At My Age, My Young Gardener Rekindled My Fire

The alarm went off at seven, as it did every day, and I began my routine without allowing myself a single second of remorse. Some women would have spent the morning drowning in shame over what they had done the previous afternoon. Not me. What happened happened, and there was no way to change it. That said, I made myself one promise: if that shameless boy showed up at my house again, I would kick him out.

Some of my friends would have hidden from the boy. I was never one to hide. I’m neither timid nor the sort to let herself be dragged along by her emotions. I’m a strong, tenacious woman, even stubborn, and although I had allowed myself that little indulgence, it wasn’t going to happen again. Once is a slip. Twice is a habit.

In any case, it was unlikely he would come back. He had gotten what he wanted: to fuck an older woman, much older, as he himself had put it with that characteristic bluntness of his. And everyone knows that once a woman spreads her legs, a man loses interest in her. I wasn’t so naïve as to believe that a twenty-two-year-old boy would want anything serious with a woman who was nearly sixty. Such a difference was an aberration. A handsome boy like him would find a girlfriend his own age without any effort.

Even so, what had happened the previous afternoon had rekindled a passion in me that I had considered dead and buried. I ruled out a steady relationship, of course, but I reached a sensible conclusion: I needed to date someone, to bring some joy into my life. A man my own age, naturally. I had more than one admirer. The problem wouldn’t be finding one, but choosing him.

I’m an organized woman. I like planning my day and sticking to my schedule. It was Wednesday, so morning yoga was on the agenda to keep myself agile and flexible. As I stretched, I noticed that my legs were a little weak from the intense activity of the day before, but otherwise I felt splendid. I hadn’t slept so well in years. When I opened my legs for the stretch, I could still feel a certain soreness between my thighs, the mark left by that young cock that had split me open on the kitchen table. I caught myself smiling foolishly.

After breakfast, I opened my laptop and searched for gardening companies. I couldn’t allow Tomás to keep working at my house. It was a shame: the boy had always been diligent and discreet. I left a couple of messages, and a secretary promised to send someone the following week to give me an estimate.

I had plans: pick up my clothes from the dry cleaner and have lunch with a friend at the club before playing tennis. I put on my usual outfit, a sleeveless dress with a pleated skirt that came about four inches above my knee. I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled despite myself. The little rascal had been right about one thing: I still had beautiful legs.

***

At four, I returned home and let out an annoyed sigh when I saw Tomás’s truck parked outside. I found him sitting on the porch. I wasn’t at all eager for an argument, but I had no intention of avoiding it. I pulled the car into the garage, and just as I was about to get out, he opened my door for me.

“Thank you,” I said, out of sheer politeness.

I didn’t miss the way he looked at my legs as I got out, his attention fixed on the hem of my skirt. I took the bags from the back seat, but he took them from my hands before I could refuse.

“Wait, I’ll help you.”

“I can do it myself,” I replied without letting go of the handle.

“I insist.”

I sighed and gave in. He followed me into the house through the garage door and left the bags in the hall. I went to my room to hang up my clothes, and before leaving the bathroom I checked my appearance in the mirror. I don’t know why I did it. Instead of changing into something more discreet, which was what I should have done, I let my hair down, brushed it quickly, and put on lipstick.

When I returned to the living room, Tomás was on the sofa looking at his phone. My God, he’s handsome, I thought, and immediately shook my head, reproaching myself for such thoughts at my age. He was wearing sand-colored work trousers and a white T-shirt stretched tight across his arms. He caught me looking at him and ran his fingers through his hair with a smug smile.

I sat in the armchair beside him, and this time I caught him watching my legs. I shifted with feigned indignation and pulled my skirt down as far as I could.

“You look very beautiful, Renata,” he said, addressing me formally, which threw me off.

“I’ve been playing tennis. Tomás, I don’t want you to keep working for me.”

“And the other thing?” the shameless bastard blurted. “You don’t want that either?”

I blushed just thinking about what he meant, but I held firm.

“Yesterday was a terrible mistake, and it won’t happen again. I admit it was my fault—I’m an adult and I should have stopped it—but I don’t want you coming back. I’ll find another gardener.”

I had mentally prepared an entire speech about our age difference and the scandal it would cause if anyone found out. I was unyielding, and I think my message came through clearly.

Tomás didn’t answer. He rose slowly and turned toward me. I didn’t move from the armchair or look away. Then he leaned in, without saying a word, clearly intending to kiss me.

“Tomás, no,” I stammered, turning my face aside.

Indifferently, he began kissing my neck, nibbling my earlobe, and I instantly felt my nipples harden beneath the fabric of my dress. I swear I insisted that he stop, but I didn’t stop him. Not even when he slid his hand beneath my skirt and yanked my panties aside, plunging two fingers into my pussy without warning. I was so wet that they slipped right in. I let out a hoarse moan that gave me away completely.

“Look at you, soaking wet,” he murmured against my neck, moving his fingers inside me with humiliating slowness. “You were waiting for me, you old woman.”

“Shut up,” I gasped, but I lifted my hips slightly to help him pull my panties all the way down.

When I saw him kneel and spread my legs wide across the armchair, I begged him not to, although we both knew I was dying to feel his mouth on my pussy.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous. Get comfortable,” he murmured.

He lifted my pleated skirt to my waist and spent a moment staring at my open sex, breathing over it with his mouth an inch away, tormenting me with his hot breath. Then he buried his head between my thighs and gave me the first long lick, from my ass to my clitoris, slow and filthy. I raised my arms and gripped the back of the chair tightly while he advanced without the slightest resistance from me. He sucked, licked, and caressed me with two fingers at once, pushing them in and drawing them out, alternating a rhythm that tore sounds from me I didn’t recognize as my own. He caught my clitoris between his lips and sucked it as though he wanted to rip it off, while he twisted his fingers inside me, searching for an exact spot only he seemed to know.

“You like that, don’t you, Renata?” he murmured, pulling away for a second, his mouth gleaming with my juices. “Look at how you’re soaking the chair, you slut.”

“Keep going, don’t talk, keep going,” I begged, grabbing his hair.

He buried his face again, sucking, biting, pushing his tongue as deep as he could and then coming out to lick my clitoris in incredibly fast circles. When I was on the verge of coming, he stopped dead and pulled his mouth away. The emptiness made me growl with rage.

“Don’t stop, for God’s sake,” I scolded him.

“Ask properly.”

“Please. Please, Tomás.”

He plunged back in, ferocious, with three fingers now spreading my pussy and a tongue that never let up on my clitoris. I grabbed his head with both hands and pressed him against me, shamelessly grinding myself against his face, and pleasure split me in two. I dissolved into a long, shameful orgasm that made my legs tremble and tore a high-pitched shriek from me that bounced off the living-room walls. He didn’t let up until I pushed him away, unable to bear the friction any longer.

Then he offered me his hand to help me up. I thought he would take me to the bedroom, but he began kissing me right there, on my neck, behind my ear, exactly where I’m most sensitive. I felt his hard cock pressing against my hip through his trousers. I embraced him with a possessive ardor I didn’t recognize in myself and lowered my hand to squeeze it through the fabric. It was rock-hard, thick, and throbbing.

“Take it out,” I whispered.

He opened his trousers without stopping his kisses and took it out himself. I wrapped my hand around it, barely closing my fingers around that young, heavy cock, and knelt without thinking. I, Renata, on my knees in my living room in front of the gardener. I took it into my mouth halfway, and he let out a rough moan, grabbing my hair. At first I sucked it slowly, savoring it, licking the tip and frenulum, and then I swallowed it whole, as much as I could, until I felt the back of my throat protest. Saliva dripped down my chin.

“Fuck, fuck, yes, like that, like that,” he panted, moving my head at the rhythm that suited him.

He yanked me away before he came, breathing raggedly, and looked at me with glassy eyes.

“You drive me crazy,” he said. “But how old are you? Fifty?”

“More or less,” I replied, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

If he really believed I was ten years younger, why correct him? I explained that one never asks a woman her age. He laughed, said something vulgar about my being the age of his mother, and glanced at his watch: he was in a hurry, with another estimate to give. He put his still-hard cock back into his trousers without having come and winked at me.

“You owe me that next time,” he said.

“This is the last time,” I began.

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, when I come to mow the lawn.”

“By then I’ll have another gardener,” I said spitefully.

“I’ll trim the hedges too,” he said, completely ignoring me.

He left. When I heard the door close, I screamed with rage and embarrassment, disgusted with myself. How had I fallen again? I took a shower to wash away my guilt. It didn’t work. Only the smell of sex and the semen that had never arrived went away, and my pussy, clean beneath the hot water, continued throbbing as if it were asking for more.

***

Over the next two weeks I made a decision: I wanted an affair with Tomás. I won’t go into the reasons, except to say that I realized I enjoyed his interest and, above all, the sex. I wasn’t obsessed like a teenager—not even when I was young had I been that reckless—but I thought about him. I masturbated a couple of times, fantasizing that we were doing it in the garden, me leaning against the trunk of the cherry tree, my skirt hiked up, while he pounded me from behind, burying his cock in me and covering my mouth so the neighbors wouldn’t hear me scream. I came alone in bed in the middle of the afternoon, with two fingers inside me and my other thumb on my clitoris, imagining him.

Perhaps getting involved with someone so young was a bad idea. Perhaps I should try with a man my own age. But for some time mature men had seemed foolish and boring to me, and my desire had returned with a fury none of them would know how to satisfy. I longed to see that young, firm body again, that tireless vigor, that cock that grew hard three times an afternoon without asking permission. I decided we needed rules and that we would discuss them before touching each other again.

When he knocked on my door after finishing the garden, I surprised him by wrapping my arms around him and kissing him. It took him two seconds to react, and he returned the kiss, thrusting his tongue deep into my mouth, squeezing my ass with both hands over my trousers. But I stopped him when he tried to lift my shirt.

“Wait. We talk first. And then you shower, because you smell like gasoline.”

I led him to the kitchen, served him cold water, and began listing my conditions. He listened with a sardonic smile.

“The main thing is discretion,” I emphasized. “You don’t tell anyone, just as I won’t. We’ll only see each other here. And I want you to be more affectionate, not so rough.”

“I am,” he protested. “But I thought we were going to fuck a couple of times and that would be it. I didn’t imagine this would happen.”

“You want it too, don’t you?” I asked, not without some unease.

He shrugged.

“Depends what you mean.”

“I don’t want to marry you, Tomás,” I clarified sarcastically. “I like being alone far too much. I’m much older than you, and I know nothing serious can come of this. I just want to have fun.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said with a smile. “I only wanted to fuck you. I’d wanted to for a while.”

I was glad we were on the same wavelength. We negotiated a couple more rules, most of which we broke over time, and sent him off to shower. Before leaving the kitchen, he stopped.

“I have one request too,” he said demandingly. “Put on something pretty.”

***

I have elegant clothes, never anything gaudy. I’m a classy woman, not just anyone. That afternoon I chose a black camisole and some lace, simple but effective, with my breasts almost bare and matching, transparent panties. When I returned to the bedroom, Tomás was coming out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, and the bulge was already showing beneath it.

“Fuck, you look incredible,” he said.

I approached him, put my arms around his neck, and we kissed like a couple of kids. I yanked away his towel, and there was his cock, already half-hard, swaying between us. I pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top, rubbing my soaked pussy against his thigh while biting his neck. That afternoon, however, I discovered something new in myself.

“Lie down and give me your hands,” I ordered.

I tied his wrists to the headboard with the belt from one of my robes, using the sailor’s knot my father had taught me as a girl, back in the coastal village where I grew up. Once tightened, it wouldn’t slip: the harder you pulled, the tighter it became. I warned him. Then I blindfolded him with a silk scarf.

“What are you doing?” he asked, amused and nervous at once.

“Being patient. It’s the only thing I’m asking of you.”

I straddled him and traveled over his body with my mouth, slowly, kissing and biting, returning every pull of the hair he had given me the previous times. I bit his nipples until he swore, scratched his chest, and licked the line of his abdomen down to his pubis. When I reached lower, I teased him with calculated slowness: I licked his balls one by one, took them fully into my mouth, and then moved up his cock with the tip of my tongue, very slowly, without actually circling it. He thrust his hips impatiently, searching for my mouth.

“Do it already,” he ordered.

“Not yet,” I replied sternly. “And stop moving or I’ll leave until you calm down.”

I spat on the tip and spread the saliva with my thumb, watching his whole body tense. Then I closed my lips around the head and plunged down, swallowing him to the root. He let out a roar and arched his back. I sucked him a few times, squeezing hard with my lips, my tongue working the underside, and when I felt him nearing the edge I released him. I sat on top of him, rubbing my wet pussy all over his cock without letting it enter, sliding up and down, pressing my clitoris against the tip.

“Fuck, put it in me, Renata, put it in me,” he growled, pulling at the belt.

“Not yet.”

I lowered myself again and sucked him once more, now slowly and leisurely, stopping the moment I felt his body tense and his hips begin to tremble. Then I would rise to kiss his mouth, bite his lower lip, and whisper obscenities in his ear while barely brushing his cock with my hand. I brought him to the brink again and again—five, six, seven times—stopping each time at exactly the right instant. He struggled against the belt, frustrated, his cock wet with saliva and with me, threatening me with what he would do when he got free. I laughed. He looked gorgeous angry, his blindfold crooked and a drop of precum sliding down the head of his cock.

“Renata, seriously,” he growled. “Let me finish.”

“Do you need it?” I teased.

“Yes, fuck.”

“How much?”

“A lot. Please. Please, let me come.”

At last I gave in. I sat on his cock and took it in one thrust, all the way to the hilt, letting out such a deep moan that it sounded like it had come from another woman. I began riding him slowly, squeezing my pussy around him each time I rose, watching him struggle beneath me. I bent down so he could suck my nipples, and even blindfolded, he found my mouth. He bit them like a wild animal. I sped up, bouncing on top of him with my hands braced against his chest, and when I felt him about to explode, I drove down hard and stayed still, feeling his cock swell inside me as he came in jets inside me, with a long roar that shook his entire body. I came on top of him, clenching around him and milking him of every last drop.

When it was all over, I left him lying there, breathless and still tied, his slippery cock lying limp across his belly and semen running down my thighs, and I felt a heady, ancient power I hadn’t known lived inside me. I liked being in control. I liked it far too much.

“Untie me. I want more,” he demanded with genuine anger.

“Not yet,” I whispered.

I left the bedroom and returned with a book. I lay down beside him, opened the pages, and began reading aloud the ancient verses of a war poem. He protested, detailing everything he would do to me, how he would fuck my ass, how he would make me suck his cock on my knees until my jaw hurt, but I only told him to be quiet and listen. He wasn’t happy with me. It didn’t matter.

After a while I put down the book, sat on him again, and brushed my lips against his. Against all expectations, his cock was beginning to stir beneath me again.

“If I untie you, will you behave? Will you be gentle with me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

I pulled on the end of the belt. The instant he was free, he tore off the blindfold and knocked me onto my back beneath the weight of his body, with the strength of an animal that had been waiting an hour for the moment.

“I lied,” he said.

He lifted my legs onto his shoulders and took me without restraint, burying his cock in me with a single brutal thrust, all the way to the hilt. I screamed. He began fucking me like that, folded over myself with my knees beside my ears, pounding hard and deep, so deep that with every thrust I felt his lower belly striking my pussy and my ass. The bed squeaked. I moaned loudly, not caring about a thing, clutching the sheets.

“You wanted to control me, huh?” he panted, never slowing down. “You wanted to keep me tied up? Take that, slut, take it.”

“Yes, yes, like that, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

He pulled his cock out, turned me face down, lifted my ass by the hips, and drove into me from behind with a sharp thrust. He pressed the back of my neck against the mattress with one hand and slapped my ass with the other while he fucked me, hard and faster and faster. I reached another orgasm like that, my face against the pillow, biting it so I wouldn’t wake the entire neighborhood, and when he came inside me for the second time, emptying himself with a rough moan against my back, I came apart again. He collapsed on top of me, sweaty, and stayed there, still inside me, breathing against my neck.

“Next time I’ll tie you up,” he whispered in my ear.

I smiled against the pillow. We’d see about that.

***

Our affair continued. We didn’t see each other every day, only a couple of times a week, and sex was its sole foundation. Sometimes he was tender, capable of sending me flowers with a note and holding me afterward until I stopped trembling. I gave him expensive gifts: an antique camera, because of his passion for photography; a watch he tried to return, claiming it was too much. I explained that the price didn’t matter when you truly had money.

We didn’t question each other about our lives. We had almost nothing in common: not music, movies, or books, which he never touched. The only thing we shared was an inability to keep our hands still when we were near each other. And at my age, it was frankly flattering that such a young, handsome boy was always so eager to seek me out, to fuck me against the kitchen counter as soon as he closed the door, to kneel me in the hallway and come in my mouth before I even had time to greet him.

I discovered, deliciously perverse, that his mother was thirteen years younger than I was. Even so, I enjoyed his discretion as much as the messages he sent me while I was having lunch with my friends, warning me to hurry because he was waiting for me on my own sofa with his cock hard and his trousers off.

One Thursday afternoon, while he was getting dressed to leave, I asked whether he would like to stay the weekend. We had never spent an entire night together. He said yes, that I should prepare dinner for two, and promised that we would celebrate this new step in a very special way.

I closed the door behind him and remained leaning against the wall, smiling like a little girl. At my age. Who would have thought it?