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.

Greenhouse Heat

Alabama told Austin she was going to the nursery for potting mix and some annuals for the front beds. It was a lie, but she didn't care. Her pussy had been wet since Fernando's text that morning: Greenhouse is empty after 2. Come alone. She blasted the AC in the car, but it didn't do shit for the heat between her legs.

She parked behind the clubhouse where her SUV wouldn’t be visible from the street. The afternoon sun beat down on the glass roof, turning the greenhouse into a shimmering oven. When she pushed open the door, the humid air rolled over her like breath—thick, wet, scented with loam and something sharper, almost animal.

Fernando was at the far end, spraying orchids. Water dripped onto the concrete. He wore a black tank top soaked with sweat and cargo shorts hanging low. When he turned, his shoulders looked even bigger in the light.

“Took you long enough,” he said, voice rough with amusement. He reached past her to twist the lock on the door. The click echoed. “Can’t have the humidity escaping.”

Alabama's heart pounded. The greenhouse felt cramped, the plants crowding in. Sweat made her sundress stick to her back.

Fernando put down the mister and walked over, wiping his hands on his shirt. He stared at her openly—her sweaty hair, her tits outlined by the dress, the way her legs shook.

“You came back,” he said. “Good girl.”

The words landed low in her belly, warm and heavy. She hadn’t been called a good girl in years—maybe ever—and the possessive approval in his tone made her nipples tighten painfully against her bra.

“I said I would.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

He stopped so close she had to look up at him. He smelled like sweat and dirt. "Show me your hands."

She lifted them, palms up. Faint crescents of yesterday’s soil still darkened the edges of her nails. Fernando took her right wrist, turned it, studied the half-moon marks like they were evidence.

“You didn’t scrub hard enough,” he murmured. “I like that.”

He pressed his thumb into her palm, slow and firm. Then he led her to a workbench covered in trays of orchids, their roots pale and thin.

“Today we repot,” he said. “These need fresh bark. Gentle, but firm. Too soft and they rot. Too rough and you snap something that can’t grow back.”

He gave her a bag of orchid mix. She dumped it into a pot, the chunks rattling. Fernando knelt next to her, their knees touching. She didn't move away.

“Take one out,” he instructed.

She lifted a seedling carefully. The roots dangled, cool and slick. Fernando’s hand settled on her lower back, steadying her—or claiming her, she wasn’t sure. His palm was hot through the dress.

“Trim the dead ones first.” He passed her pruning shears. “Pain makes them stronger. Forces new growth.”

The metal was cold. She snipped a brown root; it fell away like a lie. Fernando’s fingers spread wider across her spine, thumb tracing the ridge of her bra strap.

“Like this?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Harder. Don’t be afraid to hurt it a little.”

She cut again. His hand slid lower, just above her ass. Even that made her pussy throb and get wet.

“Tell me something, Alabama,” he said quietly. “Does your husband know how to make you bloom? Or does he just water you and hope for the best?”

The question hit her. She froze, shears in the air. She thought of Austin—always missionary, always in the dark, quick, boring, nothing.

She met Fernando’s eyes. “No,” she admitted. “He doesn’t.”

His face changed—hungry, approving. He pushed her closer until her thigh pressed against his cock, hard through his shorts. She gasped.

“That’s a shame,” he said. “A woman like you—curves like ripe fruit, skin that flushes so pretty—you should be dripping all the time.”

Her cheeks burned hotter. She tried to focus on the orchid, packing bark around tender roots, but her hands shook. Fernando took the pot from her, set it aside, and turned her toward him. They were still kneeling; his face was level with her breasts.

"Look at you," he said. "Dress stuck to you, nipples poking out."

She glanced down. The yellow cotton had gone translucent in patches from humidity and sweat; the outline of her lace bra showed clearly, peaks straining. Embarrassment and arousal tangled tight.

Fernando put his hands on her knees and pushed them apart, moving between her legs. Her dress rode up, exposing more skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, eyes locked on hers, “and I will.”

She couldn't speak. She wanted him too much.

He leaned in and kissed her neck, tasting her sweat. Alabama's head fell back and she moaned.

His hands slid up her thighs, bunching her dress at her hips. His thumbs traced her panties, already wet.

"Fuck," he muttered. "You're soaked."

She whimpered when he pressed his hand against her pussy, grinding hard. He did it again, slower, watching her.

"Been thinking about this since yesterday," he said. "Wanted to bend you over and fuck you right here, see how tight you get when you're scared someone will catch you."

She pictured it—him fucking her over the bench, dress up, his cock inside her while people talked nearby. The thought made her even wetter.

Fernando hooked fingers into her panties and tugged. She lifted her hips to help him, shameless. The fabric peeled away with a wet sound. Cool air hit her exposed sex; she shivered.

He didn't rush. He ran his finger through her folds, spreading her wetness over her clit in slow circles that made her legs shake.

“Please,” she breathed.

“Please what?”

“More.”

He chuckled and shoved a thick finger inside her. She squeezed around him. He added another, stretching her, his thumb rubbing her clit hard.

Alabama’s hands scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, nails digging through damp cotton. She rocked against his hand, chasing the pressure, breath coming in ragged pants that fogged the air between them.

Fernando watched her fall apart. "That's it. Ride my fingers. Bet your husband never gets you this wet, does he?"

She shook her head. He ground his hand against her, fingers twisting deep, hitting the spot that made her see stars. She was close.

"Come on," he growled. "Squeeze me. Show me how bad you need it."

Her orgasm hit hard. She arched and cried out into his neck. He kept fingering her until she collapsed, shaking.

They stayed like that, her head on his shoulder, his fingers still inside her. Then panic hit.

She pulled away, yanking her dress down. "I have to go."

Fernando let her go, but his eyes tracked every frantic movement. “Running already?”

“I can’t—” She stood on unsteady legs, panties twisted around one ankle. She kicked them off rather than fix them, grabbed her purse from the floor.

He rose more slowly, erection straining obviously against his shorts. “Tomorrow,” he said. Not a question.

Alabama ran, bare feet slapping the floor, the taste of his sweat still in her mouth from biting his shoulder.

That night, she cut white lilies from the community plot as a guilt offering for Austin. She put them in a vase on the table while he loosened his tie and asked about her day.

"Productive," she said, forcing a smile. "Learned a lot about orchids."

Austin kissed her cheek, barely looking up from his phone. Later, in bed, he touched her out of habit. She let him, but all she could think about was how different it felt from Fernando's rough hands.

In the morning, the lilies were dead. Brown, limp, petals all over the table.

Austin frowned over coffee. “That’s strange.”

Alabama stared at the mess, her thighs still sore, the smell of sex and dirt stuck to her skin no matter how much she scrubbed.

From his pocket, Austin quietly slid one curled, dead petal into his wallet.

Private Beds

The text buzzed in while Alabama was folding Austin’s shirts, the bland, white things stiff in her hands.

F. Private garden behind clubhouse. 8pm. Wear something easy to lift.

Her stomach did a backflip. She deleted the message right away, then just stood there, staring at the empty screen, heart pounding in her throat and between her legs. Austin was downstairs, glued to the game, beer in hand, clueless. She told him she was meeting some garden club women for drinks. The lie came out easy, like all the others.

By 7:45 she was parking in the shadows behind the squat brick clubhouse. The private garden was hidden behind a tall cedar fence, out of sight from the street. She’d never been back here. Only Fernando had the key.

She wore a short denim skirt, no panties. She’d decided in the shower, water beating down as she shaved, thinking about Fernando watching her. Going without underwear felt like a dirty secret, hot and reckless, and it was all hers.

Fernando waited just inside the gate, shirtless under the lantern. Sweat made his chest shine, dark hair running down into loose linen pants. The garden was overgrown, flowers everywhere, the air thick with jasmine and the sound of crickets. Somewhere, water dripped.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at her, slow and obvious, eyes on her red cheeks, her nipples poking through the thin tank top, her bare feet fidgeting on the warm stone.

“Close the gate,” he said finally.

She did. The latch snapped shut, loud and final.

Fernando stepped forward and cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip. “You came without panties.”

It wasn’t a question. Heat flooded her face. “How—”

“Your walk,” he said. “Careful. Like you’re holding something precious between your thighs.” His hand slid down her throat, over the racing pulse, to rest between her breasts. “Tell me you’re wet already.”

Alabama swallowed. “Yes.”

“Show me.”

He said it quiet, but it hit her like a slap. She fumbled with the button on her skirt. He just watched, not moving, while she let the denim drop to her feet. The night air hit her bare pussy, and she clenched, already wet.

Fernando’s eyes darkened. “Good girl.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her deeper into the garden, past beds of herbs, to a long potting bench under a tangle of vines. Tools were everywhere—trowels, shears, a coil of green twine. One lantern hung above, lighting up the old wood and his bare skin.

He turned her to face the bench. “Hands here.”

She did what he said, palms flat on the bench. The position bent her over, skirt up, ass out for him and anyone else who might be watching. She was breathing fast, skin buzzing with nerves and want.

Fernando moved behind her. She felt the heat of him first, then the slow drag of his fingertips up the backs of her thighs, tracing trembling muscles. He stopped just short of where she ached, teasing the crease where thigh met cheek.

“Tell me what you thought about,” he said, voice low. “All week. When you touched yourself thinking of me.”

Her face burned against the wood. “Your hands,” she whispered. “How rough they are. How you… how you made me come in the greenhouse.”

A soft hum of approval. “And?”

“Your mouth,” she admitted. “I imagined it on me. Licking. Biting.”

He grabbed her pussy, big hand sliding between her legs. She was soaked, his fingers slipping through her folds, spreading her open, rubbing her clit slow just to tease her.

“Like this?” he asked, pressing two fingers inside her in one smooth thrust.

Alabama moaned and shoved herself back on his hand. He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made her legs shake. His thumb kept grinding her clit in hard, fast circles.

“Yes—God—”

He pulled his fingers out, leaving her empty and desperate. She heard the twine unspooling. Then his hands grabbed her wrists, tying them together to a metal ring on the bench. The twine wasn’t tight, just enough to make sure she couldn’t go anywhere until he let her.

Fernando leaned over her back, chest to her shoulder blades, lips at her ear. “Safe word is ‘wilting.’ Say it and everything stops. Understand?”

She nodded frantically.

“Words, Alabama.”

“Yes. I understand.”

He rewarded her with a slow lick up the side of her neck, tasting salt and nerves. Then he stepped back. She heard the rustle of fabric—his pants dropping—and her heart slammed against her ribs.

He grabbed her hips, hard enough to leave marks. The head of his cock pressed against her, sliding through her wetness, getting himself slick. He didn’t fuck her yet. Just rubbed up over her clit, back down, pushing at her hole and then pulling away.

“Please,” she begged, voice cracking.

“Please what?”

“Fuck me. Please, Fernando—”

He slammed into her in one hard thrust. Alabama cried out, the stretch almost too much. He was thick, hot, filling her up. He stayed deep, making her feel every inch.

Then he started to move.

He started slow, grinding deep, dragging over every spot that made her shake. His hands locked on her hips so she couldn’t move, couldn’t get more. Every time he pulled out she felt empty, every time he slammed back in it was loud and filthy in the quiet garden.

“Feel that?” he growled. “This cunt was made for me. Tight and greedy. Your husband ever fuck you like this?”

“No,” she sobbed, shaking her head. “Never—”

He started fucking her harder, hips snapping, the bench creaking. One hand reached around to rub her clit rough, the other yanked her hair back so he could bite her neck.

“Say it again.”

“Never—only you—oh God—”

Her orgasm hit fast, mean, building low in her gut. Fernando always knew. He pulled out suddenly, leaving her whining and empty.

“Not yet.”

He spun her around, wrists still tied, and hauled her up onto the bench, legs wide open. Then he dropped to his knees in the dirt between her thighs.

His tongue was on her, flat and dirty, licking from her hole up to her clit. Alabama arched, almost sliding off the bench. He held her open, eating her out with long, filthy licks, sucking her clit, fucking her with his tongue until she couldn’t think. Then he shoved three fingers in, stretching her, and she came hard, screaming, soaking his mouth.

He didn’t stop, just kept licking her until she was shaking and whimpering, too sensitive to stand it.

Finally he stood up, wiped his mouth, eyes wild. He untied her wrists, rubbed the marks, then kissed her, her own taste on his lips. She clung to him, legs around his waist, his cock still hard against her stomach.

“Take me home with you,” he muttered against her lips. “Leave him.”

The words hit her like a slap. Guilt crashed in, cold and sharp—Austin’s face, the dead flowers, the petal in his wallet. She pulled away, shaking her head.

“I can’t. Not yet.”

Fernando’s jaw tightened, but he let her go. From a nearby pot he lifted a small moonflower seedling, its leaves pale and luminous.

“For you,” he said. “Plant it tonight. If it lives, you’ll know what to do.”

She got dressed with shaking hands, holding the seedling in her skirt. Fernando watched her from the dark as she slipped out the gate.

At home, Austin was passed out on the couch, TV still on. She snuck past him to the kitchen, shoved the moonflower into a pot on the windowsill, watered it with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

In bed later, Austin stirred when she slid in beside him. His hand found her wrist in the dark, thumb brushing over the faint twine marks.

“Late night,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“Girls’ night ran long,” she lied.

He didn’t answer, but his fingers tightened briefly before letting go.

In the morning, the moonflower was already dead—leaves brown, stem limp. Alabama stared at it, sick to her stomach.

Downstairs, Austin was already up. He stood at the counter holding the dead plant, expression unreadable.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly. Then, softer: “I know where you’ve been, Alabama. I tracked your phone.”

Her heart stopped.

Tangled Vines

Alabama stopped in the kitchen doorway, staring at the limp moonflower in Austin’s hand. He usually looked at her with the same blank face he gave his fantasy football stats, but now his eyes were hard, locked on her. Her stomach twisted.

“I tracked your phone,” he repeated, voice low and even. “Last night. The night before. The greenhouse. The private garden.” He set the dead plant on the counter with deliberate care. “Who is he?”

The question just sat there. Alabama’s mouth went dry. She thought about lying—something about the garden club, or losing her phone—but nothing came out. Austin’s face was pale, jaw clenched, eyes locked on her.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Finally: “His name is Fernando.”

Austin exhaled through his nose, a slow hiss. He nodded once, as if confirming something he’d already known. Then he turned away, bracing his hands on the counter, shoulders rigid.

Alabama braced for yelling, accusations, maybe a slammed door. Nothing. The silence just dragged on, heavy and awkward.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. The words felt small, useless.

He didn’t respond.

Austin took the couch that night. Alabama lay in their bed alone, the sheets cold, her thighs still sore from where Fernando had grabbed her. The marks from the twine itched under her sleeves. She tried to get herself off, thinking about Fernando’s rough hands and the way he talked to her, but stopped halfway, the guilt making her feel sick.

In the morning, they acted polite. Coffee, toast, barely talking except about the weather. When she reached for the creamer, Austin’s eyes went straight to her wrists. She tried to pull her sleeves down, but he’d already seen.

By evening the strain cracked. Austin came home early, tie already loosened, carrying a bottle of her favorite red. He poured two glasses without asking, handed her one, and sat across from her at the kitchen island.

“We’re talking about this,” he said. Not angry. Resigned. “Or we’re done pretending.”

Alabama’s heart pounded. She took a drink, stalling. She kept thinking about the black tulip bulb Fernando gave her. She’d snuck outside at dawn and buried it in the backyard, hiding it under the mulch like it was evidence.

Austin leaned forward. “Do you love him?”

The question hit her hard. "No." It was true, but not really. "It’s not love. It’s... I need it. He makes me feel like I’m actually alive."

Austin’s mouth twisted. “And I make you feel dead.”

She winced. "You make me feel safe. Comfortable. But not wanted. Not the way he does."

His eyes darkened. He drained half his glass in one swallow. “Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me how he makes you feel wanted.”

Alabama stared at him, her heart pounding. Austin looked right back at her. There was something in his eyes—hurt, but also a weird challenge. Maybe even turned on.

She set her glass down slowly. Stood. Walked around the island until she stood between his knees. His hands stayed on the counter, knuckles white.

Alabama yanked her blouse off. She was wearing the lace bra Fernando liked, the one that barely held her tits in. Her nipples were already hard, from nerves and the cold. Austin stared.

She climbed onto his lap, knees on either side of his hips. His hands hovered, then grabbed her waist, awkward and unsure. She ground down on him, feeling his cock get hard under her.

"This isn’t how he does it," she said. "He just takes. He doesn’t ask."

Austin’s grip tightened, fingers digging in. “Then show me that.”

Something changed in his eyes. Alabama leaned in and bit his lip, hard enough to make him grunt. She ground on him harder, feeling his cock pressing against his pants.

He stood up fast, picking her up and dropping her ass on the cold counter. Glasses rattled, wine spilled. He kissed her, rough and sloppy, nothing like the careful way he usually did. She tasted wine and anger.

Austin shoved her skirt up, found her panties, and yanked them aside so hard the fabric tore. He shoved two fingers into her, no warning. She was already wet, embarrassingly wet, and he growled into her neck when he felt it.

“Already soaked,” he muttered. “Thinking about him?”

“Yes,” she admitted, arching into his hand. “And you.”

He fingered her hard, thumb on her clit, his other hand holding her thigh open. It was good, the way he always did it, but it didn’t have the roughness Fernando gave her. She came fast, squeezing his fingers, moaning into his shoulder.

After, he held her there, breathing hard, forehead against hers. “Stay,” he whispered. “We can fix this.”

She nodded, but it felt empty.

The next afternoon she texted Fernando: Austin knows. We need to talk.

His reply was immediate: Greenhouse. Now.

She went.

Fernando was already inside, locking the door behind her. The air was hot and smelled like dirt and flowers. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the back corner, away from the windows.

“You told him?” His voice was tight, jealous.

“He figured it out.”

Fernando pressed her against the glass wall, palms flat beside her head, caging her. His body was hard against hers, erection already straining.

“And you’re here anyway.”

“I had to see you.”

He kissed her, rough and hard, teeth banging together, tongue in her mouth. He ripped her blouse open, buttons flying everywhere. He shoved her bra down, her tits spilling out, and sucked her nipple so hard she yelped, then did the same to the other.

“Mine,” he growled against her skin. “Not his.”

He spun her roughly, face to the warm glass. Her breath fogged it in frantic puffs. Skirt flipped up, panties yanked down to her knees. She heard his zipper, the rustle of fabric.

Fernando shoved his cock into her in one go, no warning, just raw need. She was already wet for him. He fucked her hard against the glass, hips slamming into her, one hand yanking her hair, the other rubbing her clit fast and rough.

“Tell me you’re leaving him,” he demanded between thrusts. “Tell me this cunt belongs to me.”

Alabama sobbed, pleasure and guilt twisting. “I can’t—oh God—not yet—”

He pulled out, spun her around, lifted her legs up and shoved back in. The glass behind her creaked. They were both sweating, dirt from his hands smearing her tits and thighs.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She did. His eyes were fierce, possessive. “You will. You’ll choose me.”

He tied her wrists up again, this time with the same green twine, looping it around a pipe so her arms were stretched up. She was helpless, exposed. He dropped to his knees, pulled out, and started eating her out, tongue deep inside, nose pressed to her clit.

She came hard, thighs shaking around his head, cries echoing in the empty space.

He stood up, untied her wrists, turned her to the wall again, and fucked her from behind, slower and deeper this time. He wrapped his hand around her throat, squeezing just enough, thumb on her pulse.

“Come for me again,” he whispered. “Show me who you need.”

She came again, squeezing his cock until he groaned and came inside her.

After, they leaned against the glass, panting. Fernando’s fingers traced lazy circles on her hip.

“I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a single black tulip bulb—darker than the one he’d given before, almost obscene in its rarity. “Plant this at home. If it blooms, you leave him. If it wilts…” He shrugged, but his eyes were serious.

Alabama took it, fingers trembling.

That night she planted it in secret, deep in the backyard bed beside the first failed one. Austin was asleep—or pretending to be—when she slipped back inside.

Hours later, unable to sleep, she padded downstairs for water. Moonlight spilled through the window onto the garden.

The black tulip had already sprouted, a single green shoot poking out of the dirt way too fast.

By morning it was already wilted, black petals open and turning brown, drooping and dead.

She stared at it, feeling sick.

When she turned, Austin was there in the doorway, silhouetted, holding his phone. The screen glowed with a photo—her wrists marked with twine, taken while she slept.

He stepped into the moonlight, face unreadable, and held out the dead bulb he’d dug up.

“I think,” he said quietly, “it’s time we both stop pretending what we want.”

Harvest

The backyard was lit up by the moon, making everything look washed out and cold. The garden, which Alabama had always half-assed and Austin had fussed over every weekend, was a mess. Tomatoes hung heavy and rotten, splitting open and leaking juice, weeds had taken over the herb beds, and Austin stood there holding a dead black tulip, the petals shriveled up like a clenched hand.

Austin stood barefoot on the patio, still in his work clothes, shirt untucked and sleeves rolled up. The phone with the photo was shoved in his pocket. His eyes were bloodshot, staring at Alabama in a way that made her chest hurt more than if he’d just screamed at her.

Alabama stood in the doorway, her nightgown sticking to her sweaty thighs, arms wrapped tight around herself. She could feel Fernando’s cum still leaking out of her, warm and sticky, every time she moved. Her body wouldn’t let her hide it.

Austin spoke first, voice quiet. “I followed you once. Two weeks ago. Watched from the car while he fucked you against the greenhouse wall.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I sat there hard as a rock and hated myself for it.”

The words just sat there, ugly and raw. Alabama sucked in a breath. She’d never thought Austin could be that twisted—just sitting there, watching, getting hard while she got fucked by someone else.

“I thought if I knew the details it would kill the wanting,” he went on. “It didn’t. It made it worse.” He stepped closer, the wilted bulb crushed absently in his fist until black petals drifted to the stones. “Tell me what he does that I don’t.”

Alabama’s throat worked. “He doesn’t ask permission.”

Austin’s eyes went wide. He crossed the space fast, grabbed her arms so hard it would leave marks, and shoved her back against the rough wall of the house. The hit knocked the air out of her. Her nipples went hard from the cold and the way he manhandled her.

“Like this?” he asked, voice rough.

She nodded, barely.

He jammed his thigh between her legs, spreading them. The nightgown bunched up, and cold air hit her wet pussy. Austin shoved his hand under the fabric, his fingers sliding right through the sticky mess of Fernando’s cum and her own. He let out a low, angry groan.

“Jesus. You’re full of him.”

His fingers pushed inside her roughly, three at once, stretching tender tissue. Alabama whimpered, head thumping back against the wall. He pumped hard, curling to hit that spot that made her knees buckle, thumb grinding her clit without mercy.

"You let him mark you," Austin muttered into her neck, his teeth scraping her skin. "Wrist marks. Bite marks. Dirt on your thighs like you’re some slut." He yanked her nightgown down, pulling out one tit, and bit it hard enough to leave a mark before licking it.

Alabama grabbed at his shirt, not sure if she wanted to shove him off or drag him closer. She felt guilty and turned on at the same time. Every time his fingers slammed into her, it was obvious this wasn’t the same old Austin—his hands were rough, not gentle, and the sex was mean.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he demanded, adding a fourth finger, stretching her to the edge of pain.

“I—” The words stuck.

He stopped and pulled his hand out. She whimpered, her hips jerking, desperate for him to keep going.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped.

He spun her around and shoved her chest against the wall, yanking her nightgown up over her ass. The rough wall scraped her nipples, and she could feel his hard cock grinding against her ass through his pants.

Austin fumbled his cock out, not bothering with a condom, not even thinking about it. He shoved himself into her in one hard thrust, balls deep. Alabama cried out, the stretch almost too much. He felt bigger than she remembered, or maybe she was just sore and used up from Fernando fucking her earlier.

He fucked her hard, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hurt her or love her, slamming into her deep enough to lift her onto her toes. One hand yanked her hair, the other squeezed her hip so tight it hurt. The sound of skin slapping filled the yard. Somewhere, a dog barked and then shut up.

“You feel him in you still?” Austin growled against her ear. “When I’m this deep?”

“Yes,” she sobbed, the honesty torn out of her.

He started fucking her even harder, like he was trying to erase Fernando. He reached around and rubbed her clit fast and rough. The pleasure hit her quick and mean.

“Come on my cock,” he ordered. “Show me you can still come for me.”

She came, harder than she had with Fernando, her pussy squeezing Austin’s cock like it was trying to keep him inside. Tears ran down her face. He came right after, shooting hot inside her, grunting like an animal.

They stayed pressed together, both of them panting, sweat starting to cool on their skin. When he finally pulled out, she felt their cum leaking down her legs.

Austin turned her around, suddenly gentle, and pressed his forehead to hers. "I watched because I wanted to see what I was missing," he said, voice low. "You looked at him like you’d die if he didn’t fuck you. I want you to look at me like that."

Alabama’s voice cracked. “I don’t know how anymore.”

Silence stretched. Crickets resumed their chorus. Somewhere inside, her phone buzzed once—Fernando, probably, demanding an answer.

Austin stepped back, tucked himself away, eyes never leaving her face. “Then maybe we stop pretending this garden can be saved.”

He walked inside without another word, leaving her trembling against the wall, gown askew, body marked by two men in one night.

Alabama stayed outside until dawn edged the sky gray. She gathered the dead black tulip, crushed petals soft as wet paper, and walked to the far corner where the soil was richest. There she dug a small hole with her bare hands and pressed something into it—not the dead bulb, but a fresh cutting she’d stolen from Fernando’s private garden weeks ago, wrapped in damp paper towel in her nightstand drawer. A piece of night-blooming cereus, stubborn and fragrant.

She covered it up, then turned on the hose and watered it until her knees were caked in mud.

Then she took out her phone.

To Fernando: It’s over.

His reply came almost instantly: a single photo—no text. The community garden at sunrise, every bed in obscene, impossible bloom. Orchids, moonflowers, black tulips—everything lush and open and dripping with dew.

Alabama stared at the photo until her phone screen went black.

She slipped the phone into her pocket alongside the crushed black petals and went inside. Austin was at the kitchen table, coffee untouched, watching the door.

She sat across from him. Neither spoke.

Outside, the cutting she’d buried shoved a pale green leaf up through the dirt. Nobody saw it.

Inside, Alabama felt something changing, like she was finally breaking free. She didn’t know where she belonged now, just that she wasn’t going to keep dying in the same old place.

Her body still buzzed, sore and used up but wanting more. She looked at Austin across the table and saw he was just as hungry. This wasn’t over.