Rosebud

He looked at her in the early morning sunlight.

Her alabaster-skinned body writhed cat-like with the first stirrings of her hunger.

And as he undressed, his lust and love for her was obvious.

He laid himself next to her, the flat palm of one hand moving the clean white sheets aside as he kissed her forehead and exposed her curvaceous body to the sun.

"I have something for you," he whispered against her cool neck.

"I have something for my rose bud."

From somewhere behind him he produced a flower.

One long-stemmed rose still in bud.

Giggling playfully, she reached for it, delight obvious in her eyes.

Yet, he pulled it away, smiling. A Cheshire cat could not smile more mysteriously.

"Not yet," he cautioned her.

He put the rose bud to his lips, not kissing it, merely feeling it with the sensitive and full flesh there.

"We have to be sure there are no thorns."

Carefully, tenderly, he moved the rose to her lips.

She smiled at him, her eyes slitting with pleasure as she realized his play.

The red, tightly sealed petals were so soft against her full mouth, silky and fresh.

Slowly, he began to move the bud over her mouth. She daringly parted her lips, and he eased it within, barely within.

He smiled.

"My sweet rose bud," he spoke, whispering again as he impulsively leaned forward and kissed her full on the lips.

Her hand snaked up around his neck to keep him close, but he unengaged himself.

"I want to give you my gift first," he smiled against her as he pulled her hand away.

Her eyes were confused, but not concerned.

He wished to return the sparkle of delight to them.

And so he began.

He moved the rose gently along the line of her chin and jaw. It was blood red against the clear and smooth pearl of her face. Moving slowly, he trailed down to her neck, letting the rose bud rest in a crook, turning the stem in his hand.

She sighed, a deep and almost soothing sound that escaped her lips like so much music.

Studying her face, locking her eyes with his, he began to move the rose lower. Over her collarbone it went, down to her breastbone. Down to her breast.

Over the farthest one he dragged the rose.

In the morning's sun, he compared the darkness of her sweet areola to the darkness of the rose.

How beautiful, he thought, to see that her perking nipple, hard in her excitement, far outdid the well-touted beauty of the rose.

He dropped his head, leaning over to kiss that nipple, to take it in his lips. He twirled it there a moment, before releasing it.

Over the other, softer nipple, he ran the rose bud. With small encouragement, that nipple too became hard, compact, and perfect.

He smiled, pleased, and moved downward with the rose.

Over her belly he trailed his treasure. Into the recess of her naval he lingered, again twisting the rose slowly, letting her revel in the feel of the smooth silk brushing against her skin.

She closed her eyes, turning her head slightly away and putting the tip of one slender finger between her lips.

She anticipated him, he knew. And he liked it. He would not disappoint her.

He returned to the journey at hand, and the rose moved lower.

Soon, it was moving through the dense brush of her dark curls. It's red shone there, bright like a drop of blood on sacred brown earth. Or like an invading soldier wearing the colors of his Queen, royal red.

He zigzagged with the rose, exploring all of the new territory for his Majesty, moving from the crevice that was where one hip met loin over to the other.

She sighed again, her back arching upward slowly, and then down.

He was so intoxicated by her obvious pleasure.

The red soldier that was the rose began its sweet invasion.

The tight round bud pushed apart her upper labia before meeting with the resistance that was her clitoris.

He moved, then, and positioned himself next to her thighs on the soft mattress. He wanted to watch, to help, and to please.

He moved the rose against her bud, pulling with non-invasive fingers at her skin so that she parted without feeling he had ruined the adventure of the soldier.

And he looked at her, at her slightly glistening wet bud, set at the top of her own flower.

Moving the rose against it, he compared them. Hers was so small, still delicate though. A true work of art from a natural perspective.

He could not help himself. He had to taste that gleaming morning dew now caught on the petals of the rose.

He lifted it to his lips, breathing it in. Then he parted his hungry mouth, and out came his tongue to taste and enjoy.

"So sweet," he exclaimed in one soft exhalation.

"Nectar."

He almost forgot his intended task, but her sudden movement beneath his chest against which leaned her thigh reminded him of who he was here to please. And he awoke from the haze and returned the soldier to its mission.

Cleaned and well-groomed, the rose moved over her clitoris, brushing against its hardness as it journeyed lower.

Her labia were parted now by the bud, its thick bottom opening her before his gaze.

She glistened in the morning sun, like so much dew dropped by fairies in the darkness of the dawn.

He sighed happily, breathing her in and drinking her with his eyes.

The rose moved lower.

She writhed more, her moans increasing like a song.

He slowly, determinedly, pushed the red rose bud towards the prize, towards the end of the journey.

But all exploratory missions were not only of the journey to richly spoken-of foreign lands. They also must entail reaping the benefits of claiming the land for Queen and for country!

He moved the rose to her inner labia, her final defenses and most pleasant of petals. She offered no resistance, and parted her thighs that he might move himself in-between, the better to watch the epic saga.

The rose moved as well. And it moved within.

Out he brought it, quickly, the thick bottom pulling at her slightly. She was so delicate, his fragile flower, unplucked.

He moved the rose back again, until it was buried within her moist haven.

She moaned and almost cried out.

He pulled it out, drawing her lips with his rose, outward. Then he moved it back in, almost fanatically.

Cat-like she writhed on the bed, biting her finger to keep from sudden outbursts.

He began to move it in and out rhythmically. His tongue could no longer resist the temptation of desire before it, and he moved it over her bud, her lips, kissing her here, there, everywhere. Tasting the evidence of her passion.

The rose bud moved vigorously now, twisting inside her then drawing back out. His tongue lathered her with his wishes and dreams.

Soon, she could not maintain her broken silences, and she was a poem as she moaned and cried aloud his name.

The rose bud moved furiously, mocking the pleasure his deep tonguing kisses were instilling in her flower.

She struggled, clutching the sheets.

And soon he and the Red Soldier of the Rose were rewarded for their efforts. Fresh honey came forth onto the flower, the stem, and his lips.

And he drank in the morning's delights like a man starved for days before.

He left the rose bud within her, and joined his tongue to it, lapping at her like she was a bowl of cream and he, her devoted kitten.

She could take no more, and moved her hand to his head, begging him with that gesture to stop.

He could not. He would not until every last inch of his lady's garden was clean and fresh once more.

Again, she moaned and again, there was release.

Exhausted, she could not deny him or his tongue. Or the rose bud.

And he drank far into the lunchtime meal, a man frenzied by the first tastes of the spring.

The rose bud was a fine gift, indeed.