The Walled Garden - Sex Stories

The Walled Garden

I.

I was driving home from work when my phone rang. Rosa Flores. Crap. I'd been avoiding her, but I decided to answer and get it over with.

"Go for Christina." I put on my work voice. Keep it impersonal. That would make it easier when I told her I was kicking her out.If I have to listen to one more week of her sexual moans floating across the garden at night...

"Tina!" Her voice was hushed in my ear, like she was whispering. "You have to see him. Puta de madre, he's so hot!"

Her words threw me. The speech I'd been preparing for the last few weeks slunk back to the basement of my mind. I was intrigued. Despite my resolve I found myself responding. "Who?"

"The new gardener. He's gorgeous! Curly dark hair, enormous eyes, pretty lips. Dios, Tina, you have to see him!"

I'd barely seen Rosa for weeks. She rented my guesthouse, on the far side of my walled garden, and when she first moved in we'd spent most evenings together. She came round after I got home from work and we drank wine and gossiped and laughed.

Rosa had a filthy mind, and she was bold about what she wanted. I was just coming out of my last attempt at a relationship, and she'd regale me with tales of her sex life. About men who made fools of themselves, or about nearly getting caught - or about actually getting caught. And she never hesitated to go into detail.

Often after our sessions I'd draw myself a bath, or just crawl into bed, and play with myself as I recalled Rosa's adventures. I'd ...

... picture her riding a stranger in the back seat of his car, or sucking an unknown cock in some alley, or letting unseen hands slide up her skirt in the club or on the train.

What aroused me about her stories wasn't just the acts she described, but the idea of not caring about what people thought. Rosa was unashamedly sexual. She enjoyed sex, too much to let anyone dictate the terms, and she did what she wanted, when she wanted. And who she wanted.

How had that all ended? When did we stop being friends?

It was the memory of those stories that paused me now. Instead of telling her I wanted her to move out, I found myself saying, "I'm nearly home. How long has he been there?" I paid the gardening firm for an hour.

"He just got here. But hurry, you don't want to miss a second."

"I'm nearly home," I replied, turning the last corner into our street. "Let me call you back in a minute."

Rosa had been a breath of fresh air when she first moved in. She was everything I'd wanted to be when I was younger: confident, uninhibited, full of life. In appearance, she could have been the baby sister of my closest friend at uni, but Rosa was wilder, more passionate.

Not that my youth had been all prim and proper. I'd had my share of excitement - well, nearly my share. But it had become hard to balance a career with a love life, and more and more I'd found myself preferring my career. It was more interesting, more challenging, more fulfilling.

I hadn't had sex with anyone ...