Smell The Roses

Posted by on May 6, 2016 in Relationship Sexy

Smell The Roses

For your reading pleasure…the story that was accepted by the Literary Arts Division of the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival this year.

Smell The Roses

I’ve never been one for the romantic gesture of champagne and roses.  And dear lord don’t even think about it on Valentine’s Day when every other man is doing as Hallmark dictates.  Give me a handful of wildflowers, a hit of Jameson’s from your flask and lay me down in the sage and we can remind each other what it truly means to be free.

But right now I’m rethinking all that because we are in the city and there isn’t a wildflower in sight. We need earth and sky like most need food and water, so we followed the asphalt from the doctor’s office to a park where the surrounding homes have these amazing gardens, the kind they pay other people, people like us, to maintain.  I had to stop, I’m smelling the roses Baby, and cup a rose, the color of a Popsicle that wasn’t quite sure if it was grape or cherry, to my face.

Photo by Alan Shapiro

The smell was so sweet I could have swallowed it whole so I guided the blossom to your goatee and you inhaled a deep belly breath like the Outlaw yogi that you are and sneezed five times in succession, loud and exuberant, making a little kid who was walking nearby grab the hand of his mother.

Now we lie naked, face to face, against the fat pillows of our three- and- a-half-star hotel that we snagged on Priceline for the price of two. You dazzle me first with a champagne kiss, your perpetually chapped lips parting mine as you release all that effervescence, like an orgasm, into my mouth making me slurp and giggle.  And now, my bad boy of a man, you have that black cherry colored rose, that you must have snipped with your pocket knife behind my back and hid inside your black leather jacket. You trace the blossom around the cross tattooed on the back of my head, a mark my defiant, head- shaving, twenty-four year old self put on me, a mark that reappeared and asserted itself after the chemo. It’s barely visible now, tucked back under my peroxide pixie but we know it’s working, especially after today’s clean lab reports.

Your green eyes hold mine captive as you reach around and run the rose down the knobby length of my spine. When you get to the trails end you just keep going, letting those silky petals tickle the cleft of my ass before plunging down until it’s going to be petals on petals. My dew drops just thinking about it and your smile stretches up against mine as you leave me to my imagination, and tease my inner thighs instead.

You don’t give gifts often and never before a rose, so you take your time giving me this one. You pull out the scarves I bargained down from a street vendor, pretty long colorful things I bought for my sisters, and guide me flat on my back as you tether my wrists to the fancy wrought iron bedpost.  Not having control has been my cross to bear these past two years, the one you helped me carry.  Now you are showing me how it translates to pleasure.

You kiss more champagne into my mouth and follow the spill of it down my neck. The rim of your glass tips and fills the hollow at my left collarbone until it overflows to the jagged tissue where my left breast used to be, the one my therapist pointed out that I lost twice: the first time to cancer and the second to the infection that came and went with the implant.

You trace the length of my scar with the tip of your nose and then litter it with kisses, the sweetest gentlest kind, followed by the swirl of silky petals. You position the woody stem so it simultaneously flicks the nipple ring I still have on the right side.  If I wasn’t restrained I’d tease my other one, that now resides in your left nipple, with my tongue.  But I can’t so I have to lie back and let go, let go, let go, the mantra you’ve taught me to apply to life, love and this battle we are currently winning.

You fill my mouth again with bubbles and then the rose lands like a kiss on my lips.  Her perfume permeates my sinuses like a hundred pollinating honey bees. She loves me I say as I pluck a petal with my teeth.  You don’t engage in the game that would too soon de-flower our silky bedfellow.  She does, you say instead. You press the petal between our lips with a kiss and then paste it between my brows like a bindhi.

You lean back and the tattoo that dominates your torso, a snake that uncoils from you core and rises up your chest like kundalini, seems even more alive than usual. You hold the rose as if it was a paintbrush and sweep the thorny stem gently around and around, sketching a mandala around my navel. That tiny abdominal cup quickly fills with champagne and you kneel above me, every inch of you as hard as the metal you pound in your shop, a look on your face that says Not yet, Baby.  I lift my hips anyway, an offering, a plea and cry out when the champagne trickles down my belly and washes over my clit.

You lower the flower between my thighs, and let it hover over my aching mound.  And then, finally, you spank. Once.  Twice. When her petals hit mine the third time, a little blossom of ecstasy shudders through me and a tear, the kind I squander, slips down my cheek. You capture it with your tongue and bring it to my lips and I can’t help it, a sob I try to disguise as a laugh, bellows forth because despite all the dharma books, mantras and meditations I haven’t learned a damn thing.

As you cradle my head in your hands and lower yourself into me, I wrap my legs and pull you deeper, because  right now I think I’d rather die than ever let go of you.


Sexy Link: Alan Shapiro, the photographer who captured the sexy rose that inspired this story, is teaching a floral photography workshop in June

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