The sharp teeth of the brambles snag her petal-soft skin, tattooing criss-crossed smiles. Spiteful nettles lick her wounds as she tries to escape. My gnarled fingers grasp at her hair, but miss. I need to get closer before I make my lunge.
Finally, I trap her over a fallen log, pushing her face into the dark pink foxgloves, hoping she might drink some moisture from them. Her summer dress opens as buttons tear, snagging as she falls.
Oh, how she howls her orgasm into the night air.
Each week I wonder will I, or the garden, ever tame her?
