J. Wellington Thorpe
The Gardener's Daughter
I.
I decided to change gardeners. The man who had been doing my small property didn't want to do it my way, no matter what I told him. A couple of weeks had gone buy since his final visit and the grass was scraggly and the bushes going wild. And the weeds! Oh, the damn weeds!
Like most people who work the hours I do and who have no lawn care equipment, I needed help. A man and his family did a yard about six houses west of me and their yard always looked great. I caught him driving away from that job one day and asked him if he could possibly do my yards. Almost immediately that I approached his truck I had misgivings. He spoke limited English and was sharing a very crowded little half-ton Toyota truck with his wife, three kids and a baby of about two years. But he said he could do the yards right then, and I was a tad desperate. He walked around the property with me while I gave him an idea of what I wished. He said $40 and I agreed. His wife and oldest daughter got out of the truck, followed by a slightly younger sister, a younger boy and the two-year-old. They hit my place like a herd of ants. In about 40 minutes everything was done perfectly and the place had never looked so good! I gratefully paid him $50 instead and asked if he could possibly take care of the property on a weekly basis.
Over the next few months I paid more attention to Gilberto and his family. Gilberto and I talked some and I got to where I could more easily understand him, and I found that the daughters and son spoke English well and could translate anything Gilberto and I had difficulty with. This interaction caused me to more carefully notice the daughters, who were 14 and 11. Yurenka, the oldest, was a very nice looking early teen, as was her younger brother. Milla, the young one, was plainer looking, but was coming along. They lived about fifteen blocks south of me. Each week when they arrived to do the yards there was a little ritual performed: Gilberto got the heavier equipment out of the truck while the son got the lighter stuff out. Mrs. Gilberto took the clippers and started on the bushes. The baby ran errands and played in the grass. Gilberto began edging. And Yurenka opened the gate to the back yard to get the “green stuff” plastic barrel to take out front. Yet, she always looked in the blue recycle barrel on her way to the green one. Only the gray trash barrel was ignored, usually. Every now and again I put some old appliance or magazines in the blue one and she culled through them. One day I had put a couple of old Hustler magazines out there, mixed with the previous Sunday's paper and junk mail. I know she took one because I passed the window by the washer/dryer just as she lowered the blue lid and I immediately remembered the magazines in there. As soon as she went out front with the green barrel I went to retrieve them from harms way and one was missing. Probably on that day, at that time, the germ of an idea began percolating in my head.
My twisted passion plan, as it were…
II.
Let's jump forward, one year later.
I was sitting in front of my MacPro, browsing through some of the many offerings of the Persian Kitty web site, and the passion plan drifted back into my perverted noggin. As a somewhat older teen of fifteen, in a tightly controlled family, Yurenka probably would have a natural interest in her own sexuality with limited resources for inquiry. Where my involvement might lead was neither clear to me nor was I willing, at that specific time, to explore my long term motives and objectives. Using a graphics package by Adobe, I created a page of reduced pictures selected from various web sites. All of the pictures were in color and I managed to get seven of them on one page in readily viewable form.
They were: 1) a teenage girl holding an older man's erect cock while looking up at him with passion on her face; (2) a young woman masturbating with one hand and holding her left breast with the other, eyes closed in content concentration; 3) a “69” scene with the man clearly having his tongue inside his partner's vagina while she was clearly sucking his cock; 4) a teen masturbating while she's looking at a “nudie” magazine that we can clearly see; 5) a very young woman lying on her side, legs spread, with a large male cock clearly entering her pussy which she is holding open; 6) a picture of a woman with her tongue well into the upturned pussy of another woman; and, 7) a young girl happily sitting on the cock of the guy under her, while she is holding it inside her.
The color was okay. The distinctness of the pictures was sufficient as to leave no doubt about what each picture communicated.
The plan was to sort of crumble up the picture, making sure that an easily identifiable section was clearly visible and then place it strategically in the blue recycle can on Saturday when they came to do the lawns. A last minute addition to the plan was for me to set up my camera on the dryer, looking out of the window at the blue can, pre-focused, to record her holding the paper in her hand.
It was two more weeks before I was even home on a Saturday to try my plan. Of course, she wasn't the first one to the back yard that day, her brother was, and he opened the blue lid and I charged out of the back door to interrupt him. Which I did. I kept watch all the while they were here that day but Yurenka never opened the blue barrel. Then I was gone for the next three Saturdays. It took eleven weeks and five tries before Yurenka opened the blue lid, looked in the barrel, saw the “crumpled” pictures, and pulled the paper out to look at it closer.
I was so excited I was shaking. I got ready to push the cable release on the camera as she looked toward the front to see if anyone was watching her, and smoothed out the paper.
Yurenka looked at the paper for quite a while. Then she folded it up and put it in her jeans back pocket.
For the next two weeks she rushed to the back and looked in the barrel. On the third Saturday following her initial discovery there was a piece of paper there that said, Want to see more? If so, put this note in the gray trashcan, otherwise leave it in the blue can . That startled her and she looked toward the house, but I knew she couldn't see in through the reflection across the window. She put the paper back in the blue barrel and went about her work. At first I was disappointed. But about twenty minutes later she came back to the blue barrel. She opened it, took out the note and put it in the gray barrel. My bluff had been called.
Now I had to figure out what to do next.
III.
The following week I was sitting on the back porch when she opened the gate and went to the blue barrel. I greeted her, startling her, and she greeted me back. I asked her what she would like to see. When she feigned ignorance at first, gave in, and said that she would like to see more pictures.
“What kind?” I asked. “Yurenka, sex is millions of years old for humans and hundreds of millions of years old for animals. There is nothing new, except to young people like you. Sex is great, necessary, fun and part of life for everyone. Now would you like to see pictures of masturbation, intercourse, cunnilingus, fellatio, what?”
She just stared at me, then at the ground.
I said, “I'll tell you what. Next week you bring back the pictures you have and circle the ones you want to see more of. Put it in the gray trashcan. I'll get it and give you more pictures of those types.”
She said, quietly, “I have it with me.”
I took a pen out of my shirt pocket, laid it on the porch near where she was standing, and said, “If you decide you want to talk to someone about sex, Yurenka, and you can't talk to your parents, you can talk to me. Kids your age have the weirdest ideas about sex and they usually think that adults don't know much about sex. We
