Cool Green

At the end of the day, exhausted and depressed, she retreated to the garden. She always ended up in her garden. The house itself was a disappointment--run down and neglected, showing the signs of too little time and too little money. In that sense, she reflected bitterly, she and her house were alike.

But the garden seemed full of possibilities, especially at night, when shadows hid the house and the noise of traffic was subdued. Out there, alone in the darkness, she could imagine she was anywhere. She could imagine she was beautiful. She loved the garden for its life, its vitality, its fertility: all the qualities she felt slipping away from her own life as mundane routine wore her down.

She sipped her second glass of wine, growing drowsy in spite of the chilly evening air. On a sudden impulse, she poured and third glass, and knelt for a moment on the fertile soil of the garden, pouring the glass of red wine onto the ground and watching it soak away. It was a voiceless prayer: for renewal, regeneration, regrowth. Let me, she thought, remember how I felt, back when I felt things. Let me be, if not desired, at least full of desire. She stood up, made her way back to the garden bench and lay down, drifting near sleep even as she shivered.

And then she shivered again, more deeply, and started up, shocked into full wakefulness. The touch on her arm was a hand--there was a young man beside her, staring wordlessly at her. She looked at him and felt afraid. How had he gotten in. \"What do you want?\" she asked, looking to see if he held a weapon. My gods, she thought, he\'s just a boy, no more than eighteen. His only answer to her question was to lean still closer and kiss her: an unexpectedly passionate kiss, and one she felt herself respond to involuntarily. Almost immediately she was wet between her legs, her desire as unbidden and unstoppable as a spring tide, and when the strange young man started pulling her clothes off she helped him instead of resisting. His every touch was a demand: he reached for her, fingered her, kissed and bit her as though he had some right to her, as though she\'d given him permission, and his every touch was so strangely arousing that she found herself parting her legs for him eagerly, willingly, wordlessly.

He fucked her with the pounding enthusiasm of a teenage boy, but it went on and on and on, endless, until finally she came for him, her orgasm do intense she felt as though she were squirting liquid, drenching his flesh with her liquid desire. He pulled out and licked her, long strokes with an oddly rough-textured tongue. The steady, insistent strokes reawoke her desire, and she let him roll her over, lift her slightly so that she knelt on all fours, and mount her from behind like an animal. She bucked and wriggled, backing onto his cock, the thought of being used by him so exciting that when he reached forward to stroke her clit she came again almost at once.

Afterwards she felt exhausted, and slightly embarrassed, but more alive than she had since--well, since she\'d been the age he looked. \"Who are you?\" she whispered, but he didn\'t reply. He stood and walked deeper into the overgrown tangle of her garden, and the movement made the motion-activated light above her back door flicker on for a second, filling her with terror: in the instant before he blended into the plants and disappeared from view, she saw him clearly in the light, and realized that his hair and skin were green.