The hose

The greenhouse was hot and the tomatoes were fine. I was not thinking about tomatoes. I was thinking about my feet, dusty on the pavers, and about Paul, who was coiling nothing and watching me. I am thirty-six. He is forty. My partner. I had the olive chore coat on and my hair in a knot. The hose was right there, clean water, the way we rinse tools. I wanted him to rinse me.

Hands, I said. Hose on low. Wash the dirt off. He knows the difference between a joke and a job I actually want. He picked up the hose, tested the temperature, and knelt. Cold first, then warmer from the sun-warmed line. He ran water over one foot, thumb rubbing soil out of the arch, then the other. Mud slid off and left pink skin. It was a wash. It felt so good I had to hold the bench. My cunt went heavy. I told him. Washing my feet does that to my cunt. Stay down there.

He kissed a wet arch and looked up. Both of us grinning. I turned the hose off. I do not need a flood. I need your cock. He dried my feet with the clean towel from the hook, carefully, between the toes. Then his mouth replaced the towel. I leaned on the bench in the chore coat and let him suck my toes, gentle, no biting hard. His hands wrapped my calves. I love those hands. I said so.

Coat open, I said. I had nothing under it but a thin tank and shorts. He pulled the shorts down and licked my cunt while I stood barefoot on the pavers, clean now, one foot up on the low rail. I came with my hand in his hair, the greenhouse ticking in the heat. Then I turned and braced on the bench. I said fuck me. Hold my hips. His cock filled my cunt and he fucked me, and I moaned at the tomatoes like a fool. His hand dropped to hold one ankle, grounding me.

Harder, I said. He gave it. I came again, saying Paul, yes, fuck. I want your cum in my cunt. He did. After, he rinsed his hands and kissed my clean ankle. He carried my clogs and I walked barefoot across the grass.