by Anabel Blake
(05/03/06)
Genoa clipped a pink tulip from her garden and twirled the bloom between her fingers. Its stem was firm and straight. She dipped the flower into a crystal flute of water, then stared at the budding trees and the beating warmth of sunlight. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the earthy aroma of the moist soil and felt the warmth on her face and neck. She stroked her breastbone and let her fingertips touch the curve of her breasts under her blouse. Her skin tingled, and her vagina opened slightly.
Spring had burst with a fertile explosion, yet Genoa had no one to share it with. More important, no one could help her release the pent-up tension and longing of winter. Spring fever was too much for Genoa to stand. After a day of experiencing the smell and intensity of this season's romance, she could not bear the anticipation any longer.
The sun was shining, and the day was warm enough to skip a jacket. That afternoon, she had decided to play hooky from work and nurture her garden. She pulled a quilt from the closet, grabbed her canvas purse and, peering into her kitchen cupboard, found a jar of clover honey. She warmed it in the microwave and stepped back outside.
Her yard, already dotted with colorful buds and greens, was enclosed by a tall wooden fence that gave her much-needed privacy any day of the week. This afternoon, Genoa was open to the sky and trees and sheltered from the human world. She spread out her quilt on the soft grass and reclined, taking in the breathtaking scene.
Without waiting, because she could not, she unbuttoned her blouse and began to nurture herself. Pulling off her bra straps with ease, Genoa fingered her nipples between her thumb and middle finger, just as she had the tulip stem, until they began to tingle. She grabbed her entire breasts with two hands and continued to rub the nipples with her fingers until they swelled and reddened. Her panties became slick and wet.
Genoa pulled off her shorts and panties and lay in the afternoon sun, exposed. She could not resist lying back on the quilt and spreading her legs for the world to see. She fingered her pussy, which was now very slick and glistening. She splayed her legs wide with her arms, holding them back to present her pussy and asshole in the most exposed way possible. That very position and the bath of sunlight on her pale skin aroused her to such a frenzy that she felt she could come right then, even before touching herself. Her clitoris tingled with the sensation. But she had more to do before coming.
Opening the bottle of honey, which was still warm to the touch, Genoa dipped her fingers in the thick, sweet liquid, and after tasting it, gently began to rub it on her oh-so-throbbing clitoris. She circled her clit, rubbing the honey all over it, massaging the sides with her fingertips, then thrust three sweet fingers into her deep vagina. With a gasp, she thrust her fingers in and out, and could not suppress a shout. On the quilt, cushioned by the grass, she arched her back so her smooth body could take in more of the balmy air. She brought her fingers back to her clit and began to circle it with greater intensity.
Her bag, still nearby, had the last essential part of this spring reawakening. Still rubbing her clit with a warm, sweet finger, she teased her asshole with the other finger (this made her drip hot liquid from her pussy) and then thrust her vibrator into her swelling pussy hole. Oh God, she could not stand the pleasure. The pleasure started to swell upwards, upwards -- Genoa swirled her clit faster and faster and thrust the vibrator deep and fast, and swelling upwards, began to squeal, "Oh God! Oh God!" Her hips thrust upwards and she came, came, came, with an orgasm that gushed through her fingers and down her legs. The hot liquid inflamed her pussy vibrations, and she came a second time, violently, not concerning herself with the sounds she was making. She was soaked. Spring had come for Genoa.
