An English Rose and Her Lover

This Hub has been written to answer a challenge that a "virtual" friend and fellow writer from another site has asked me to write. It is intended to be reviewed in the genre of creative writing. It does contain some graphic sexual descriptions, and I do not wish to offend my readers. I have toned it down to come within the Hub Pages restrictions, and please remember it is purely fiction.

Several people, have in the past suggested that I take the sensual romantic genre as a serious contender for my future writing ability. I hope I leave enough to the imagination and senses, but I truly do not wish to offend.

It happened in the twinkling of an eye, well almost, because that is what I remember now. Showing an appearance from the shadows, to a sun shining bright for hope, he came. He pushed strangely, eerily, almost arrogantly, his name forward into a resting place inside my mind. I thought it would be safe to recall such imagery at a later date. Now, I am not ungrateful, for his chivalry came with a beautiful smile, maybe a smirk, and laughter that filled his deep brown eyes.

“Is it not by some strange fate that a meeting of minds is drawn together,” I ask.

The question still lingers in my mind. “But, if that was to be true, then how am I to move forward from the inexplicable emotions that I feel whenever I recall his name?”

This stranger came as a bolt of lightning, yes such a metaphor for his deliberation into my life. The past serves no reminder of how I feel today, as I am a complete nondescript giver of friendship. Powerless, so I say, to stop my head being turned around, if this stranger has his way.

Walking hand in hand, he sees through my eyes, the resplendent colours of a new, .....virtual life. The story books are filled with a handsome Prince in a frog’s disguise that waits for a kiss from a beautiful Princess. He is neither a frog, nor a Prince, and I am not as delicate as to be remembered as a Princess, but his charm is none the less, in equal power over my demise.

We lay amongst the bluebells on a carpet full of blue hue; the intoxicating sweet smells from the petals, as strong as to draw all the senses to fulfilment.

My virtual lover turns his handsome face to take my face in his own. The kiss, at first so gentle, so soft, and yet, his breath with an urgency of his own. I trace the contours of his face that still smiles with a youthful smile, but in his eyes, are secrets so bold as not to be ignored. I am consumed with a passion so great, and as fearful as that of a teenage girl being deflowered for the very first time. His lips part, and slowly I allow my fingertip to trace the mound of his lips, still fearful. I have to bow my head and allow my lips to part, and sensually, my tongue enters the path of no return. I am thirsty for the waterfall of warm mixed juices to come from both of our mouths, and dare I rush, or will I stumble on hard welcomes if I am to push harder for more.

As the beautiful golden sun, warm and tender, encourages me to be brave, I trace the buttons on his shirt. One by one, I open them to reveal soft flesh that tempts me to kiss the tender spot that the button covered. His nipples aroused to the temptation that he is being offered, and who am I to deny them a long lingering embrace between my lips. Licking and gently sucking the warm hard flesh that is for my own pleasure. His body stirs to the demand of his own doing. He tries to turn me over, but I have not had my fill. My fingers find the zip on his trousers, and I playfully caress his talents beneath my hand. The moan from his lips entices me to pull down the zip, and yet I will not give him the satisfaction of my warm hand on his stem, until I am ready. My hand firmly placed on his chest now, I breathe life into his heart as I say,

“Be still my love, for I am warm and tender, but not yielding just yet.”

I continue to explore this body looking for gratification beneath my hands. But who is this man who has awoken the vixen within? The woman whose senses he plays with, and who he thinks is grateful for his attention. Yes it is true, but grateful I am not, for now my lust for life has been re-awakened with such fever as to be satisfied in my way. He will rule the day that the gauntlet was thrown down, but mine is the way of a woman pleasing her man, teasing, exciting and eventually yielding.

I smile to myself as he moans beneath my touch, every so often trying to take control. I gently caress the fine hair around his navel, and yet my lips haven’t reached their goal. I nip gently at the top of his mound to show my appreciation of what is to unfold. Now wanting more, I take each beautiful ball of soft generous flesh into my mouth and suck. Suck until again I have the control, not by strength, but from imagination of the petals to fall. I take hold of the stem that sits proud before me, and I firmly push my flattened tongue to run the length of the stem but never reaching the flower. My hand, warm and enticing, and all the time moving in gentle persuasion for his anticipated bliss. I remove my blouse to reveal my ample breasts, now firm and with erect nipples that I slowly allow to trace your face.

“No, you cannot eat or taste the excitement yet.”

I position myself higher to allow my nipples to slowly transcend his chest; you can feel the urgency from my breathing and from the erect nipples searching for more. Finally I take your stem into my eager warm and moist mouth, licking the tip with such anticipation as a child with an ice cream cone. First my tongue flips your most sensitive area and you moan again. Then I gently ease your stem deep into my mouth, all the time easing my lips apart to welcome you. Slowly we dance, up and down as my hand twists the base of your stem, caressing and squeezing your full balls waiting to erupt. Then harder, but my mouth is willing to hold you back, but still the tongue flips and the intensity of the hold grips tighter. I will not let you satisfy yourself, as I want to keep you in suspended torture, so sensitive and in such pain as to burst. But not yet, this is only a sample. An appetiser for the imagination, as the screen play is only just about to begin. The title:

“The English Rose and Her Lover.”

Act 1 Scene 1