The English Rose and her Lover - Act 1 scene 2
Act 1 Scene 2
My friends, this is the second part of the hub which I started yesterday., 10.1.12 Please note that it does contain some narrative of a sexual nature. This is the second part of the challenge which a fellow writer, from another site, has extended to me. I do not wish to offend anyone reading this hub, so please understand that I consider it a worthwhile adventure into Creative Writing. A genre that I don't usually indulge in. Writers are who we are, and if we shy away from the task of an uncomfortable write, how will we ever progress and perfect our skill?
A cushion of blue hue
The Man's Response
You must understand that an English Rose such as I, am a beautiful and rare thing. I can be nurtured and loved, but also allowed to run wild and free, entwining the hedgerow, where my stems and thorns can hold on through the most gusting of winds. My petals are like silk and bow to the seasons at will, but strike where the wall crumbles, and the picture is entirely different. Vulnerable and scarred by the rain that fell too heavily down my stem.
“Sush my love, time is just a passing moment of desire. We have all the time of the day, and I will treat you fine, so as you do not fade away, into nothing.”
“Come feel my heart beat, as free as the rambling rose herself, but wait, I hear the whisper of a butterflies wings search my soul for answers.”
“Oh my sweet, my honey pot of sheer delight, wait until I can free you. Treat your petals with such tender touch and gentle kisses as to send you wild in a frenzy in a torrent of water, spilling over the stones of the waterfall beneath.”
The lover is eager to stay the distance and not approach the crumbling wall, least his desire be lost in the restraint, of the dark green foliage of wanton desire. Yet, still the sun shines on the spectacular blue hue from the carpet of lushness and bluebells beneath. He continues;
“I am but a prisoner in the soft grotto behind your lips while I moan beneath you with insatiable longing. I would take myself, releasing the salty streams of that primordial sea of life, upon the shoreline of your breasts and ebb down in soft pools in the hollows of your body. I reach between your temples with a probing digit, following the soft, yielding petals of the waiting honeysuckle and dip my digit into it. Oh my love, you taste of silken nectar.”
Not content with this modest morsel, I move my mouth to the source of her blossom and with a well-practiced tongue, softly row the waiting boat as if on a quiet pond on a summer night.”
But on this tranquil evening, the storm clouds gather in her loins, slowly, but insistently, crackling with the gathering energy of the storm. I offer my digits further to assist, first rimming the entrance to her majestic cave, and with a swift motion, try to gauge its inner depth. The landscape of her form trembles, and she is lost, a prisoner to the incandescent explosions of that fiery caldera that releases and contracts around three wonderful digits, twisting like a wanton sailor denied a woman for an entire season at sea. She screams for mercy but I ravage her over and over until she collapses .........in the opening of a bud beneath the flurry of petals.
Act 1 Scene 3 to follow.
More by this Author
A view of the inside of an Irish currach/coracle PLEASE NOTE; INFORMATION RELATING TO THIS HUB WAS RESEARCHED SEVERAL YEARS AGO, WHILST I WAS STUDYING AT COLLEGE FOR A WRITING PROJECT. Most of the information...
Speak of Elizabethan England and one conjures up images of splendid costumes worn at the Royal Courts, extravagant entertainment and banquets. But alas, for many people life was very difficult. In the 16th century the...