gardens don't tell secrets

It was that time of summer when everything whispered a secret. Or, stood swaying in the light breeze, lips pursed, holding to the hush at the back of the throat, determined that the secret remain so, though tempted by the ecstasy contained in the telling.

Hers was this:

Digging weeds and plucking fresh vegetables from the soil not only helped her to feel grounded and alive, not only made her moist from perspiration, but also summoned: aroused and ready.

She read in a book about people getting back to their roots, back to the ways of their great-great-grandparents, through gardening. She wonders if people of that era also carefully chose the largest cucumber to wash and use as an afternoon companion. And with a laugh, she does, thinking of the coolness touching her entrance, and then the fucking that opens her more with each plunge.

The ride she goes on sheds her outer layers, leaving her in a state of floating and blur. Her head, neck, arms, torso, legs, feet, all collapse into her center, as if she is only a bundle of warm, electric energy right at her vulva and pelvis.

When the heat and momentum implode, muscles clench a harmony and an encore, and she is left feeling the secret on every millimeter of her skin.