Watering the Plants

It’s early in the morning, the sun just coming up. If I move my head a touch against the pillow I can just block the rays with the iron bars on our balcony. I readajust the pillow so that it’s comfortable at that angle and continue to watch the sunrise.

The street has begun to fill up with noise. You can hear them, but they can’t hear you. At this time of day, it’s the rattle and slam of delivery trucks and drunk drivers screeching to stop at red lights. A seagull flies by outside, pissed off at something. Pete appears in silhouette on the balcony, a curve of his ass and an orange glimmer of light across his back. He has a large plastic green watering can. He waters the flowers twice a week, and despite all that, and loving care, they die anyway.

I close my eyes, anticipating the sudden blindness, and go to join him outside, the concrete cold on my feet, my hands in front of me searching for him. I feel water down my front.

“Jill, what are you doing walking around with your eyes closed?” he asked, instead of apologizing.

“Bright. Sun,” is my only response.

My eyes are open now, only to be joined with another quick splash in the face. Pete smiles and turns back to the plants.

“Give me the watering can,” I say, figuring a direct order might work.

He walks past me into the apartment, waving the can. “Need more water,” he says. I figure I’ll save myself the trouble and wait for him to return to the balcony. When he returns, I try to grab it from him.

“Stop it!” he says. “Do you want these flowers to die?”

He pours some more water on me, just to exclamation his point, since I’m already soaked. I snatch the spout and play tug-of-war with him for a while. He opens my robe with his free hand and lowers the spout, though I fight it, to my clit. It’s warm. Were it not for the original shock, I never would have tried to move it. He moves his body up to me, touching his chest to me where I’m still dry and slowly drains the can. Water stops pooling and makes a lemming-line off of the side of the balcony. It’ll be a surprise for someone far below. He opens his mouth and licks the sides of my lips. It’s impossible for me to kiss him. The stream of water is hitting me just right. I know it will end soon, though the daylight is turning the sky pinker and my knees are beginning to shake, that can is going to run out of water before I come.

He bends me back against the balcony rail and the sunrise blows colors on him, orange, red, yellow. He splits my pussy lips with his fingers and aims the watering can again. I start, my head popping back over the rail. He kneels.

“Peter. Pete.”

The can runs out of water at last, just a few drips and slices of water running down my legs, my clit buzzing, frustrated. He turns the spout up and fucks me with it. I can’t make words anymore and gape up at the world, the blue gradient dark at my chin, almost white at my hairline. I feel a tongue, a gentle swipe up my clit with a dance there at the tip, rolling into a sweet massage.

My knees are downright buckling now and shaking. Pete holds me up with his thumbs hooked around the inside of my thighs, the watering can, coated in white milk at the spout, placed next to him on the ground. He squeezes me tightly at the ass, and I’m almost there, a shimmering burn running in circles on my thighs. He knows it. He knows me well.

He stands up, places one of my feet on one deck chair and the other on the barbeque, pulls his hard cock out of his pajamas and enters me. I feel split open, whimpering. His thumb goes where his tongue was and I grip the railing. It’s not so soft anymore. It’s not so nice. He pumps into me hard and straight, my back bent into the iron painfully. His face begins to change, but I can’t watch it. Chaos is in my head. I think about the spout of the watering can inside of me and it settles it. I’m shot out of the gun. He holds his thumb just touching me throughout my orgasm and suddenly lifts it away.

“You’re beautiful when you come,” he says, and begins to grind into me.

“Oh, Jesus,” is all I can respond with.

His face, the jaw turning and clenching, suddenly goes limp and he plods slowly back and forth. He stops suddenly and orders me on my knees. “Open your mouth,” he says. I do, but he doesn’t enter it. I can smell my juices on him, musty and sweet. He gives himself two more swipes and presses his cock down onto my tongue. He watches, his body jolting. I hear it hit the roof of my mouth, feel it land on my tongue. I roll it on my tongue and swipe my lips with it, before swallowing the rest.

He falls down onto his ass and knocks the watering can over.