Trent Evans Letters

 

I suppose this particular subject would be inevitable coming from one of the few dudes participating in this hop. Hmm, breasts. I could talk about how they’re the giver of life, the totem of femininity, the symbol of sexuality. Basically, you can probably already imagine what I’m going to write … before I even write it.

Just because I’m a giver, I’ll just leave this right here: http://www.memecenter.com/fun/155453/did-you-checkout-my-breast

Rest assured, spankos and pervs, though I am a guy, I’m not going to be … that guy. I shall simply say, to the surprise of nobody, I love them:)

But rather than wax rhapsodic (believe me, I could) on one of my favorite parts of the female anatomy, I’ll just include a scene from the still-a-work-in-progress sequel to What She’s Looking For. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions as to what it has to do with this post’s theme:)

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Parker sat on the cedar deck sipping a whiskey, watching her as she mowed the lawn in the July heat. He’d made sure to wait until mid-afternoon when it was hottest, before telling her she needed to start her chores. He’d flipped his head toward the back deck as he’d said it. She knew what that meant. Lawn mowing.

So he’d sat down under the shade of the awning, after pouring himself two fingers of whiskey, a couple of cubes of ice clinking into the glass. He liked watching her — a lot.

It didn’t matter what it was, from working on paperwork, to cooking, to (mortifyingly) sitting on the toilet, he could – and sometimes did — watch her.

He owned a nice John Deere tractor mower complete with cup holder for his beer, but he’d bought an old Honda pushstyle mower for her to use, once he’d alighted on the idea of assigning her chores. Her mower was powered too, but he made her mow with the transmission in neutral, so that she had to push it, making it that much harder for her. So, he’d sit and watch her pull start the thing, no doubt enjoying the wild swinging of her unfettered breasts as she pulled.

She was dressed in just a pair of short cutoffs and a black tank. No bra or panties allowed of course. She had her hair tied back to keep it out of her face as she worked. She’d been mowing for thirty minutes or so, the huge lawn not even halfway done. Parker made her start at the far edge of the yard, so that she would gradually get closer and closer to the house as she crossed back and forth over the lawn. All the better for Parker to watch her sweat.

Ashley knew he loved to make her sweat, whether it was between the sheets, on a morning run, or toiling in the heat of the day at her “chores.”

She made a turn, dragging the mower around 180 degrees to begin the next run across the wide expanse of grass. She glanced over at the deck to see if she was still being supervised.

Drake, a bottle of beer in one hand, was standing next to the seated Parker, talking to him about something.

She was pouring sweat. She wiped the heel of her hand across her forehead, trying to keep the sting of it out of her eyes. The black tank top was soaked through. She could feel her shorts were wet at the small of her back. Damn, it was blazing outside!

Parker waved a hand at her – get on with it. She leaned forward against the mower again, beginning another course across the lush grass. When she reached the other side, she turned the mower back around.

Drake was standing right there, towering over her.

His white dress shirt stretched across the breadth of his powerful shoulders, the dark hunter green tie emphasizing the musculature of his neck, the power of his chest. She found herself envious of the girls at his office, for the time they got with him on weekdays. She was sure they spent all day ogling and fantasizing about him. It’s what she would do if she were one of those girls.

Jesus Ash, what more do you want? He practically owns you. You can’t spare him at the office for a few hours a day?

No, she really didn’t want to. What did that mean?

He stepped close to her, and she froze, dropping her gaze to the ground, knowing what was expected of her. If one of them stood close to her, it usually meant he intended to inspect his property.

Drake didn’t disappoint her.

She watched his thick fingers trace the slope of her breast, following the neckline of the low cut tank top (she was allowed no other kind), slicking through the beads of sweat standing on her skin. Her breath hitched, as he rubbed his knuckles, once and again, across a rock hard nipple highlighted by the wet fabric. An unhurried, possessive exploring.

He put the bottle to her lips and she drank, greedily. She was starting to like beer, and as she stood out there under the relentless sun, the cold bitter liquid actually tasted quite good. He pulled the bottle away, wiping a bit of foam from her swollen lips with a gentle touch of his thumb.

His fingers combed through a few stray strands of hair that had come loose, moving them away from her eyes. She gasped as he laid the cold, wet bottle against her temple.

“Oh, thank you!” she breathed, chancing a glance up at him.

His smile made her pussy clench. God, she loved that smile. He made a small movement with his head, an almost imperceptible shake, and she dropped her gaze again. Her eyes traveled down his magnificent torso, noting the pleasing bulge of his genitals that nicely cut dress slacks were so adept at highlighting in men. Apparently, judging by the size of his no doubt throbbing erection, Drake enjoyed watching her sweat too.

He took a step back, and she put her hands back up on the handle, preparing to start mowing again, apparently passing her inspection. Then he was back in front of her again, brushing her hands from the handle, and killing the mower’s motor.

In the blessed silence, he pushed at her upper arm, and she clasped her hands behind her lower back, the sweat soaked tank top wet against her sun warmed forearms. This simple signal — ‘put your hands behind your back’ — was something else she’d been taught. Drake greatly enjoyed non-verbal communication, and took great pleasure in talking to her through touch. She generally loved it, except when those big hands were laying down harsh effective communication across her tender buttocks.

Her dripping pussy betrayed that notion though; part of her evidently didn’t mind that kind of communication either.

She watched as he pulled at the bottom of her tank top with one hand, struggling momentarily with the way it stuck to her sweat slick flesh. He stepped to her side and lay the bottle against her clasped hands. She jumped at the coldness, then clutched the bottle, realizing he meant for her to hold his beer for him.

Make yourself useful, slut. Are you really this person, Ashley?

Yes, yes she was. She smiled.

He rucked the tank top up, shaking her a bit as he handled her. She stood docile, eyes downcast, as he bared her breasts to his gaze and the hot sun. He pushed the fabric up further bunching it at her underarms, just under her collar bones.

He stood and stared at her for several long, quiet moments. She stood obediently still, feeling the warmth of the blush at her cheeks.

If someone had told her six months ago that someday she’d find herself standing in the backyard of some house, her tits bare to the world in broad daylight, while two gorgeous men drank it all in, she’d have told that someone to put down the pipe. Yet there she was.

But Drake wasn’t done. Her abdominals clenched as Drake’s fingers played along the waistband of her cut-offs. She glanced over at the porch. Parker sat forward, glass clasped in both hands, his gaze smoldering.

Drake unsnapped the top button of her cut-offs, spreading it open as much as the button fly allowed, pushing the shorts down her hips a bit, until her pubic hair was well exposed. She blushed scarlet, as his fingers played through her dark, moist curls, twirling and gently tugging at them.

“Mmm, this was a good choice, I think,” he growled.

She seriously weighed whether or not it would be worth the painful spanking she’d be sure to get if she begged him to touch her clit. Just one touch.

Please God.

She remembered standing at attention at their breakfast table, her pajama bottoms pushed to her knees, her hands clasped behind her head. They’d calmly told her to stand there while they decided what to do. Erik had argued vociferously for shaving her cunt bald, extolling the virtues of the look and the fact that it would make her even more sensitive to their touch.

Parker and Drake had overruled him, Drake saying as long as it was kept neat, he’d prefer her to keep her pelt. She remembered her face burning as he used that exact word. They discussed her as if she wasn’t even there, and it turned her on in a new, dark way. It was toward the beginning of her journey, exploring her submissive urges and fantasies. The little things like that sometimes were the most devastating — and exciting.

His finger traced the tracks of sweat running down her belly. She inhaled sharply, as he lifted her heavy breasts in his palms, the pads of his thumbs whispering over the bumps of her rosy areolae. She sighed as he squeezed her breasts firmly. She was struck once again, by the tenderness and kindness of his touch. His touch was capable of bringing her to sobbing tears at a moment’s notice, but right then she thought she’d happily stand there forever while he squeezed her breasts in those strong hands.

After a couple of minutes of fondling her charms, his hands dropped her breasts. She felt a twinge of disappointment at the loss of his touch. Her pussy screamed for more, anything.

Just touch me, please!

He took a half step back, obviously enjoying her nudity. She felt even more exposed than if she’d been completely nude, like a side of beef for his inspection. She didn’t care though, as long as he kept touching her. She thought she’d do just about anything to feel him again.

Slut.

After another minute of silently staring at her, while the sun beat down on her naked flesh, he reached around her for his beer. He laid his hand along her cheek, raising her eyes to his.

“So beautiful,” he growled, his thumb stroking the corner of her mouth. He glanced down, stroking the back of his hand over her belly, then pointing at the grass.

“Missed a spot,” he whispered.

Then he sauntered back to the deck. She heard the faint sound of his beer bottle tapped against Parker’s raised glass as he walked by.

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