|Bed of Roses by Jane New|
Tracy had found her next lover.
The gardener pushed a lawnmower around the small, walled garden. He strode back and forth, sturdy, well-shaped calves flexing above heavy work boots and thick socks. The impressive shoulder and upper arm muscles stretched the knit fabric of his green polo, and a dark cap bearing the company’s insignia concealed his hair and shadowed his face. Tawny down covered his arms and legs.
He wasn’t the sort of man Tracy expected to encounter in the built-up heart of the City of London. He paced the enclosed yard like a lion pacing his cage.
She absentmindedly caressed the rough skin of a Lebanese cucumber before turning her focus on the vegetable. Mmm. I could make this so much more enjoyable. But first, she needed a small paring knife.
She trimmed away the pointed end of the cucumber, making it rounder, and then cut a shallow incision about an inch and a half from the end. Carving in at an angle, she created a head and, with a few more strokes, designed an approximation of a large, knobby cock.
She’d have some fun with that later.
She’d been preparing lunch for Mr. Browne when the gardener had distracted her. She examined the salad neatly arranged on virgin-white porcelain. Something was missing. Mr. Browne—Philip—would compliment her on the food no matter what, but she enjoyed going to a bit of extra trouble for him.
She used the freshest ingredients she could find, made sure the flavors were interesting and the arrangements exquisite. She wasn’t a trained chef, but she read gourmet magazines and watched cooking shows. She did her best to keep up with new trends, and she loved food almost as much as she loved sex. Plus, Philip was the best boss she’d ever had.
And the best lover.
She consigned the old, boring salad to the rubbish bin, produced a pristine plate from the dresser and set to work again. The gardener had unwittingly proved to be an excellent source of inspiration—for all sorts of things.
A few minutes later, she stood back and admired her workmanship. A gherkin and two olives lay against shredded greens she’d cut to represent pubic hair. Curling slivers of cucumber became labia, and a tiny radish a clit.
She doused the salad greens in dressing and carefully placed a spurt of mayonnaise at the tip of the pickle as though it had just come. She called her creation Juicy Pussy Recently Fucked by an Extremely Randy Gherkin. Heston Blumenthal would be proud of her.
She placed the salad, polished silverware and a starched, white napkin on a serving tray before heading for the library. Many delightful memories of this room traced back to her job interview. The first day she’d met Philip.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Browne.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jones. What culinary delights have you created for me today?” He maneuvered his wheelchair closer to the dining table as she placed her masterpiece in front of him. “My dear, you’ve excelled yourself!” A broad smile lit his face. “Come and stand next to me, please.”
Tracy knew exactly what he wanted. She’d prepared for this moment when she dressed this morning.
The weather had been warmer lately, so she’d wore a simple cotton blouse over a low-cut bra that barely concealed her nipples. The peaks hardened at the thought of what Philip had in store for her. A full, floral skirt covered nothing but bare skin.
Philip pressed his hand to the back of her thigh and stroked upward. “No stockings today, Mrs. Jones.”