Whistling, I step out of my van, gray, with on both sides in moss-green curly letters, "Get your garden pampered by Gardener Bruce!" That does well in this expensive neighborhood. Today I'm going to make the countess's garden spring-ready. I don't think she's really of nobility, but her house and garden are big enough for it and she has a French-sounding name. It is also the semi-annual reunion with Bettie the kitchen maid, which -- for sure -- is not the official description of her position, but articulates well where she can always be found. She is tall, has long blond curls and a sweet smile that could break through at any moment.
'Mr. Bruce, coffee', Bettie calls after I have cut, say, one rose. I rush inside. Bettie is waiting for me, hands at her sides. She is wearing a white apron over a light blue dress. I bet she's not wearing any panties underneath. I sit down at the kitchen table and finish my coffee. Then the time has come. Bettie puts her firm breasts on the countertop, pulls her skirt up to above her buttocks and looks at me over her shoulder pleadingly.
'Today I want it in my ass, Mr. Bruce.
'Yes, but preferably not here,' I reply startled, 'Madam can enter the kitchen at any moment.'
'That's what makes it so exciting.'
I grab a bottle of olive oil and lower my overalls and underpants to my ankles. I pour some oil on my hand and rub it between Bettie's buttocks. With my right hand, meanwhile, I jerk off: only a super-stiff cock can open the tight little hole. With my thumb, I carefully widen Bettie's anus. This way I let her get used to the coming intruder.
The door swings open and the Countess steps into the kitchen. I freeze instantly. What a scene: the kitchen maid with shiny buttocks, half on the kitchen counter, the gardener with his thumb in her anus and his stiff cock in his other hand. And what a contrast to the frail countess; dark blue skirt, white blouse with red scarf, shiny black loafers, hair in a bun. She looks like a lady of age, even though she is not yet 20! For one moment she stands stiffened, wide-eyed, her mouth open in amazement. Then she runs out of the kitchen. 'Oops', Bettie and I say at the same time.
When I want to go after the countess, Bettie stops me. 'Never mind. I'll talk to her. Now get to work in the garden quickly.'
To avoid further trouble, I empty my lunchbox on a plastic garden chair near the tool shed. I make little progress that day. I am far too excited to work with concentration. I am constantly walking with a visible bulge in my pants. The image of Bettie's willing buttocks won't get out of my head. And then there is the adrenaline of the situation: caught red-handed by the Countess.
At 5 o'clock -- I have just started clearing away the garden tools -- Bettie comes out. 'She wants to have a word with you before you leave.' I walk after Bettie, through the kitchen, into the hallway and then up the stairs. Bettie knocks on one of the doors, then she pushes the door open and me inside. She closes the door behind me again.
In a large, antique-furnished room, the countess sits behind a massive desk. But is this the same countess as this morning? All the grandeur is gone. She is wearing a wrinkled tracksuit. Her mascara is runny, in black streaks across her cheeks. The bun is gone, her hair hanging down sluicy. She has closed her eyes.
'The garden is spring-ready', I stammer, and when she says nothing back: 'I would like to apologize to you for this morning's unpleasantness. I can imagine that you are disappointed.' She still says nothing. I don't seem to be reaching her, so I remain silent as well. After a very uncomfortable, long minute of silence, she opens her eyes. She takes me in from head to toe and says: 'My name is Louise and I want it too.'
'What?' It's out before I've thought.
