Natural vibes

I have been single for two years now. And, you know, I no longer miss sex with other people. I love spreading out over the full width of the bed as I sleep, I like how my wands and vibrators never lie, never forget my birthday, I like the way my fingers do everything a cock used to do… and more—so much more.

But the sexiest part of me is my mind. The best sex is in my head. And, because sex is in my head, intelligence is a turn on. And when I get a story of clever women—occasionally clever men—I get excited. I create my own world of pleasure. I like to listen to stories and when I do, the most amazing things can happen.

I found this story by Eve as an audio file on my phone. Who is Eve? I don't know. She was reading the story, she had quite a deep voice, a voice I actually liked.

I will give the story a listen, I think. I mean, Eve's just the writer and has nothing to do with me. And her text, well, once she pressed publish it ceased to be hers didn't it? It's like that with texts, they are what you make of them—what I make of them and smutty sex stories turn each of us on in a different way. We are in control—we know our bodies best.

I do it properly—nice lingerie, my lounger on the patio, a drink, a cigarette, headphones on and relax.

The Lady Gardener by Eve Ray

"Vita had come, driving along chalky tracks across the Downs in her blue Austin. Two long years I had waited for this day. I really thought I would never see her again and now she stood at the door of my cottage on the coast. The fact that she had just turned up, unannounced, uninvited, told me of her sense of entitlement. Entitled, arrogant, knowing that she could take me any way she wanted. Because she could. I had thought about her every day, just as I did when I was a young girl in Cranbrook. And my mind went back to the day we first met.

I thought about the lady from the old castle all the time, in her tweeds and canvas boots, so different from the women I knew. She was from an aristocratic family, she had poise and intelligence, she was creative, she wrote poetry. She was everything I longed to be but never would. I thought about her as I lay in bed. My hand moved beneath the sheets and I explored with my fingers the places between my legs. I liked doing that even though I was always taught it was wrong and would lead me to Hell. When I thought of the Lady, I noticed I got wet inside, and how the movements of my fingers gave me pleasure. I knew nothing of myself. I had so much to learn. But I knew that desiring another woman couldn't be wrong. One day I wrote a poem and folded it up carefully, put it in an envelope and walked up to the Castle, deciding that if my nerve failed me I would pretend I had come to ask about a maid's job.

I walked through a gate into the garden. There was no one about on a hot summer's day. I heard a noise from the potting shed. There she was in her boots and gardening gloves, smelling of earth and nature. I held tight the envelope in my pocket.

She stopped work and looked at me.

"Hello," she said.

"Morning ma'am," I stuttered. I moved towards her, then, I don't know why, I fell to my knees, put my arms around the canvas tops of the boots and said,

"Ma'am I love you, I adore you."

I began kissing the leather part of the boots encasing her feet. Intoxicated by the leather, the earthy scent of the garden, the smell of my own arousal I began to sob.

She lifted up my head and smiled.

"I've got a poem for you," I said.

"Go to my study," she said, handing me a key, "and wait for me there. Take your clothes off. You will be much more comfortable."

"My clothes Ma'am?"

"Your clothes. A woman is always at her most beautiful naked."

I stood naked before her desk piled high with papers, the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Literature and sex, that was what I wanted. Nothing more.

Vita came in and invited me to remove her boots. I carefully untied the laces, kissed each eyelet tenderly as I did so, and gently pulled off the boots. Vita did not wait for me—she quickly removed the jodhpurs, and soon I was looking at her sex.

"You will never see a thing more beautiful. This is more beautiful than all the flowers in my garden." She lay back opened her legs and invited me to come closer. "It is a flower, the most beautiful of flowers. Smell it."

I hesitated but could not resist. As my nose moved close and I smelt the arousal of a woman for the first time.

She laid her hand on the back of my head and pushed my face gently into her crotch. I knew I had to sate her and my tongue was darting in and out like that of a snake as if sipping the air. She took a finger, opened the vulva and invited me to go inside. What was it about the taste—sour, salty, sweet. I began to lick, first quickly, then slowly as the warmth of her made my face glow. I took my time. I wanted this to last forever.

"I'll pleasure you next time," said Vita. "Come tomorrow at eleven."

The next day my nerve failed me. I sat on my bed and wept. I lay down ad howled with pain. She would not forgive me, surely…

The story suddenly stops. I don't care. I carry on—imagining me with Vita on the back seat of the Austin, brown leather warmed by the Kentish sun. She is fully clothed, she wears gardening trousers, lace-up brown knee boots, her hair is cropped, she turns away and I see an angular, almost masculine jaw. God, I desire this woman, I push two fingers in, working my clit harder and make myself come. I gasp, choking back a scream that might be heard from behind the high hedge.

I lie back, take a cigarette and am about to light it.

"Have one of mine."

I start, turn round on my lounger. She is standing before me, proffering a packet of untipped cigarettes.

"Vita… I mean, My lady?"

She ignores the question.

"These have more flavour you will find."

"I don't know… I mean I really only smoke filter tips."

"You'll have one for me though, won't you?"

She proffers the pack again and lights one for me. I draw deeply on it and cough as the tar laden unfiltered smoke filled my lungs. My head spins.

"I am not used to these. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry." She smiles.

"Are you having one?"

"I will in a minute. But we need to talk."

"Talk?"

"You're always listening in when I meet pretty young girls. And you always pleasure yourself."

"Sorry," I say feeling bravado rise. "Is that wrong?"

"Do you fantasise about us?"

"Well, I suppose I do—about one of you anyway."

"And which of us is that?"

"You." I blush and lower my gaze. I hardly dare look at her reaction.

"You do flatter me. There are those who think I look too mannish. Do you think me mannish?"

I drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly.

"I think you're beautiful."

"But beautiful in a masculine way? Is that what attracts you?"

"Yes," I say quietly.

"Or is it that I am widely known to be a Sapphist?"

"That too. I mean, I have never been with a woman, I have only ever had men."

"There is nothing wrong with men. I am married. I have a son."

"I know, I…"

"But I rather prefer the female body."

"I would love to… you know, with a woman."

"I have no doubt about that."

"On the back seat of your car, in a field somewhere."

"I really don't think I…"

"I want to kiss your boots."

"You will be a rather demanding lover I fear."

"But please, can we?"

"We can and we will."

I finish the cigarette and lay the stub in the ashtray. Vita takes out another.

"I will come back when I have finished my assignation with my young admirer. But before I leave, I want to taste you."

Taking the cigarette in her left hand, she uses the fingers of her right to part my labia. She eases the cigarette into my sopping wet cunt. I moan as she moves it in and out. She pulls it out and I gasp with pleasure.

Lighting it, she takes one drag and hands it to me.

"Smoke and taste yourself. You are quite delightful. I shall very much like our lovemaking. But I have a story to get back to, with a young lady who quite adores me. As you shall too."

She turns and leaves. I don't see where she went. I draw on the cigarette before putting the unlit end into my slit. I hold it tight with my muscles, and with a further contraction draw on it making it glow red before expelling the smoke. I do this twice before taking a final drag. I stub it out and put the headphones back on. The story has restarted.

"You tried to escape from me, but I always get what I want. I heard you had left Cranbrook and moved to the coast. It took me two years to find you. Did you think about me, did you masturbate to me every day, did you frig against the sheets, did your clit swell and run against your knickers till you cried out in frustration, did you long for me like that slut who is listening to us naked in her garden longs for me? Did you?"

I blush at the sound of this and massage my clit even more furiously. Yes, I am a slut, but so what? Vita is a stuck-up cow with her upper-class entitlement. But she will be mine. Even as I worship her, I will bring her down. She will kneel before me and worship my cunt.

"You make me want, you are so cruel, sometimes I think you use me."

I said no more as Vita pulled me close, and kissed me hard. Her right hand clasped my head and held it in place as the left searched for the waistband of my skirt, and began to slide it down my thigh. She thrust the hand into my knickers and felt for my clit, my precious bud nestling in her lovely hand.

She began to rub it, slowly at first then quicker and quicker and as I moaned, pushed a finger into my cunt which was now quite wet. She kissed me again, and brought me quickly to orgasm.

I stood up quickly and walked outside. I squeezed my eyes shut as I looked up to the hot sun, stripped, and put on the loose cotton dress I had left on the bench. I pulled off a stem of the dark pink foxglove that nodded in the breeze by the doorpost and tied it into my hair like a garland. The dress billowed in the gentle, warm wind, occasional gusts from the sea raised it up and exposed my needy cunt. I wanted her so much. She looked startled as I walked back into the cottage. I fell to my knees before her and kissed the floor.

"You are the poison of my soul."

I took a bell flower from my hair and handed it to Vita.

"The poison and decay I cannot resist, the poison I need."

I took another flower and laid it at her feet.

"Press this flower, my darling, and write on the page, 'for the soul I have poisoned with desire'."

I pulled the garland off my head, and shook my hair loose.

"I am yours, I am she whose soul you have poisoned with desire, forever. I desire no cure."

I laid my head on the floorboards and moved it along to nuzzle Vita's brown lace-up boots. I raised my head slightly and kissed them. I kissed them again and moved up the shaft covering the boots in kisses, licking them clean, tasting the blessed soil of Sissinghurst on my tongue, my tongue that was nearly as blessed as the grass and gravel that grovelled under Vita's soles as she gardened—as she created beauty through hard work as sweat-stained her blouses. And didn't I love to sleep in one of those on the rare nights she was alone, and be free to be with Vita. I sunk my tongue lovingly into the soft leather, licked and kissed until I reached the top of the boots.

Vita lay back and unbuttoned her breeches, pulled them down to expose her cunt, unshaven, a riot of curly hair, that I could throw myself into and lose touch with time, wandering alone in its darkening shade, climbing the slopes of her mound, topping the labia as if attaining the ridge of a mountain, no a volcano, a volcano that snapped shut like a clam, and kept the sticky secrets of its crater.

I could happily lay down and die here.

My fingers splayed Vita's lips and the clam opened up to disclose its pearl. I dived in to retrieve it, to touch it with my tongue, push a little way in, to taste the sweet sourness—honey and vinegar, honey and vinegar. I knew that one day Vita would abandon me, must abandon me, so I licked and lapped greedily and soon Vita was moaning and with a few gentle licks of her clit she was brought to the edge, I knew not to let her come too easily.

Vita moaned again

"More. More, Kiss me there, there."

She placed her finger on her clit but I gently removed it.

"My Lady Sackville-West will come when I say."

I surprised myself with this assertiveness but made her wait, spicing the pleasure with suffering. And she waited. Vita writhed and moaned. I stroked her clit again, very gently, to keep her on the edge and torment her more. Vita moaned again but these were now moans of pain and frustration. Then I took pity on her and dived in to retrieve the pearl that was Vita's pleasure. I rubbed my face in the hair, then lapped greedily, quickly at Vita's clit until she came with a cry.

"Oh thank you my lovely, thank you!"

I looked up, fixed Vita with a gaze and said,

"You know I am yours, yours forever and ever, and you use me cruelly, you humiliate me, you make me feel worthless, you know that? Like a pathetic little puppy dog that craves her mistress's attention and will do all sorts of tricks to win it. But you know this makes her want you all the more. And when I cannot be with you, I write a poem each day, just for you.

I took a sheet of paper from my bra, unfolded it and began to read.

When angels fail and faith

Flickers go dim. When friends

Betray me and I am alone

You are there.

When I am an ugly duckling,

When I hate my body, when I

Could cut myself in disgust

You are there

To tell me I am beautiful.

When I kneel to kiss my lover's boot,

Abase myself, feel unworthy of love

You are there

For me. In the stillness of the night

When I take away my pain in writing

Words that are always for you

You are there.

If there is a heaven

And I pray so hard there might,

We will yet make love.

You will be there.

The story ends. I have not yet come, carry on working my clit as I imagine my poem being read to her, this is my poem to her, my poem, my poem…

I will write for her I must. She is coming to me, she is coming as she promised, with all her haughtiness, her disdain but she can use me as he wants, she can use me, my cunt is hers, my tongue is at her service, she…

Another vision of the boots, moist with the soil of Sissinghurst being held up for me to lick and I come, my head filling with visions of beautiful gardens, of flowers screening the sun, of bees crawling inside the spotted bells of her foxgloves.

A poem, a poem.

I have a notepad on the plastic garden table. I push a finger inside me and mark the page with my juice. I kiss it, I rub it against my clit. I come again. I pick up a pen and begin to write.

But writing is so hard. The blank page is like the torment of edging. I want to, I can't, I must I need to. I scream. I light a cigarette, pour a drink and turn round in my chair, kneel up and grind against the cushion of the back rest.

"A poem, a poem let me write a poem for you!"

Faster, faster, the ideas come and I furiously write down all that comes into my head. Not worrying about rhymes or line breaks or assonance, all those things I never learnt just words, words, words. And every one for her.

I put the paper down. I am so tired. I think of my bed, of the toys I keep in the bedside cabinet

I hear a car bowling down the lane, an old car I think from the spluttery chug-chug of the engine. I peer through the hedge. The car is blue and I can smell the old car aroma of oil and petrol, hot metal and leather.

My God the smell of leather, her leather! I am wet. I am hers. She will be mine.

The End