After the first time, I made love with my young Indian gardener, I couldn’t wait for his next visit. I thought about him all the time, how his skin and muscles felt under my hands. The smell of sweat on his body after he’d been working hard. The taste of his cock, and how good it felt when he penetrated me deep.
But I knew he was still shy, and a beginner. So I had an idea. He had texted me almost as soon as he got home. He was really worried because he had cummed inside me without any protection. I reassured him that I used something to stop me from getting pregnant and that there was no risk.
But I thought it was so sweet and considerate of him to worry about that. When of course it was me who had made it happen. I felt very tender toward the gardener and wanted him even more. In bed at night I caressed myself, remembering his lovely dark body, and how it looked between my legs.
He came round again not many days later. When he arrived, he was very shy and could hardly look me in the eye. But he was smiling and I could tell he was happy to be back.
“What shall I get on with today, madam?” he asked.
I smiled back.
“Today, we are doing something a bit different,” I replied. “I am going to teach you some new gardening techniques.”
He looked at me with a question in his big brown eyes.
“Come with me,” I told him.
I led him through into the conservatory. It was another sunny day, and although I had the blinds drawn to make it completely private, it was very warm. I had prepared it.
There were soft cushions on the couch, iced water and glasses, and a tray with some things on it. He looked around and I saw the pulse already beating in his throat.
The gardener was in a t-shirt and shorts. I was wearing a very thin fitted top with nothing underneath, and a loose skirt that stopped above my knees. Then I put my hands on his shoulders and kissed him lightly in his mouth. He smiled, nervously, and rather tentatively rested his hands on my waist. I could already feel the desire in him. But we were going to take it slowly.
Then I moved my hands down to his chest and found his nipples under his t-shirt. As I began to play with them between my fingers and thumbs, I said –
“I think you are very beautiful. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since last time. You can have me again today, I promise – everything, like last time. But I want to teach you some things first.”
“Oh, thank you, madam. I have been thinking about you too. So much.”
“When I was a very young woman,” I told him, “I lost my virginity to a much older man. He was more than twice my age – older than I am now. I was with him for quite a long time and he taught me so much, and I’d like to do the same for you.”
“Oh yes,” he replied – “Oh, please.”
“Do you like me touching you like this?”
“It feels so sexy.”
I could tell it was exciting for him. Men often don’t realize how much pleasure their own nipples can give them – if their women know what they are doing.
“Don’t you want to touch mine?” I asked, “Just like I am touching yours?”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. He’d been looking down at my breasts where they swelled under my top. Of course, my nipples were hard and showing through the tight fabric. Then he laid his hands on my chest and began to pinch and tease them. He seemed to know just how much pressure to use to give me that sensation that women love – almost, but not quite, pain, a delicious thrill.
The hotline from my nipples to my clit was live and firing and I could already feel myself getting wet between my legs. Then I gently lifted his t-shirt and he raised his arms for me to take it off. Ah, his skin!
Then he did the same for me. My breasts longed for his hands, and his hands went straight to them and started to caress them. I could easily have stripped the rest of my things off and just spread my legs for him and begged for it. But I had planned something else first.
“Do you know what the sexiest things are about a man?” I asked him.
“Tell me,” he breathed.
“His kindness. His gentleness. The way he cares for his woman. You already have all that. You won’t ever have much trouble getting women to give you sex, believe me.”
“Thank you, madam. I don’t want another woman. I want to learn how to look after your garden. I’ve never had such a good teacher.”
I laughed, very lovingly.
“Look what I’ve got here,” I said.
On the tray was a small bowl with some thick sugar syrup I’d made, and I’d mixed food coloring into it. Very deep red – almost black. Beside it, is a small artist’s paintbrush.
“Paint my nipples,” I said.
Then I handed him the brush and the bowl. He looked at me, and then he dipped the brush in the syrup and carefully, delicately, painted one nipple. I swear the nipple throbbed, and I felt a rush of desire. Then he did the other one.
I stood there like some kind of tart with my breasts out on show to the world. I felt twice as naked, with my whore-red nipples standing up, so erect. He looked at them, his eyes shining.
“Suck them,” I told him.
After it had fallen to the floor, all I had left on was a very, very narrow thong that didn’t so much cover the lips of my sex as separate them. It was my turn to lay back on the couch.
“Give me the brush and bowl,” I told him.
It was quite difficult to write on your own skin, upside down. But I managed to use the brush and the syrup to write below my navel: “This way in” – with an arrow pointing down. Then I handed them to him.
“What are you going to write on me?” I asked.
He grinned shyly at me and took the brush. First, he painted my nipples again, and my navel. And then above what I’d written, he put, “Gardener.”
I made that into “Indian Gardener’s cock.”
So the writing, below my tart-red nipples and navel, said, ‘Indian Gardener’s cock This way in ↓’
He was hard again – very hard – and I desperately wanted him. But first, I pulled off my thong, opened my legs, and told him to look at what I was showing him.
What I was showing him was everything. Then I took his finger and touched it to each part of my wet and swollen sex, showing him just how I liked to be touched and caressed. He looked, and he touched, and I just knew he was going to be able to tend my garden really well.
I asked for one more thing. He took the brush again, dipped it in the syrup, and very carefully painted my clit. Ohhhh, the rasp of the brush on it! And his eyes, and his delicate dark hands.
“Lick it off,” I begged – and he did, slowly and tenderly. And again, and again, and again, until I just couldn’t bear it for a second longer.
“Darling, please, please, fuck me now. I need you so much.”
I spread my pale legs as wide as I possibly could, offering my lovely Indian boy everything. Then he came to me, his cock hard and pulsing, and I saw it point at my flesh and then slid in and I felt it penetrate me, deeply, all of it.
My muscles clamped onto it. He pushed hard into me. I lay back with my arms above my head, just looking at that dark-skinned teenager thrusting again and again between my thighs and feeling his rod in me, seeing that dark sex fucking, fucking mine.
Then my thighs caught fire and the fire ran all through me and I was coming and coming all over him, and he came too and emptied all his warm sperm into my belly.
(If you like this story, please let me know: elli104@yahoo.com. Please be honest, but respectful.
