Checking on Him

I felt bad watching the effect my mom had on our gardener. Maybe I could help, or at least apologize for my mother’s behavior. With a change of plans I rushed back down the stairs, still dressed in my bikini. Delja was back in the kitchen pouring tequila into the blender. “Delja, drinking on the job? It’s barely noon,” I teased.

“Your mother’s friends will be making an appearance tonight,” Delja ignored my joke.

I dipped my finger into her bowl of cookie dough, “Remind me to find somewhere else to be.” Delja mockingly slapped at my hand to get away from the cookie dough. I grabbed a pair of waters from the fridge.

“You and me both,” she said, before the blender came to life. The whirring of blades marked my exit as I set out to find Jesús.

Mom was still by the pool where I left her. Thankfully, she didn’t look up when I exited the house. I made my way to the side of the house, where I saw him outside my window. And he was gone.

He was nowhere to be seen. After Mom yelled at him, there’s no way he would’ve taken off early. He could be out front, tending to the flower beds and staying as far from Mom as possible. Then, I saw movement through the window of the shed. That’s got to be him.

I pranced across the yard. The door squeaked as I pushed inside the tool shed. Jesús looked back at me, a clatter of tools as his hand swept across the workbench. “Señorita Martin,” he sounded out of breath. That’s when I noticed his bare ass, his pants around his ankles. He kept himself facing the far wall, not turning all the way around.

“I saw my mom yelling at you earlier, I just wanted to apologize and bring you some water,” I said, holding the bottle out to him.

He quickly grabbed his pants from the floor. He was fully dressed once again, finally turning back to me. “Señorita Martin, please don’t tell your mother,” Jesús pleaded, taking the bottle I offered him. It would be funny how often I was asked not to tell my mother, if it wasn’t so sad.

“Don’t worry about it,” I mimed zipping my lips, “my lips are sealed.”

His shoulders slumped in relief, “Gracias.”

I jumped up on the workbench, pretending as if I hadn’t just walked in on the gardener pleasuring himself. “Mom have you all worked up?”

He was kneeling, picking up the tools he had knocked to the floor. “Worked up?” he looked up at me, holding a trowel.

“Um, hot and bothered, angry, mad,” I bit my lip, staring at the still obvious bulge in his pants, “horny.”

He diverted his gaze, returning to gathering his tools. “La Señora Martin is,” he paused, perhaps scared to admit his true feelings, “she is difícil.”

I laughed, “That’s putting it lightly. I’d say she’s a cold hearted bitch,” Jesús’s face blenched at the casual insult. “It’s okay,” I hopped down, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not going to get you in trouble.”

He started again in Spanish, before quickly stopping realizing that I couldn’t follow along. “She makes me mad. All the yelling. And about bushes, I cut the same every week, she love bush, she hate bush, I just, ugh,” he shook his hands in frustration.

“Hey, I get it man. She drives me crazy too,” I said, leaning against the wall. “She’s always finding something to criticize about me, at least you get to leave at night.” He looked confused, obviously not getting all of my words. But I think he got enough to understand. “So how often do you come out here to,” I mimed, jerking off, “you know?”

“La Señora Martin yells, I stop myself. I don’t hurt her. But then I, I, my anger, it grows. I come in here, I calm down,” Jesús was picking up a shovel he knocked over earlier. His knuckles turned white as he wrung his hands around the handle.

“You poor baby.” I walked over to him, placing my hands over his. “I didn’t realize my mom had such an effect on you.” I brushed my hand up his arm. “And then here I go, ruining your only release.” I stare up at him, our eyes meeting. “They always talk about the sins of the father, but surely it goes for mothers too,” I bit my lip, looking for a reaction.

He stared at me. Did he not understand? Or was he just afraid to actually act? I held onto the shaft of the shovel, lowering myself to the ground. My knees met the floor of the garden shed, the gardener was frozen in front of me. He didn’t stop me as I reached forward, rubbing the outline of his still hard cock.

“Señorita,” he started, promptly stopping with a gulp.

I smiled up at him, my fingers starting to undo his fly. “Shhh, let me take care of you,” I used the sultriest voice I could muster. He just nodded, and with his consent given his pants fell back to the floor.