and tree men loving women everywhere. Some free tree man smut...
Tomatoes, Oregano, Cock
by Sommer Marsden
originally appeared at
TEWI watch the truck pull up. It’s blue and long. It has a trailer attached with equipment on it. Funny, it doesn’t so much look like a death machine, but it is. A little sob escapes me and I cover my mouth. The truck parks and I want to run screaming out to the curb. Instead, I hold my breath and watch from the window.
A tall blond guy steps out, his boots are white with dry mud, his goatee is sparse. His neck is sun burnt and he throws his head back to take in the tree. All of the tree. The immense Bradford Pear that has become its own version of a possible death machine.
My beautiful, dangerous tree.
The man runs his fingers along the logo in his bright blue shirt. Tall Oak Tree Service. He turns his head, shades his eyes and starts talking to someone.
My stomach knots up and I shift from foot to foot. I really don’t want to see it come down, but part of me must bear witness. I am terrified and sick to my stomach.
The blond guy is still talking and waving his arms to no one, it appears. But then the other truck door swings wide. The sun bounces off the glass in a sharp white arc and for just a moment it blinds me. And then he’s there. Tall and broad. His shaved head shines in the sun. Stubble dots his sharp jaw and his sunglasses bounce more light at me. Camo cargo pants hang low on his slim hips and his boots are even muddier than his buddy’s if that’s possible. He sports his own blue tee but it’s older and busted in with a shabby kind of comfort. He throws his head back and his Adam’s apple makes him nearly vulnerable.
He puts his hands on his hips and surveys my tree. I half expect him to rip it from the ground roots and all. He looks that strong and that determined.
My pulse has gone up and I’m warm. My body is flashing me little blips and signals that I find this man attractive. I try to ignore my over zealous body as they confer. I’m shifting from foot to foot again. My flip-flops making soft smacking complaints. I’m acting like I have to pee but it is a bizarre cross of nerves and arousal. I have my face plastered to the window as I watch.
Baldy has his head tilted back as he regards my tree. He stares at the immense monstrosity of green leaves and gnarled branches and then his truck. He points. Blond goatee rocks back on his heels so far I expect him to hit the dirt but he doesn’t. He frowns and shakes his head. He points, too.
I hold my breath. What the fuck? I want them to just start chopping and chipping and get the tree down before I change my mind. Or before it drops another huge limb like it already has. And this time the limb might kill a person or hit a car instead of crushing my bicycle in the driveway. The tree is a hazard. It has to come down. So, why aren’t they taking it down?
Baldy drops his gaze toward my front door and I back peddle so fast I fall on my ass in the foyer. The white tile of my entryway bites my ass and tears fill my eyes. Not just from my sudden unexpected clumsiness and pain but from fear. He is coming to the door and just the sight of this man made me feel strange and weak. I didn’t want to have to talk to him.
When he rings the bell, a little sob slides out of my throat. I clear my throat. “Jesus, Caroline, snap out of it.”
With the door open he is even sexier in a busted up fingers, dirty hands, bald headed man kind of way. “Yes!”
My voice is way harsher than I wanted.
“Are you crying?” He smiles, frowns, moves forward a bit. Clearly unsure of how to handle a yelling, crying customer who is pissed for having to answer her own door.
“What? No. I just. Yes. A bit. I fell. I’m fine. What do you want?” I feel like I am practically screaming the last part.
He blinks at me, his face never really settling on an expression, he is that uncertain of my sanity. “The tree. It can’t come down today.”
“It has to! It dropped a whole limb the other day for no reason. A big one! It could kill someone!” My voice is going up even as part of me is getting excited that he will say the tree can be saved. That the limb that fell had been a fluke. “Plus, your estimator said it had the signs of a diseased tree. He said it had to come down!”
Baldy, who’s shirt reads Pete, blinks again. “Are you okay, lady?”
“My name is Caroline Weeks.”
“Mrs. Weeks--”
“Ms.”
“What?”
“Ms. Weeks. As in there is no Mr. Weeks. Well, my father is Mr.--”
“Yeah. Okay. MS. Weeks, the truck is too small. Buddy, my estimator didn’t have his camera, so he couldn‘t email me a photo. I would‘ve brought the bigger truck if I‘d gotten a picture. I can take your tree down but it won’t all fit in my truck even after it’s chipped. So unless you want it sitting in your street, I’ll have to come out tomorrow with a bigger truck. Maybe two. She’s a monster.” He tips his head toward the tree.
I feel a tear thread down my face.
He turns and shocks the hell out of me by wiping the tear away with a callused thumb. “You’re leaking.”
“Sorry.”
He licks my tear from his finger and then realizes I am watching. I am shocked and turned on and completely stunned. He shrugs.
“It’s okay. People get crazy over their trees. You’ll be fine. We’ll come back tomorrow and get her down fast. Bradford Pears are soft wood. They go down as easy as a two dollar whore.”
A surprised little yelp escapes me and he has the good manners to grin and look embarrassed. “Sorry. My grandfather used to say that. He’d also smack me in the head for saying it to the fairer sex, if he were alive.”
“Wellyes. See you tomorrow.” My breath is barely a whisper and I slam the door in his face. His big open, friendly, handsome face.
Let him think he offended me. Let him be embarrassed. I will take the secret to my grave that when he said that, my mind flashed to a vivid image of me. On my knees. Sucking his cock. If I let my mind, it would reel forward in a drunken stagger until he is fucking me. Fucking me from behind. His busted up hands leaving streaks of dirt on my skin as he hold me by the hips so I don’t slide away. Fucking me from behind
I hear him leave my porch and I slide to the cold tile floor to get myself together. The way of that man, the aura of him has all my wires crossed and my mind full of hot pink neon lust. I’m half unaware of myself as I get my hands down into my yoga pants and finger fuck myself to not one but three quick orgasms, the feel of his thumb on my face still as vivid as the bright bursts of pleasure in my cunt.
I kid myself into thinking that nerves got the better of me and that will be the last time I think about Peter with the shorn head and the kind face and callused thumb.
*****
My belly is alive with butterflies like I have a hot date. And I do. My breath has a date with the narrow section of glass in my front door. My nose has a date to keep bumping the fogged up glass. My fingers have a date to itch at the wide waistband of my workout pants because they want to slip inside and stroke my clit. And in my filthy mind, I have a date with Peter and his cock. My tongue is scheduled to tour the long hard length of him and my pussy is penciled in to take him hard and fast when things hit the point that we can’t wait any more.
I shake my head and blink as the two red trucks maneuver up to my driveway with their chippers and their trailers. And then I’m holding my breath because it occurs to me, what if Pete doesn’t come today? What if this is another crew? Surely the man cannot go on every single job in the state. What if I get fat men chomping cigars or scarecrow skinny men with long mullets and
His face is right there at my window and I let out a shriek like some jungle bird. I hear his easy laughter through the window and I see that his eyes are brown. It dawns on me that I never did see his eyes the day before. I had imagined them as nondescript but my mind is processing as I unlock the door. They are bark brown with flecks of mossy green and fall leaf gold mixed in.
“Hello there, Peter!” I chirp. Apparently, I have morphed into Mary Poppins while I wasn’t looking.
Jesus H. Christ. Help me now.
He pushed into the house with an easy kind of intrusion. “We have some paperwork to finish up, Ms. Weeks. They’ll get started while we go over this.”
“Yes. Okay. I thought I did this with the owner the other day.”
He’s watching my mouth. He’s watching my mouth so intently I feel my pussy flutter. His eyes look half mesmerized, half sleepy sexy eyes. “Owner?”
“The man who gave me the estimate.”
“You mean the estimator?” He laughs and the sound snakes up the nerve endings that live along my spine. The warmth of his laughter slides under my hair and along my scalp. Goose bumps erupt in its wake and I shiver though it’s warm. “I’m the owner,” he says and touches my shoulder. “You okay? Ms. Weeks.”
I want to tell him to can the snarky Ms, but I can’t because here he is touching me again and my nipples peak with a greedy eagerness as if saying, touch me first, touch me first!
“Oh. You are the owner. I’m sorry. Peter. The owner,” I sound like a dolt but then I touch him back and I forget to care. I run my hand, mostly closed up along the tattooed landscape of his bicep. There is a tree of life in lovely shades of green. Its roots a perfect reflection of its crown. The most beautiful rendition I’ve seen yet. To show my appreciation, I suck in a breath and then moan deep in my throat.
Brilliant.
“Are you sure you’re okay Ms.--”
“Caroline. Can the Ms stuff,” I whisper and I push my fingers up a little higher. Hiking his tee up with my eager digits. His arm is smooth and hard, muscles twitching just a bit under my touch.
“Right. Well, I think you’re touching the wrong place then Caroline,” he says. He puts his finger, rough and scarred to my bottom lip. “I think you need to touch my cock. Do you think?”
A little shocked sound puffs out from between my lips and he laughs at me. I find myself laughing with him because that is exactly what I want to touch. So I do. One hand under his tee on his hard, muscular arms. One hand stroking the faded denim that is keeping me from what lies beneath. Peter’s hard cock.
“I thought about you last night, Caroline,” he says when my fingers play along the buttons of his fly.
“You did?” He’s probably lying. But that’s okay, isn’t it?
“I did but you don’t believe me.” He puts his clipboard on the table and shoves his hands in my hair.
I never brushed it. I still have bed head.
“I believe you.” But I don’t.
“No. You don’t believe me. But I did. And I think you thought about me.” I open my mouth to protest, lie through my teeth, but his tongue is inside my mouth and his lips are crushing mine.
I push against him, and I love the feel of my nipples rubbing through my tee against his hard chest. He’s made of wood or marble or cinderblocks. He is too hard to be just flesh and blood. “No I didn’t.” He may suspect I’m lying by the way I grind my pelvis against his beat up Levis. His cock is hard and long and I have to make myself wait like a very good girl. What I really want to do is yank at his fly until it gives way and take it in my hand. And then my mouth.
“So do it,” he says.
My heart jumps, my eyes fly open and I stop. “What?”
“Whatever you were just thinking about. Do it. Your body was a livewire when you closed your eyes right there. You were thinking.” His lips are touring the fragile skin of my throat and I can’t breath. The air is gone. I hear a chainsaw fire up and I still.
“It’s okay. You’re doing the right thing. That tree could kill someone. Now back to what you were thinking about. It must have been good. Let’s do it.” His fingers run along the seam of my pussy through my pants. “Is it me? Do I need to kneel down and eat that pussy of yours?” He says it right in my ear and I feel half insane with lust when he says pussy.
“No. Not that.”
“You wouldn’t like that?” He’s tugging at my pants and I am shimmying like a belly dancer to help him. My brain is going. Going.
“I would. I would like it. But that’s not what I was thinking.”
Now they’re down around my hips and my ass is hanging bare and his fingers slide into me. “You’re so wet. You don’t think I thought about you last night, or what that tear of yours tasted like when I licked it off my finger. So, how wet would you be Miss Caroline if you did believe me?” His fingers stroke with such an ease, I feel like I’ll come unhinged and drop to the floor right there.
I shake my head because I don’t know the answer.
“What were you thinking?”
“This.” And I do drop to the floor. I hear his surprised breath and then his soft sigh. I have wrestled the fly open without realizing and he’s bare. No boxers, no briefs. Just him. Hard cock and the smell of warm man. “This is what I was thinking.” I pull him free and put him in my mouth. And do exactly what I thought about doing the day before, at bedtime, at breakfast.
Dull thuds work up through my knees. Bits of my beloved tree hitting earth outside. Peter works his fingers into my hair and fucks my mouth in slow even strokes. I moan because I love the feel of it. The feel of a man steadying my head with his hands. The feel of his hips surging forward so he can drive his cock into my throat. It is the heady feeling of surrender and control. It is the only position in which I feel that mix of power and weakness.
I sob a little. From the nerve I’m displaying and the sound of my tree being dismembered.
“Shh. It’s okay. It’s good. We’ll plant you a red maple. A cherry tree. Something that won’t drop,” he grunts, his hips moving a little faster and I slide my tongue along the soft skin of his hard dick. “Fuck. That won’t drop a branch and kill someone. A kid, a dog, a car full of old women. Jesus, woman. I know you’re upset and horny and all but”
I stop. “What? But what?” I whisper and touch just the tip of my tongue to his tip where a tiny bit of pre-come has gathered.
“You are good at that, baby.”
“You don’t know me.”
He smiles down at me and the smile touches his eyes. He pushes my wheat colored bangs back. He doesn’t argue with me.
“But I like it when you call me baby.”
He surprises me by dropping to his knees and pushing back a dining room chair. He stretches my torso onto the seat and yanks my legs wide. Wide so I am spread out for him. His fingers force back into me. “I’ll call you baby all you want. I’ll call you baby the whole time I fuck you because fucking you is the only thing I could think about all night. All fucking night. I dreamed about how salty your tear tasted.”
Again, I don’t believe him. What are the odds? He just wants to get laid. And that’s fine. Who doesn’t, after all? I know I do. He twists his hand and finds my clit. My cunt clutches around his fingers as he plays my clit with his thumb. I bang my head on the hard wood seat and hardly feel it.
“Ready, baby? Are you ready for me?” His fingers pinch my nipples and he’s pushing into me. I’m pulsing back to meet him. To take him in as deep as I can get him.
He can call me baby and lie to me about his dreams as long as he fucks me hard and makes me come. A chainsaw whines and something solid hits earth. I shudder, caught between a sadness and an orgasm.
“I’m ready. You need to fuck me loud enough to drown that out,” I say. My words are all mixed up. But he starts to move because I think he understands.
The whole room moves like an earthquake has hit and I come. Just like that, because his fingers have worked me right into that state. Where I can slip into an orgasm as easy as breathing. My body is one big heartbeat and my breasts warm the cool wood beneath me.
“For the record, I did so dream about you.” His movements are jerky now and he’s holding me so hard I know I will have purple fingerprints by my hipbones come morning. That’s okay, because he’s driving deep enough to start that tightening in my cunt that makes my chest flush and my ears ring. “I dreamt about this right here. And your mouth on me, sucking my dick. And I also dreamt about you inviting me to dinner.”
Then he hisses and it sounds like fuck. Was that a request for a dinner invitation? I am laughing when a chorus of chainsaws are joined by the growl and grumble of the chipper. It seems my house is vibrating and I know my tree is down. And Peter’s cock is buried deep inside of me and he’s grunting like a caveman.
“Would you like to come to dinner, Peter?” I gasp. My fingers are playing my own clit now because he’s holding onto me like I might fly away from him before he can get off.
“I. Would.” He’s coming. I can tell by the way he arches against me and grows still before frenzied. “Love. It.”
On his final thrust, my own orgasm fills me, rolling fluidly through my body until I’m limp. He lays his bald head against the middle of my back. The heat of his head warms my skin. My tee is bunched up under my armpits and I am shaking from a sudden chill.
“Let’s get you put together.” He is soft spoken and chivalrous and he kisses the back of my neck as he pulls me together. I look at the clipboard.
“I need to sign here?” The steady thump of orgasms past has started a vibrant pulse between my thighs.
“By the X.”
“Will you really come to dinner?” I ask, not looking at him but pretending to read the little paragraph that says I do not hold him responsible for accidental destruction of property. I sign it.
“Will you really make me dinner?”
I grin and he grins back. I can taste him on my lips. Coffee, peppermint, cock. I want to taste him again. Maybe when his lips taste like tomatoes and oregano and his cock tastes like me. Dinner. Tomatoes, oregano, cock. “I’m thinking spaghetti?”
“Sounds good. What time?”
My eyes shoot to his jeans as he buttons up his fly and turns to peek at his crew. I want him all over again. It is a sudden greedy emotion. “How soon can you come back. Soon? How bout lunch and then dinner?”
He smiles and laughs softly. The smile touches his eyes.
So, there I am, tucked into my car, driving to pick up kiddos from camp. Bad knee propped to the left, radio cranked, windows up, AC blasting. And then a song comes on. A song I love but I only hear like...once a year. For some reason, this time when I hear my yearly dose, my brain does this awesome thing where it flings an entire plot line, setting and character at me based on the song title. And I quite literally yell, "Yeah!" and dig, one-handed in my purse for my writing pad. Find it. Then I delve back in for a pen. No pen. I try again...no pen. Meanwhile music is still cranked, I am swerving all over the place, left knee is in spasm and I am praying I do not get pulled over. How! How does a writer (for fuck's sake) not have a pen? One measly pen.
Isabel does ginger
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