Copyright © 2007 by Crystal.
“Why didn’t you tell me the name orchid comes from the Greek word for testicle?” Fran asked from the doorway of the greenhouse.
“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” Dennis answered not looking up from his new acquisition: a beautiful parvi orchid from North Vietnam. The bloom had cost a small fortune and was worth every penny.
“You don’t think its odd considering how much the petals resemble female genitalia?”
“Most flowers do,” Dennis said, looking up at his best friend. Fran slipped a white apron over her head. She then pulled her light brown hair from under the neck strap, the soft waves at the ends settled around her bare shoulders. Slim like a vine, she looped the ties around her slender waist twice before tying the ends in a neat bow. “Georgia O’Keefe’s work is— ”
“Brilliant and not because her paintings resemble a va jay jay.”
“A what?”
“What would you like me to call it?” She gestured toward the body part in question.
“I’m an old fashioned man,” Dennis said.
“Give me an old fashioned word.”
Dennis cleared his throat and put his mind to their current project. His daughter’s wedding was in less than a week and Fran had come over to help repot the daisies for the center pieces. Hard to believe that his only child would be married and he would have the house to himself.
He felt the heat of Fran’s body behind him before the soft strands of her hair brushed his cheek. She bent close and looked through the magnifier with him. The sepals and petals under the glass were creamy white at the tips intensifying into deep peach hues around the small bulbous pouch at the center. The pouch was a variety of shades—mostly dirty yellow.
“Paphiopedilum Emersonii,” Fran breathed against his ear. Shivers raced down his spine and centered in his groin. She didn’t stumble over a syllable. “They’re your favorite,” Fran said with a nod to the flower before turning to her work.
Orchids had been the inspiration for his greenhouse. Dennis lifted his hand to the delicate petal. Smooth and soft, like he imagined Fran’s skin to be.
“They’re graceful,” Dennis said. He swiveled on his stool to watch Fran lift a large bag of potting soil from under the work table, trying not to notice how firm and round her ass was. She reached for the glazed pots on the shelf above her head; the fabric of her blue slip dress molded her breasts. No bra and there was none needed. Delicate, subtle curves.
Dennis shifted his focus to her hands, but that did not draw his thoughts from her body. Fran had poured the potting soil into the recessed part of the table and was spreading the dirt with her fingers. The movement somehow sensual.
Dennis’s body tightened and instead of returning to the study of the flower in front of him he stood and asked: “Why don’t you wear gloves?” He came up behind Fran and stood closer than he should of. Perspiration clung to her upper lip and beaded her forehead. The sun had yet to set and it was humid inside the greenhouse.
“The soil,” she answered, casting her green eyes up at him. “The cool damp on my skin.” She sifted her fingers through the dirt and breathed deeply. Fran cupped a handful of earth to her chest like a precious treasure. Her neatly trimmed nails were caked with the rich darkness. “Smell that?”
Dennis’s nostrils flared. He could taste it. The scent clung to her. Green and earthy.
She returned her hands to the table and sifted the dirt between her fingers, caressing the humus. Fran took his hands in hers and tangled their fingers in the moist dirt. She shifted back against Dennis.
He couldn’t hide his arousal. Didn’t want to.
For months they’d been watching each other. Anticipating.
“Fran, I—“
“Want to see my orchid?”
Dennis laughed. “We’re friends—“
Fran pressed her ass into the cradle of his hips and lifted Dennis’s hands to her breasts; nipples, hard as pebbles butted his palms. Their reflection in the panes of glass caused Dennis’s heart to race in time with Fran’s. She massaged his fingers against her, leading one hand lower. A dark trail of potting soil followed the path across her flat belly to the heat of her arousal. Fran pressed his fingers between her thighs and against her garden gates.
“I want more, Dennis.”
Her hips swayed.
“Here?” Dennis asked. His body was already moving against hers.
Fran turned in his arms. Her breath mingled with his. “Here is perfect.”
Lips found home.
Hands raced, fingers sought.
In moments Fran’s skirt was around her waist.
They kissed their way onto the table beside his orchid. She spread her legs and pulled her lace panties aside.
The world burst into bloom.
Damp petals glistened in the light from the heat lamp. Dennis moved the magnifier over her pussy lips and she spread them with her dirty fingers, her center an excited fuchsia. Swollen slick pink lips framed her hole. Musky desire clogged his nostrils. He licked the dew from her orchid—
Fran cried out his name.
—wrapped his tongue around her clit.
The table legs scraped the cement floor. Her sandaled feet urged him to safari in her wet jungle. Rich voluptuous flavor spread over Dennis’s tongue and down his throat.
He was hard as a tree branch.
Dennis curled his hands under her knees, cupped her ass, and moved her to the potting table. Pots crashed to the floor.
Fly unzipped and his cock sprung free.
Soil climbed between the crack of Fran’s ass and along her thighs, clinging to her sticky desire. With dirty knees, Dennis rubbed his dick along her pussy slit, covering his swollen head in Fran’s wet heat.
She wrapped her long legs around his waist. Impatient.
Dennis found her dirty hole and planted his cock. Pushed her bare ass into the earth.
They’d waited too long to go slow.
Hips flew.
Teeth clashed. Taste of Copper.
Dennis’s arm was between them, his thumb twirling her hard seed.
Fran blossomed, gushing her desire. Nails dug into his shoulders. Her pulsing pussy squeezed his cock.
Wet, slick heat built in Dennis’s balls.
He cried her name and pulled free; his hot come flew across her belly and sprayed the dirt above her shoulder. Dennis lay down beside his dear friend in the potting soil and gathered her close.
“Dennis,” his name was a smile that warmed his heart. “Can you believe we waited?”
“No romance, no wine, no roses—“
“Just orchids and daisies,” Fran said spreading her fingers across his chest. “Moonlight and stars.” The greenhouse had grown dark, but the stars were clear and bright through the glass above their heads.
Dennis stole a daisy from the pot beside them and handed the flower to Fran.
He plucked a petal from the daisy and whispered: “She loves me.” Another petal followed. “She loves me not.” Again he pulled. “She—“
“She loves you!” Fran finished, planting kisses on his soul.
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