First Soil

The heat outside was disgusting, the kind that made Alabama’s skin slick and sticky, like she’d been groped by a sweaty pervert. She was late, of course, and the greenhouse door thudded behind her, trapping her in a cloud of muggy air that reeked of dirt, fertilizer, and something sickly sweet. The place was packed with raised beds, seedlings, and bags of soil that looked like they’d been dumped straight from a cow’s ass. People stood around, pretending to care about plants, but Alabama only cared about the man at the front.

Fernando.

He was half-turned, sleeves shoved up, arms tanned and dirty, showing off how to use some pH kit nobody cared about. His voice was slow and deep, but when he looked up and caught her eye, Alabama felt it like he’d just shoved his hand up her dress. Her pussy throbbed, and she shifted, thighs rubbing together, hoping nobody could see how red her face was getting.

Austin was gone for the weekend, off golfing and probably getting drunk with his idiot friends. The house was empty, the bed even emptier. Alabama had told herself she joined the garden club to kill time, but watching Fernando’s thick fingers rip a dead leaf off a tomato plant, she knew she was full of shit. She was here because she wanted to get fucked.

“New faces today,” Fernando said, smile slow and knowing. “We pair beginners with someone experienced. Alabama, right?” He’d remembered her name from the sign-up sheet. Of course he had. “You’ll work with me.”

Everyone wandered off to their own beds, but Alabama stuck to Fernando like a horny puppy. He led her to a corner where the sun made everything look dirtier. There was a planter, waist-high, stuffed with black soil that stank of sex and sweat.

“First lesson,” Fernando said, shoving a pair of gloves at her. She shook her head. She wanted to feel the dirt under her nails. He grinned, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Good. Plants like it better when you use your bare hands. They want your heat.”

He moved behind her, close enough that she caught cedar and clean sweat on his skin. Together they knelt. The soil was cool and damp, grains clinging to her fingertips as she scooped. Fernando’s larger hand covered hers, guiding, pressing her palm down into the bed until her fingers sank to the knuckles.

“Like this,” he murmured near her ear. “Deep. Firm. Some bulbs need to feel buried before they trust enough to grow.”

His chest pressed against her back, not by accident. Alabama’s breath hitched. She could feel herself getting wet, her pussy leaking so much she had to spread her knees just to keep from squirming. Nobody could see them behind the tomato plants, but that just made her hornier.

Fernando reached for a tray of tulip bulbs, each one smooth and papery-brown. He placed one in her palm, closing her fingers around it. “Feel how hard it is? All that potential locked up tight.” His thumb stroked once across her wrist, tracing the frantic jump of her pulse. “Some things need rough handling to open.”

She swallowed. “How rough?”

His laugh was soft, dark. “We’ll find out.”

For the next hour he kept her there, directing her hands, correcting the angle of her trowel, leaning in to show her how to mound soil just so. Every correction involved touch—his fingers over hers, his forearm brushing the side of her breast, the accidental press of his thigh against hers when he reached across. Alabama’s sundress clung to her back with sweat; she felt her nipples tight and obvious against the thin cotton and didn’t care. Each time his skin grazed hers, a pulse beat between her legs, steady and demanding.

When the session finally ended, the others began packing up tools and chatting about next week. Fernando stayed crouched beside her, wiping his hands slowly on a rag.

“You’ve got good instincts,” he said. “Come back tomorrow afternoon. The light’s better then. I’ll show you propagation tricks most people don’t learn until their second season.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, returned to her eyes. The invitation hung between them, unmistakable.

Alabama drove home with the windows down, hoping the wind would cool her off, but her skin still burned. Her fingers stank of dirt and Fernando. At home, she dumped the leftover bulbs in a vase on the kitchen counter, not caring what color they were supposed to be.

Austin arrived home late Sunday, tie loosened, carrying the faint scent of cigar smoke from the clubhouse. He kissed her cheek, asked about her weekend, listened with half an ear while she babbled about soil amendments and companion planting. Then he noticed the vase.

“Pretty,” he said, brushing a fingertip over one furled petal. “Though they look a little droopy already.”

Alabama looked at the vase. Every flower was dead, petals brown and drooping like limp dicks. Something cold crawled up her back.

"I probably overwatered," she lied, tossing the dead flowers in the trash before Austin could say anything. The lie stuck under her nails, dirty and impossible to scrub out.

That night she lay awake beside Austin’s quiet breathing, thighs pressed together, replaying the slow drag of Fernando’s thumb across her wrist. Her body felt heavy, ripe, waiting for rougher hands.

Across town, Fernando locked the greenhouse door, turned off the lights, and stood alone among the shadowed beds. He pressed his soil-stained fingers to his mouth, inhaling the faint trace of her skin left behind, and smiled.