, long and slow, stopping at my clit to suck it with his lips. He slid two thick fingers into me while still working me with his tongue, curling them exactly where they needed to go, and I grabbed the edge of the counter with both hands because my legs were trembling.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” I begged. “Oh, Tomás, like that, there.”

He made me come in his mouth, with his tongue planted on my clit and his fingers driving into me to the hilt. I pressed his head between my thighs and shook all over, stifling a cry against the back of my hand. I was still trembling when he straightened up, his mouth shiny with me, and wiped himself with the back of his arm before grabbing his cock and rubbing it against my soaked cunt.

“I’ve been watching you for days,” I confessed in his ear, panting. “Since you got here.”

“I know,” he said. “I was watching you too. Every time you climbed those stairs, I wanted to hike your dress up and fuck you against the railing.”

“And why didn’t you do anything?”

“Out of respect. This is your house.” He paused, the tip of his cock sliding just in and out of me, driving me insane. “But I swear every night I went to my room to jerk off thinking about this.”

That confession lit me up more than any caress. I dug my heels into his ass and pulled him toward me.

“Put it in already, I can’t take it anymore.”

He shoved it in with one hard thrust, all the way to the hilt, and we both moaned at once. I felt him open me up completely, so thick I lost my breath for a second. He stayed still for a moment, letting me adjust, his forehead against mine and his breathing ragged.

“You’re so tight,” he murmured. “Fuck.”

He started moving slowly, sliding in and out with long, deep thrusts, grabbing my hips to pull me against him with every drive. I braced myself with my hands behind me on the counter, my tits bouncing with the rhythm, watching his cock come in and out of me, shiny with my wetness. The wet sound filled the kitchen, mixed with the dull thuds of the counter against the wall every time he slammed into me hard.

“Harder,” I begged. “Fuck me harder.”

He grabbed one of my ankles, put both my legs over one shoulder, and started fucking me for real, driving it into me to the base with thrusts that made everything go white. I squeezed my tits, pinched my nipples, moaned with my mouth open and didn’t care about anything.

“Turn around,” he gasped after a while, yanking out of me all at once.

He got me off the counter, spun me around, and bent me over the marble with my ass up and my face pressed against the cold surface. He slid back into me from behind, one hand in my hair and the other at my waist. In this position he reached even deeper, harder, and I pushed my ass back against him with every thrust, asking for more.

“Like that, yes,” I told him. “Fuck me like a bitch, Tomás.”

“That’s what you are now,” he growled, spanking my ass so hard it echoed through the kitchen. “My bitch. Say it.”

“I’m your bitch, I’m your bitch.”

He made me come like that again, doggy style over the counter, his fingers rubbing my clit at the same time he drove into me. I collapsed against the marble, trembling all over, clamping around him in spasms he felt too, because he let out a roar and pulled out of me all at once.

“Turn around, get on your knees,” he ordered, breathless, jerking himself off furiously in front of me.

I knelt again and opened my mouth, and within seconds he filled my face and tongue with hot cum, stream after stream. I held his gaze while he came, mouth open and eyes full of him, swallowing everything that fell inside. When he finished, my face and tits were covered, and he stood there panting, unable to believe what he had just done.

We stayed like that for a long while afterward, wrapped around each other on the floor, catching our breath as if we had just crossed a desert. I stroked the back of his neck slowly and he drew circles on my back with his thumb, his cum drying on my skin.

***

Afterward we laughed, both of us, at the situation. At how absurd and perfect it had been. I poured us another glass of lemonade and we drank it sitting on the kitchen floor, leaning against the cupboards, talking in low voices like two accomplices, me in his T-shirt and him in his underwear.

Tomás turned out to be far more talkative than he seemed under that cap. He told me he studied botany at night, that the work in the country houses paid for his degree, that he dreamed of having his own nursery someday. I told him things I hadn’t told anyone in a long time, things I didn’t even know I needed to say out loud.

The sun began to drop and the shadows stretched across the tiles. At some point he had to go back out to the garden, to take care of the rose bushes like he should before the day ended. He dressed slowly, unhurried, stealing another kiss between each piece of clothing and one squeezed tit under the T-shirt.

“Will you keep working in the garden tomorrow?” I asked from the counter, where I had sat back down.

He adjusted his cap and gave me that half smile I was already getting addicted to.

“If you ask me like that,” he said, “I’ll leave the whole place prettier than the rest of the neighborhood. And you too.”

He stayed three more weeks, until my grandparents came back and I had to return to the city. Three weeks of stolen afternoons, of lemonade excuses, of counters and sofas and beds and even the grass among the rose bushes one moonless night. Three weeks of fucking without limits, of discovering everything two bodies can do when there’s no modesty left. I never told anyone until today. It wasn’t love, let’s not kid ourselves, but it was something honest in its own way: two people alone in a country house, finally stopping the pretending.

Sometimes, when I pass a nursery and smell wet earth, my panties still get wet thinking about him. About how all it took was a glass of lemonade and the courage to admit what I wanted for that summer to become the most memorable of my life.