Chapter 26: Mowing Grass/Lawn Work

I cleaned up after lunch and went outside with Reese and his father. We started with the backyard. There was no privacy fence, so the first thing that I realized was I was exposed to the neighbors around me and the church across the street. There was no real way I could hide the fact that I was naked in my own yard. I had to just accept it.

Public nudity laws allowed me to garden or mow the grass in the nude. However, as always, I was concerned that I was still being inconsiderate to people who didn’t want to see my big butt flopping around in the yard, pushing a mower. Very few people ever went out of their house naked in my neighborhood. I was definitely going to get noticed.

We have only a few bushes in our backyard, and a big white shed was put there before the original owners destroyed the first house on the property and built a bigger one. It was delipidated with rust and mildew and crowded with Jim’s old junk. He was kind of a packrat regarding old mechanical parts and tools.

“You never know when you are going to need some bullshit. The moment I throw it away, I am going to need it, so I keep that shit in there so that I’ll never need it,” he always said.

Jim rolled out the lawn mower for me because it was so hard even to step into the mess of his shed. It was gas-powered, which meant it was ancient. It was the kind of mower that you must start with a cord. Once it starts, you have to sit on it and guide it. It’s very awkward, loud and smells of burnt oil.

“Sears? I’ve never heard of that, Dad,” Reese asked.

“It used to be my Dad’s favorite store. If you bought a shovel there, and it broke, you could return it, and they’d give you another one, no questions asked. They went out of business way back around 2020 during the first pandemic, briefly started up again, and then collapsed. They used to be in every shopping mall, but online shopping killed it.”

“It was like a store you could walk around in and buy lawnmowers and shovels? You could drive there and just pick one up and walk out with it?” Reese asked his father. He thought that sounded quaint. I found it amusing that my son had never heard of Sears. It used to be a household name when I was a kid.

“Yeah, they had everything. Laundry machines, punching bags, clothes, beds.”

“So it was like Amazon, but just you weren’t online? That’s actually cool. I’d love to see things before I buy them.”

Jim turned to me proudly and showed me his beat up, old red lawn mower. It had seen better days.

“I used to cut lawns with this back when I was in high school to make extra money. I never thought you’d want to mow the grass with it! I am kind of excited.”

It was a hybrid push/riding mower that was all the fad during the exercise craze of the 2030s when Sears tried to renew the Craftsman brand and make a comeback. They failed spectacularly. One of the reasons, was products like the one I was currently looking at. You could sit on it, but you also had to push with your feet.

I was glad he was happy. I had been raised to believe that women took care of the inside of the house and men took care of the outside. However, I accepted my new role required me to obey Julie, and all of the Breeders were expected to take on all of the household chores.

I assumed it was to help establish our roles as subservient, and it was some consolation to our families for putting up with the changes in our behavior by not having to do chores any longer. I really wasn’t entirely sure, but I did most of the chores besides lawn work, anyway. I knew not all of the women in the Program were actually being good sports about it. Darla was probably enjoying a margarita with her lovers on that balmy, hot Arkansas August afternoon. I imagined Karen having to mow her giant lawn while her lawncare guys directed her and realized I had it pretty good by comparison.

Jim reached up and honked my tits playfully. At first, I was alarmed. At school, it was punishable if a boy ran up behind you and touched you without first obtaining consent. However, this was my husband! I had married him BEFORE I gave consent to Julie to make decisions about who could touch me. Jim certainly meant well and was just trying to make me smile.

I smiled at him and didn’t say anything about it. However, my son felt left out and complained. “Hey, you aren’t supposed to grab mom’s tits without Julie’s consent.”

I looked at Jim and Reese dumbly. I wasn’t sure what the rule was on that. “I’ve been married to your mama since before you were a squirt coming out of my pecker, and I’ve never been able to just reach up and grab her knockers. I am going to do it whether Julie likes it or not. How can you see tits like that and not want to honk them?”

“I get it, Dad. She’s my mom, and even I am like, Wow! Those are some tits, I’ve squeezed them, but you can get her and Julie in trouble.”

“Is that right?” Jim grabbed my tits again and squeezed a little harder. “Do you mind if I grab these, honey?”

‘I don’t mind, but Reese is right. I think you could get me in trouble,” I said.

“It’s kind of unfair torture, don’t you think?” Jim wiped the sweat from his brow. We’d been outside for only a few minutes, and I could feel the warmth of the afternoon sun beating down on my shoulders and back already. “Here, you’ve got these massive watermelons baddong-a-donging in my face, and I can’t at least grab on now and again? I gotta see my daughter and my wife carry on around the house naked, and I’ve got no outlet.”

I wanted to remind Jim that we’d been together for years, and he never showed an interest in my tits until recently. He could have always touched me in bed before last week. I smiled at him and said we could talk to Julie and Ms. Connors about it.

Jim grimaced and showed me how to start the mower. It took him seven tries to get it started. He had to twist some screw on the top, look inside that, fiddle with the spark plugs, and shout, “Goddamn it, don’t you flood, you motherfucker!” at least fourteen times. He somehow managed to cut his hand in the process. Jim didn’t act like it was any big deal.

“You should put a band-aid on that, Dear,” I suggested.

“A little cut never hurt anybody; it’s just the cost of using this old mower. It draws blood sometimes, and in exchange, the motherfucker starts up,” he said as he cranked it the final time. It took him a lot of effort to pull the crank. He had to bend over and then, with one hand, yank on a black cord so hard that the entire mower shook.

I wasn’t sure if I had the arm strength to manage that by myself. Once he had it started, Jim made cutting the grass look easy. He sat down on it and guided it in a direction through a bunch of high weeds. He had to push with his feet, and the motor did a little of the work to move it forward.

We had the kind of lawn that was made up of about seventeen different variations of grass and a bunch of weeds. Jim’s opinion is that “At least it’s fucking green.”

I always wanted to live in some place like Karen did, where the grass was evenly trimmed and made up of one type of grass only.

He spun the mower around in a tight circle and came back to me. “Keep the rows as tight as your butthole, and don’t leave any gaps between them.”

Jim used the expression “tight as your butthole” in regular conversation all the time. It could apply to how cheap someone was or how precise you are with the work you are doing. However, even he stopped to think about how it wasn’t really a double-entendre with me any longer.

Jim pointed out that unless you are careful when turning around, there will be tiny patches of grass that didn’t get mowed.

I didn’t realize there was so much thinking in mowing. “Do the backyard, and then I’ll come out and have a look and teach you how to weed and edge.”

I was horrified that there was more to mowing grass because we lived on about a third of an acre of land. I only know that because when we bought it, the developers bulldozed a bunch of much smaller homes to build this one and the houses next to it.

A third of an acre doesn’t sound like a lot until you mow it with a push mower in what felt like 98-degree weather in the middle of August. I was already sweating by the time I managed to push the mower from the back porch to the edge of our property line. I didn’t manage a completely straight line because I had to adjust for bushes and plants.

The worst was that sitting on the mower in the nude while it vibrated was making me cum constantly and turning me on. I was sweating all over, and my pussy was leaking all over the plastic seat.

It was a grueling experience, and I’ll spare you the details but suffice to say that it took me over 45 minutes to realize that I wasn’t even half finished mowing the back lawn. I stopped because I was parched. I needed some water.

I was reluctant to go inside and get some. I was supposed to wait for my daughter to tell me what to do, but I was really thirsty out in the heat. I also wasn’t sure if I should turn off the mower or leave it running since Jim had spent so much time and effort getting it running, and I wasn’t sure I could do it again.

I decided it was safer to turn it off and headed inside. I poured myself an ice-cold drink and heard the sound of laughter and excitement in the living room. It sounded like the family was playing a board game – which is something we almost NEVER did.

I went in to check it out.

Julie was in the center of the living room, on her knees but not kneeling. She was naked, except for knee-high stockings and a party hat from her last birthday party, and the guys had created a makeshift gag out of some blue ribbon in her room and tied her thighs together with a pink cord. She had an unpeeled banana sticking halfway out of her ass. It was curved upward. I remembered purchasing that Banana at Kroger just that past week.

The guys were taking turns popping her with her own riding crop on the tits and ass, and Julie kept her hands behind her back and let them do it. She yelped anytime the guys popped her across the tits or back with the riding crop. It indeed seemed like a game of some sort.

Julie seemed clownish as if she were being made to wear a dunce cap to be ridiculed. She wasn’t laughing, but she also couldn’t resist.

My husband and sons each took a turn with the crop. Each time one of them would bop her with it, Julie would turn to face them or sometimes present her butt at their request while they chuckled playfully. I wasn’t sure if they were competing to score points, but it sure sounded like they were grading each other based on how well they smacked her and what kind of Yelp my daughter made.

I couldn’t tell if she was amused or genuinely in pain. The guys kept calling out in a sing-song way, “Pop the booty,” “Pop-pop the booty,” or alternatively, “Pop the Coochie,” as if they were playing a heated game of Yahtzee and had to say it before anyone else did to earn a point.

I assumed this was some sort of reasonable request, but it wasn’t like anything we’d done so far. It seemed way too fun and light-hearted to be disciplined, and Julie didn’t seem to be in any distress.

I didn’t want to interrupt, and I doubted they had seen me, or else they might have told me to come over and join her. It’s not that I wouldn’t have. I just didn’t want to insert myself.

I went back outside after having an ice-cold glass of water and washing my forehead with an iced washcloth. It was hot, and the gnats were back out, buzzing around me. The sweeter my skin became with sweat, the more the gnats loved to get up in my face and around my nose.

I saw my neighbors outside luxuriating at the picnic table, drinking ice-cold lemonade. They watched me walk over to the lawn mower to start it up again. Mrs. Johnson had been my friend for years. We were never close, but we never had an argument and often talked politely to one another.

I’ll never forget the scorn on her face as she stared at me like I was a brazen whore parading down Wright Street to sell my pussy for money. I felt like a whore as well. I was doing impossibly naughty things and now I was allowing my daughter to do them in my own house.

Even though I had agreed to obey Julie for the purposes of the NIS Program, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had some parental responsibility to stop the guys from going that far with her. The game they were playing wasn’t overly cruel or sadistic, and Julie had been paddled much harder than the previous day. It was just the manner in which they dressed her up and laughed while they ganged up on her that made me worry.

I reached down to crank the lawn mower with one hand and pulled the rope with all of my might. It was impossible. I considered myself strong for a woman, but that mower had me beat. It took me six tries before I had to stop, reset my brain, and try again.

This time, I tried to use what my mother would call “elbow grease” and torqued my hips. In the process of yanking that black cord, my left tit got caught in one of the metal clasps around the handlebars that I used to push the mower. I caught a small cut, and a sliver of red blood started to drip from it.

I had given blood to the lawn mower, and it still didn’t start up. Instead, it made a “thuk-a-thuk-a-thuk ... fzzzzt” sound like a long series of farts blowing out of an ass. I wish I had a more eloquent way to describe it, but that was exactly what it sounded like to me.

I wiped the blood away. It was such a small scratch that it didn’t hurt. I tried again and said, “Goddamned motherfucker, don’t flood!” and lo and behold, it started right up.

I was so grateful, and thankful that I had managed it, that I jumped up and down with glee. The mower almost stopped because you have to give it a steady stream of gas, or it will sputter out. I felt really good about it.

I wasn’t very superstitious, but I convinced myself that getting cut on the lawn mower in the process of starting it up and cussing at it managed to get the decrepit old mower to work once again. It wasn’t shiny and new, and it hadn’t been for years. It was oily, and dirt had collected in that oil and clung to the faded paint. The mower smelled like “Jim” to me (or Jim smelled like it after a long day of work).

I didn’t know what “flooding” was on a lawn mower. I presumed it had something to do with getting too much gas. I began to think that sometimes my pussy gets so wet, and I get so horny that I got flooded and couldn’t think.

I had lots and lots of time to think about that while I finished cutting the backyard. The church let out, and they gawked at me. One younger boy called me a “Big Titty Lady,” and his mother told him she’d wash his mouth out with soap, but most of the churchgoers gave me the silent cold shoulder.

I could FEEL their stares and judgment from across the street, and coupled with the extreme heat, I felt exhausted. Every step in the grass on my bare feet was harder than the last. We have what we call “piss ants” in Arkansas.

They are also known as “red ants” or “fire ants,” but I like to think that “piss ants” are a special breed of particularly angry ants that love to construct massive megalithic anthills and then get furious when what seems like a giant to them comes and mows it every other week.

My father used to say they were called “piss ants” because they would “bite the piss out of you,” but I never knew why we called them for certain. I can tell you that there was no way to know when I was about to mow over one of their ornate, carefully crafted ant hills while I was pushing the mower from behind.

However, I certainly knew when I stepped on them as I pushed through the debris of their homes. I got stung a dozen times, and on top of that, mosquitos love sweat, and they love ME! I was constantly slapping my legs and arms to fend them off.

Even though I was struggling to endure the heat, insect stares from strangers and neighbors, and the sheer exhaustion of pushing an antiquated mower through overgrown grass because Reese hadn’t mowed it last week like he should have., I kept thinking about Julie and what she had to endure inside while I was working.

I thought about the fact that other than the fact I was naked, professional lawn guys have to do this work every day, Monday through Friday. They probably had better mowers, but it was still ungodly hot and uncomfortable. If anything, I should have been COOLER than they were because they had to wear work clothes.

In comparison, Julie was getting it on all ends from her brothers and father. I assumed that whatever they were doing started as some reasonable request and escalated into a participatory game of some kind. The part that worried me the most was that it might have escalated.

I wanted to hurry so that I could go back inside. I wondered if Julie needed me to take her place so the guys wouldn’t be so focused on teasing her. I also imagined how I’d deal with the same situation. I assumed the guys might want to play “Pop the Coochie” with me when I got done mowing the grass.

I also wondered if they had chosen to do it precisely because I was not there. I theorized that Dewey and Reese may have felt inhibited by my presence and waited until I was outside to loosen up. I couldn’t understand why Jim was involved because he often seemed so overprotective of Julie. However, he did want to support us and may have gotten carried away.