The Day the Gardener Looked Toward the Terrace

They say gardeners have a bad reputation, that more than one of them ends up getting tangled up with the owners of the gardens they tend. Marcos had always laughed at the idea, like someone hearing an old joke. Until that afternoon of southern wind, when the hilltop house taught him that some legends exist because they were once true.

The house stood at the top of a slope facing the sea, completely exposed to the sun. He had been working for nearly three hours without a break, and his shirt clung to his back like a second skin. Blades of cut grass stuck to his forearms, his neck was drenched, and his hair was flattened by sweat. The warm wind didn’t cool anything; it only carried the smell of freshly mown lawn and the briny scent rising from the coast.

The owners were a married couple in their mid-forties. That afternoon they were on the upstairs terrace, lying on separate loungers, sunbathing without a single piece of clothing on. Marcos noticed almost by accident. The garden climbed the hillside, and from the upper section where he was working, the terrace was exactly at eye level.

At first he looked away. It was none of his business. But his body was asking for a break, so he leaned against the trunk of the only tree that cast any shade and stayed there, catching his breath with the bottle of lukewarm water in his hand.

And then he saw.

The man had raised himself slightly and was rubbing lotion into his wife’s skin, without the slightest hurry, as if they had all the time in the world and there wasn’t another soul for miles around. His hands moved over her shoulders, descended across her chest, and lingered on her belly. He pinched her nipples between thumb and forefinger, twisted them slowly, and watched them harden until they became two dark, rigid points aimed at the sky. She was sprawled across the lounger, eyes closed, allowing herself to be touched with her mouth slightly open, her large, heavy tits barely bouncing each time he squeezed them.

You shouldn’t be watching this, Marcos thought. And he didn’t move.

The husband’s hand descended a little farther, slipped between her spread thighs, and his fingers disappeared inside the woman’s cunt with an ease that betrayed how wet she already was. Even at that distance Marcos could see the fingers going in and out at an unhurried rhythm, glistening, and the way she arched her back and spread her legs wider so he could reach deeper. She stretched one arm to the side, felt around, and closed her fingers around her husband’s cock, already hard, long, and pressed against his belly. She began jerking him off with a loose wrist, unhurriedly, pulling his foreskin down until the glans was fully exposed, squeezing the tip, then sliding back down to the base. They stayed like that for quite some time, caressing each other in broad daylight, him fucking her with his fingers while she stroked him at the same time, without hiding, as the wind stirred their hair.

Marcos swallowed. The shorts he was wearing hid absolutely nothing, and he knew it. He felt his pulse in places where he shouldn’t have felt it during a day of work. His cock had grown so hard it hurt, pushing against the fabric, and every time a moan from the woman arrived on a scrap of wind, it tightened even more.

Suddenly they both stood up and went inside the house. The terrace was left empty, the loungers disheveled, and he remained standing there like an idiot, breathing hard and uncomfortably certain that what he could no longer see was happening inside.

***

It took him several minutes to force himself back to work. He finished gathering the machines with his mind elsewhere, imagining what was happening behind those walls. When he put away the last tool, he did what he always did: rang the bell to announce that he was leaving.

The husband took a couple of minutes to come downstairs. His hair was wet and a towel was tied around his waist. He looked Marcos up and down, taking in the sweat, the dirt, and the soaked shirt, and smiled naturally.

—You’re a mess —he said—. Don’t leave like that. Take a shower before you go.

Marcos hesitated for a second. It was an ordinary offer, the sort of kindness anyone would show someone who had worked under the sun all afternoon. He accepted.

—The downstairs bathroom is being renovated —the man added—. Go up to the one on the right of the staircase.

He went into the kitchen, and Marcos went upstairs. He did it slowly, quietly, still barefoot out of habit, carrying his sneakers in his hand so he wouldn’t get anything dirty. The staircase opened onto a spacious living room with high ceilings and an enormous window that let in the last light of the afternoon.

And he saw her again.

The woman was on the sofa, alone, wearing an open robe that covered nothing. One leg was propped on the backrest and the other stretched out, her cunt spread wide, shaved, and glistening, while she stroked herself with two fingers buried to the knuckle, sliding in and out with a small squelching sound that could be heard in the silence. With her other hand she squeezed one tit, pinching and tugging its nipple. Her gaze was fixed on the television. On the screen, two men and a woman were tangled up in an uninterrupted scene: one was fucking her from behind while the other cock went in and out of her mouth. She bit her lip, oblivious to everything, lost in her own pleasure, pulling her fingers out and bringing them to her mouth to suck them before sliding them back inside.

Marcos stood frozen. He knew he had to look away, turn around, do anything except remain there. But his body wouldn’t respond, and desire gained ground with every passing second. His cock was pressing against his shorts again as if it wanted to tear through the fabric.

—Enjoying the show?

The husband’s voice from the foot of the stairs made him jump. Marcos spun around, red to the tips of his ears, searching for an excuse that wouldn’t come.

—Sorry, I… —he stammered—. I didn’t mean to… the door was…

But the man didn’t seem annoyed. Quite the opposite. He climbed the steps calmly, never stopping smiling, and placed a hand on Marcos’s shoulder.

—Relax. Take that shower. And if you feel like it, afterward you can join us to watch the movie.

The woman rose from the sofa. Just as she was, with nothing on, she crossed the room and approached Marcos without an ounce of embarrassment. She held his gaze for a moment and placed her palm over the bulge he could no longer hide. She squeezed it through the fabric, measuring him, and gave a low whistle.

—You’ve still got it like that from the terrace? —she asked softly, almost amused—. What a big cock you’re hiding, gardener.

And then Marcos understood. They had known all along. They knew he was watching them from the garden; they had known while they caressed each other in the sun, and the whole scene had been for him as much as it was for them.

***

He headed for the shower trembling like a leaf. He had been in a few threesomes before and recognized the invitation they had just made perfectly well. The water poured over him and gave him time to think, although thinking was of little use by then. He washed himself thoroughly, unhurriedly, trying to calm a pulse that would not calm down. He got out, dried himself, and stood for a moment before the fogged mirror, looking at himself as though seeking his own permission. His cock was still hard, pointing upward, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

When he entered the living room again, the movie was still playing, but no one was watching it anymore.

The husband was lying on his back on the sofa, naked, his cock stiff against his belly. She was kneeling on the floor, bent over him, sucking him hungrily, swallowing him whole until her nose brushed his pubic bone, then slowly rising again, leaving a trail of saliva along his entire length. She pulled his cock from her mouth, laid it flat on her tongue, and licked him from the base to the glans while looking him in the eyes, then shoved him back into her mouth. Her ass was raised in a curve impossible to ignore, her cunt swollen and open between her thighs, glistening with how wet she was. They didn’t stop when Marcos appeared with the towel around his waist. If anything, she merely lifted her eyes, without taking the cock from her mouth, and returned to what she was doing.

He let the towel fall to the floor. He approached from behind, slowly. He crouched down, slid his hands over the woman’s back, encircled her tits, and lingered there, feeling their warm weight in his palms, her nipples hardening between his fingers, tugging them until he heard her moan around the mouthful. She responded by spreading her knees, opening herself, offering herself without words. Marcos lowered one hand and ran two fingers up and down her cunt. He found her completely wet, slippery, ready. His fingers slipped in on their own, all the way to the back, and she thrust her hips backward to drive them deeper. He moved them slowly, pulling them out and pushing them back in, feeling her squeeze around them and the juices run down his wrist. With his thumb he found her clitoris and began rubbing it in circles, continuing to fuck her with the other two fingers.

They stayed that way for quite some time, the three of them locked into the same slow rhythm: she sucked, her husband moaned with his hands tangled in her hair, and Marcos fucked her with his fingers from behind. Then Marcos slid downward, lay on his back on the carpet, and slipped between her legs until he could reach her with his mouth. He savored her unhurriedly. He opened her cunt lips with his thumbs, leaving her fully exposed, and ran his entire tongue from her ass to her clitoris, slowly, tasting her. He sucked her lips, gently nipped them with his teeth, thrust his tongue as deep inside as he could, and fucked her with it for a while before moving back up to her clitoris and staying there, playing with the tip of his tongue where he knew she trembled most. She moved her hips, rubbing herself against his face, riding his mouth without letting go of her husband’s cock.

At some point she stopped attending to her husband and leaned backward, opening herself completely, sitting down fully on Marcos’s face and giving him exactly the position he had been seeking. Marcos grabbed her buttocks, spread them, and kept eating her from below while she writhed. The man stood up then, positioned himself in front of her face, and offered his cock again. She accepted it eagerly, swallowing it until she gagged, her eyes watering and strands of saliva hanging from her chin. The scene had something hypnotic about it: him above, fucking her mouth with short thrusts; Marcos below, working her cunt and clitoris with his tongue; and her in the middle, trapped between them, moaning with her throat full, her thighs trembling.

—I’m going to… —she gasped when she could, pulling her husband’s cock from her mouth for a second—. I’m coming, fuck, I’m coming…

And when she came, she did it by squeezing her thighs around Marcos’s head, shaking with an intensity that held nothing false, screaming as she pressed herself against her husband’s cock again. She poured into Marcos’s mouth and over his chin, a hot, thick flow that he swallowed without stopping his sucking at her clitoris until the last tremor. She remained like that for a few seconds, trembling, before releasing him and collapsing to one side, breathless.

But her husband gave her no respite. He grabbed her hips, turned her around, put her on her knees on the sofa with her ass raised and her back arched, and buried his cock in her from behind with a single thrust, all the way in, until his balls slapped against her cunt. She cried out, grabbing the backrest, and he began fucking her with a restrained violence that shook the entire piece of furniture. He drove his cock all the way in and pulled it almost completely out before burying it again, gripping her hips with both hands and pulling her back against him. He slapped her ass once, then again, and her buttocks reddened. He was too aroused to last; within minutes he finished, sinking all the way in with a hoarse grunt, coming inside her with his hips pressed against her ass, not pulling out until the last spasm subsided. When he finally withdrew, a thick white thread ran down the woman’s thigh.

Marcos had watched everything from an armchair, his cock in his hand, stroking himself slowly so he wouldn’t come too soon, his body on the verge of bursting. When the woman had regained some composure, still on her knees on the sofa, she sought him with her eyes and held out a hand.

—And you? —she said—. I can see you’ve got a problem there.

—A fairly serious one —he admitted with half a smile, without letting go of his cock.

She rose, still agitated, her husband’s semen still running between her thighs, and approached him. She traced a fingernail slowly down his chest, enjoying the moment, and wrapped her hand around his cock. She squeezed it, stroked it twice, measuring him again.

—We don’t have any condoms handy —she said—. So you’re not going inside. But that doesn’t mean you’re leaving the way you came in.

And she knelt in front of him.

What followed was something Marcos would remember for a long time. She grabbed his cock by the base, brought it to her face, and first ran it over her closed lips, marking her mouth with the fluid already beading at the tip. Then she stuck out her tongue and licked the glans in circles, slowly, as though savoring an ice cream, without looking away from his eyes. She took only the tip into her mouth and sucked it hard, applying pressure and hollowing her cheeks, and when she saw him fold with pleasure, she swallowed him whole in one movement, so deep that Marcos felt her throat tighten around him. She pulled him out, took him back in, pulled him out again. She sucked him with deliberate calm, alternating mouth and hand, twisting her wrist at the base while her tongue worked his glans. She paused to lick his balls, took them into her mouth one by one with care, and moved back up his entire length, leaving it shining with saliva.

The husband sat down beside them, watching, one hand resting on the back of her neck, barely setting the rhythm, pushing her head downward when he wanted her to swallow him completely. He spoke into Marcos’s ear without taking his eyes off her.

—She sucks really well, doesn’t she? Look at the way she sucks you. This one loves cock.

Marcos held out as long as he could, gripping the edge of the sofa, his muscles tense and his belly clenched. The woman realized he was close, pulled his cock from her mouth, and continued stroking him with her hand, fast and firm, aiming him at her face.

—Come on, come —she told him—. In my mouth, on my face, wherever you want. Give it all to me.

And when he finally let go, he did so with a force he had rarely felt, clutching the edge of the sofa so he wouldn’t fall. The first jet struck her cheek and her parted lips; she slipped the tip of his cock into her mouth just in time to catch the rest, jet after jet, swallowing it without releasing him, without stopping her hand until the last drop. Then she slowly licked the tip clean and smiled at him with her face still smeared.

***

He dressed in silence, still dazed, while they laughed softly about something he didn’t catch. The husband walked him to the door as though none of what had happened had happened at all, with the same courtesy as before.

—The garden looks immaculate —he said, shaking his hand—. We’ll see you next week.

—I’ll be here —Marcos replied.

And he certainly was. From that afternoon of southern wind onward, his work at the hilltop house stopped being merely mowing the lawn and trimming the hedges. Now and then, when all three of them were in the mood and the sun beat down on the terrace, they ended up tangled together again, unhurried and without guilt, fulfilling a fantasy none of them had confessed aloud but all three had recognized in the other’s gaze.

Marcos never laughed at gardeners’ bad reputation again. Now he knew better than anyone where it came from.