Garden of Forbidden Touch

Chapter 1: The Summer Shower

The morning sun blazed over the garden, casting golden streaks through the leaves as Mark dug into the earth, sweat beading on his brow. His muscles flexed with each shove of the spade, dirt clinging to his forearms. On the terrace, his mother Silke sipped her tea, her sharp eyes occasionally darting toward him, while his grandmother Gemma lounged in her chair, her voice carrying over the warm air like a command.

'Do you have a girlfriend, Mark?' Gemma called out, her tone teasing but pointed, as if she already knew the answer and was just waiting to pounce on it.

Mark straightened, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. 'No, Grandma. No time. College keeps me buried in books.'

Gemma chuckled, a low, knowing sound, and leaned toward Silke, their conversation dropping to a murmur. Mark couldn’t catch the words, but the way Silke’s cheeks flushed told him it wasn’t about the weather. He turned back to the soil, trying to ignore the prickling sensation of being watched.

'That’s enough work for today, Mark,' Gemma announced suddenly, her voice slicing through his focus. 'You’re filthy. Go to the summer shower and wash up. I’ll come in a bit to scrub your back.'

Mark froze, glancing at the open-air shower cabin just yards from the terrace. No door, no curtain—just a flimsy frame and a hose. 'But there’s no privacy here,' he protested, gesturing awkwardly at the exposed setup.

'Nonsense, boy,' Gemma snapped, waving a dismissive hand. 'We’ve seen you since the day you were born. Nothing new under the sun.'

Silke shifted in her seat, her fingers tightening around her teacup. 'He’s grown now, Mother. He usually showers alone.' Her voice wavered, a memory flashing between them—years ago, when she’d last washed him, her hands slipping over his skin, pulling back his foreskin, and the mortifying moment when his body reacted. She’d stopped after that, embarrassed, but Gemma clearly had no such reservations.

'Boys his age don’t wash properly without supervision,' Gemma declared, standing with a rustle of her apron. 'Hygiene needs control. End of discussion.'

Mark trudged to the shower, his stomach knotting as he stripped down behind the flimsy frame. Through the open gap, he could see Silke and Gemma on the terrace, their voices drifting over. 'He’s grown, Mother,' Silke hissed, barely audible. 'And those stains on his sheets every week—'

'Exactly why he needs proper care,' Gemma cut in, her tone unyielding. 'Last time, when you… retracted… and he reacted? Perfectly natural. Means everything’s working as it should. Just make sure the foreskin’s pulled all the way back—clean behind the ridge properly.'

Mark’s face burned as he turned on the water, the cold spray hitting his chest. He tried to focus on the chill, but a shadow darkened the cabin floor. Gemma stepped in, her gaze clinical yet piercing as it raked over his naked form.

'Grandma!' he yelped, hands scrambling to cover himself.

'Silence!' she barked, grabbing his wrist with a calloused grip. 'Hands down. Act like you’ve got something to hide, and I’ll check everywhere twice.'

Mark bit his lip as she dragged a rough washcloth over his chest, the fabric scraping his nipples, sending an involuntary twitch through him. Her hands moved with purpose, kneading his thighs, gripping his hips to turn him into the light. 'Always the same,' she muttered, lathering the cloth again. Her touch was methodical, impersonal—yet his body betrayed him, his cock thickening under her scrutiny.

On the terrace, Silke busied herself with her tea, her eyes darting away, though Mark could feel the weight of her stolen glances. Gemma tutted, palming his balls to scrub beneath, then wrapping her fingers around his shaft. 'Hold still.' She peeled back his foreskin with slow, deliberate pressure, the exposed glans glistening in the sunlight. The rough cloth circled the sensitive ridge, and Mark hissed, hips jerking forward.

'Told you,' Gemma said, rinsing the cloth. 'Dirt builds up here.' Her thumb smeared the pre-cum beading at his slit into the lather, her other hand sliding between his cheeks, the cloth dragging over his ass with firm sweeps. Heat bloomed under her touch, his breath coming in shallow gasps as his cock pulsed, hard and aching.

'Needs attention,' Gemma hummed, squeezing him at the base. Her hand moved then—rough, efficient strokes—and Mark felt the edge approaching, his body tensing, ready to explode under her unrelenting grip.