Tess and the Brute


Tess joined the robotic march of commuters heading through the park, ear-buds plugged in and stooped to her phone like the rest, even though her earphones were silent and her– slightly trembling — screen blank. Her heart hammered.

So her dream was definitely a warning. Not the faery-bollocks her mam used to witter on about (bless her soul) more like a message from her subconscious. A warning that she should not take this shortcut; that dealing with the lecherous park gardener was way more disturbing than the sarcastic wrist glances she got for being late to work.

Of course, if she could get out of the flat earlier then she’d probably avoid the gardener and beat the bitches to the office, too. She cursed her tawny tresses for taking so long to tame every morning. Even now as she concentrated on striding purposefully like a grownup — not the gibbon-armed, splayed-foot yomp that made her mam hoot — the breeze of her movement threatened to pop her hairdo like a bag of slinky springs.

Perhaps she needed to wax her head as hairless as her legs, pits and bits. Not that waxing the latter had sped her morning routine at all. The extra sensitivity made her needier down under, and waking increasingly involved seeing to those needs first, so she was already late before she’d even got up. Choosing a career over any of her doe-eyed and ever stiff suitors didn’t help either, especially now, with spring blooming into summer. Singleton sex for Tess would usually mean a quick solo fiddle during a Sunday lie-in, but that had recently blossomed into a full-on festival of fingering. Daily. Not an excuse she could use for her lateness. (BOSS: What makes you so late every day? TESS: Umm… this?) No. She should set her alarm even earlier. Before dawn. Get dirty. Get clean. Get out. Or just sod the approval of shitty-slickers and be habitually late. Whatever. This was the last time she’d pass the gardener. Definitely the last time. Dream or no dream.

And, a few paces ahead, there he was. The improbable hulk, in his green overalls, swinging his scythe with his giant arms. Who the fuck used a scythe any more anyway? What was wrong with a strimmer? From a distance, his eyes were shaded by his thick brow, but when she got closer there would be an overfamiliar glittering in that darkness. She could already feel the hook of his gaze in her midriff.

Why had she nodded to him that morning? Because he’d seemed like some kindly wood-creature with his roughhewn features and laughter lines and fingers like her grandpa? He wasn’t far off a granddad’s age either — at least round the cheap streets where she lived — in his forties probably. Why did she, a lissom twenty-five-year-old career-girl even acknowledge a weather-beaten old brute like that?

She approached the bramble thicket where he worked, and he stopped waving his daft tool about to let her pass. As she walked by yesterday he had, despite having no hair, pretended to tug his forelock. Like someone from the sodding olden-days. Then he’d bellowed after her in a gravelly country burr, “I know what you need, Ma’am!”

At least in the mornings the shortcut was rammed with fellow commuters, so she had plenty of support. If tutting counted as support. And none of these dandies would be much help if it came down to it; they were all tiny next to this guy. No, if he tried it on today she’d sort it herself, kick him in the nuts. Scream.

She tucked in her chin and sped up. Her skin prickled at the loom of him in the corner of her eye; at the long, noisy sniff he took as she passed. If he said anything, anything at all, she’d go for him. You could not treat women like this anymore. It wasn’t the fucking seventies.

“Nice dream, Ma’am?” he said.

Tess froze, her throat clenched. Blinking brought torrid flashes of the dream: His mighty shoulders frogging her legs wide. His mouth riding the heave of her belly and hips. His massive tongue paddling underneath, fluid and unstoppable, swelling a storm inside her.

The Brute laughed like grinding boulders as she marched off, the quick clip-clop of her shoes totally undermining her outrage. However, after a few steps, she reigned herself in. She was not some child to be taunted. She was an associate at a leading financial institution. Tess knotted her fists and clenched her teeth. Even her scalp crawled, as if her hair was struggling to free itself from its braid and avenge her, too. She spun on him. Motherfucker. But the Brute but had already turned away. He adjusted the front of his trousers, and stooped back to his work.

Her knees wobbled so fiercely she sat on a nearby bench. Then she decided this was how to play it, anyway. Cool, professional. Yes, she would worry the fucker with her coolness like a cat worries a hound. In fact, she would film him on her phone, be a witness to the others he tried to intimidate; support her sisters.

But her jittery fingers couldn’t keep the camera still, and anyway he ignored her now, along with every other passer-by. Then something very escort ataşehir odd happened. She became strangely bedazzled by the scent of him on the breeze. She’d never relished the smell of a stranger before, and Tess grew up in the country, where weird shit happened all the time. And it wasn’t as if his scent was strong. Just… green. Damp bark in the sun. Salt. Back home, she’d always thrown open the windows during rainstorms to catch exactly this heavenly odour of water and earth. It even had a name: Petrichor. ‘Stone and the blood of angels’. Tess twirled her hair in her fingers and took big gulps of it, until her head felt light and she realised her bedazzlement was more likely hyperventilation. She should move on. But then there was the mesmerising vigour the Brute applied to his work. And the animal grace of his movements. And the bulge of his muscles straining the seams of his overalls. She crossed her legs.

The next morning found Tess back in the park. Unintentionally, of course. She had set her alarm for 5am to give herself plenty of time for cheek and ablutions, but found that humping her hands — usually a sure-fire way to fireworks — barely lit a sparkler. So, in the shower, she got steamy with the faucet. Again, pathetic. A mere froth that, if anything, left her needing more. So she ended up digging deep in front of her dressing mirror with the kind of racy relish usually set aside for a bored afternoon. And still, she came with hardly a whimper. A growl, in fact. That fucking (licking) dream had spoilt her; it had reminded what her she was capable of and that, since leaving home for the city, her orgasms always lacked… storm.

As a result, being very late and very het-up, Tess was not in the best of moods as she stomped through the park. The scaredy-cat part of her whinged that she was late anyway so she might as well have gone the long way around. But the lioness in her said she needed the shortcut, so she would bloody well take it. She was not going to let the spooky bumpkin terrorise her. Also, if she stopped walking past him now, then he would know he had got to her. And he hadn’t. And actually, the dream thing wasn’t spooky at all, it was just a silly coincidence born of putting work first for so long because, fucksake, a career didn’t sort itself. Credit cards and loans could not be licked into blissful oblivion.

Yes. She had many, many sensible reasons for forcing herself to take a shortcut past the fragrant and muscle-bound gardener. Though she had fewer reasons for wearing a sea-green mini-dress that exactly matched her eyes and made her bum and boobs look so fabulous she caught her boss biting his knuckle last time she wore it. At least she was wearing knickers; a feverish last-minute decision to go commando sensibly abandoned because, when she stepped out onto the street, the intimate breeze had elicited such a puff of excitement that she thought she might not get anything at all done today. She had returned to her panties. And packed a spare in her handbag.

Perhaps the Brute was on a break, off glugging mead or whatever faery-land ale he favoured, because he was nowhere to be seen. Tess’s pulse quickened, in relief but also another warmer, danker emotion she wasn’t sure she understood. Not that it was a complicated sensation, quite the opposite, too primal to register, perhaps. Whatever, it mysteriously had her tipping her nose at the air as if that was really a thing people did. A lioness again, closing her eyes…

Tess twirled slowly on the spot, much to the annoyance of the commuting-dead that had to shuffle around her in their mist of chemical colognes and deodorised skin. (How had she never noticed that?) And shot through the dull cloud like a vein of lightning, a scent with depth and heat and musk. Unmistakable. She homed in on it before opening her eyes. There. At the back of the park, neatened greenery ended at an abrupt border with wild grasses and nettles. And in the unkempt tangle, a Brute-sized hole.

Holy shit, he’d collapsed. Was he dead? A heart attack perhaps? She trotted over to him. A few passers-by clocked his prostrate form but quickly walked on with heads down. Tess stopped by his feet. Whether the Brute was dangerous or not, she’d never ignore someone in need of help. She kicked his boot.

“Bru– Mate? You ok?”

Nothing. She cursed and stomped down weeds to stand beside him. Shit he was huge lying there on his back. The massive bugger even seemed to have his own gravity. Unlike most people’s force-field of ‘fuckoff’ — keeping all at a distance, even on the rammed tube where it merely condensed right to the nethers — he exerted an actual pull on Tess’s insides. Though to put this in context, after the frustrating morning she’d had, a broom handle would possess irresistible charisma. She crouched by his head.

A loud “Hey!” behind her made her jump. “You need me to call someone?” A suit waved his phone.

“No. No, we’re OK. Thanks.” Why did she say that? And what with the royal ‘we’?

The kadıköy escort suit shrugged and strode off. The Brute’s chest heaved. For a second Tess thought he was having a seizure. But he was laughing, one eye open, peeking between her bare knees…

“Motherfucker.” She stood up.

His dark eyes shone. She went to step away, self-conscious that he could still see straight up her skirt, but then she stayed put and crossed her arms. Let him get an eyeful, the old perve. Let his eyes get what his hands never would. Or his mouth. Or his big, stiff…

“You’re ok, then,” she clipped, attempting to avoid the animal cavorting in the Brute’s overall-trousers. He, conversely, grabbed it roughly while he ran his gaze up her legs. With a misplaced sting or horn, she wished she’d stuck to her ‘commando’ plan after all, and then blinked the disgraceful thought away.

She stabbed a finger at him. “Mate, you can’t treat women like this. It’s not the fucking seven—”

He sneered, and grabbed her ankle.

No-one touched anyone in the city, not skin on skin, not for the sole purpose of making contact. It was all air-kisses and coded handshakes. She could not remember the last time she had felt a fellow human’s skin on her and certainly never experienced anything like the warm dry vice of the Brute’s enormous clutch. Despite herself, her pores gulped at it, a yearning kind of skin crawl that bolted straight between her thighs. The Brute shook her. “Wake up, Ma’am,” he said.

She woke up alright. Tess threw a panicky kick at the Brute’s head with her free foot, but he dodged it and her sandal spun into the brambles. He released her and held up his hands, leaving a warm ghost of his grip on her leg and an echoing heat in her knickers.

She frowned at the bushes, but couldn’t see her sandal. Fuck it. They were Jimmy-Choo’s too. Rage flared right from her tingling clit. It blazed over her skin.

“Get it,” she hissed. A gust of wind tossed trees and bushes in a gratifying reflection of her anger. Her hair loosened wild about her. It felt like fiery snakes.

The brute’s eyes widened. “Ma’am,” he said and without hesitation rolled to his feet. He reached into the spiked bushes like they were soft as grass and returned with her shoe, holding it like a kitten.

Tess snatched it off him, but was so shaken she couldn’t balance on one leg to put it back on. The Brute offered his arm and — damn her instincts — she leant on it. He was a sun-baked oak under her palm. Steady, warm, hard. Then he put his hand on top of hers and she lost herself in a sandwich of him. She swallowed, cleared her throat, swallowed again. Fuck the fucking fiddly shoe strap; it kept… flipping from her fingers. “Stupid thing,” she blustered. “Couldn’t keep the shoe on, now it won’t— “

The Brute dropped to his knee and her stomach flip-flopped as he fastened the strap for her. “Over there.” He nodded at an anonymous tower at the edge of the park. “That’s a hotel.” He shrugged. “Just saying.”


The hotel lift tugged down at Tess’s stomach.

In the park, the idea of a wild fling with a bold, beguilingly fragrant, stranger seemed almost romantic. But the reality — checking into to a Travelodge with a monstrous old labourer and no luggage — made her feel like the world’s least fussy escort.

Then the Brute took her hand, and she realised why she didn’t care about double-taking hotel receptionists or nudging chambermaids. His hand was strong yet gentle. A gardener’s hand. No ‘Hulk smash’ fist. It wrested life from dirt.

Well, it certainly enlivened her dirtiness. She tucked a strand of escaped hair back into her hastily improvised bun and smoothed imaginary dress creases out, supressing a smirk. Fuck she needed this. Fuck she needed him. Fuck she needed fucking.

He flicked a frown down at her. Then, with a surprisingly dextrous twizzle of his fingers, he unfastened her hair. It tumbled out over her shoulders and as Tess gazed up at his flared nostrils, his approving nod and his glimmer of a smile, she was very glad she’d brought spare knickers.

She stayed in a dream long after the lift doors slid open, all the way down the hall, until after she swiped into the room and after she locked them in. She didn’t even snap out of it when turning to find the Brute already barefoot and yanking off his ill-fitting outfit to reveal that he was completely devoid of any kind of clothing underneath; as if he wore overalls (overnothings!) like an animal might, as a costume. She didn’t even bat a lash when he proudly displayed his huge curved phallus; thick, lacily veined and rigid.

However. The fact that his lumpy body was covered, neck to toe, in distinct spirals of chestnut hair, radiating from his cock and balls symmetrically like tiger stripes or a ceremonial tattoo? That shocked her. And not just because it was freakishly beautiful, either, but because it was so familiar. Before she’d had her fluff waxed off — and one of the reasons she did maltepe escort bayan — was that hers was so similar. The shapes were unmistakable. All her remaining hair followed the same pattern, in fact, a network of swirls all over her skin, culminating in multiple whorls over her head that pissed off every hairdresser she’d ever visited. Except her mam, of course, who called it: “My faery-princess’s Head of Crowns.”

And it was just sodding typical that the first time she could enjoy displaying herself to a man without feeling a freak — without the: “No… I quite like it…” comment — it had to be to a fellow freak.

The Brute’s scent billowed off him now he was naked, filling the room with that mesmeric musk of a forest floor after rain. She could happily curl up on his chest and fall asleep, purring, if her blood wasn’t pounding, and if her mouth wasn’t so dry and if she wasn’t just. So. Fucking. Horny.

The Brute drew the curtains but for a chink that threw a single beam of sun to the floor like a spotlight, then he flopped heavily into a chair that squawked in alarm.

“Take off your clothes,” he said. His voice rumbled her insides. As promising and exciting as thunder before a longed-for rainstorm.

She kicked off her shoes.

When Tess put that dress on that morning, she’d sensed it would come off like this today, for pleasure, even though she had no idea how. Now here she was, fumbling at her zip, then offering her back to the Brute to unzip her. She enjoyed his grunt as he revealed the uninterrupted sweep of her spine and that this appeared to say just what she hoped it would. Tess disliked the constriction of bras, and vowed that as long as she was pert enough not to bother, she wouldn’t. She slid round to catch his reaction while she squirmed out of the arms of the dress. After his overt lecherousness in public, she was looking forward to some unbridled admiration of her body, now. She sniggered, imagining him spurting uncontrollably as soon as she popped a boob out.

But he was expressionless. The dust-glittering spotlight up-lit his face and made glowing dots of his eyes. She tested a smile on him. His lip twitched. Tess faltered. Fuck. What was she doing?

She clasped the fabric to her breasts. She should get dressed and go home. Shit, she should go where she was supposed to be, to work. There was a client meeting today. Now, in fact. She’d miss that but anyway, she should steam in there, grab the first, vanilla-safe, metrosexual fucker that winked at her and fuck his head off, and if that wasn’t enough — which it wouldn’t be — she’d grab the next and keep going through the lot of them until she was satisfied. She had an urge to stamp her foot. Fuck this. Just Fuck it. Why couldn’t she have a normal life?

She took a deep, shivery breath.

But then, her instincts were always right. That’s what got her three promotions in two years. And her instinct was that this Brute smelled safe. He could not hurt a fly. Tess had a need and he was going to fill it. Her. She wasn’t here for his approval and had no need of his mind. His head maybe, but not his mind.

So she released a breast, but peered at him closely. His chest heaved and knuckles whitened on the arms of the chair and she couldn’t tell if this was a man overwhelmed with lust, or a loon fighting some internal holy war. Danger cleared her senses, heightened them. To warning signs, but also to her delicious vulnerability. At least his cock seemed unequivocally honest, so she focussed on that.

As if dancing for the dancing snake, she slid the dress down to her waist, wriggled it over her hips, and then let it drop to the floor. She stepped out of it as if shedding all sense.

Tess ran tickling touches up her breasts while she imagined she was teasing under his balls instead, and by the bucking of his cock it seemed the Brute might be thinking the same. She hoped. But his body language gave nothing else away. Other than that bouncing organ, she had no idea if he liked what he saw, or was disappointed.

Given the Brute was struck dumb, it was probably Tess humming her mam’s old song while she played her nipples stiff. Or maybe it was just in her head. She was so lost was in her slutty display of fingertips on private skin she could not say for certain. Whatever, the familiar sound filled her with a quiet strength, and the diaphanous whorls on her skin shimmered as she goose-bumped under the Brute’s glazed eye. She guessed he must hear the old song too, because his head lolled.

She hooked her thumbs in her underwear and swivelled her rear to him, then teased them both with how slowly she could peel the clothing over the globes of her bottom. She even paused with the cotton gathered around her thighs, and imagined she could feel actual heat from his fiery gaze. Her breath rasped and heart wobbled her breasts, making the song warble too; so that solved that conundrum. She gave her bum a playful jiggle. The big bastard must have something to say about that, surely! She glanced over her shoulder to find the Brute’s mouth agape. He shut it quickly and curled his lip but his hard-man game was up. Stifling the urge to cackle like the power-mad witch she was, and with the coy pretence of simply removing her panties, Tess bent over.

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