Secret Garden

Connie steps into her garden and the past rushes back. She recalls every touch she ever gave or took here, every body that pressed against hers. The air feels thick. Her dress slips down. Her heavy breasts spill free, nipples already tight. Fingers trace slow lines over her stomach, dip between her thighs. She parts her folds, finds herself slick, and starts to circle her clit in firm, steady strokes. Her other hand cups a breast, squeezes, rolls the nipple until she hisses. Knees softening, she sinks onto the grass, legs falling open wider. She slides two fingers inside, pumps them deep, then pulls them out to spread the wetness up over her swollen clit again. Her hips lift to meet each thrust. Breasts bounce with the rhythm, soft skin flushed. Breath quickens. A low moan slips out as she adds a third finger, stretching herself, chasing the heat that coils tighter with every stroke. Her free hand never leaves her breast, pinching harder now. The garden stays quiet, but Connie does not.