Driving through the back gate of the huge Lioncourt gardens always made me feel like the princess of the fairy tale. It was not so much the somewhat sugary little white castle perched on a hillock in the middle of the grounds. It was my job.

I had been hired to revamp the old gardens of the property, and I was working practically full time on the project, drawing, selecting plants, ordering truckfuls of them from this and that nursery. The client was decadently rich. He knew next to nothing about gardening, and most of the time he did not even live in the family property which was practically, but he had conceived the idea of creating a grand gorgeous luxury garden where to spend dreamy midsummer nights with his guests. He had a conscientious, if not very creative gardening staff, who, at the beginning, had regarded me with a mixture of puzzlement and distaste. As a garden designer I am not squeamish. I am not above kneeling on the muddy ground and digging holes with my hands. I actually enjoy it. But at that early stage this was not apparent. I had only been there to survey the ground, check measurements, test the soil, assess the state of previous plantings, take notes and pictures. They only knew me as the petite brunette in neat riding boots, and greenish rusty tweed jacket, with small round sunglasses and a soft, shapeless painter hat (insufferable!), hardly fit to lift a ball of twine let alone a spade, and way too snotty to know a thing about gardening. All the gardeners were utterly horrified by my strong opinions that no, no, and no, I would not have that magenta pink azalea blooming in that place, or any place in my field of vision, that pink and orange should not be planted together and that for no reason whatsoever I wd allow laurels, anywhere near “my” garden, however vigorous and evergreen they might be. Yes, they called me The Princess, when they thought I was not listening, and it was not really a compliment. I found that quite amusing, when I thought about it and I secretly enjoyed fitting my role to perfection. I wd arrive in the morning, with a pile of plans, plant lists, sketching pads, catalogues, and the RHS plant encyclopaedia, for a total of half a ton of paper, after three minutes I wd drop the bundle in the hands of one of the guys, with the excuse of checking on a hard to reach weed or twig, and strategically forget to retrieve it, carefully failing to notice the thunderous expression on the face of the unlucky fellow. This fellow wd typically be Alex, not because he was especially patient with me (resigned, if anything), but because he was young, perhaps a bit younger than me, and considerably handsome, in a half unconscious way, and I enjoyed having him around.

I liked all of the gardeners, for my part. They knew their business. They only cared for the well being of their plants, as well they should, and in that they were completely successful. The garden was thriving, in an old fashioned way. It just needed better colours, and sharper edges, so to say.

One of the client’s wishes was of course to have a swimming pool. I thought honestly that the swimming pool wd be a horror in the old garden, and I had convinced him to have a very large pond instead, in a corner of the park, with a part of it dug deep enough for bathing, and a nice looking, small summerhouse nearby, to store things, keep champagne cool, and take a hot shower.

During the first weeks of the pond life the water went green. It had been a warm spring, with roses bloomed and dead before the beginning of June. I had refused using chemicals. I waited for my plants to cover the surface of the water, shading the algae, and killing it. The gardeners were much amused about this, but I persisted. It had become a sort of bet. Alex accused me of being a dreamer, but not unkindly.
Towards midsummer I was proved right, much to my (carefully concealed) relief. Lotus and water lilies, water hyacinths and lesser floating plants had covered all the more shallow parts of the pond, and, while the summerhouse was being installed and fitted to my specifications, the water had gradually cleared, becoming extremely inviting as the weather grew hotter.

It was somewhat distracting to work with Alex in those hot days. He was not a lowlander, his accent was exotic, thickly north-eastern. He disliked these sticky, hot southern summers, and was mostly quiet, somewhat a stranger, an exile, in the drowsy silence of the garden; I was dazed by the warmth, a swoon of dry dust and burning gold; slowly, a line of sweat, a salty, wandering line, running dark on his t-shirt, between his shoulder blades, would worm its way into my imagination, musk, male, the smell of damp salt, a whiff of the ocean.

In that hot July afternoon, the pond and house were finished, and ready. The client would be here in august and I came regularly to check everything was in order and the new plants were doing fine.
I was working in a small top and large straw hat, pruning, dead-heading, and feeding the new plants, that I overlooked personally. As far as I knew, the gardeners had done their job for the day, and gone home early, as they usually did in those hot weeks. The house was closed and deserted, but I had the keys of the summerhouse. It was hot, in that exhausting way of July afternoons, when nobody in his or her right mind would be around if they could avoid it. The sky was low and hazy. The insects buzzed drowsily through the air. Cicadas were deafening. I felt the heat stealing over me like a slow sticky dreaminess. I guess I quite lost my head.
And so it is that, pruning and deadheading in a sort of walking dream, I wandered to the pond.

There was a sort of small gravel beach, designed to access the water comfortably, and screened by huge gunneras. I had specifically chosen fine, rounded, gravel. Expensive, comfortable gravel. I undressed there, shedding my hat, loose trousers and sandals, top and panties. It was lovely being naked in the faintly breezy shadow of the gunneras. My skin smelled of talcum powder and sweat, the clean sweat of a day in the open. I let down my hair, that had been tied up under the hat, and carefully laid my sunglasses on top of my clothes. I stepped in the water, which was warm in the shallows and cooler further in and then half slid half dived in the deeper, nearly cold middle of the pond. I shivered while I went through the colder layers of water, feeling my skin crumple, and then slowly relax again. I surfaced and breathed deeply. This is my water, whatever they may think, I thought. I swam lazily to the other side, where the plants were, and dove under the surface to look at the stalks of the lotus . The water was green with the shade of the plants, here, strangely magical, tiny particles of sand shining gold in the shafts of sunlight piercing the leafy roof, busy goldfishes hurrying through the slender waving pillars and disappearing in the deep gloomy shadows. I floated in the green, weightless, suspended. I swam up among the tiny leaves of salvinia and azolla, feeling their soft touch on my skin like a shy caress. I swam back to the middle of the pond, turned belly up and left myself float in the sun.

I floated. I smiled. I dreamed. I smelled the muddy smell of the water, the heady sweet midsummer scent of the rhincospermums, the far away green smell of freshly mown grass. And an unmistakable, familiar whiff of skin in the air.

In the moment the scent of skin, not my skin, reached me, I nearly drowned. It’s a fact, that floating on the water is not possible in a state of great and distressing agitation, and there I was, naked and guilty, bathing like an improbable nymph in a pond I did not own!
Absurdly, I tried to sit up, and immediately sank to the bottom. I panicked.
I was thrashing and flailing when I bumped in something warm and consistent and human. A voice pierced the noise of tumbled waters.
“Ivory, you are standing in one meter of water, you know!?”
I went still and breathed. I looked up.
I felt like killing him. HE was definitely STANDING in the one meter, and firmly holding my shoulders. I was half floating and half kneeling with my hair and small green water plants plastered to my face, and said face practically into his crotch. If one can ever feel silly enough to want to die, that was such a moment.
“Ehm yes, I am fine, thanks, no really, fine.” I said, taking his hands from my shoulders, and trying to gather some scraps of dignity.
He was laughing, the bastard. I carefully retreated to deeper waters, trying to hide myself under some leaf. He was wearing sopping wet trousers, and nothing else that I could see. Damn, he was beautiful. Large shoulders, flat stomach, the thinnest trail of hairs emerging from his belt and reaching his navel, and then up, the middle of his pleasantly deep chest. He was muscular in a sleek, cat-like way, like a swimmer is muscular, not like a body builder. His hair was cropped very short, but he had a half week beard. He was clearly growing a goatee, which was a bit longer than the beard on his cheeks, but not really long enough yet.
“Alex” I whined ”this is a bit embarrassing, you know?”
“Is it?”
“I am… erm… naked”
“Yes, I noticed. Before you tried to drown. Nice pond decoration, by the way.”
He smiled mischievously. I felt a horrible heat rising between my breasts towards my face and I knew that my cheeks and ears were achieving that despised, glowing, rich shade of magenta that I had so fastidiously tried to eradicate from the garden. I hate to blush. I hate it. And it happens, inevitably, at the most improper moments. I closed my eyes trying not to exist.
“Oh my!” he said “Don’t you worry. I know exactly what to do!”
He turned and walked back to the beach, his trousers spilling water. He had a large, bluish black tattoo on the back that I had never seen, a complicated tribal knot blooming on his right shoulder blade and spilling down along his spine. I was surprised. He had not struck me like a tattoo type. On the beach he got rid of his boots, opened his trousers and slipped out of them, the sticky wetness of the fabric slowing him down a bit, and then my stupefied eyes caught a glimpse of his wet white boxers, stretched tight over his cock, the ridge of it showing clearly through the fabric. Some old old voice inside my head told me to avert my eyes. I didn’t listen. He lowered his boxers, stepped out of them, and I stood transfixed in the water, as he walked back and dived.
“Better?” he said, when he was a meter from me
“We- ell… ye-es…”
He smiled, his very special warm smile. To be true he was not so stunningly handsome. He had fine features, but not unforgettable. But he had the liveliest brown eyes, eyes that glowed amber-red in a strong afternoon side light, eyes that really looked at people (in that moment, specifically, intently, me) and that smiled together with his mouth. This made his face fully alive, the most magnetic face I had ever seen.
“Yes, that is much better.” I whispered, and reached out with my arms to him.
We embraced in the water, cold water, warm, warm skins. I pressed my cheek to his neck, my belly to his belly, wrapping my legs around his hips. I run my hands on the stubble of his hair, a yielding roughness meeting my palms and fingertips with an almost electric feeling, exploring the shape of the skull under my fingers, the little hollows, and harder bones, a thin scar behind his right ear, a bit of a half healed razor burn along his jaw. I kissed his mouth with my wet lips, hungrily; had he known, or guessed, that I had wanted him all this time? Had I known? Ah yes, I had, how many kisses, whispered in my pillow – dreaming - ah, I wouldn’t dare, how would his body be – sweat muscles beard – surging in hungry greedy lovemaking, oh, my hunger of him! Dreaming – caresses surrender quieted desire, his face in the hollow of my throat, until the flaming morning – mine.
He broke the kiss to breath and look down to my face.
“You are lovely like this” he whispered, taking a tangle of leafy hair from my eyes.
“Like what?” said I panting.
“Wild – not – a princess.”
I bit hard into his shoulder, and he screamed and laughed together, and fell back in the water, and I with him. We somehow reached the shallow water in front of the beach and collapsed together on the fine gravel. I needed to bite into his neck, feel the salty taste of his sweaty skin, rub my face against his face, his chin so hard that one could file wood on it, the cheeks a complex texture, soft flesh, warm skin, cold water dripping, rough beard. Our lips came together in a long deep kiss, searching and reaching into each other, meeting tongues, clashing teeth, his hand cupping and holding the back of my head, holding me to his kiss, to his warm breath, and our bodies pressed together .
I slowly became aware of the rest of myself, and him, our tangled arms and legs, his, stronger, firmer, mine, like a twining creeper, making my way around and along him, thin, graceful, and inescapable. Our bellies were close together, just far enough to make space for the bouncing, stiff presence of his member. I so loved to feel it between our bodies, so virile, so candid - “I want you” - making him look more powerful and more vulnerable at the same time. I arched my body to press his cock between our bellies, feeling its hardness with my body, moving so that its head would slide slowly along my tummy, digging lightly in my navel. An hour before, I only knew his face, his hands, the smell of his skin, his voice, his way of walking, light and elastic, boyish. And now, this, my hard nipples brushing his chest, one hand of his on the small of my back, his tongue, wet and textured, playing with my tongue, my leg thrown over his side… his balls brushing my pussy. Naked, naked and close, our skins, and nothing in between. I moaned.
“I want you” I whispered, on his lips, and he smiled, turning slowly, carefully, shifting skin over skin, running palms and fingertips, and finally laying my back on the fine gravel.
“You sure?”, he asked, oddly. (Sure? What do you think?!)
“Yes.” I said, and pushed up with my hips to brush my clit along his shaft. He pressed my body down making that contact deeper and stronger, rubbing back and forward slowly, his shaft finding its way between my lips. I sighed and moaned again, reaching around his sides with my legs holding him to me and rocking slowly while his cock awakened every nerve in my clit, the water of the pond washing around our entwined bodies, cold and delightful on my anus. I felt him moving slightly away form me and moaned. My arms were still around his shoulders, but his right hand was sliding on my stomach and down, to my thighs, nudging and caressing until I let go of his hips with my legs and surrendered to his touch, his hand sliding between my legs, cupping my whole expecting pussy, holding and lightly pressing it like a ripe fruit. I felt his fingers searching between my lips, teasing my eager clitoris, then wandering down, looking for a damp sweet place between other, softer lips, one finger finding its way in, to look for warm moisture and closeness. I stretched my stomach and shoulders, taking in the pleasure of this growingly intimate contact. I drew my arms high over my head surrendering to his kisses, caresses, bites. He was biting his way down my neck, to my tits, and when his open hot mouth came to lay around my left nipple, I stretched again, arching my back, trying to come even closer to his tongue, to his teeth. He sucked on my nipple long and hard, and when he started to bite softly on it I had to smile and flinch together, pain and pleasure mixing in some nearly intolerable pinpoint of sensations. When he left my nipple the air felt cold as ice on its raw wet skin. When his lips tried to move down I made a small sound of protest, directing his mouth to the other nipple. I felt him smile on my skin, my eyes closed in growing ecstasy.
I opened my eyes briefly when he kneeled up and came to straddle my torso, I took in the lean volumes of his chest and shoulders, the hard elegant symmetry of his hips, running up to meet in the narrow width of his waist. I found myself whishing that I could see his ass. He leaned over to pin down my wrists high over my head, his cock brushing silk smooth on my lips. I opened my mouth to take it in, and he leaned down a bit more, pushing his hard cock into my mouth. I pursed my lips around it, circling slowly with my tongue his still growing girth. I was caught between the excitement of him growing even harder and larger in my mouth and panic of my helpless position, his pushing length pressing into the back of my mouth, my hands prisoners on the cool gravel into his iron grip. I kept sucking him and licking him in my mouth, my head pressing back in the gravel, and then, just one moment before my fear took over, I felt him withdrawing slowly, his head bouncing stiffly down my lower lip, leaving a wet trail on my chin, his hand releasing my wrists, running down my arms in a caress of extreme tenderness, his whole body sliding down over mine until he came to kiss my lips. I hugged him fiercely, breaking the kiss to bury my face into his shoulder, until my heart stopped racing. When I finally let go he kissed my face all over, in small tender kisses, and then slowly, kissing a tingling path down the middle of my chest and belly, he worked his way down, down past my navel and pubis. He pushed me delicately up, nudging me farther out of the lapping water.
The sheer intensity of expectation made me jolt when his warm wet mouth came to lay on my pussy. He held his lips there for a long moment then left it to kiss in circles the inside of my thighs, my belly, the small eager space between my slit and my anus. I moaned, fighting to bring my pussy to his mouth again, suddenly mad with desire. When his lips opened my outer lips, and come to softly seize my clit my body seemed to lose its far ends and concentrate there, in the middle of my sensations. My body was all in the soft circling feeling of his lips, the stiff slick flicking of his tongue, his chin brushing on my thigh, hard and rough, male. It was all in his thumb entering my slit, circling inside, while his middle finger travelled down, to press and caress my anus, slowly and softly, slowly and softly, and I was losing count of myself, lost in this rhythmic, rocking pleasure, repeated and repeated over and over in patient, attentive patterns.
When he left my clitoris to lick around and then in, deeply inside my pussy, I moaned and writhed, unable to understand what I wanted more. He licked my juices greedily, and when his tongue moved over to my anus I felt my head spinning. His fingers were rubbing my clitoris, now, wet with my moisture, with cold water, or his saliva, and I was growing wilder and wilder, I wanted him to lick my clit my clit my clit again, I wanted him everywhere. I searched for more, more, more, I started to rock and rub my pussy against his mouth, closing my legs around his head to force him on my clitoris, holding his head with my hands, my clitoris rubbing harder and harder against his lips, his tongue, his teeth, and when his fingers came inside me again, thrusting fast and hard into my flesh, I felt a flickering, deep, silent orgasm growing in waves into my lower belly, shuddering for long moments in and out of existence, shyly reaching out, out, out, to explode between the tip of my clit and his open mouth.
I jerked back from him with a strangled moan, burying my face in my hands, turning half around, panting, shaking.

After a minute or so, I could control myself again, and I realized he was slowly caressing my closed legs, his face laying on my belly, his hair stinging my tits. I put my arms around his shoulders, holding him tight, holding his head against me, my fingers running over his hair, again and again. And then I wanted him, I just wanted him. We seemed to reach the same conclusion in the same moment, because I didn’t say nothing and he was rising from my body, coming to kneel between my legs, his legs slightly bristly against the still oversensitive skin of my thighs, his cock stretching in front of him, hungry, shiny, beautiful. I lifted my legs around his sides while he slid inside my inner lips, his head so turgid and smooth that it needed no help into my wet slit, and I closed my eyes and threw my head back while his length and girth entered me, slowly, and slowly, taking every little millimetre of pleasure by this first thrust. When he was inside me he seemed to fill me up entirely, to make my body whole, hitting in exactly the right places, like a key into it’s keyhole. After, while he entered me again and again, I opened my eyes to see him, leaning on his hands, and straight arms, high over me. His shoulders were bulging with the strain, and the hollow between his clavicles and neck nerves had gone deep and deeper, so inviting that I needed to hug him down, to hold him close enough to kiss his neck, bite into his shoulder, kiss his eyebrows and eyes, his panting mouth. When he lifted himself again, I fell back, my eyes closed, abandoned.
“Ivory.”
I smiled and moaned softly, turning to kiss his wrist, near to my face.
“Ivory...”
He was thrusting faster and deeper, I knew where he was going, and I wanted to feel him coming, coming inside me...
“Mmmmmh. Alex...”
“Ivory!?”
“Mh?”
“Open your eyes, Ivory, please...”
I did, surprised, and he was looking at me, intently and fiercely, his amber-brown eyes locked into mine, while his clean growing rhythm changed into a shuddering, eager, wildly hungry ride, and he came inside me with a sudden, broken, choked cry.

We laid on the gravel side by side, his right arm under my neck, not totally comfortable, but still I was too comfortable or too spent to change position. The afternoon was slowly turning into evening. The cicadas where still filling the air with their exhausting summer cry, but the hottest hours had gone. The garden breathed easier around us. The shadows under the gunneras had grown darker and deeper. We panted softly, for a while. I felt that I was going slowly away from myself in a sort of grey thick mist. Just before falling asleep I managed to collect enough voice to whisper:
“Alex… are your colleagues still around?”
He smiled a bit and then more broadly.
“I have no idea.”

Great. Stuck at work, just read your amazingly sensual story, and no method of taking care of the growing tightness in my pants.

Seriously, though...from the character development (just enough) to the details of the garden to the initimate description of your bodies' appearance and reaction during the steamy ending...very nice. Makes me want to rewrite some of my own.

Wow, how'd I miss this the first time? Another great one, Snowflake. Is there anything that Ivory can't do? She's very talented

i have it all on film......(you thought that was a lily pad floating in the pond).

quote:

Is there anything that Ivory can't do? She's very talented

Plenty of things actually! I assure you.

Glad to hear it! I can't wait to see what else