Gardening buddies

I like bondage.  And discipline. I like to be tied up. And I like tying my lovers up. I get an intense, overwhelming thrill from it. Like nothing else.

But don’t get the wrong impression. Only every couple of months will I indulge this vice. In between I appear conventional and very ordinary. In fact, I don’t think about this dark side really at all. But come those special nights at the Hellfire Club … where I eventually take you.

I work in a large Australian city for a government environment department. It is important and satisfying work. One day you join our organisation and I am immediate fascinated.

You have moved to Australia under the skilled migration program from France. Your English is perfect and you immediately begin to work hard, spending long hours in the office.

We are introduced and things are very superficial. What strikes me is how fit and healthy you appear. Wholesome. It becomes clear why. Every day you ride a bicycle to work and then go to the gym at lunchtime. You bring health lunches from home. Your skin glows and your toned body ripples as you walk through the office. You dress in practical clothes. You always have a serious book on your desk for lunchtime reading.

It is now one of those special evenings for the Hellfire Club. The Club is only convened every three months and the venue always changes. It is legal and semi-respectable. I have a group of friends I only meet on these nights. We are close after about five years of going to Hellfire together. We have shared wild, intense times but I do not know anything about these friends. I suspect their names are not even real. I certainly use a psdeonym on these nights.

I like to go out alone and go to a few bars alone before Hellfire. It does not open until 11 pm. Sometimes I meet someone at a bar – a stranger, a woman – and I entice them to join me. Tonight I hope to meet someone to introduce them to my secret world.

You would not know by my dress I am anticipating a long night of bondage and discipline. I am dressed is all black – pants, shoes and shirt. The shirt is short sleeved and a little too tight. It clings to my chest and biceps. On one wrist I wear a wide, tight leather strap. The only hint that I have more than window-shopping in the mind tonight on these city streets.

I am having no luck meeting anyone. I am walking to the last bar before I go to Hellfire. It is about 10 pm. Then I see you.

You are dressed is a stylish but casual black dress. It has a plunging neckline. But you wear a black long sleeve under the top to conceal your chest and cleavage. Your skirt falls below your knees. Thick stocking cover your legs. Low, sensible shoes for walking are on your feel. You are looking in the window of a bookshop.

‘Hi Muriel,’ I say.

‘Oh, Juan.  You surprised me. I didn’t expect to see you or anyone from the office. What are do doing?’ You look at my tight shirt – I would never wear anything like that at the office.

‘Um, just out for a night on the town. How are you?’

Your face fills with emotion and you turn away. Deep sobs. You fold your arms and walk away a bit for some privacy. I am not sure what to do. I give you some time then walk to you. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I am so sorry. I am okay, I think. Well actually I’m not really. I am so lonely. This city is so big but I find it so hard to meet people. I think I have made a terrible mistake moving here.’

You fold your arms tightly against your body and look at the ground. I can’t help noticing this lifts and pushes your breasts up and out. I am a bit ashamed to notice such a thing when you are upset.

‘Come on, let me buy you a drink,’ I say. ‘There is a little, quiet place down this lane. We can talk if you want.’

‘You are kind. Yes – I would like that.’

We drink one, then two and then three glasses of wine. We learn a little about each other and find we have some things in common. You go to order a fourth glass and I stop you. ‘I … um … have somewhere I have to go.’

‘Where?’ you ask. Normally you would not be so direct. But the wine and the connection we have formed have made you a little bold.

Even though I have had a few drinks and feel very relaxed and very attracted to you I wonder whether it is wise to tell you the truth. No one – absolutely no one – at work knows about by dark side. But you persist. ‘What – are you going to a whore house?’

‘Well, not exactly.’ Your smile is gone and you lean forward seriously. ‘I hope I can trust you. Please, please just keep this to yourself. I am planning one of my regular visits to the Hellfire Club. A bondage and discipline club.’

Your face is blank for a second. You look again at my tight black shirt and the leather strap on my wrist. You sit back, smile, then frown. ‘Really?’ you ask.

‘Yes, really.’ There is a silence. I say politely, ‘You are most welcome to join me, but I … um … don’t think it would be your scene.’ I think about the serious books, health lunches and gym bag under your desk.

‘Mmmm. Probably right. I should go. Thank you for the drinks. See you on Monday.’ I get a quick kiss on both checks and you rush from the bar, hail a taxi and are gone.

I skip Hellfire that night. I go home and put on some music and sit on the balcony of my apartment. On my iPod I cue up To Bring You My Love by PJ Harvey. At the Club this is the kind of music that is probably playing loud right now. I put it on low, a bit like ambient music. My favourite lines come on:

Climbed over mountains/Travelled the sea/ Cast down off heaven/ Cast down on my knees/ I've laid with the devil/ Cursed god above/ Forsaken heaven/ To bring you my love

I didn’t go to the Club I realise because of you. I am a bit worried about you disclosing my secret at work. But also just about you. You were so upset. I have been lonely and know the pain. I turn into bed at an early hour for a Hellfire night – 3 am. 

At work on Monday at mid-morning I wander over to your desk. ‘How are you feeling? I was a bit worried when you left so quickly the other night.’

‘I am fine, thank you.’ You are cold and distant. But I persist.

‘I told you something very, very personal the other night. I told you because I had this strong sense that I could trust, really trust, you. Also, I felt we made a connection. You and I.’ This is direct and intense and not the usual office small talk.

My directness has the desired effect. You drop your voice. ‘I am sorry I rushed out on you. I hope you didn’t think I was judging you. I know nothing about … what did you call it … bondage and discipline.’ You whisper the last two words, looking around to ensure no one can here.

‘Listen, please, I am not some pervert who spends every evening on the internet looking up distasteful videos. Just occasionally I like to get a little wild. I am normal, really.’

You frown and then smile, and then finger your latest serious book. Noam Chomsky’s latest on American imperialism. I say, ‘We can forget this all happened or … we could have lunch one day and see where things go. I felt a connection to you. And it is not connected to my dark side. I hope there is a chance to see where this goes.’ You nod and I leave your desk.

By the time I get to my computer an email has arrived from you. 

‘Yes, let’s have lunch. Today? I hope you don’t mind. I do want to ask you about your private interests. I am a little ashamed to say I am fascinated and cannot stop thinking about it. 12.30 okay for you?’

For lunch that day we sit in the spring sunshine on the grass in a park near work. The discussion about my dark side does not go well. It is more like an interrogation by you of me. I turn the conversation away hoping to find something – anything – we might have in common.

Turns out we doing. Gardening. Vegetable gardening. Strange, really. One minute we are talking in a stilted fashion about whips, chains and hot candle wax. Then we talk with ease and quiet passion about soil types, garden tools and our favourite type of tomato.

I have a small patch in the local community garden and we meet there after work the same day. It is an important day - the day in the gardening calendar judged as safe to plant tomato seedlings because the last frost has passed. It is mid-spring.

My plot is small – probably big enough to park two small cars. You help me plant twenty tomatoes seedlings. Different tomato varieties: roma, big red, black russian, cherry, egg. ‘I remember this from being a child,’ you say. ‘My aunty in the country and I would plant and look after her tomatoes. The smell – it really takes me back.’

And so this is how it begins – a couple of days a week you come to the plot with me and tend the tomatoes. Soon the first yellow flowers appear and then the small fruits form. First the cherry tomatoes. We eat them together straight from the bush.

As more tomatoes grow and ripen you say to me, ‘Now it is time for me to share something with you.’ In our kitchens – sometimes yours, sometimes mine – you prepare a dizzying variety of tomato-based meals. Soups, chutney, salads, sauces. Raw tomato. Cooked tomato. On bread. In stir-fries. It seems endless your talent and skill.

At my house we take to having regular dinner parties. My friends come first for the food and then for your company. Cooking you are happy and fun. My friends come to love you and your zest for life.

Occassionally someone ask me if we are a couple. ‘No, just gardening buddies, I suppose.’ This is true. Surprisingly neither of us seems interested in taking our friendship into the tender and intimate realm.

The Hellfire Club convenes more often as spring turns to summer. I still attend some nights. At lunch on Monday’s I show you photos on my small digital camera. You laugh when I try to explain what is going on in the pictures. I admit to you I am losing interest in Hellfire. And for the first time in five years I start to decline opportunities to attend the Club.

Summer turns to autumn and we continue to tend the tomatoes. But the weather is cooling rapidly. Soon the tomatoes will be at an end. Time to pull up the plants and prepare the ground for winter vegetables.

As the weather cools, so do you. The closeness we have developed fades a little. I don’t bring it up. But do wonder why you are moody and withdrawn.

One Saturday we meet at the plot dressed for work – time to pull up the tomato plants and dig in some manure for the winter vegetables. It is tough work for two office workers. The roots are deep and stubborn. Finally all the tomato plants are pulled up. We are sweating and dirty. I rest on a shovel, feeling satisfied.

‘Juan, I am going home,’ you say.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ I say in mock anger. ‘We have to cut the plants up for the compost and dig in the manure. You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.’

‘No. Home. Back to Paris. I am leaving Australia.’

‘What? Why? I don’t understand,’ I say a little breathlessly.

‘I am sorry. I have known for weeks. Our boss has known. I asked him to keep it to himself. I was worried about how you might take it. We have become such good friends.’ Your voice is unsteady and full of emotion You reach our your gloved hand and try to take mine. I pull away.

‘When?’

‘Monday evening.’ This is two days time.

I am gutted, breathing is difficult. I crouch down and hold onto the handle of the shovel that is stuck in the ground. I don’t cry. I cannot talk.

You walk away and sit quietly at the edge of the plot not sure what to do. After a couple of minutes I get up to complete the jobs that need doing. Cutting the tomato plants, pouring out the manure, digging it in, covering the beds with straw. I am angry, confused, hurt. We have grown so close in this little garden. What a place to tell me.

But the work helps me deal with my emotions. It is done in about 30 minutes. You sit quietly the whole time. I come to you, sigh painfully and smile weakly. ‘Look at you. You are so dirty.’ Soil and other garden material are in your hair, on your face, legs. ‘You can’t go home looking like that.’

‘To France?’ you say. We both laugh, but laugh sadly. You did not intend it as a joke. But it is sadly funny. We hug. The first time ever. My emotions start to build and I squeeze you. You squeeze me back. We are not lovers, but good friends. It is very, very painful.

We walk to my place so you can clean up. I need a good shower, too. We do not say a word the whole way. As we walk you gently hold my hand. It is not sexual. But very tender. My emotions have been coming in waves for more than an hour now. I don’t think I can take much more.

At my apartment you go to the shower and shut the bathroom door. I hear the shower. You must be undressing now, I think. I get a cold beer from the fridge and stand on the balcony of my apartment. As I drink I try to see things more clearly. Why am I so emotionally, I ask myself. Other friends have come and gone. But this is different. 

Just as I am organising my thoughts the bathroom door opens. Steam and the noise of the shower fill the room adjoining the bathroom. ‘Juan, come in here. Please.’

I go straight to you. I don’t hesitate. I am drawn to you.

Once in the bathroom I find you have left the glass door to the shower open. I can make out your naked body through the steam. Like a soft focus shot in a movie. You say over the noise of the shower in a low, slow voice, ‘Here, please, scrub my back.’ Without turning you hold over your shoulder a long, rough sponge already soaped up.

I get in the shower fully dressed, like I am in a trance. I gently take the sponge from you. The sight of you after all these months – naked and wet and with me – is overwhelming. 

The sponge hangs in my hand against my thigh. My eyes are shut. I stand like a rock. I am frightened, I realise. But of what? Spoiling what we have?

Then both your hands reach back and find the fabric of my gardening trousers on my thighs. You grab the fabric and pull me towards you. The gap between your back and my torso closes as I shuffle forward under your tow. I am reluctant to close that gap. I resist and you stop pulling. You drop your hands down and your shoulders sag. We are still about 5 cm from connecting.

We stand listening to the noise of the shower for the longest time. Eventually over the sound of water I hear you are sobbing. I open my eyes and see your shoulders are shuddering up and down with your tears.

Then you say, ‘Come to me Juan.’

Like when you call me into the shower: I go straight to you. I don’t hesitate. I am drawn to you.

Then we are together. My body pressed hard against yours. My hands on your breast, your stomach, your shoulders. You have turned your head and we kiss with great passion. Desperate, messy kisses. Teeth clash. Tongue entwined. We breathe each other's breath. I drink you in, and you drink me in.

You turn to face me. We continue to kiss but from a distance. You use the space to remove all my clothes. Before long I am naked and our bodies meet. Our entire lengths touch. With the warm water and the passion we feel it is like we are melting into one.

Boldly I reach under your armpits and hug you tight. I am charged. Energised. Light headed and alive. I lift you off the ground. You jump lightly as I lift and we end in a deep, deep kiss – you with your legs wrapped around my hips and arms around my neck; me hugging you so very tight and pressing you deep into my chest.

In this position I carry you out of the shower. I carry you to the bench in front the bathroom mirror. With one hand I grab a soft, thick towel and put it on the bench. Then I gently place you on it like a most precious jewel.

I kiss you neck, your breasts and stomach. Then I am in your pubic hair. And then on your clitoris. I cool my passion as I search and find this most sensitive spot. I lick and lap at your clitoris, my hands on our thigh, then stomach, then breasts. I can hear you. You make the most erotic, delicious sounds. Panting. Purring. Broken words in French and English. My name again and again.

Without warming you grab my hair and pull me up so our mouths are together again. My lips and tongue are drenched in your essence from being between your legs and in your body. You kiss me hard and long. You bite my lips, plunge your tongue deep into my mouth time and time again.

You grab the base of my cock and crouch down. You point my cock upward. With your wet, hot and hungry tongue you give the underside of my cock a long, slow and delicious lick. It is possibly the most erotic thing I have ever seen and felt. You reach the tip of my cock and plunge it slowly into your mouth. It disappears deeper and deeper. I cannot believe how deep it goes. As it moves deeper and deeper you apply intense pressure to the shaft with your lips. This alone threatens to push me over to an intense orgasm.

The entire length of my cock is now somehow in your mouth. Your lips apply great pressure to the base of my shaft.

Then my cock is gradually and with great erotic intent withdrawn from your mouth. As the head and tip leaves your mouth you look up and into my eyes. You appear peaceful, calm and satisfied with how this has affected me. You squeeze the base of my cock with the purple head resting on your check. ‘As I took you, Juan, you kept saying to me over and over “No-one has ever sucked my cock like that before.”’ You smile and giggle a little. ‘It was like you were in a trance. I don’t even know if you were aware of what you were saying.’

‘Yes – I think I said those things. It was so … intense … I wasn’t here for a while. I was gone.’

You then work on the head of my cock. Squeezing the base with your hands, you use your tongue, lips and teeth to explore the shape and texture of my cock. The hot smoothness of your mouth leaves me speechless. I can only pant and moan in ecstasy.

Then it is my turn to pull your gently up to bring your mouth back to mine. I kiss you tenderly trying to thank you for the great pleasure I have just received.

I lift you onto the soft towel on the bench. You sit with your legs wide apart. All the folds and textures of your sex are now revealed to me. You are at the perfect height for me. I inch my thick, hard cock towards your sex. Your vagina glistens with your moisture.

We both watch, mesmerised, as my cock slowly advances on the opening of your vagina. It is unrushed. I gently hold your waist. You grip my wrists with your small, strong hands.

We connect. Both of us feel it. I look up and see you smiling, but somehow sad at the same time. Bittersweet comes to my mind. You continue to stare between your legs. Your eyes twinkle.

The initial contact is so intense I shudder. My cock twitches and jumps a little.

I easy forward further and the head of my cock is engulfed in you body. It is both primal and delicate. Raw and tender. Intense and gentle.

We rest a moment, foreheads touching. I try to speak. Some words fall out. You grab my head and hold it so you can see my mouth, maybe trying to lip-read what I am trying to say. I am not making any sense, even to myself.

In my head words, feeling, emotions swirl in a confused soup. Ideas form and then fall apart. Feelings of grief are mixed with intense tenderness. Lust and desire spring forth and then recede like waves lapping a shore.

You pick my angst and confusion for what it is. You look deep into my eyes and say. ‘We can talk later. All night and all the next day if we want. But now – just be with me.’

With these words an enormous weight lifts from my soul. I am with you. I drink your body in. My hands touch you everywhere.

I find your waist and hold it firmly. We make love: at first with great tenderness and care, then with great passion and intensity.

You cum first, your legs wrapped around my waist again. Then I cum. You hold me inside you with your legs and knees as my cum shoots and oozes deep into your body.

To enjoy this unique moment, and with me still in you, I pick you up and stagger towards my bed. I need somewhere soft for us to lie in each other’s arms. My legs almost fail us, but we make it to my soft bed. We fall together, bounce gently once, and then are together and at peace.