My Gardener Likes Me so I Let Him Fuck My Pussy I Loved His Cock Inside Me
My Gardener Likes Me
Every morning, I see him outside my window. The sun hasn’t even climbed high yet, and he’s already there, trimming the hedges, watering the roses, and quietly humming to himself. There’s something peaceful about the way he moves — steady, calm, unhurried — like the garden listens to him and not the other way around.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. He was just the gardener — polite, distant, always respectful. But slowly, things began to change. He started greeting me with a soft smile whenever our eyes met. Sometimes, he’d leave a small flower by the porch — never with a note, never with a word. Just a quiet gesture that said more than enough.
I began to wait for those moments. The way he’d glance at me, shy but sincere. The way he’d pause before walking away, as if hoping I’d say something to make him stay. There was a warmth in those silences that words could never capture.
One day, it rained heavily. The whole garden was soaked, and I thought he wouldn’t come. But he did — drenched, holding an umbrella he clearly didn’t use for himself. He came to check if the flowers were all right. When he saw me at the window, he smiled again, and for the first time, I opened the door.
We stood there for a while, listening to the rain. He told me he couldn’t stand to see the garden suffer, even for a day. I told him I felt the same — though I wasn’t sure if I meant the flowers or something else.
Since then, our mornings have felt different. The garden seems brighter, the air lighter. Sometimes, he brings me tea. Sometimes, I help him water the plants. And though neither of us has said the words out loud, they linger between us like the scent of jasmine after rain — quiet, sweet, impossible to ignore.
My Gardener Likes Me
Every morning, the Gardener arrives before sunrise.
I can hear the gentle sound of water flowing from the hose, the soft rhythm of the broom sweeping leaves, and the quiet hum of his song. There’s something calm about the way he moves, as if the world slows down whenever the Gardener is near.
At first, I saw him only as someone doing his job.
He trimmed the bushes, cared for the roses, and kept the lawn perfect. But slowly, I noticed his kindness — the way he’d greet me with a smile, the way he handled every flower like something precious. My Gardener wasn’t just working; he was creating beauty with patience and love.
One morning, I found a small flower left on the porch.
It wasn’t part of any bouquet — just a single bloom, fresh and dewy. I knew it was from him. That small gesture made me smile all day. Since then, I’ve looked forward to seeing my Gardener every morning, pretending to be busy near the window just to catch a glimpse of him.
Sometimes, our eyes meet.
He doesn’t say much, but his look says everything. There’s warmth in his eyes — gentle and sincere. The Gardener continues working, yet somehow, it feels like each plant he touches blooms a little brighter.
Then came a rainy day.
I thought he wouldn’t come, but he did — soaked from head to toe, still tending to the garden. When he saw me watching, he smiled through the rain. My heart fluttered. That’s when I realized — this wasn’t just admiration anymore.
Now, every flower reminds me of him.
The scent of the garden, the sound of rain, even the morning air feels different when the Gardener is around. Maybe he doesn’t know how much he’s changed my days. Or maybe he does, and just chooses to say it through the flowers he leaves behind.
