The border

Late light on the flower border and I am recording this from the kneeling pad because my legs are not ready for the cottage yet. Henry found me with the gloves on. He is forty-nine, my lover, and he knows to wait until I sit back on my heels and look at him. Boots were already off beside me, bare feet in the grass. Linen shirt, auburn hair slipping its pin, grey at the front that he likes to tuck back. I said the weeding can wait. I said I want you here, and I want you to tell me what you see while you touch my cunt. He asked if the hedge was enough privacy. I said yes. I said come down.

He knelt in the grass and took the gloves off my hands himself, kissing the sweat at my wrist. He said I looked powerful and messy and like the best thing in a border full of blooms. Praise lands when it is that plain. I pulled him in and kissed him with dirt somewhere in it. His hand slid under the linen and found my breast, then waited. I said yes, under the skirt too. He rubbed my cunt through the cotton, then on my clit, fingers gentle and then not, mouth telling me my cunt was wet and beautiful and that he could do this until the light went.

I said I want your cock, on my back, the pad under my hips. He checked my face. I nodded and said yes out loud. He put his cock into my cunt with my knees up and the linen open and fucked me slow in the green smell, praising the whole time. Your cunt feels incredible. Look at you taking my cock. I love your body like this. I came with my hand over my own mouth and my other hand on his cheek, so he would see it was a yes and not a brake. He asked to cum on my stomach. I said yes, I want to watch. He pulled out and did, groaning, and then he wiped me with his shirt and put the gloves in a tidy pile. The border can have us. I am not shy about that fuck.