When a rose is a rose

 (Warning: adult language and content)

  

My fingers touch the cracked glass panel of the host house, the rough edge moist with warm condensation.

You and I have come here alone after the owner in the main house told us the whole building contained bright red roses.

Your reflection shimmers in the wed glass as your hands reach out into the room of red, you gingers brushing against the crimson petals like a child’s through water.

You stir them up, increase the intense scent of rose flavor in the air, though even this cannot hide the scene of you and the intensity of desire your smell stirs up in me.

Yu wear a tight white blouse and a short black shirt, both so damp I can see your outline as if you strolled through this sea of red petals naked.

Pearls of moisture break out on your forehead, each very visible when I come near you.

We do not look at each other, but at the petals.

We do not touch each other, but continue to touch the silk-like surface of each flower, admiring out open to the center each is, how thick with pollen and invitation.

I am beyond myself with desire for you, aching to lay you down and ease myself into you as if I am a bee seeking your nectar.

I settle first for a casual brush of my hand against your breast as I reach across you to touch a particularly beautiful rose.

No brush has ever caused me such anguish, sending through my hand and then through the rest of me a shock so powerful it shakes my bones.

I know I can never been satisfied with idea talk or the occasional accidental touch.

When you turn to look the other way, I kiss your neck.

Not hard, but linger, letting my lips gather the moist dew the warm environment had inspired there.

It is salty, yet sweet, making me hunger for other tasty delights I know your body has to offer.

You turn and greet my lips with yours, and our mouths linger on each other’s, feeling out each other’s landscape as if you and I could map out the rest of our anatomy simply with this kiss.

Perhaps it is the heat or the sweet scented air, but I am drunk on you and your vapors, and I cannot help myself as my fingers rise to feel the swell of your breasts through the wet fabric of your shirt, each nipple like button like around which my fingers linger, my palms spreading out over each breast as if my hands have become flowers opening upon you, each inch of my flesh feeling the smoothness of your flesh through the coarse fabric. You are a flower I need to feel more fully as this touch makes me shake even more than my accidental touch did, my tongue pressing between your lips as my hands explore and caress you.

I lean against you, and you seem to wear a halo of roses around you, my fingers b beginning to undress you even as we kiss, one button, then the next, until I spread open your blouse and plunge my hands into direct contact with flesh.

I can feel the sparks crackle at the point of contact, and know each spark is stirring up even deeper desires in me, so that a touch is not enough and a kiss is only a promise of sweeter things I must have or die.

I can no longer think.

I am savage again deep inside, my heart pounded inside my chest like some wild beast I fear to release. But an even more savage beast stirs between my legs, all of me, out of control, demanding that I take you.

I breathe so fast I scare myself, thinking I might over heat.

My fingers fumble withy the catch to your skirt and let that drop so that you stand before me as one more naked flower into whom I must delve, from whom I already smell the scene of your honey: so thick around you I can nearly taste it.

I lay you down on a nearby table the owner has clearly used to package his flowers, soft red petals spread across it like red rain drops.

You lay across them like the most perfect rose of all, limps limp in a way I am not.

I want to touch your lips with the tip of my most painful part. I want to ease it into your mouth so you might ease my pain. But I find a rose instead, holding it above your face by the stem so that the tip of its petals lingers on your lips like a kiss, your tongue easing out as the slightest touch.

My mouth replaces the rose. My tongue presses through your lips and into your mouth as if I could suck the nectar out of you in one long lingering kiss, though I know now how out of control I am, and how I must have you, and cannot stop myself from having you, even as some inner rational voice tells me to stop.

I do stop, but only to take up the rose again moving its petals down you to touch the tip of each of your nipples, easing you until you moan and then when you moan enough, my mouth replacing the rose again to suck those nipples, too, first one, then the other, again with me as a savage struggling to hold myself back.

Finally, I stop again, move the rose down to the heart of you, my free hand spreading your legs as I use the flower to kiss the most precious flower of all.

A thorn pricks my finger.

Drops of red blood like rose petals drip on your thigh.

My tongue laps these up then keeps on going, moving up to where the flower has been, me needing you, wanting you, but using only my tongue to go where the rest of me desperately needs to go.

I taste you, so sweet and salty that no flower is its equal.

I am a starving man finding the place where ancient gods feed, and I feed there, too, carefully feeling out each crevice with the tip of my tongue, as I am a rose, too, ready to explode in petals and seed.

It is all too much for me to handle.

The savage beast deep inside of m, full of desires that no thinking man can control, no rules can bind, takes over me in a rush of shutters, so that I strip myself naked, too, allowing the part of me with the greatest of pain to seek out the place in your of the greatest of pleasure, me plunging into you bee-like into your moist depths again and again, and again until at last, I explode with honey.