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Message-ID: <30637asstr$991753804@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com (Father Ignatius)
Reply-To: FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com
Subject: {ASSM} <Dulcinea> Trimming the Sweetheart (MF rom) by Father Ignatius
Date: Tue,  5 Jun 2001 11:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Trimming the Sweetheart
(MF rom)
(c)Father Ignatius, 2001
An entry in the Dulcinea Memorial Writing Festival, 
2001

-----

He didn't like gardening.  "I'm not into this 
agricultural stuff."

"It's only once a year," she said, and so he found 
himself wearing baggy, button-up army shorts left over 
from boot-camp and a tatty old gardening shirt with 
holes in it.

She didn't have anything to wear either.  Dressed only 
in her own disreputable gardening T-shirt, she rummaged 
through the laundry.  Eventually she spotted the shorts 
her little sister left in the lime tree.  Sis hung them 
there to dry the time she was pushed in
the pool, and forgot to take them home. She got them 
down and examined them dubiously.

"These have taken so much weather I'm surprised they
haven't rotted.  Oh, well..."

As she wiggled them over her naked rump he noticed 
appreciatively that, while they might have been just 
right for her little sister, they were definitely snug 
on her.

Once in the garden, he was quickly demoted to sweeping 
up cuttings as she pruned and chatted.

"And this is Antique Silk, the bride's rose," she said,
pointing.

"Ahuh," he said dutifully from his squatting position,
watching her bend over.  The too-snug shorts outlined 
her every bulge and he felt himself hardening.  The 
central seam was pulled taut and he fascinatedly 
watched the seam yielding, stitch by stitch.

The mischief surged within him as his cock surged 
within his own shorts, tenting them under his pole.  He 
undid buttons to ease his constriction.  He was 
surreptitiously edging up behind her when she 
straightened up and moved onto the next, and smaller, 
bush.  She seemed vaguely surprised to find him so 
close behind her but paid no special heed.

"And this is Cecile Brunner, my favourite.  Also known 
as the sweetheart rose."

"Ahuh."

She seemed to want more.

"That's nice, um, sweetheart."

Satisfied, she planted her boots firmly either side of 
the bush where they sank into the yielding soil.  He 
remembered the bloom from that bush -- small, tight, 
pink, aromatic buds that reminded him of, well, her.  
His excitement grew at the memory of the sweet scent of 
the sweetheart rose.

She bent over the small bush and then squatted a little 
to get down to it. She remained focussed as he 
manoeuvred into position behind her.  Drawn 
irresistibly by the sight of her tightly-packed flesh 
moving under the stretched cloth, his hand went out and 
his thumb-nail raked firmly back along the straining 
seam, from clitoris to anus.

She squawked, as he knew she would, and straightened
reflexively, as he knew she must, and he heard a few 
more stitches part as her buttocks clenched 
defensively.  But she was hampered by her wide-spread 
feet sunk into the mud and she teetered precariously.

"Hey!" she cried out in protest.  His long arms flashed 
out to grab her hips but not to steady her.  He pulled 
back firmly, cupping her butt cheeks in his grubby,
soil-encrusted hands.  Her feet trapped, she could only
bend her knees and let him take her weight in his 
cupped hands.

"Honey!  What are you doing?"

He gave a low, throaty chuckle as he lowered her butt 
down his stomach.  Clamping his fingers, he squeezed 
her butt-cheeks, hard, and was rewarded by the hoped-
for feeling of stitches breaking in dozens as the 
abused seam gave up all resistance.  Gasping, but too 
precarious to wiggle, she understood him in a flash.

"No, honey!  The neighbours!"

But he carried on lowering her 'til she could feel the 
tip of his eager cock probing at her entrance.

"No, honey!"

"Oh, yes, honey."

He lowered her until the head of his cock was lodged 
firmly inside her and then, squashing his hands 
together until the tips of his grimy middle fingers met 
each other over the cloth protecting her tightly-
wrapped clitoris, he massaged gently left, and right, 
and left, and right, and...

"No, honey!  No, honey!  Oh, God..."

He felt her moisten and slid her slowly down his pole.  
He let her weight press him down 'til his butt rested 
on the heels of his boots.  He leaned back, his lean 
belly making room for her butt as her whole weight 
rested on his pelvis, her heels jammed in the mud out 
in front of her.

"No, honey, not outdoors..." she whispered but sighed 
and wriggled into him as he lifted her slowly up and 
let her sink slowly back as his middle fingers 
remorselessly continued to juggle her trapped clitoris 
left, and right, and left, and right...

The shrill clatter of a small motorbike engine invaded
their quiet cul-de-sac.  "Shit! The postman."

They froze.  They were just hidden -- or were they? -- 
from the post-box by the straggly yellow banksia.  The 
motorbike paused by the gate and idled noisily.  They 
could hear the postman whistling as he riffled amongst 
his mail.  If they moved, he would see them.  They 
mustn't move.

But his fingers carried on, left, and right, and left, 
and right... The noisy popping of the motorbike engine 
paused for a moment and he heard her making tiny 
sniffing noises, frantically trying not to gasp as she 
resisted coming to a noisy climax in front of the 
postman.

The postman thrust their mail into the post-box and he 
called "Good morning.  Nice day for it."  The little 
motorbike engine roared to rackety life and it 
accelerated away.  She gasped and cried out in the 
safety of its noise and he felt her start to convulse 
around his cock.  He held her tight, rubbing steadily
left, and right, and left, and right, until it was 
over.

She wrenched herself out of his grasp and rolled onto 
the path, resting her face in the crook of her arm 
while she caught her breath.  Then she blushed crimson 
and scrambled for the safety of indoors.

"Hey, I'm not through with you," he called after 
her,"Don't leave me just as I'm getting into this 
agricultural stuff.  Just when I've found my furrow to 
plough."

"I'll be in the shower if you need me," she said 
primly.  Buttocks clenched firmly, she minced, fiery-
faced, in at the front door.

"Oh, I definitely need you," he said and followed her 
in.

Next morning, the gardening tools had a thin film of 
rust from the dew.


-----

Thank you for reading me.  I would be pleased to hear 
from you, at FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether 
or not you liked my story, and why.

The Stories of Father Ignatius are to be found at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Stories.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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