Month: May 2015

Chris & Tina: Gardening in the parsley patch

Tina loved her garden: In the spring it burst with life, and every year she was delighted and astounded by the rapidity of its change from drab winter to fecund and voluptuous growth. However, even she had to admit that the general fecundity had gone a bit far. So far, indeed as to almost completely obscure the small pond, and some of the little paths.
So she was pleased when a card in the local newsagents advertised that Chris could come and mow her lawn, tend to her beds, and prune her shrubs.
Chris had left a mobile number on the card, so she sent a text. The response was quick and promised Chris’s arrival the following morning.

Tina dressed in her gardening clothes too: she was going to join in – being uncomfortable with just watching. So when Chris’s van pulled in she was in grubby jeans and wellies. No matter: when Chris got out of the van, she too was in grubby jeans and wellies.

There was a moment, just a very short, almost imperceptible (unless you were one of the two women) moment of readjustment as they looked at each other. Each took in the matching outfits, and the fact that they both looked rather good in them. Maybe there is something about a well-turned welly, or the smudges of earth on the knees of a pair of jeans which have been worn and loved into the exact shape of their owner’s buttoculars.

Whatever it was, it infused the ensuing conversation with a extra layer of meaning – sliding like strands of mist around and amongst them.
Chris broke the meaningful silence
“Shall I take a look around? Then you can tell me where you want to start”
Tina already knew, but didn’t want to seem forward. At least, not TOO forward.
She accompanied Chris as she walked round the garden. It was quite large, with hedges which had grown a little too high, shrubs that were a bit too big, flowerbeds a little overgrown. Nothing she couldn’t handle.
“I’m getting a feel for your style, the way you like things” Chris eventually said. They locked eyes – which was tricky as for a while neither could find the key
“I like a cottagey style” Tina replied “relaxed, informal, ….” – she trailed off, her eyes drawn to Chris’s ample breastage swinging out over a flowerbed as she bent down – “I like things to spill out”

Chris stood upright, the gently oscillating frontage settling back into position. “I know exactly what you mean” she assured “I’d be delighted to work on your beds”

They continued to walk round the garden, in silence, until they reached an overgrown quince, its branches sprawling.
“Your bush could do with a trim” Said Chris, without looking at Tina, who nodded.
“What would you like me to do first?” Chris left the question hanging in the air. It hung therefor a while, before settling somewhere near Tina’s unruly bush.
“I’d like help with my beds” she replied, dampeningly.

Chris fetched her toolbelt from the van, and slung it around her curveaceous hips with a confident swagger. As she walked, the trowels and forks and secateurs swung gently with each swish of her hips. Tina could see her buttocks joining in a bit too, which was nice.
They crouched together at the edge of the larger flower bed. It was overgrown with perennials which had outlasted their prime. Chris started explaining her strategy: “What you want to have is some nice strong, well-shaped perennials to give structure, and then you get some good bedding each year to fill in”
Tina nodded eagerly: she was keen on the whole idea of getting some good bedding, especially if there was some filling in too. It was delightful to be with someone who so understood her needs.

Chris had a very good eye for these things, and had some recommendations to make; “What you need over there is a statement plant. I would suggest a Red Hot Poker. One of my favourites. It comes up time after time. It always delivers” Tina nodded breathlessly, admiring at the same time the way the breezes ruffled Chris’s curleaceaous hair, which tumbled down over her shoulders.
“How about Love in a Mist?” she suggested, hopefully. “I love that too” purred Chris

They weeded and tidied together for a while, til finally Chris felt they had done enough. “I’ll get a good layer of mulch over that and it’ll soon get everything going”
She was squatting beside the bed, toolbelt and jeans having slipped slightly southwards, just enough to reveal the sort of little furrow Tina would like to sow some seeds in, so to speak. Even without a layer of mulch, Tina felt everything was getting going.
“It must be time for a cup of tea!” she exclaimed, “Let’s have a break. Come inside and have a sit down”

They went into the kitchen, dragging off wellies at the doorway and shaking out crumpled jeans, – an action which got all four buttocks jiggling happily.
The kettle was soon on, tea was soon mashing. Tina suggested they sit down. Chris worried that her jeans were too dirty for the sofa.
Tina reassured her “You’re not too dirty for MY sofa” and they sat down together. Chris wriggled uncomfortably, and then giggled as she realised she had sat down with the toolbelt on.
“I sat on my dibber!” she cried, pulling the large wooden item from beneath herself
“Let me help you out of that” said Tina, undoing the buckle hurriedly
Chris smiled “That’s not the toolbelt” she said. But she didn’t mind.

The tea mashed. For longer than is generally advised. Neither noticed; they had both forgotten the tea. For although their throats may have been dry, the flowerbeds were damp. And as time wore on, inhibitions were loosened. They shared their enthusiasm for summer bedding and good tools. There was no mulch to hand to get them going, but it didn’t take long before they were able to enjoy plants in all their forms – climbing sprawling, squat, trailing. And as for the toolbelt? It lay on the floor, forgotten for now, except for the dibber.

Cleaner and dirtier

Petunia did not enjoy housework, and having inherited both a rather nice house and a rather large lump sum, she had decided not to trouble herself with it again. The answer she felt, (and Petunia always tried to feel things if she could. She was a very tactile person) was to employ a cleaner. She had been worrying about how to go about this when a card dropped through her letterbox advertising the services of Whistle-Clean, – “reliable, discreet, and fully insured” it said. Petunia was unsure why “discreet” was emphasised, but decided to contact them anyway. A stringy-voiced woman made an appointment for the company representative to call and discuss her requirements. Petunia poured herself a large G&T and almost rubbed her hands with glee at the thought of the agonies of vacuuming and dusting, polishing and hahh-ing on mirrors being almost at an end.

She was so excited at this prospect that she prepared a tray of tea and coffee (all bases covered there) plus chocolate biscuits (she was desperate), in readiness for the meeting. She had a sudden lurching fear that SHE and her house might not meet up with THEIR requirements!

Absolutely on time her doorbell rang. But to Petunia’s surprise on the outer side of it stood, not the young woman in a nylon tabard which she had somehow expected, but a man in smart jeans, sporting a badge which declared him to be from Whistle-Clean. He also proffered an ID card, just to be on the safe side. He introduced himself as Mark, adding with the sort of wry but cheeky smile which always seems to accompany such young men “But you can relax. I don’t leave any marks!”

He had a certain dashing charm: his hair was curly, as hair should be on these occasions. His jaw was manly, his nose was manly – they did after all belong to a man.

Petunia would have liked to relax, but as we have established, she was already excited at the prospect of having a cleaner. Now she was also excited at the thought of having the cleaner.
“Come in! Come in!” She exclaimed, after a tiny pause of readjustment which she hoped he hadn’t noticed. (He had)
He came in, through the large and impressive hall (noting as he went the level of dusting which would be required) and Petunia showed him into the sitting room (“Lounges are for airports dahling” her mother had said)
a sweep of her arm encompassing the room, the tray of refreshments and the chocolate biscuits. He sat on the elderly sofa, finding it more comfy than it looked. With an eye on Petunia’s lightly flushed cheek he helped himself to a biscuit without being asked.

“Do…Errr…have a biscuit.” She responded, a slight glow of indignation causing her ample bosomage to lift with its own buttress of indignity.
Mark smiled his wry, cheeky smile again and Petunia’s bosom deflated to its normal position. This was still, in Mark’s view (and it was at that moment, very much in his view) quite uplifting as well as uplifted.

“I’d better show you around” said Petunia, taking the initiative again, and willing to put the whole biscuit scenario behind them. She walked to the door, looking back over her shoulder for Mark to follow. He did, as if on a doglead, still smiling and finishing the biscuit.
Petunia led him back into the hall, and gestured up and down it.
“This will need dusting and vacuuming every week, and perhaps twice a year, the floor [which was wooden] will need oiling and buffing.” Mark nodded. So far he had predicted her requirements. They continued through the downstairs rooms, with Petunia stating her wishes briskly and avoiding Mark’s eye. This of course allowed him plenty of time for noting the pink flush of her cheek, the curl of her luscious curls, the flutter of shylashes, and the snugness of the skirt around her buttoculars. As she walked he fancied he could even discern the faint rustle of a petticoat beneath. That was a rare treat these days. In Petunia’s view it was a practical way to reduce static. In Mark’s view it was actually increasing the spark.

“Now, upstairs” she said, turning from the third step to look back at Mark. He felt quite overshadowed by the cantilevered norks above him, and in the shade was able to contemplate at his leisure the row of buttons which held her blouse together. They were tiny but feisty, straining at the silk like a tea strainer. No, not like a tea strainer at all, he corrected.
They went upstairs. Petunia gave her instructions about the landing, and then stopped at a door, her hand on the knob. The simple thought of this action had an effect on Mark, especially as he watched her fingers close round the knob, and slowly but firmly give it a little turn.

“How are you on rugs?” she asked “Only we have some rather nice ones which need particular attention”
Mark assured her of his experience on rugs. Especially the really thick ones. “I’m very good” he said “I know what I’m doing”
Petunia smiled.
“Do you want me to use your vacuum cleaner?” he asked
She was surprised at that. “I just assumed you would” she said
Mark said that he could, but if she preferred he had his own, with larger capacity. That won Petunia over “And does it have a more powerful suck?”
Mark nodded, his mouth dry. “Would you like to try it?”
She would.
He hurried down the stairs (two at a time) and fetched the industrial vacuum cleaner from his van. Petunia was impressed, and ran her hands over it
“It’s very big” she murmured, “and look at the size of that bag!” she hefted it gently in one cupped hand, her eyes telling Mark she was bewitched by it.

“I’ve got a special duster for hard to reach places too” he went on, pulling from his kit a long handled purple feather duster. Petunia giggled, and, encouraged, he wiggled it playfully. She moved closer, the feathers tenderly titillating her tits, and smiled at him. One feather caught on a tiny button. Mark stilled the lively duster and moved in closer to help.

“Hold still” he said, exploring the fine fabric and the heroic button with deft fingers. Inexplicably, as the feather was freed, the button seemed to spring undone of its own volition.
Petunia was unfazed: its neighbours could hold the fort if required.

“There are three bedrooms up here, all with Turkish rugs” she said, businesslike for the moment.
“So…how long do you think it would take to do me?”
Mark paused. “Would you want me every week?” he asked
“Yes. Come every week. That’s what I’d like. How long would you allow? I wouldn’t want you to rush things”

Mark assured her he was not about to rush things; after all, so far his only progress was one button. “I’m very thorough” he said “You won’t be disappointed”
This was exactly what Petunia wanted to hear. She squeezed the knob and turned it, opening the door to the main bedroom. They stepped through, Mark almost unaware of the lush furnishings. He could see only Petunia, standing on a thick Turkish rug, her calipygousness almost bursting out of the skirt, and her volumptious norkage gloriously uplifted. She turned away from him for a moment and when she turned back, oddly, some more buttons seemed to have become loosened.

“Tell me about the suction power” she whispered, breathily. Mark tried to, he really did. But then he confessed that the only way was a demonstration.”Show me the power of your suction on this rug” she said. Mark agreed, and though his bag was already quite full, she was impressed by what he could do.

He tried to help with the button situation, but more just seemed to undo, as if the release of the first had started an avalanche of female flesh…little by little Petunia’s skin seemed to come forth, and a most beguiling wriggle of her hipsiness freed her of both clinging skirt and rustling petticoat.
He was able to show how he found his way into every little nook (nooky being his speciality) and cranny. How he could reach into crevices with spectacular results. Very soon everything he touched was glowing

She gave Mark free rein with his feather duster, and found that, just as he had said, it could get right into those hard to reach places and give them a long-overdue experience.
As for oiling and buffing of the ground floor, Mark was on the case. He advised her it was best done far more often than she had previously thought, and it wasn’t long before she was really feeling the benefits!
He left his Mark after all

The General Erection

Dahlia had never voted before; it wasn’t that she didn’t care about things – she cared with a sort of mystical sense of right and wrong. She had been, however, completely unable to connect such urges to reality, to the statements made by political candidates. So she had previously watched from the sidelines and merely joined the ranks of complainers afterwards. Here as well she was not fully engaged – being of a generally sunny disposition and naturally inclined to make the best of things.
Recently though, she had felt that as time advanced her rather far beyond teenager, she ought to have a more adult approach and take on more responsibility. It was time she voted.

Nerves struck her as the day arrived. She put it off, and put it off again until it was almost half past nine by the time she arrived at the polling station in Little Seminal.
This village had been described as a “fluid” constituency – wavering as it had done between different parties.

Little Seminal was a small place: narrow access routes meant everything streamed out through a single channel, and some inhabitants felt it had begun to shrivel. Still, it enjoyed bags of space around it and was much loved by the residents.

By 9.30 everyone who was going to vote had been and gone. The staff in the Polling Station were looking at their watches and privately thinking of what they could be doing instead.
Leo noticed this and suggested some should go home. All eagerly agreed, except Mr Pronk who was very deaf and asleep in a chair in the corner. Leo sat on the edge of a table swinging his leg.
Then Dahlia entered. Hastily Leo re-attached his leg and walked over to say hello. Not only because it was good manners but also because she represented the most interesting thing he had seen all day. Waves of tweed had been replaced by a voluptuous vision of knitwear and a pair of jeans whose job Leo instantly envied.

“Hello” he said. It was a cliché, but it sometimes worked.
This was one of those occasions.
“Hello” said Dahlia
Leo found he was rubbing his hands. An unfortunate habit, likely to be misinterpreted. Or, as in this case, interpreted.
“Come to vote have you?” This was a silly question as he would be the first to admit
She nodded, the curls of her hair bouncing as she did – perfectly synchronised with the bouncing of her democratically rounded norks.

“You’ll probably be my last one” he continued
Dahlia looked around, a little anxious
“This’ll be my first; I’ve never done this before” she said. Leo reassured her that he would guide her gently through the process, right up to the moment of climax where the implement touched the spot. That was for her alone. Or as Leo put it
“What goes on in the booth stays in the booth”
“Is that so?” Dahlia purred at him, noticing his balanced manliness, his impartial jawline.

“I’ll get you a ballot paper” he murmured quietly, trying to avoid waking Mr Pronk. They walked together to the table. The atmosphere was heavy with the promise of what was to come. Dahlia rifled through her handbag urgently “I can’t find a pen!”
Leo put a reassuring hand on hers, electricity flowed between them, though a few moments ago they had been poles apart. Dahlia also felt the connection; it sent shivers through her body and she didn’t know how to conduct herself.

“Relax!” Leo said, his voice like chocolate sauce on her terminals “Pencils are provided”
“You think of everything!” cried Dahlia, melting into a mixed metaphor of electricity and cookery.
“I need to tick you off though” said Leo, assuming a manly air of responsibility. Dahlia looked worried.
“Have I done something wrong?”
Leo laughed, a deep, balanced laugh which made Dahlia wish she could tick his box with her pencil.
“On my sheet”
Dahlia wished she was on his sheet
“Name?”
“Dahlia Parts”
“Address?”
Dahlia fixed him with her huge brown eyes, willing him to want to know as much as she wanted to tell.
“14, Rhizome Terrace” she said, slowly and meaningfully
“Just round the corner from me!” exclaimed Leo
“Now take this slip into one of those booths over there, and put a single cross beside the candidate of your choice. Don’t put any other marks on or your ballot paper will be disqualified”

“Gosh! It’s very strict isn’t it?” Dahlia exclaimed “Can I take my handbag in?”
Leo assured her that she could, and watched as she walked into the furthest booth, on a slant in the corner. There was a snoring grunt from Mr Pronk as Dahlia’s mesmerotic ass wiggled rhythmically across the floor. The building itself seemed to be waking from a slumber: it had not seen the like for decades. After a moment there was a little whisper from the booth
“I’ve done it. Now what?”
Leo tried to answer in a whisper so as not to wake his colleague “Fold it in half and put it in the slot”
But Dahlia could not hear him. She whispered more urgently. Leo crossed the floor, the same floor across which Dahlia’s glamunctuous thighs had just previously propelled her, and stood behind her in the booth.
“Is it folded in half?”
Dahlia, her back to him, shook her head. “It’s just lying here. Give me a moment” she folded the paper in half, slowly running a perfectly manicured fingernail across the edge. Leo watched her from behind. More accurately, Leo watched her behind
She turned, uplifting her face to him, offering up her ballot paper to him.
“Here it is” she whispered, holding it level with her perfectly balanced cleavage, in which each party vied with the other for attention. Leo, himself committed to impartiality, privately resolved that if he had the chance, he would give equal weight to both.
He turned sideways so she could brush past him out of the booth. And she did, soft bits making noteworthy contact with his charged flesh in passing.
“Into the slot!” he whispered, and watched as her nimble fingers wiggled the folded paper into the narrow slit in the black box.

“That’s it done!” he said, a slew of disappointment washing over him. Dahlia was feeling rather the same, – at least that may explain her sensation of dampness.
“I left my bag in the booth!” she exclaimed. Leo rushed forward, keener than ever to be helpful. They both pushed into the booth together, and parts of Dahlia pushed into Leo, causing alterations to his manifesto.
In a counter-move, parts of Leo began to fight back, putting significant pressure on Dahlia.
They both cast glances over at Mr Pronk, securely asleep in the chair and facing away from the booths. Everyone else had gone home. The clock struck ten. “That’s the election over is it?” asked Dahlia
Leo whispered in her ear “It’s only just getting started”, and Dahlia had to suppress a giggle

And so it was that in Little Seminal Village Hall, as Mr Pronk dreamt of cricket matches and tea urns, democracy gained an enthusiastic supporter. Leo’s campaign had only sprung into life as the polls were about to close, but he quickly found himself making inroads in Dahlia’s home turf. Of course she had never really wanted to stand alone, so she soon decided to toss her hand in with him, and together they were unstoppable, scaling height after height until they had the world at their feet. Dahlia’s final cry of triumph was enough to disturb Mr Pronk, who gruffled, shifted position and muttered “seal the ballot boxes”

It was a great day for democracy