The handy gardener

I was sitting on the porch with a stack of magazines, half-reading, half-lost in the sun, when the gardener caught my eye again. Every time he swung the rake or hauled a bag of soil, his muscles flexed and my thoughts slid straight to his cock—how hard it must be, how good it would feel sliding into me. Today the daydream didn’t stay a daydream. He wiped his brow, met my stare, and I simply stood, peeled my shorts down, and bent over the railing. He stepped up behind me, spit on his fingers, and eased one slick digit into my ass. I pushed back, hungry for more, and he replaced his finger with the thick head of his cock, pressing slowly until my hole gave way. The stretch lit me up. He fucked me in steady, deep strokes while the sun warmed my bare skin. When he was ready, he pulled out, spun me around, and painted my face with hot, thick ropes that slid down my chin onto my tits. I licked what I could reach and smiled, already wondering when he’d come back tomorrow.