Weeds

The thing about weeds is they never stop coming; this means the battle against them is never-ending and relentless. It was during one of those battles my life changed in a direction I would never have believed possible a few months ago. I guess before I tell you what happened that day, I should tell you a little about myself- well, how I was back then.

My name is Rosemary Davids, although people call me Rose or Rosie. At 45, I was pretty happy and content with life. Married to Donald, an accountant 10 years my senior. We have two lovely children, June and Barry, who were both at university, albeit at different ones on account of the degrees they were doing.

I didn’t need to work as Don earned sufficient to give us a good standard of living with a four-bedroom house on half an acre of land on the edge of a village near Oxford. We had a Range Rover on the drive and an old Renault 5 which was technically mine, but Don would often use it to drive to the train station if he was travelling by train. We could afford a couple of cruises a year, subject of course, to Don finding the time.

This comfortable position left me with plenty of time to continue my perpetual battle against the weeds that were the bane of my existence. There are many ways to tackle weeds, ranging from sprays to fire sticks, but I have found the most effective way is to get down on your hands and knees and dig them out with a hand fork.

This was how I would spend my mornings every weekday, working from the front to the very bottom of the garden in a never-ending loop. It was hard work, but it meant on the weekends I could sit on our patio and admire our weed-free paradise.

The constant bending helped keep the pounds off my hips, which was a battle but one I was winning…just. I think the exact description of my body falls somewhere between curvaceous and full-bodied, not that Don was that interested. I suppose in many ways that was my fault, as after the kids I lost interest in sex and by the time they were off our hands we had fallen into the pattern of once a week. I tried looking at pornography, but the women were all stick figures with unfeasibly large breasts while the men were all Chippendales with huge cocks. The whole unreality of it did nothing for me, so I gave up watching.

I had read about frigid women in a magazine at the hairdressers, and I assumed I must be one. It recommended the regular use of a sex toy, so I decided to invest in a penis-shaped vibrator. When it arrived, I unpacked it with great enthusiasm, but it nearly scared the life out of me when I turned it on, and it started vibrating madly. The trouble was that the thought of using it seemed alien, so after a few days it was consigned to a bedside drawer to remain unused.

We were quite fortunate with our home’s location, as at the very back of the garden was a field with a public footpath running along it. We were shielded from walkers by an eight-foot fence, but at one corner was a large wooden gate. I would open the gate and put the buckets of weeds along the gap between the fence and path.

I always started the week with the front garden, ensuring it was weed-free by the end of the day. The back garden was unoverlooked for virtually its full length, starting with the patio area and its formal beds surrounding the main lawn. I would tackle this on Tuesday. Next was a pond area, and although I would have nothing to do with cleaning the filters, I kept the surrounding flower beds pristine on Wednesday. The final part of the garden that bordered the field behind was a row of fruit trees with a gap between them, leading to a vegetable patch. This area required my attention for the remainder of the week.

I was working down the very bottom on a Friday with the gate to the field open, when I felt it before I heard it: a cold, wet nose being shoved under my skirt accompanied by a loud sniff.

I didn’t really know what went through my mind at that moment, but I froze solid. I had never been licked there before, either with or without knickers on; oral sex is not something Don and I ever engaged in. I glanced backwards and could see the rear end of a Golden Retriever whose tail was beating like a metronome at high tempo. I wanted to scream, but as I opened my mouth the dog’s long probing tongue wormed under my knicker elastic and delved inside my pussy lips.

My world changed at that exact moment in time. Nothing compared to it, not even my wedding night where Don deflowered me in a mixture of pain and pleasure. As the tongue probed deeper, clearly my sensible cotton panties began to annoy it. Hooking its teeth into the troublesome material, it tugged hard and ripped the gusset open. With my nether regions exposed, the dog went wild, burying its snout into my pussy and starting to lick with long, fast, deep strokes. The sensation of the rough tongue rasping over my clit was enough to make me climax with a long, deep shuddering groan. The dog didn’t stop its tongue lashing and whipped my pussy to a frenzy, making me cum over and over.

Something triggered in my brain that I needed to escape, and I tried to crawl forward into the flower bed. The dog must have been triggered as well, as in one swift movement it mounted me and, on the second or third thrust, entered me. I could feel its paws grip my hips as it pulled itself into me as it tugged me backwards. I had never been penetrated so deeply before that moment in time as the dog started to fuck me at a pace and intensity I never dreamed was possible.

I didn’t cum once; I came what seemed like a hundred times as the dog pounded me with relentless determination. I rested my face against the warm earth as it drove into me, and to my humiliation I pushed back to take it. I knew I must look like a slut being fucked by a dog in my own garden, but I was beyond caring; it felt so good.

For some time I had felt something banging against my pussy lips, and it dawned on me the animal was trying to force it into me. With a hard thrust, it entered me, making me scream in shock as my pussy distended before clamping around it, locking us together. I was scared as I felt it expand inside me, pressing against my inner walls in the same way the children’s heads had when they were born. Then it pulsed, and I felt a ripple followed by a jet of hot fluid deep inside. The pulsing sent jet after jet into me, making me howl like a dog myself as it bred its bitch.

I don’t know how long the dog lay on my back panting in my ear. The gaps between jets became longer, and the pulsing felt weaker. I was in shock after the dog pulled out of me and left me still face down in the dirt. I could feel the fluids dripping from my open pussy, and never before had I been fucked so hard. I was torn between shame and excitement as I had cum so many times as the dog rippled inside me, yet the shame told me it must be wrong.

When I finally gathered the strength and coordination to stand, a large dollop of goo fell from my open pussy to form a puddle between my ankles. The dog had vanished, and as I walked slowly to the house, my head was spinning, not only about what had just happened, but about what I was going to do next.

After a shower followed by a long soak in the bath, I spent the rest of the day before Don got home running through that afternoon. Even when Don got home, I didn’t really listen to him; instead, I was remembering the taste of the earth as the dog took me like a bitch in heat. To my surprise, and if I am honest, my delight, I found myself getting wet as the memory of the dog’s cock slamming in flooded my brain.

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