Rose Comes for Dessert
The table is set. Candles lit. Vases full of roses, palest pink to deepest crimson, arranged just so. Champagne chilled. I wait.
When she arrives I take her coat without a word. I take her shoes, tight black skirt, shear blouse, and lacy pink underthings. The room is warm, but her nipples go from bloom to bud, and I smile. I pop the cork, pour, offer her a glass. Watch as her lips sip the golden liquid. I let her finish, then reach for the silken cords as she sits on the table.
I deftly wrap her proffered body till she is immobilized, bound into a position that presents me with the perfect dish. I pull up a chair, tuck a crisp white napkin into my collar, pour a glass, drink, and allow my eyes to savor the glowing, pink tart before me.
As I lean closer, my exhalations warm on her moist flesh, I hear her breathing quicken. Lightly I bring my lips to her glistening ones, and feel her quiver. The tip of my tongue traces her folds, and when it meets her swollen clit, I know her body would press itself to my face if she could. But she cannot, and I intensify my efforts until she is vibrating with constrained passion. Forgetting my manners, I finish off dessert with my fingers, then offer to share the last drippings with Rose.