Farm Earth
by Mat Twassel
Copyright© 2020 by Mat Twassel
Fiction Sex Story: An old story, unearthed... Mat is in the upstairs bedroom getting ready for his morning run when through the window he spots his new neighbor in her yard doing some gardening. His wife, Laura, enters the bedroom, observes Mat's interest in the gardening going on down below, and takes things into her own hands.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction .
Mat was standing at the little window of his upstairs office. He was wearing only his purple running shorts, and he was looking down at the bright green lawn across the street, at the new neighbor working in her front garden. It was the first Saturday in June, bright and early, and the young woman from the house across the street was digging up spring bulbs and placing them in a large shallow wicker basket.
“Aren’t you going running?” It was Laura standing in the doorway behind Mat. She sounded a little sleepy. Maybe the telephone had woken her after all.
“I don’t know,” Mat said. “That was Bill who just called. He can’t go.”
“Oh How come?”
“He’s not feeling well. Some kind of stomach something.”
“That’s too bad,” Laura said. “Are you going to run by yourself?”
“I don’t know,” Mat said. “Maybe later. Maybe in a little while.”
“Or you could come back to bed for a few minutes. Scratch my back or something.”
Laura was standing next to Mat, slightly behind. She ran her fingernails lightly down his side.
“I hope you’re not neglecting to water your Jade plant,” Laura said. Laura had potted it for Mat and given it to him for Memorial Day. The year before she had given him a cactus, and now both plants were on his computer desk next to the window where Mat stood. Laura looked out.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Laura said. “Our new neighbor.”
“Yes,” Mat agreed. “But not as pretty as you.”
“You always say that,” Laura laughed. Her fingertips were making little circles on his side, just above his running shorts.
“But it’s always true,” Mat said. Laura pinched him. Not a hard pinch, but enough.
“Am I getting flabby?” Mat asked.
“No, not at all,” Laura said. Her fingers went back to their circling. Then a fingertip slipped under the elastic at the waist of Mat’s running shorts, touched the skin there, and then retreated. “We’ll have to meet them,” she said, “Our new neighbors. Do you know what her husband does?”
“No,” Mat admitted.
The woman was wearing maroon shorts and what looked to be a man’s linen dress shirt. The sleeves were rolled up almost to the elbows. The woman squatted in her work; she dug her fingers into the soil and eased the bulbs out of the earth.
“She does have a nice ass,” Laura said. “You have a nice ass, too.” She giggled. “We all have nice asses. Maybe we ought to join a nice ass club.” She was standing behind Mat now, smoothing her hands over the back of his silky running shorts. “I wonder what the dues would be.”
The woman worked slowly, giving each bulb a little shake before setting it securely into the basket next to its neighbors. Mat watched carefully. Meanwhile Laura had snaked a hand inside the back of his running shorts. Her middle finger followed the furrow.
The woman pivoted and her shirt shifted with the small soft shift of her breasts. No bra, just bare breast skin under the cloth of the man’s shirt. Laura’s finger touched the edge of the wrinkled spot. Mat clenched. Fresh fat worms curling in uncovered soil. Sunbeams warming the shade between the woman’s breasts. She brushed her hand across her brow. A faint ruffle of moist dirt streaked her forehead. The woman offered an unconscious smile at the earth.
“Do you think she ever does it back here,” Laura said. The pad of her fingertip explored the shy ridges.
“Huh?” Mat asked.
“Do you think she lets her husband have her behind?” Laura’s middle fingertip pressed and probed, but only the scantiest fraction of inch before withdrawal, as if penalizing Mat’s sluggish response.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I know you don’t know,” Laura said. “At least I hope so! But what do you think? Do you think she lets her husband into her that way?”
The woman was on both knees now, both hands burrowing.
“Like a squirrel going after buried nuts,” Laura said. “Or a dog worrying out a bone.” And suddenly she had both hands inside Mat’s shorts. Her hands smoothed his flanks, up and down two and then three times, and then slipping forward, forefingers simultaneously finding the creases at Mat’s front, the curly dark down.
“I bet he has big balls,” Laura said. “And a big blond prick. A prick like yours, big and blunt, and always wanting, always willing. Willing his way to where it wants.”
She had her hand around it now. One hand, while the other played with the pods, caressed them front, bottom, and back, gently but insistently, all while the first hand drew him up and out, long slow strokes all the way to the maroon red ring and then back down to the root.
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