The Gardener's Secret

First Cutting

The greenhouse reeked of wet dirt and rotting green things, the sort of thick, swampy stink that stuck to your skin and hair and made you feel like you needed a shower just for walking through the door. The July sun beat down on the glass roof, turning the place into a goddamn sauna; sweat and condensation dripped everywhere, making it feel like you were standing in a giant, humid armpit. Susana hung back near the wall, surrounded by a bunch of old ladies in floppy hats and one guy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, all of them pretending to care about Luis’s rose-pruning demo.

Luis was bigger than his dorky email photo had suggested—broad shoulders, thick arms, his work shirt already soaked with sweat under the pits and down his back. He had his sleeves rolled up, showing off muscles and a mess of scars that looked like they came from fighting with rose bushes or maybe just being an idiot with a knife. His hands were rough and moved with a kind of casual violence, snapping through thick canes with the pruners, then making these perfect little cuts like he was showing off. Every move was sharp, practiced, and a little bit mean.

Susana’s hands were sweaty, and not just because the place was a steam bath. Her stomach was in knots, and she could feel the flush crawling up her neck. She wiped her palms on her khakis, trying to look like she was paying attention to whatever Luis was saying, but really she was just staring at the way his forearm flexed when he squeezed the pruners, hoping nobody noticed how obvious she was being.

“Always cut at forty-five degrees,” Luis said, voice low and rough, gravel beneath boots. “Sloping away from the bud so water runs off, not into the wound. Leave it open to rot, the whole plant suffers.” He glanced up then, dark eyes sweeping the group, and for a heartbeat locked on hers. No smile. Just assessment. She felt it in her body like a thumb pressing down, sharp and unyielding.

When the demo ended, Susana just stood there, feeling weirdly lost. Most of the old ladies shuffled off to the sad little refreshment table—lukewarm iced tea and cookies that were already going soggy in the heat. Susana hung back, pretending to care about a tray of plant cuttings, feeling like everyone could see right through her. Luis started cleaning his pruners with an oily rag, taking his sweet time about it.

“You,” he said without looking up. “New one. Come here.”

She walked over, legs wobbly like she’d had a few too many drinks. Up close, Luis smelled like sweat, dirt, and something sharp—maybe turpentine, maybe just the stink of cut plants and man.

“Susana, right?” He didn’t bother looking at her face, just grabbed her hand like he was checking out a piece of meat at the butcher. She stuck her hands out, palms up, and his fingers wrapped around her wrist—tight enough that she’d have to make a scene to pull away. His calluses scraped her skin as he turned her hand over, inspecting her like he was looking for defects. Her hands were soft, barely any tan, and she felt stupidly exposed.

“No calluses yet,” he murmured. “Soft. You’ll blister easily.”

“I’ve gardened before,” she blurted, hating how desperate and pathetic she sounded. The words tumbled out too fast, making it obvious how much she wanted him to think she wasn’t just some useless newbie.

“Not like this.” He released her wrist but didn’t step back. “Come. I’ll show you proper technique. Private. The others don’t need to see you struggle.”

He led her past rows of benches to a smaller alcove half-hidden by hanging baskets of trailing fuchsia. A propagation table stood there, littered with pots, sterile mix, and a fresh flat of rose cuttings. The glass here was older, streaked with mineral deposits; light came through diffused and greenish.

Luis shoved her in front of the table and crowded in behind her, close enough that his chest pressed against her back when he reached around to shove the pruners into her hand. He was hot—literally, radiating heat through her thin blouse—and she could feel his breath moving her shoulder blade, every exhale making her skin prickle.

“Grip like this.” His much larger hand enveloped hers, repositioning her fingers. Thumb on top, index along the handle for leverage. “Firm. Not tentative. Plants respect strength.”

She tried to make the cut, but the cane just fought back, the blade gnawing at it instead of slicing clean. Typical.

“Too soft,” he said against her ear. His lips weren’t touching her, but they were close enough she felt the shape of the words. “You’re afraid of hurting it. That’s why it tears.”

He tightened his grip over hers and forced the cut—clean, sharp, perfect. Sap welled at the wound, sticky and pale. Susana’s breath hitched. Between her thighs, heat bloomed suddenly and liquidly. She pressed her legs together, mortified at the faint wet sound her panties made.

Luis stayed right where he was, picked another cane, and made her do it again—slower this time. He pressed his hips against her ass, steadying himself, and she could feel the thick line of his cock, half-hard, pushing into her through his jeans and her underwear. He wasn’t humping her, just letting her know it was there, heavy and obvious.

“Better,” he said. “See how it yields when you don’t hesitate?”

She nodded, unable to speak, throat tight with embarrassment and need. Her nipples were hard, poking through her bra, and every breath made the fabric scrape against them, making her want to squirm. She felt desperate and stupidly needy, like she’d do anything if he just kept touching her.

He stayed like that through three more cuts. Each time his erection seemed to thicken, lengthen, until she could feel the blunt head nudging insistently. Her own cunt clenched on nothing, aching. She thought of Michael at home—probably finished mowing by now, probably drinking a beer on the patio, waiting for her to come back with stories about soil pH and companion planting.

Luis finally stepped back, and the sudden rush of cool air made her shiver. She almost whimpered at the loss, her chest tight with a mix of confusion, disappointment, and a pathetic kind of longing.

He plucked one of the severed buds—still tight, red as fresh blood—and pressed it into her palm. Closed her fingers around it.

“Take this home,” he said. “Keep it alive until next Saturday. Water it. Talk to it if you want. But don’t let it die.”

Susana looked down at the flower. Already, the edges of the petals were beginning to soften in the heat.

“I’ll try,” she whispered.

Luis’s smile was small, cruel in its gentleness. “Trying isn’t enough, Susana. Either it lives… or it doesn’t.”

He left her standing there, surrounded by the stink of broken plants and the even stronger stink of her own arousal, her panties soaked through. She stood there, legs shaking, feeling like a total idiot—humiliated, horny, and not sure which was worse—until she finally managed to move.

Driving home, the rosebud lay on the passenger seat. By the time she pulled into the driveway, it had already begun to wilt, head drooping as though exhausted. She carried it inside anyway.

Michael met her at the door, kissed her cheek, and asked how it went. She smiled brightly, said it was wonderful, so many nice people. He nodded, glanced past her toward the backyard.

“Roses look thirsty,” he said. “Maybe water them tonight?”

Susana fingered the wilted bud in her pocket, disappointment sitting in her chest like a rock. The petals were already limp and dying, and she wondered, not for the first time, if screwing this up would just prove what a useless mess she really was.

“I will,” she lied.

Deep Root

Wednesday came, and the greenhouse was empty except for the constant drone of the fans and the wet splat of water dripping from above. Susana had lied to Michael, rattling off some bullshit about dry cleaning and groceries, maybe coffee with a book club friend. Instead, she drove straight to the community garden, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to punch its way out of her chest. The parking lot was dead, except for Luis’s beat-up pickup, parked like he’d crashed it there, tailgate hanging open, a tray of seedlings left to cook in the sun.

She didn’t bother knocking. The side door was unlocked, like he’d been waiting for her. The air inside smacked her in the face, hot and wet, stinking of fertilizer and that chemical tang that always made her think of blood. Luis was at the far bench, shirtless, elbows deep in dirt, fucking around with orchids. Sweat ran down his back, cutting through the grime, muscles flexing under skin the color of old pennies as he jammed his thumbs into the soil, making room for the delicate white roots.

He didn’t turn when the door clicked shut behind her.

“You’re early,” he said. Voice flat. Not surprised.

Susana swallowed. Her mouth felt cotton-dry despite the humidity. “I couldn’t wait until Saturday.”

Now he looked over his shoulder. Eyes dark, unreadable. A slow smile curled one side of his mouth—not kind. Predatory. “Couldn’t wait for what, exactly?”

She couldn’t answer. The words were jammed up behind the shame and the raw, throbbing need that had kept her up for four nights straight, her hand between her legs, replaying the feel of his cock grinding against her ass, his breath hot in her ear. She’d fingered herself to three messy orgasms Sunday night, Michael snoring next to her, clueless as ever.

Luis wiped his hands on a filthy rag and tossed it aside, then started toward her, slow and cocky, like he had all the time in the world. She backed up without thinking, ass bumping into the cold edge of a steel table. He stopped so close she could smell him—sweat, dirt, and that unmistakable stink of a man who’s hard and knows it. Her pussy clenched so tight it almost hurt.

“Strip,” he said. “To your underwear. I don’t want soil on your pretty clothes.”

Her hands shook as she fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. Just plain white cotton, nothing sexy, but she felt like a whore peeling it off while he watched. The bra was next—beige, boring, the kind you wear when you’ve given up on impressing anyone. Her nipples were already hard, poking through the fabric, desperate for attention. She hesitated, fingers clumsy at the clasp.

“Faster,” he ordered. Low. Rough.

She did what she was told. The bra hit the floor. Cold air hit her tits, goosebumps popping up everywhere. She wriggled out of her jeans, not exactly graceful, and stood there in her panties—cheap white cotton, already soaked through at the crotch. They barely stayed up.

Luis stared at her, not saying a word, not even pretending to be impressed. He just looked her up and down, slow and clinical, like he was figuring out which part to cut off first.

“On your knees,” he said. “On the bench.”

The table was wide, old, covered in scratches and dirt. She climbed up, knees sinking into the cold, gritty soil. Dirt stuck to her skin right away. She knelt there, hands down, ass in the air, feeling like a total slut and hating how much she loved it.

He stepped behind her. Didn’t touch. Just stood close enough she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Hands in the soil,” he told her. “Deep. Wrist-deep. Feel the roots.”

She did what he said, shoving both hands wrist-deep into the black, wet dirt. It was cold and sticky, little roots wrapping around her fingers like they wanted to pull her under. The feeling was filthy, almost sexual. Her breathing got ragged.

Luis moved closer. She heard the metallic rasp of his zipper. The soft thud of denim hitting the floor. Then the blunt, hot head of his cock nudged the corner of her mouth.

“Look at me.”

She turned her head. His cock was thick, veiny, darker than his skin, already drooling pre-cum. Heavy, intimidating, nothing like Michael’s sad, familiar dick after a decade of boring marriage.

“Open.”

She did.

He didn’t fuck her mouth right away. He just smeared his cockhead over her lips, painting them with pre-cum until they were shiny and sticky. The taste was sharp, dirty, pure man. Her tongue flicked out, desperate for more.

“Beg,” he said. “In Spanish. Tell me what you want, Susana.”

Her face went hot. She hadn’t begged in Spanish like this since college, and never for something this filthy. The words felt dirty in her mouth, embarrassing and perfect all at once.

“Por favor… dame tu polla. Quiero chupártela. Quiero que me llenes la boca.”

His hand fisted in her hair. Not gentle. Tight enough to sting.

“Good girl.”

Then he pushed in.

He started slow, letting her lips stretch around his cock, letting her feel the weight on her tongue. She moaned, the sound buzzing up his shaft. He groaned, deep and animal, and shoved in until the head hit the back of her throat. She gagged, drool leaking out. He held her there, not mean, just making sure she learned her place.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmured. “You can take more.”

She did, relaxing her throat like she used to practice on bananas as a horny teenager, back when she was more curious than ashamed. He pushed deeper. Her eyes watered, spit running down her chin. Her hands stayed buried in the dirt, fingers twitching uselessly as he started to fuck her mouth, slow and steady.

Every time he pulled out, she gasped for air. Every thrust made her throat make a wet, disgusting sound. It was filthy, desperate, and she could feel her own juices running down her thighs, soaking her panties. Her clit throbbed in time with his cock.

Luis’s grip tightened. “You’re married,” he said conversationally, even as he fed her another inch. “You have a husband at home. Probably waiting for you to bring home milk and bread. And here you are, on your knees in dirt, choking on strange cock.”

She whimpered. The humiliation hit her hard, hot and sweet, making her pussy clench even tighter.

“You like that?” he asked. “Knowing you’re betraying him right now? Knowing your mouth belongs to me instead?”

She couldn’t speak. Just nodded frantically, tears streaming.

He pulled out suddenly. Strings of saliva connected her lips to his cock. She panted, chest heaving.

“Turn around. Ass up. Face down.”

She scrambled to do what he said, pressing her face to the dirty wood, ass up, knees wide. She felt like a bitch in heat, exposed and begging for it. The air hit her soaked panties, the fabric sticking to her pussy lips, showing off just how desperate she was.

Luis hooked a finger in her waistband and yanked her panties down just enough to bare her cunt, leaving them bunched at her knees like handcuffs.

He rubbed his cockhead through her pussy lips, not fucking her yet, just sliding and teasing, smearing himself with how wet she was.

“You’re dripping,” he said. Almost amused. “Just from sucking cock. Pathetic.”

She moaned into the table, hips jerking back, desperate for him to just fuck her already.

He slapped her ass, hard enough to echo through the greenhouse. Her skin burned where he hit her.

“Stay still.”

She froze.

He rubbed again. Slower. Deliberate. The head caught on her entrance, dipped just inside, then withdrew. She sobbed with frustration.

“Tell me why you came here today,” he said.

“Because… because I need it.”

“Need what?”

“Your cock. In my mouth. In me. Anywhere.”

“And your husband?”

She hesitated, the truth stinging like acid in her mouth.

“He… he doesn’t fill me like this.”

Luis pushed in then—sudden, deep, all the way to the root. She cried out, back arching. He was thicker than Michael, longer, stretching her in ways that bordered on pain. Pleasure followed immediately, coiling tight in her belly.

He fucked her hard, not bothering with any warmup or mercy. Every thrust slammed her forward, her tits scraping across the rough wood, nipples burning. Dirt stuck to her skin, gritty and filthy. The smell of her own pussy mixed with the stink of the greenhouse, raw and animal.

“You’re going to come like this,” he growled. “With my cock buried in your cheating cunt. And you’re going to think about how you’re going to go home to him with my cum leaking out of you.”

She shattered.

The orgasm slammed into her, brutal and blinding. Her pussy clenched around his cock, milking him for everything. She screamed into the table, mouth full of dirt. He didn’t stop, fucking her through it until she was shaking, too sensitive, tears soaking the wood.

Only then did he pull out.

Turned her over. Straddled her chest. Fisted his slick cock and stroked once, twice.

“Come on, your face,” he ordered.

She opened her mouth obediently.

He came, shooting thick, hot ropes all over her face—cheeks, lips, tongue. Some got in her hair, some on her lashes. She swallowed what hit her mouth, moaning at the dirty taste.

When he finished, he wiped his head across her lips, smearing the last drops.

“Clean me.”

She did. Tongue soft, reverent. He sighed.

Then he stepped back, zipped up, and left her there—panties tangled at her knees, face dripping with cum, hands still shoved in the dirt.

“Get dressed,” he said. “And take this.”

He plucked a small potted orchid cutting from the bench—delicate white roots dangling—and pressed it into her filthy hands.

“Plant it at home. Take care of it. Or don’t. Your choice.”

He walked away.

Susana stayed on the bench, shaking, cum drying on her face, dirt caked on her fingers. Her pussy throbbed, empty and aching, still twitching from the aftershocks.

She got dressed, slow and shaky, not even bothering to wipe the cum off her face. She let it dry there, a filthy badge of what she’d done.

Driving home, the orchid sat on the passenger seat beside the wilted rosebud from last week—now completely brown, petals curled inward like a dead fist.

When she pulled into the driveway, Michael was watering the roses. He waved. Smiled.

She waved back. Smiled brighter.

Inside the house, she set the orchid on the kitchen windowsill. Didn’t water it. Didn’t even look at it again.

That night she showered twice. Scrubbed until her skin was raw.

The roses in the backyard lost three more blooms overnight. Brown spots spread across the petals like bruises.

Michael noticed in the morning. Frowned at the breakfast table.

“Something’s wrong with them,” he said quietly.

Susana sipped her coffee. Met his eyes over the rim.

“I know,” she said.

And for the first time, the words felt like foreplay.

Overwatered

Michael stood at the kitchen window the next morning, clutching his coffee mug like it was the only thing keeping him upright, staring out at the backyard as if the whole patch of dirt had spat in his face. The rose bed, which he'd once bragged about to anyone who'd listen, looked like someone had pissed poison all over it. Leaves curled up at the edges, brown and brittle, buds hanging limp and black, refusing to open. A few petals had already dropped, scattered across the mulch like someone had bled out there.

Susana watched him from the breakfast bar, barefoot, still wearing the oversized T-shirt she’d slept in, the hem barely covering her ass. Her thighs ached from being bent over the propagation bench yesterday, a dull, needy throb that flared every time she shifted. Between her legs, she was still raw and swollen, Luis’s cock having left her stretched and sore, the ache of him inside her lingering like a bruise she couldn’t show. She hadn’t bothered to shower after coming home; she wanted to keep the smell of dirt and cum on her skin, a filthy secret pressed against her like a hand between her legs.

“Jesus,” Michael muttered. “What the hell happened out there?”

She sipped orange juice, kept her voice light. “Heat wave, maybe. I forgot to water for a couple of days.”

He turned, eyebrows raised. “You forgot? You’ve been talking about that garden club nonstop. Thought you were turning into some kind of plant whisperer.”

Susana forced a laugh. It came out brittle. “I guess I’m not as good as I thought.”

Michael set the mug down harder than necessary. The ceramic clinked against granite. “We should fix it this weekend. Together. I’ll pick up some fertilizer and new mulch. We can make a day of it.”

The suggestion hit her like a slap. She pictured the two of them kneeling side by side in the dirt—Michael in his pathetic old cargo shorts, hands gentle, asking her about spacing, while all she could think about was how Luis would have shoved her face into that same soil and fucked her until she was drooling and sobbing, her mouth full of dirt and her cunt full of his cock.

“I have a private lesson Saturday,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “Luis is showing me propagation techniques. Orchids. It’s kind of intensive.”

Michael’s mouth tightened for half a second—barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for it. He nodded anyway. “Right. Of course. Your new hobby.”

He didn’t say it like an accusation. Not yet. But the word hobby sat between them like something foreign.

Susana crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek to his back. He smelled like sleep, coffee, and the same laundry detergent she kept buying just because it was his favorite. It was all so familiar, so safe, so fucking boring.

“I’ll water tonight,” she murmured into his shirt. “Promise.”

He covered her hands with his. Squeezed once. “Okay.”

She left the kitchen before he could turn around and see the flush creeping up her neck.

Saturday morning, she told Michael she’d be gone most of the day—Luis had a lot to cover, she said—and drove to the greenhouse with her heart pounding, cunt already wet. The orchid cutting Luis had given her was still sitting on the windowsill at home, roots brown and shriveled, bone-dry. She hadn’t touched it. She hadn’t watered it once.

The greenhouse door was propped open today, letting in a sluggish breeze that did nothing to cut the heat. Luis was already there, shirtless again, sweat tracing dark paths down the grooves of his abdomen as he dragged a hose across the gravel floor. He didn’t acknowledge her entrance. Just kept working.

Susana stepped inside. Let the door swing shut behind her. The latch clicked like a lock turning.

He finally looked up. Eyes raked over her—sundress today, pale yellow cotton that clung in the humidity, thin straps, hem brushing mid-thigh. No bra. She’d decided against it in the car, nipples already tight from anticipation and the rough weave of the fabric.

“Lock it,” he said.

She did. Fingers trembling only slightly.

Luis dropped the hose. Water pooled around his boots. He walked toward her slowly, deliberately, until he was close enough she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

“Turn around. Hands on the bench.”

She obeyed, bending at the waist, palms flat on the scarred wood of the workbench. The position hiked her dress up, baring the bottom of her ass. She felt the air on her skin, her cunt already wet, slick and shameless.

Luis stepped behind her. Didn’t touch. Not yet. Just stood there, letting her feel his presence, the heat of him, the faint metallic scent of hose water and sweat.

“You watered the roses?” he asked. Casual. Like small talk.

Susana’s breath caught. “No.”

A low sound—almost a chuckle. “The orchid?”

“No.”

His hand landed on the small of her back. Heavy. Possessive. Fingers splayed wide. “Good.”

Then he yanked her dress up over her hips in one rough motion. Cool air hit her bare cunt—she hadn’t bothered with panties. She felt exposed, filthy, the betrayal complete.

Luis grunted, sounding pleased. "Look at you. Dripping like a slut before I even touch you."

He reached between her thighs. Two thick fingers slid through her folds, gathering slick, then pushed inside without warning. She gasped, hips jerking forward into the bench edge. He curled them, pressed against that spot that made her knees buckle.

“You’re going to ruin everything,” he said conversationally, pumping slowly. “Your pretty little backyard. Your marriage. All of it. And you’re going to come harder every time you think about it.”

She moaned. Tried to rock back onto his hand. He withdrew immediately.

“No. Stay still.”

She froze. Whimpered.

He reached past her, picked up the bypass pruners from the bench. The metal was cold when he laid the flat of the blade against the side of her throat—not pressing, just resting there. The threat was enough. Her pulse hammered against the steel.

“Feel that?” he murmured. “Sharp enough to open you up if I wanted. But I don’t. I want you to stay exactly like this—open, wet, mine.”

He nudged her legs wider with his knee. She spread for him. The pruners stayed at her throat.

Then he freed his cock. She heard the zipper, felt the blunt head drag along her slit—once, twice, coating himself in her. Teasing her entrance without entering.

“Tell me how Michael fucks you,” he said.

Susana swallowed. The blade shifted slightly with the motion. “Gentle. Slow. He… he kisses me a lot.”

Luis pushed in an inch. Stopped. “And does that make you come?”

“No.” Her voice cracked. “Not anymore.”

Another inch. Thicker stretch. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.

“He tries,” she continued, words spilling now. “He touches me. Fingers me. But it’s… polite. He never—”

“Never what?” Luis thrust deeper. Halfway now. She felt every ridge, every vein.

“Never makes me feel used,” she whispered.

He slammed home.

She cried out—sharp, broken. The pruners pressed a fraction harder against her skin. Not cutting. Just reminding.

He fucked her then—hard, punishing strokes that shoved her forward with each thrust. The workbench creaked. Her breasts swung beneath the dress, nipples scraping cotton. Every impact drove the breath from her lungs in ragged gasps.

“You’re going to go home tonight,” he growled between thrusts, “and look at those dead roses. You’re going to see them and know it’s because you’d rather be here getting fucked like a whore than taking care of anything he loves.”

She sobbed. Pleasure coiled vicious and tight. “Yes—”

“You’re going to let them die. Every last one. And every time a petal falls, you’re going to think of my cock splitting you open.”

The orgasm slammed into her, violent and humiliating. Her cunt clenched around his cock, spasming. She screamed into her arm, trying to muffle the sound, tears running down her face and pooling on the filthy wood.

Luis didn’t stop. Rode her through it, drawing it out until she was shaking, oversensitive, pleading incoherently.

Only then did he pull out. Turned her around. Pushed her to her knees.

“Open.”

She did. Mouth wide. Tongue out.

He jerked himself twice, fast and rough, and sprayed her face with cum—thick, hot ropes across her cheek, her lips, the last splattering on her tongue. She swallowed it down, moaning at the taste, hungry for it.

When he finished, he tucked himself away. Looked down at her—kneeling in a puddle of her own arousal and his cum, dress rucked up, face painted.

He reached over, selected a small potted cutting from a nearby tray—some kind of delicate vine, pale green leaves trembling.

“Take this home,” he said. “Plant it. Water it until it drowns.”

Susana took it with shaking hands. Soil clung to her fingers, mixed with drying semen.

She drove home in silence. Cum dried sticky on her skin. The cutting sat in the cupholder, already wilting from neglect.

When she pulled into the driveway, Michael was outside with the hose, trying to revive the roses. Water arced in a weak rainbow under the late-afternoon sun.

He waved. Smiled uncertainly.

Susana waved back. Didn’t get out right away.

Instead, she reached between her legs, scooped up the slick still leaking out of her, and smeared it all over the vine’s leaves—marking it, ruining it, making it as filthy as she felt.

Then she stepped out of the car.

Michael called over, “How was the lesson?”

She smiled. Bright. False.

“Intense,” she said.

That night, she shoved the vine into the middle of the rose bed, right in the center. She turned the hose on full blast and let the water run until the soil was nothing but thick, choking mud.

Michael found the puddle the next morning. Stood there a long time, his hose limp in his hand.

He didn’t ask why.

But when he looked at her across the breakfast table, something in his eyes had changed.

Something quiet.

Something afraid.

Pollination

The Garden Club’s annual open house landed on a Saturday so hot the air felt like soup. The greenhouse was decked out with cheap fairy lights and folding tables covered in burlap, sweating pitchers of lemonade, and finger sandwiches already curling at the edges. Potted plants were lined up like prizes at a county fair. Neighbors wandered around in pastel clothes, fanning themselves with brochures and pretending to care about tomatoes and hydrangeas.

Susana showed up early in a cream sundress that barely covered her ass and left her tits obvious to anyone who bothered to look. No bra, no panties—just skin and the thin excuse of fabric. She could feel her nipples poking through, and every step made her cunt lips slide together, still wet from the drive and from remembering Luis telling her to show up with nothing underneath.

Michael had insisted on coming today. “I want to see what all the fuss is about,” he’d said over breakfast, smile easy but eyes watchful. He wore khaki shorts and a polo, looking every inch the supportive husband. He carried a flat of marigolds they’d bought together at the hardware store last week—his attempt at participation, at reclaiming some territory in the garden she was quietly killing.

They walked in together. Michael put his hand on her back, like a good husband. She felt it through the dress and hated how boring it was, how it did nothing for her.

Luis stood by the main table, arms dirty, showing off for a bunch of old ladies. He looked up when they came in. His eyes went over Michael like he was nothing, then locked on Susana, staring at the way her dress stuck to her sweaty skin. He didn’t smile. Just nodded, slow, like he was already undressing her.

Susana’s cunt squeezed tight. She pressed her legs together and forced a bright smile at some stranger, pretending nothing was wrong.

The afternoon crawled by. Susana stuck close to Luis, handing out plant cuttings and pretending to care about soil pH. She made sure to brush against him every chance she got—his elbow against her tits, his hip bumping her ass, his thumb scraping her hand when nobody was watching. Michael hung around at first, then wandered off to talk about lawn care and mulch prices, glancing over now and then like he was proud of her, clueless as ever.

Around three o’clock, the crowd thinned near the tool shed at the back—a small, weathered structure half-hidden by climbing clematis. Luis caught Susana’s eye across the greenhouse. Tilted his head once toward the shed. Then walked that way himself, casual, unhurried.

She waited thirty seconds. Excused herself from a conversation about powdery mildew. Told Michael she needed to check on something in storage.

He nodded absently, already deep in discussion about crabgrass.

The shed door hung open. Inside stank of rust, oil, and old wood, with a whiff of drying herbs. Dusty light came through a cracked window. Luis waited by the wall, arms crossed.

He didn’t speak when she slipped inside. Just reached past her and pushed the door shut. The latch clicked.

Susana’s heart pounded so hard she could taste blood.

He stepped in, pushing her back against a workbench covered in tools. The edge dug into her ass. Luis never kissed her. He just grabbed her jaw, thumb digging in until her mouth opened with a gasp.

“Watch him,” he said, voice gravel-low.

He turned her slightly so she faced the cracked door. Through the narrow gap, she could see the greenhouse floor: Michael standing near the tomato vines, laughing at something an older woman said, gesturing with his hands the way he did when he was trying to be charming.

Luis shoved his hand up her dress. No panties, just wet cunt. He pushed two fingers in, rough and fast. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.

“Quiet,” he breathed against her ear. “Or he’ll hear how wet you get for another man.”

She shook. His fingers curled and rubbed that spot that made her knees weak. She grabbed the workbench, nails digging into the splintered wood.

“Look at him,” Luis murmured. “Smiling. Oblivious. While I finger-fuck his wife ten feet away.”

Michael turned then, scanning the crowd. For a heartbeat, his eyes seemed to drift toward the shed. Susana’s breath stopped. Luis didn’t pause—thrust deeper, thumb circling her clit in slow, cruel pressure.

“He’s looking for you,” Luis whispered. “Wondering where his good little wife went.”

She whimpered, a pathetic, animal sound. Her hips jerked forward, grinding on his hand even though she knew she shouldn’t.

Luis yanked his fingers out. Strings of her slick stretched from her cunt. He smeared it on her lips, then shoved his fingers into her mouth.

“Suck.”

She sucked, tasting her own cunt—bitter, dirty, humiliating. Her tongue wrapped around his knuckles.

Through the crack, Michael frowned, checked his phone, then wandered toward the refreshment table.

Luis spun her and hauled her up onto the workbench. Her ass slammed the wood, tools rattling. He yanked her dress to her waist and forced her legs open, stepping between them.

His cock was out, thick and leaking. He dragged the head through her soaked slit, smearing her juices all over himself.

“You want this?” he asked. Voice rough.

“Yes.”

“Louder.”

“Yes.”

He shoved in, slow, making her feel every inch, every vein as he stretched her open. She gasped, head thrown back. He drove in deep, brutal, until he was buried to the hilt.

“Feel that?” he said. “That’s what your husband can’t give you.”

He started fucking her, long, rough strokes that scraped every sensitive spot inside. The workbench creaked. A trowel crashed to the floor.

Susana stared through the crack. Michael was still out there, laughing, clueless. The sight made her stomach twist with something filthy and hot.

Luis grabbed her throat, not choking, just holding her there. His thumb pressed under her jaw, fingers on her pulse.

“Come for me,” he ordered. “While you watch him pretend everything’s fine.”

She came, hard, body shaking.

The orgasm hit her hard. She bit her own arm to keep quiet, cunt squeezing around his cock, milking him. Tears ran down her face. The pleasure hurt.

Luis kept fucking her, faster, rougher, breathing hard.

He came suddenly, shooting deep inside her, hot cum flooding her cunt. He held her tight, grinding to make sure it all stayed in.

He pulled out. Cum oozed out of her, thick and white, running down her thighs.

He wiped his cock on her dress and stuffed himself back in his pants.

“Fix your hair,” he said. “Go back to your husband.”

Susana slid off the bench, legs shaking. Cum dripped onto the floor. She yanked her dress down, now stained and wrinkled, and tried to fix her hair with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.

Luis opened the door a crack. Checked.

“Clear.”

She slipped out first, walking back into the greenhouse with cum still leaking down her legs. The air felt cold on her wet skin.

Michael saw her approaching. Smiled. Waved her over.

“You okay?” he asked when she reached him. “You look flushed.”

She faked a laugh. "Just hot, that’s all."

He nodded. Handed her a plastic cup of lemonade.

“You’re really into this, huh?” he said, gesturing at the plants, at the crowd. “I can tell. You’ve got… passion for it now.”

Susana met his eyes. Saw the faint uncertainty there, the question he wasn’t asking.

She drank the lemonade. It was cold and sour.

“I do,” she said softly.

That night, she went straight to the backyard, still in the same dress. The vine Luis gave her was a dead, soggy mess in the middle of the rose bed. Leaves curled up, stems bent like snapped necks.

Michael followed her out. Stood beside her in silence.

The whole bed looked worse. Petals everywhere, brown spots spreading over everything.

He crouched down and touched a wilted flower. It fell apart in his hand.

“Susana,” he said quietly. “What’s happening out here?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the dead vine.

She picked one of the last green leaves off the dead plant. Crushed it in her fingers, smearing the wet mess on her skin.

“I don’t know,” she lied.

Michael stood slowly. Looked at her—really looked.

The silence stretched.

Inside the house, the phone buzzed. His work email, probably.

He glanced toward the door, then back at her.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said finally. Voice flat.

She nodded.

When he was gone, she crouched in the ruined bed. Pressed her palm to the mud. Felt the cool, clinging earth against her skin.

Cum still leaked down her thigh, mixing with the mud.

She smiled, small and mean.

And let another petal fall.

Blight

After the open house, the days ran together. Every morning, Michael left for work before sunrise, the front door clicking shut with a sound that made the house feel emptier. Susana lay in bed, listening to the garage door and feeling the leftover heat from his body, the dent in the mattress beside her like a reminder of someone she barely knew anymore. She waited until his car was gone, then got up, showered, and drove straight to Luis’s potting shed behind his shitty little ranch house at the edge of town.

The shed was her real home now. It always stank of wet dirt, rust, and the sour stink of sex ground into the wood. The floor was just hard dirt, cold and rough against her knees. Luis left the bare bulb overhead, so every bruise and bite mark on her skin was lit up for him to see.

Today, her wrists were tied behind her back with rough garden twine, the kind for tying up tomato plants. He pulled it so tight the rope bit into her skin, leaving angry red lines that would turn purple by night. She knelt in the middle of the shed, dress shoved up around her waist, legs spread wide on a filthy feed sack Luis tossed down so she wouldn’t grind dirt into her cunt. Her tits hung out, nipples hard from the cold and from knowing what was coming. She was already leaking, a slow, humiliating drip that stained the sack under her.

Luis paced around her, boots scraping the dirt. He wore nothing but old jeans, zipper down, his cock hanging out, thick and heavy. He hadn’t bothered to touch her since dragging her in, shoving her to her knees, and tying her up.

“You’re late,” he said.

"Traffic," she lied. Really, she’d just sat in the driveway after Michael left, staring at the dead garden, letting the guilt twist in her stomach until it almost made her sick. Then she came here anyway.

He stopped behind her. Reached down and fisted her hair, yanking her head back until her throat arched.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said quietly. “You sat in your car thinking about him. About how he still kisses you goodbye every morning like nothing’s changed.”

Susana’s breath hitched. Tears pricked immediately.

Luis crouched in front of her. Brought his face close enough that she could smell coffee and tobacco on his breath.

“You’re marked,” he said. He traced a fresh bruise on her inner thigh—fingermarks from last week, still purple-yellow. “He sees these?”

“I wear longer skirts.”

He smiled—small, cruel. “Smart.”

He stood. Walked behind her again. She heard the rustle of denim sliding down, then felt the blunt head of his cock nudge between her cheeks. Not at her cunt. Higher.

Her guts twisted. She knew what was coming.

“Luis—”

“Quiet.”

He spat on her asshole, the spit hot and slimy. He smeared it around with his cock, grinding it in slow circles that made her flinch and squeeze up tight.

“You’ve never let him here, have you?”

She shook her head. Voice small. “No.”

“Good.”

He shoved forward, slow but relentless. The stretch burned, sharp and raw. She gasped and tried to pull away, but the twine just dug deeper into her wrists, pain shooting up her arms.

“Relax,” he ordered. “Breathe.”

She tried to relax, but couldn’t. Tears ran down her face. He didn’t care. He just kept pushing in, forcing her open, until his hips slammed against her ass and his cock was buried all the way inside.

Susana let out a broken sob. She was stuffed full, stretched in a way that felt filthy and perfect. Every little movement sent pain and pleasure shooting up her back.

Luis stayed still inside her. Let her adjust. Let her feel every thick inch claiming a place Michael had never touched.

Then he began to move.

He started slow. Pulled out almost all the way, leaving her empty and desperate, then slammed back in, grinding deep until she whimpered. The friction was brutal, almost too much. Her pussy clenched uselessly, leaking onto the dirt.

He gripped her hips. Fingers digging into the soft flesh above her pelvic bones.

“You’re not his wife anymore,” he said, voice low and rough. “You’re my soul now. Something I turn over. Something I plant in. Something I use until it’s spent.”

She moaned. The words hit harder than the thrusts.

He fucked her harder, each thrust shoving her forward onto her tied hands, the rope scraping her skin raw. Her tits bounced, nipples scraping the burlap. Every slam sent pain, pleasure, and shame crashing together until she couldn’t tell them apart.

“Say it,” he growled.

“I’m… I’m your soil.”

“Louder.”

“I’m your fucking soil!”

He slammed in hard. Held. Ground against her until she felt the blunt head nudge something deep and forbidden inside.

She came hard, without warning, her ass squeezing down on his cock, milking him. She screamed into the dirt, mouth full of soil and tears. The orgasm ripped through her, leaving her shaking and sobbing, too sensitive to move.

Luis didn’t stop. Fucked her through it—harder now, chasing his own release. His breathing grew ragged, his hips snapping forward with bruising force.

When he came, it was deep—hot pulses flooding her, marking her from the inside. He groaned low in his throat, hips jerking once, twice, then stilled.

He stayed buried for a long moment. Let her feel the slow leak of his cum as he softened inside her.

Then he pulled out.

Cum leaked out of her right away, thick and filthy, running down her thighs and puddling in the dirt. She stayed kneeling, shaking, ass aching, wrists on fire.

Luis untied the twine. Blood rushed back into her hands in painful pins and needles. He rubbed the welts absently, almost tenderly.

“Get up.”

She staggered to her feet, legs barely holding her up. Her dress dropped down, smeared with dirt and streaks of cum.

He looked at her—face streaked with tears and mascara, hair wild, thighs slick.

“You’re going home like this,” he said. “No shower. No wiping. Let it dry on you.”

Susana nodded. Couldn’t speak.

He walked her to the door. Opened it. Late-afternoon sun slanted across the yard.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Same time.”

She drove home with the windows down, the stink of sex and dirt clinging to her. Cum dried sticky on her thighs and skin. Every pothole made her flinch, a reminder of how hard he’d fucked her.

Michael was already home when she pulled into the driveway. Sitting on the back patio, beer in hand, staring at the garden.

The rose bed was a graveyard now. Bare stalks, shriveled leaves, a few stubborn brown petals clinging like scabs. The drowned vine in the center had collapsed entirely, a sodden black heap.

Susana stepped out of the car. Legs unsteady. She walked toward him slowly.

He didn’t look up at first. Just kept staring at the dead plants.

When he finally turned, his eyes tracked over her—disheveled hair, wrinkled dress, the way she limped slightly.

“You’re late,” he said quietly.

“Traffic,” she lied again.

He nodded. Took a long pull from the beer.

“The roses are gone,” he said. Voice flat. “All of them.”

She stood next to his chair, not daring to sit. She could feel Luis’s cum still leaking out, soaking into her dress.

“I know.”

Michael looked up at her then. Really looked.

There were shadows under his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. Lines around his mouth that hadn’t been there last month.

“Susana,” he said softly. “What’s wrong with you?”

The question hung between them—simple, devastating.

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

Inside her, Luis’s cum shifted, warm and thick, a secret weight.

She reached out. Touched his cheek with trembling fingers.

“Nothing,” she whispered.

He didn’t pull away.

But he didn’t lean into her touch either.

That night, she showered by herself, letting the water burn her skin. She watched streaks of cum and mud swirl down the drain.

When she crawled into bed beside Michael, he was already asleep. Or pretending to be.

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her thighs sore, her ass throbbing every time she moved.

And felt nothing but hunger.

Raw.

Unending.

Harvest

The kitchen light was a harsh, piss-yellow glare that made the tile look like a crime scene. Susana crept in, bare feet silent, the stink of old beer and something rotting drifting in from the patio. Michael was slumped at the table, still in the same wrinkled polo and khaki shorts he’d worn yesterday, hands clenched so tight his knuckles looked like they might split the skin. Two empty beer bottles stood like little tombstones next to his cold coffee. Every shadow in the room felt like it was pointing a finger at her.

She stopped in the doorway, legs sticky with dried cum, the skin on her thighs itching where it had crusted. Her ass pulsed with a deep, bruised ache, every step a reminder of how hard she’d been fucked. The angry purple welts from the twine on her wrists looked like cheap jewelry, and she didn’t even bother to hide them.

Michael didn’t look up at first. Just stared at the tabletop, as if the grain patterns held answers.

“You didn’t come home last night,” he said. Voice quiet. Flat. The kind of calm that sits on top of something violent.

Susana closed the door softly behind her. The latch clicked like a gunshot in the silence.

“I was… out.”

“Out.”

He finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, not from crying—Michael never cried—but from staring at the table for hours, refusing to blink. He looked like he’d aged a decade overnight, the lines around his mouth carved deep, the skin under his eyes a sickly purple.

She shuffled across the kitchen, bare feet peeling off the sticky tile, leaving little smears of dirt and dew behind her. She didn’t sit. Just stood there, letting him take in the mess: her dress rumpled and stained, hair a rat’s nest, mascara smeared like bruises under her eyes, the reek of sex and earth clinging to her skin. She smelled like she’d been fucked in a ditch.

Michael’s eyes crawled over her, slow and clinical, pausing on the purple bands around her wrists, the way she stood bow-legged, the little tremor in her thighs that said she’d been used hard and left sore.

He exhaled through his nose. A long, controlled breath.

“I went out to the garden at three a.m.,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe if I pulled the dead stuff, started over… I don’t know. Something.”

Susana said nothing.

“There’s nothing left,” he continued. “Not a single green thing. Even the weeds gave up. Just dirt. And those fucking stakes you drove in last month—like little gravestones.”

She swallowed, but the taste of Luis was still thick on her tongue—bitter, salty, the flavor of another man’s cum refusing to fade even after hours.

Michael leaned back in the chair. The wood creaked.

“I keep thinking about how you used to talk about that garden. Before the club. Before him. You’d come inside with dirt under your nails and this little smile, like you’d done something holy. You’d kiss me and taste like tomatoes and sunshine. I liked that. I liked you like that.”

His voice cracked on the last word. Just once. Then steadied.

“Now you come home smelling like someone else’s cum, and you won’t even look at the backyard.”

Susana’s throat closed. She forced the words out anyway.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

The question hung there—simple, brutal.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Michael stood slowly. The chair scraped back. He walked around the table until he stood in front of her. Close enough, she could smell the beer on his breath, the faint sweat of a sleepless night.

He reached out. Cupped her face with both hands. Thumbs brushed the dried tear tracks on her cheeks. The touch was gentle—achingly gentle—and it hurt worse than anything Luis had done to her body.

“Do you love him?” he asked.

Susana closed her eyes. Felt the first real tear slip free, hot against his thumb.

“No,” she whispered. “It isn’t love.”

“Then what is it?”

She opened her eyes. Met his gaze. Saw the raw wound there, the confusion, the quiet devastation.

“Hunger,” she said. The word tasted like truth and ash. “I’m hungry all the time. And he feeds it. He makes it worse and better at the same time. I don’t know how to stop.”

Michael’s hands tightened fractionally on her face—not hurting, just holding. His breathing was uneven now.

“Do you want to stop?”

She searched his face. Saw the man who’d once carried her over the threshold of this house laughing, who’d planted those roses with her on their first spring here, who still left notes on the fridge when he left early for work.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

He nodded once. Slow. Like he’d expected that.

Then he leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative. It was desperate—mouth crashing against hers, tongue pushing past her lips like he was trying to taste what she’d been doing, who she’d been with. His hands slid into her hair, fisted, and angled her head so he could go deeper. She tasted beer and grief and the faint metallic edge of his bitten lip.

She kissed him back, desperate, letting him take whatever he wanted. Her nipples went hard, her cunt clenched around the raw ache Luis had left behind. Shame burned through her, hot and filthy, tangled up with the need that wouldn’t die.

Michael broke the kiss first. Forehead pressed to hers. Breathing ragged.

“I can smell him on you,” he said against her mouth. “I can taste him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice cracked again. “I hate it. But I’m hard right now thinking about it. That’s the worst part. I hate that it turns me on.”

Susana’s breath stopped.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. Eyes dark, pupils blown.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what he does to you.”

She hesitated.

“Tell me,” he repeated. Quieter. Pleading.

So she did.

She told him about the greenhouse. About the tool shed. About the potting bench and the twine and the way Luis fucked her ass until she sobbed. She told him about coming on command, about the way the humiliation made her wetter than anything he’d ever done. She told him about the dead garden, how every wilted petal felt like foreplay, how she came harder knowing she was destroying something he loved.

Michael listened. Didn’t interrupt. His hands stayed on her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones like he was memorizing her.

When she finished, silence swallowed the room.

Then he kissed her again—slower this time. Deeper. His erection pressed against her hip through his shorts. Hard. Aching.

He walked her backward until her ass hit the kitchen counter. Lifted her onto it in one smooth motion. Spread her thighs. The dress rode up; dried cum flaked off her skin.

He dropped to his knees.

Buried his face between her legs.

Licked.

He tasted Luis on her—salty, bitter, mixed with the sour tang of her own pussy. He groaned into her cunt, tongue wide and greedy, licking up the mess, swallowing it down like he could erase the other man by eating every drop.

Susana’s hands fisted in his hair. Head fell back. A sob tore from her throat—not pain, not pleasure, something in between.

He devoured her like he was being punished, sucking her clit, stabbing his tongue deep into the hole Luis had just finished using. His fingers bit into her thighs, leaving marks that would last.

She exploded on his face, coming so hard she screamed his name—something she hadn’t done in months. Her body shook, thighs locked around his head, tears running down her cheeks as she broke apart.

When the spasms faded, he rose. Kissed her again. Let her taste them both on his tongue.

Then he stepped back.

He stared at her, legs spread wide on the counter, ruined and gorgeous, her skin streaked with sweat and cum.

“I need to know,” he said. Voice hoarse. “Are you going back to him?”

Susana slid off the counter. Legs unsteady. She touched his cheek—the same gesture he’d given her minutes ago.

“I have to see him one more time,” she whispered.

Michael closed his eyes. Nodded once.

“Okay.”

He turned away. Walked to the patio door. Stared out at the barren garden.

“Go,” he said without looking back. “Before I change my mind.”

Susana just stood there, heart pounding, cunt still throbbing from his mouth and the filthy things she’d confessed. The shame and the closeness made her dizzy.

Then she walked to the front door.

Picked up her keys.

Drove to the greenhouse.

The parking lot was empty. Dawn light slanted low and gold across the glass walls. She could see Luis’s silhouette inside—broad shoulders, slow movements as he watered trays.

She parked. Killed the engine.

Sat there gripping the wheel until her knuckles ached.

Then she got out.

Walked to the door.

Hand on the handle.

It was locked.

She knocked once. Soft.

The shadow inside stilled.

Then the lock clicked.

The door opened.

Luis stood there. Shirtless. His jeans were low on his hips. Eyes dark and knowing.

He didn’t speak. Just stepped aside.

Susana crossed the threshold.

The door closed behind her.

Locked.

She heard the bolt slide home.

And inside her, something tiny and rotten finally broke.

Deadheading

The greenhouse reeked of morning—wet clay, sharp copper from the fungicide, the raw stink of cut stems oozing sap onto the benches. The air was stripped bare by the sun, every smell exposed and impossible to ignore. Susana stood just inside the door, her back pressed to the cold metal bolt, the chill biting through her thin dress. Her thighs still tingled with the memory of Michael's mouth, his tongue slow and careful, licking up the taste of another man's cum. The humiliation of it made her dizzy, her cunt clenching at the memory, caught between the shame of being used and the need that kept dragging her back.

Luis stood by the propagation bench, shirtless, jeans hanging low enough to show the line of hair running down his stomach. His arms were crossed, muscles bulging, sweat already slicking his skin even though it was barely morning. A bead of sweat slid down his face and vanished into the stubble on his jaw. He stared at her, eyes moving over her body like he was picking out which part to cut off first, slow and methodical, the way a butcher sizes up a carcass.

“You came,” he said. Not a question. Statement. Almost bored.

Susana’s throat clicked when she swallowed. “I told him I had to see you one more time.”

Luis’s mouth curved—just one side, small and mean. “And he let you?”

“He kissed me goodbye.”

Luis's eyes narrowed, maybe interested, maybe just amused. He dropped his arms and walked toward her, slow, every step loud on the gravel. He stopped so close she had to crane her neck to look up at him, close enough that the smell of his sweat and the heavy, animal stink of his cock in the morning hit her in the face. The air between them was thick with it, and her nipples tightened under the dress.

He lifted a hand. Traced the line of her jaw with one calloused thumb. Pressed just hard enough to feel the bone beneath the skin.

“Did he taste me on you?” he asked softly.

Susana’s breath shuddered out. “Yes.”

Luis’s thumb slid lower, hooked under her chin, tilted her face up until their eyes locked.

“And you still came here.”

She didn't bother answering. Her body did it for her—nipples hard and obvious through the thin dress, cunt twitching and leaking, a slow, humiliating trickle of wetness sliding down her thigh. She could feel the heat of it, the shame and the need tangled together, impossible to hide.

He stepped back. Just one pace.

“Strip.”

The word landed heavily. No preamble. No seduction.

Susana's hands moved before she could think. She yanked the straps down, let the dress fall in a heap. She stepped out, naked except for the bruises on her thighs and the angry red marks circling her wrists. No panties, no bra, just bare skin prickling in the cold, nipples dark and stiff, cunt puffy and wet, glistening in the morning light. She didn't bother to cover herself. There was nothing left to hide.

Luis looked his fill. No words. Just a slow appraisal. Then he turned, walked to the nearest bench, selected a pair of long-handled loppers from the rack—blades sharp enough to cut through thick rose canes without effort. He brought them back. Held them loosely in one hand.

“Hands behind your back.”

She obeyed. Crossed her wrists at the small of her back. Felt the cold steel of the loppers rest against her spine—not cutting, just the flat of the blade, heavy and threatening.

“Walk.”

He shoved her forward with the loppers pressed to her spine, marching her past rows of seedlings and baskets dripping water, all the way to a battered wooden stool shoved under a tangle of jasmine. The smell was thick and sweet, almost sickening, mixing with the stink of her own arousal.

“Sit.”

She sat, the wood cold against her bare ass, legs spreading wide without thinking. She couldn't close them, not with him standing there, his jeans open, cock already half-hard and heavy between them. She felt exposed, every inch of her on display.

Luis set the loppers aside. Reached up, plucked a single jasmine bloom—white, perfect, still dewed. He brought it to her lips.

“Open.”

She parted them. He laid the flower on her tongue. Petals soft, cool, faintly sweet.

“Hold it there. Don’t chew. Don’t swallow.”

Susana closed her lips around the flower. The taste hit her—sweet, bitter, green, petals crushed against her tongue. Her heart hammered, the humiliation of sitting naked with a flower stuffed in her mouth making her cunt throb harder.

Luis stepped back. Unzipped his jeans. Freed his cock—already thick, heavy, veins standing out along the shaft. He stroked himself once, slow, watching her face.

“You’re going to keep that flower in your mouth while I fuck you,” he said. “If it falls out, if you bite it, if you make a sound louder than a whimper—I stop. And I don’t start again.”

Her eyes widened. The flower trembled between her lips.

He stepped closer. Gripped her hair at the crown—tight enough to sting. Tilted her head back until the jasmine pressed against the roof of her mouth.

Then he pushed inside her.

He shoved in with one long, slow thrust, no warning, no fingers, just her own slickness making it possible. The stretch burned, sharp and perfect, her cunt gripping him tight. She moaned around the flower, the sound muffled, petals mashed against her tongue but still holding. The pain and the pleasure tangled together, making her hips jerk up for more.

Luis groaned low in his throat. Held himself deep, hips flush to hers, letting her feel every inch buried inside.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

Then he began to move.

He fucked her with long, slow strokes, pulling out until only the head was inside, then slamming back in, grinding his hips against her clit. Every thrust forced a whimper out of her, trapped behind the flower, her mouth leaking spit that dripped down her chin. She could feel the mess, the humiliation of drooling and moaning with his cock buried in her, the flower a gag she couldn't spit out.

Luis fucked her like he was tending soil—methodical, relentless, turning her over and over until every nerve sang. His free hand roamed: thumb brushing a nipple until it ached, fingers digging into her hip hard enough to leave fresh marks, palm sliding up to collar her throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling her pulse hammer against his skin.

Her body betrayed her, cunt fluttering around his cock, clit throbbing every time he ground against her. She wanted to scream, to beg him to let her come, but the flower was still jammed between her teeth, a humiliating reminder that she wasn't allowed to make a sound. The need built, sharp and desperate, her thighs shaking.

Luis leaned in. Lips against her ear.

“Think about him,” he whispered. “Think about Michael waking up alone. Think about him walking out to that dead garden. Think about him smelling you on the sheets—me on your skin—and knowing you chose this instead.”

Tears slipped free. Hot tracks down her cheeks. She moaned—soft, broken. The jasmine shifted dangerously.

“Don’t drop it,” he warned.

He started fucking her harder, faster, the stool groaning under their weight. Her tits bounced, nipples scraping against his chest, the air thick with the stink of sweat, sex, and crushed jasmine. The slap of skin on skin was loud, filthy, drowning out everything else.

She was close. So close. Her thighs trembled, cunt clamping down in rhythmic pulses.

Luis felt it. Slowed deliberately.

“Not yet.”

She sobbed, the sound pathetic and muffled by the flower, spit leaking out the corners of her mouth. She could taste the petals, bitter and sweet, her jaw aching from holding it in.

He pulled out completely. Left her empty, aching, clenching on nothing.

He grabbed her and bent her over the stool, ass up, back arched, wrists still pinned behind her. He kicked her legs wider, spat on her asshole, the spit warm and slick, then smeared it in with the fat head of his cock. She shivered, exposed and waiting, cunt and ass both aching for it.

Pushed into her ass again.

He pushed in slow, making her feel every inch as her ass stretched around him. The burn was sharp, pain and pleasure tangled together, making her gasp around the flower. She bit down, crushing the petals, the taste flooding her mouth as her head spun from the stretch and the shame.

Luis bottomed out with a grunt. Held. Let her adjust.

He started fucking her ass, deep and rough, each thrust making her vision go white. He grabbed her wrists, yanking her back onto his cock like she was nothing but a toy, his other hand reaching around to rub her clit in hard, fast circles. She couldn't stop the noises, couldn't stop the way her body jerked and shook.

“Come,” he ordered. “Come with my cock in your ass and his name in your head.”

The orgasm detonated.

Her body locked up, every muscle tight, then she screamed, the sound tearing out around the flower, petals breaking apart in her mouth. She swallowed, choking on the taste of green and cum and her own surrender. Her cunt spasmed, empty and desperate, her ass clenching around his cock as the orgasm ripped through her, so sharp it felt like she was being split open.

Luis kept fucking her, rough and sloppy, chasing his own orgasm. When he came, he shoved in deep, filling her ass with hot, thick cum that oozed out around his cock and dripped down her thighs. He ground against her, making sure she felt every last drop.

He stayed buried for a long moment. Breathing harshly against her neck.

He pulled out, and cum spilled out of her ass in thick, sticky streams, running down her legs and pooling on the floor. She could feel it cooling on her skin, the mess impossible to ignore.

He untied her wrists. Rubbed the welts absently.

Turned her to face him.

He looked down at her—face smeared with tears and ruined makeup, lips swollen and red, bits of jasmine stuck to her tongue and chin, her body covered in bruises and cum, still shaking from the aftershocks.

“You’re done here,” he said quietly.

Susana blinked. Dazed. “What?”

“You got what you came for.” He stepped back. Tucked himself away. “Go home.”

She stared at him. Chest heaving. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He walked past her. Picked up the loppers. Began trimming a nearby cane—clean, precise cuts. Snick. Snick. Sap welled white against dark wood.

Susana stood there, still naked, cum leaking out of her ass and running down her legs, thighs trembling so hard she could barely stand, heart pounding like it was trying to break out of her chest.

She bent down, picked up her dress, and pulled it over her head. The fabric stuck to her sweaty, cum-smeared skin, clinging to every curve and bruise. She didn't bother wiping herself off.

Walked to the door.

Hand on the bolt.

She paused.

Looked back.

Luis didn’t turn. Just kept cutting.

Snick.

Snick.

She unbolted the door.

Stepped outside.

The morning sun was higher now—bright, merciless. It burned her eyes.

She walked to her car.

Got in.

Drove home.

The backyard was silent when she pulled into the driveway. No birds. No breeze. Just dead stalks rattling faintly in the heat.

Michael stood among them—holding the same pair of bypass pruners she’d watched Luis use that first day. He was deadheading what little remained—snipping off the last withered blooms, letting them fall to the mulch.

He looked up when she stepped out of the car.

Met her eyes across the ruined bed.

Neither spoke.

She walked toward him, barefoot, the dress sticking to her body, the smell of Luis—sweat, cum, sex—still heavy on her skin, tangled in her hair, leaking out between her thighs. She didn't try to hide it.

Michael lowered the pruners.

Looked at her—really looked.

Saw the marks. The tears. The quiet devastation in her eyes.

He reached out.

Not to strike. Not to push away.

He cupped her face in the same way he had in the kitchen hours ago.

Thumbs brushed her cheeks.

Then he leaned in.

Kissed her forehead.

Soft.

Brief.

Turned.

Walked back into the house.

Left the pruners on the ground among the dead flowers.

Susana stood alone in the barren garden.

Wind moved through the empty stalks—a dry rustling like bones.

She crouched slowly.

Picked up the pruners.

Looked at the last rose cane—brown, brittle, one final bud clinging stubbornly at the tip.

She lifted the blades.

Pressed them to the stem.

Hesitated.

The metal was still warm from Michael’s hand.

She closed her eyes.

Snipped.

The bud fell.

Rolled across the mulch.

Stopped at her feet.

Dead.

She stayed there a long time—kneeling in the dirt, pruners loose in her lap, sun climbing higher, burning the back of her neck.

No tears now.

Just quiet.

And the slow, endless hunger still coiled low in her belly.

Waiting.

Always waiting.