Home

The Bad Gardener

The Bad Gardener

Subscribe to Penthouse Magazine Print Edition
Subscribe to Penthouse Magazine Digital Edition

Maley might not have a green thumb, but she definitely winds up with a red ass!

“I never said I had a green thumb,” I whined to Stephen.

“This is beyond a lack of the color green,” Stephen said, “or even thumbs.” He indicated our pathetic garden, wilting away to nothing. Well, that’s not totally true. The garden wasn’t pathetic. The gardener was. Before Stephen had left on his most recent business trip, the little window boxes had overflowed with vibrant herbs — chives, parsley, cilantro, mint.

“Who kills mint?” Stephen continued incredulously, pointing to one of the shriveled plants. “Mint is practically indestructible. You can’t get rid of mint if you want to.”

I shrugged. “I told you I wasn’t a gardener.”

“You didn’t even try.”

“I was scared I’d overwater them.”

He glared at me and then climbed off the fire escape and back through the window. While he traveled for business the one thing I’d been put in charge of was the window-box garden. But I’d forgotten. The way I forget when I boil water for tea until the chattering of the metal on the stove reminds me. Or the way I know my oatmeal is done when the smoke alarm goes off. “I just forgot.”

He headed into his office, silent, brooding.

Why’s he so upset? I asked myself as I paced the living room. I didn’t mean to forget. He couldn’t be that put out. They were only herbs, after all. Not much more than weeds, really. Who cared about plants anyway?

That perked me up a bit until I thought — Stephen does. Stephen cares about plants. Oh, fuck. I started to feel really bad then. Stephen is one of the most easygoing guys I’ve ever met. He doesn’t really get angry. He only occasionally appears to be disappointed. And I’d obviously disappointed him. That realization made me feel awful. I sniffled a little, feeling sorry for myself, and then I went to his office to apologize.

There was no acknowledgement when I entered the room. I could see that he was reading about plants on his computer — more stupid fucking plants. But I knew that wasn’t the right attitude to have. I shook my head, walked over, and stood behind his chair. He said nothing. I put out my hands and began to rub his broad shoulders. He didn’t turn or look at me. I bent to kiss his ear. No response. I licked the side of his neck. He continued to click around on the flowering web page.

I started to check out what had so captured his attention. It was like porn for gardeners: Exotic plants of all shapes and sizes, orgasmic colors, explosions of tiny flowers. He moved on to a blog, and a line of text leapt out at me. There was a series of tips, and at the headline read: ARE YOU A GOOD GARDENER OR A BAD GARDENER?

This was clearly a play on the famous line from The Wizard of Oz, but the words gave me an idea of how to apologize to Stephen.

“Do you want to go to the bedroom?” I asked softly.

“What will I find in the bedroom?” Man, he was terse. He practically bit off every word.

“A bad gardener.”

Finally, Stephen laughed. “Oh, really?” he said, turning around in the swivel chair. “You admit that you’re a bad gardener.”

I nodded my head, pleased we were interacting again, even if at the back of my mind I knew what I had just set myself up for.

“What do you think I should do with a bad gardener?” he continued.

I shrugged. Stephen’s a clever man. Let the ideas grow without my tender-loving care.

“Go on,” he said, and I was delighted to see that the twinkle had come back into his green eyes. “I’ll be right in. Get ready for me.”

I practically skipped down the hall to the bedroom. Stephen wasn’t upset anymore! Stephen was feeling playful! Stephen was going to … that’s when a whole new series of thoughts came crashing down on me. Stephen was going to spank my bare ass. That’s what I had set myself up for. That’s what I had suggested, even without saying those words out loud. And “get ready for me” was a code I understood full well. Quickly, I stripped out of my sweats and t-shirt. Then I perused the options in my closet.

What would a bad gardener wear? Not a naughty schoolgirl skirt. Not a sleek latex pinafore. Not a velvet catsuit.

I landed on a pair of cutoff overalls, which I slid into with nothing underneath but my panties. Then I braided my blonde hair into two pigtails, slicked on a little pink lip gloss, and dusted blush on the apples of my cheeks. I looked like an innocent, fetching farm girl. Nobody would have guessed that I was responsible for the death of half a dozen chives.

Stephen’s footsteps on the hardwood floor made me draw in my breath. I held it as he entered our bedroom, and I realized I was practically frozen. I wanted his approval so bad. He grinned at me, and I sighed my relief.

“You look like you know your way around a watering can,” he said, admiring my attempt. “Now, let’s see how you handle a hose.”

He walked to my side and pushed me down on my knees. I looked up at him. I knew my place. He would give me the next instruction when he was good and ready. But I’ll tell you this — for someone who sucks at watering, I sure as hell was wet. My panties were positively dripping in the center, and I had to force myself to stay still and not reach for Stephen’s belt. I wanted my mouth on his cock, and I knew he was fully aware of my desires. This was why he made me wait — just one more way to show me who was really in charge.

After several moments had passed, he undid his belt and let his slacks fall open. “Get your mouth on my cock,” he said. “Show me how sorry you are.”

I couldn’t have obeyed more enthusiastically. I crawled toward him on the bed, parted my lips and drew the head of his dick inside my mouth. I bobbed up and down until Stephen got hold of my pigtails and slowed my motions.

“I want you to stick your ass up in the air for me,” he instructed.

Still sucking him, I maneuvered myself onto my hands and knees and I arched my back, doing exactly what he’d said. I heard the rustle as he pulled his belt free from the loops of his slacks, and then I felt the first blow land on the seat my overalls.

“Good girl,” he said, pleased. “You take that stripe of pain but you don’t stop sucking, and you don’t let me feel your teeth. I like that. Let’s try it again.” He continued to punish me while I sucked him, and I felt dizzy from the pleasure. Each time the belt landed, my pussy spasmed. I couldn’t wait until Stephen decided to fuck me. But I didn’t dare ask him to take pity on me, because he had both feet planted securely in the role of the dom.

When I tasted his pre-come, I thought he might shoot down my throat, but Stephen had other plans.

“Take off your overalls,” he said, “and lie face down on the mattress.”

I stood, clicked the little silver metal fasteners, and let the overalls fall to the floor. Then I bent over the bed. I heard the sounds of Stephen stripping, which made me think he was going to fuck me. I was surprised. So soon? I had killed all his plants, after all. Was he only going to give me a few measly strokes with the belt?

Then I heard the sound of the toy chest opening, and I steeled myself for something else.

“Now, which paddle would be the most appropriate for a bad gardener?” Stephen mused to himself. “Not the Ping-Pong paddle. Not the fuzzy pink one. How about this?”

I felt him pressing a hard surface against my soft curves. I knew what he’d chosen. A wooden paddle that really packed a wallop. Because I’m as much of a spanking fiend as Stephen is, my body did not respond with fear or trepidation. My pussy began leaking even more copious juices down my inner thighs. Stephen seemed to sense my arousal — maybe he could actually smell my scent in the air — because before he spanked me, he got on his knees and pressed his face between my legs.

“Jesus, Maley. All you’d have to do was stand outside with your legs spread. You’re wet enough to water a whole fucking field.”

Then he stood again and I felt the first blow land. He covered both my cheeks at once, and then smacked me a second time right away. I groaned and balled my fists in the blankets. Like I said, I’m a spanking nut. Stephen knows that nothing makes me wetter than to be on the receiving end of a blistering, bottom-reddening punishment session. But this one was even hotter than usual. Instead of me waiting for him to choose a time and place, I had put the idea into his head. I’d taken charge, offering my skin up for him to turn pink with heat and lust by telling him I’d been bad.

“Pull down your panties,” he said.

Damn him. I like when he does it. I don’t like having to take my panties down myself. Every time I forgot I was being disciplined, he reminded me. As meekly as possible, I pulled down the lemon-yellow bikinis.

I counted for him, crying out each number, pressing my cunt against the edge of the mattress

“Now, Maley,” he said, “I’m going to give you fourteen. You count for me.”

“Yes, Stephen,” I said.

“Do you know why I chose fourteen?”

I shook my head. He landed a blow for that, and I realized I hadn’t responded appropriately. “No, Stephen.”

“One for every day I was gone… and every day you forgot to water.”

I pouted again. He could have reminded me. We spoke on the phone, after all. We’d even Skyped. I started to say one of the things, forgetting somehow that I was bent over the bed with my asscheeks exposed, my pussy dripping, my heart racing.

Stephen shushed me. “Listen, bad gardener, you take your fourteen, and then I am going to give you the biggest orgasm of your life.”

I shut my mouth. I knew he wouldn’t tease me with a promise like that. Stephen began to spank me for real. Now, let me tell you that there are spankings and then there are spankings. Sometimes, Stephen will pull me over his lap while the news is on, giving me a few little lovetaps on my rump to make me purr. Other times, he’ll grab the spatula in the kitchen, pushing me over one of our wooden stools and tanning my hide. Occasionally, he spanks me but doesn’t fuck me, letting me stew in my own juices until he’s ready to scratch my itch.

But this spanking — well, this was one of those serious ones. The kind that makes you shift in your seat the next day as you remember every single blow landing on your derriere. He worked me with power and strength, spanking my right cheek, my left cheek, and then the sweet spot. I counted for him, crying out each number, pressing my cunt against the edge of the mattress because I couldn’t help myself. I was a throbbing mess of desire. At fourteen, I practically came, but I held off. Stephen had promised me bliss. I would let him give me the carrot dangling from the end of the stick.

He shoved me up on the bed with no words of instruction, spreading me out fully on my stomach. Then he reached for a bottle of lotion I keep on the nightstand, and he gently and carefully spread the lubrication all over my hot bottom. I sighed and wiggled my hips, desperate to get off. Stephen made me wait. He palmed the globes of my warm ass, really working the lotion deep into my skin.

He was almost massaging me, and I began to sigh and beg. I didn’t even know what I wanted at this point. Something. Anything. More.

Then he parted my asscheeks, and I felt him blow against my asshole. Oh, God, I thought. Oh, fuck. He let his breath tickle my backdoor, and then when I thought I might actually go out of my head, he brought his tongue into play, rimming me in the most thorough manner.

“Oh, Stephen,” I whimpered, face pressed to the bed, back arched.

“Hold those hot fucking cheeks open for me,” he demanded. I reached back to do what he said, and he started to seriously tongue-fuck my asshole. I thought that was going to make me come. I’d never climaxed from ass play alone, but the way he was eating out my hole was like having my pussy licked. I couldn’t get enough.

That is, until Stephen said, “Now what would a really bad gardener desire?”

Where were my words? I’d left them at some faraway location. I didn’t know how to find them.

“I mean, a really, really naughty gardener… ” he continued. Suddenly, I understood what he wanted me to say.

“Fuck my ass,” I begged.

“You think you deserve that?”

I didn’t know if I did or not. Had I been good enough or bad enough?

“If you want your ass fucked, then you’re going to have to submit to an over-the-knee hand spanking first.”

Christ. He’d already used his belt and the paddle on my poor hindquarters. Now he was going to use his large, firm hand? But I have to admit — I knew there wasn’t a doubt in either of our minds whether I’d accept the offer. As soon as he sat on the edge of the bed, I crawled over his lap like the eager spanking aficionado that I am. He let me lay there, draped and waiting, until I could have killed him. I wanted him to get the spanking over with. He wanted something else. I rocked my hips. His erection bounced up at me. I nudged him again. He refused to begin. Finally, I figured it out.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Are you really?”

“Yes, Stephen.”

“How sorry?”

I didn’t know what to say. I was sorry. I was. I shouldn’t have forgotten to water his beloved weeds. I reached a hand under myself and squeezed his rock-hard dick. “So very sorry,” I said.

His hand landed the first warming smack.

“Did you even water once?”

I could have lied, but I didn’t. I’d forgotten the whole time. I’d never even looked out the window.

I shook my head, and then remembered myself and said, “No, Stephen.”

“Will you remember next time?”

“Yes, I promise.”

He spanked me for real then. His hand landed over and over, delivering the type of good, sound spanking that I often fantasize about when I masturbate. I love being spanked like this — regardless of my faux protests — and Stephen knows this full well. It’s why we work so well together — spanko and spankee.

When he was satisfied with the rosy glow to my curvy rear end, he put me back on the bed in his chosen position. Would he start in my ass? That question was answered quickly enough with a resounding no — he pumped his cock in and out of my pussy for several long strokes, wetting his dick all the way to the root with my juices. I practically creamed from this interlude, but I wanted to hold out for the main event. He’d promised it would be big — and I trusted him.

He was in my asshole hard from the start, working his cock all the way in until I could feel his balls slap against my pussy

“Get your vibrator,” he instructed. I reached beneath the mattress for my favorite sex toy and brought it out in my fist.

“Now, stay like this.”

I was positioned on all fours as he grabbed the lube and slicked me up good and proper.

“See how a little moisture can help?” he taunted, reminding me of how we’d gotten to this stage. There had been no water for the plants, but my pussy was a lake of sex juices and now my ass was properly primed.

“Yes,” I told him.

I felt him work the lube all around my rear hole and then deep inside. Then I felt the bulb of his cockhead pressing against my asshole. “Oh, please,” I said, even though he hadn’t asked a question. “Yes, Stephen. Do it.”

He pressed forward and my body seemed to swallow him up. He was in my asshole hard from the start, working his cock all the way in until I could feel his balls slap against my pussy, then pulling back out until only the head remained inside my tight hole. The pleasure was — as Stephen had promised — sublime. My ass was hot and swollen. My pussy was on fire.

“Touch yourself,” he instructed, and I brought my sex toy into play, running the buzzy vibrator up and over my swollen clit. I felt like I was one big orgasm waiting to happen. Stephen said, “I want us to come together. Don’t let yourself go until I say you can. You might be a bad gardener, Maley — but don’t be a bad girl.”

I squeezed my eyes shut tight and brought the vibrator down to my inner thighs, not able to take the direct pressure if I couldn’t get off. I hovered here for a few seconds while Stephen rocked his great big pole of a cock in and out of my ass. I was making a noise that sounded a bit like my vibrator, a humming sound that I didn’t even notice right away.

The humming turned to begging as I realized I was going to come — no matter what Stephen said, no matter what he wanted.

“I have to,” I babbled. “Stephen. I can’t help myself. I’m going to… I’m going to come… ”

“Okay, baby,” he sighed. “Do it.” The release was magical. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before — the pleasure radiated to every inch of my body, every pore of my being. I was transported, lifted, wrapped up in the ecstasy as Stephen reached his own limits, shooting his load deep inside my waiting ass, raining his come inside me.

Then slowly, I regained my sense of self and place. I turned off the vibrator. Stephen pulled out of me. I smiled sheepishly at him and then headed to the shower. Stephen followed, and I heard him brushing his teeth at the sink. As I washed myself off, Stephen joined me behind the curtain.

“You know, I’m going away again next month.”

“I know,” I said, turning to kiss him under the hot spray.

“And I’m going to buy new plants to replace the old.”

“Okay,” I nodded, looking up at him through wet drops that beaded on my eyelashes. I hoped he could tell that I was going to be a better gardener. I was going to try my best. I could feel the promises welling up inside me, but before I could utter a word, Stephen said, “This time, I’m buying cacti.” And we both started laughing underneath that glorious shower spray.