Author's note: The writer in this story is 26, Lessia is 24. All actions described herein took place between consenting adults and the relationship was established the year Lessia turned 19.
-Silver
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DEAR DIARY,
I think of roses every time I think of her. The glowingly soft, perfectly petalled rose so aptly described her as though it might have been her name, rather than the more exotic Lessia. My beautiful woman, the girl I knew and ignored for so many years.
Oh, how I long for you, Lessia. Even though I know you'll be over later tonight, just after you get off of work and freshen up, I'm still aching for you. To see you walk through the door, slim and lovely beyond compare. To see the candlelight glisten on your dark hair, swinging softly over your shoulder. To see the silk blouses that you love so much slither to the floor and expose your perfectly formed breasts, high and firm and crowned with darkness. To feel the warmth of your glorious body press against me, and hear the hot breath of your voice as you whisper "take me."
Diary, I would take her every day and every night, if I could. I know she has to work and so do I, but I wish there were a setting on the clock that made the night twice as long as the day. Or a secret formula for determining lottery numbers or something. What I would want above all else is to have my Lessia every moment of the day. To feel her. To taste her.
Why roses, you ask? Well, for so many reasons. Her skin is soft, tender and silky to the touch, just like the petals of the rose. I remember one time I scattered rose petals all over the bed and she and I slept in it. The contrast of cool petals and her hot skin almost drove me wild.
Then there's the way she moves, that dip-and-sway of a lissome blossom. She's so graceful. I hated her when I was growing up, because next to her I was the completely uncoordinated klutz. But now I know better. That's her signal that she needs something. Just like the flowers dance in the breeze to call the bees.
And then, of course, there's her smell and her taste. She always smells like roses, the heavy-sweet fragrance of fully ripened blooms baking in the bright sunlight. The smell of the cleft between her breasts and the incredible, overwhelming scent at the top of her thighs. I smell roses and she is the only woman I can see.
And she's so perfect, Diary. I can't believe how lucky I am to have her. She's all the world to me.
Here I am, sitting in my bedroom, and telling you all about this. But I've got to wait. She'll be here very soon. Shall I tell you how this night will go? I know, you see. I don't think I'm psychic or anything, but I can definitely describe it.
She'll be walking into my living room in about an hour. Wearing her favorite long-sleeved red silk blouse and a wraparound skirt. She'll be barefoot; she's always said she likes the feel of my super-soft carpet on her bare feet. I've spent hours cleaning this week alone. And there'll be candles only. She's so gorgeous by candlelight, or moonlight, but there are too many clouds for the moonlight tonight.
She'll slide into the room, graceful as a flower. Even thirty feet away, I'll smell her, her petal-like skin already flushed with her dew of anticipation. The sharp incredible scent of roses, mixed with the unmistakable odor of an aroused woman. And she'll stop ten feet away. Stop and look at me. Then she'll dance.
I wish I had the words to describe her dance. It's like nothing else on Earth. A dipping, swaying gently-smooth flow and interplay of muscles, echoed by the sway and fall of her long dark hair. I'll see glints of her teeth and her eyes as she shows off herself to my hungry, no, ravening gaze. Somewhere in the dance, somehow, the silk will puddle onto the floor, red against cream and she'll play coy, shaking her hair down over her breasts so that her nipples glimpse through the gossamer strands. And then, her skirt will fall away, uncovering her baby-smooth mound. She'll do that deep back bend I love so much, her breasts thrusting proudly into the air, and her legs flexing and spreading to display her dripping self. Back bend turns into handstand and then to some sort of yoga pose as she rolls back to her feet.
She'll hold out her hands and I'll pull her into me, hugging hard, feeling the slick sweat of her body and her shuddering heat as she twines and writhes against me. Her breathing will already be heavy, and her nectar will be trickling down her thighs in a steady stream.
Somehow, my clothing will be off as well, and she and I will be tangled on the big bed I bought just for us. She'll be ready, oh so ready, but I can't, not just yet. My second favorite activity, I need to taste her. I'll dip my mouth to her breasts, lapping at the already stiffened nipples, sliding my mouth of the curves and into her valley, feeling her hands clench into my hair and her moans as I stoke her heat even hotter. The tender kisses as I feather my way down to her navel, and then lick further down with a flat wet tongue. Her hands pushing me further and further down to the source of her greatest immediate need.
The burst of rose as I reach her center will threaten to overwhelm me. The lightest dusting of peach-fuzz will tickle my lips as she spreads herself as wide as she can for my mouth. She'll groan in deepest pleasure at the long gentle pressure of my tongue as it slides up along her gaping slit, teasing the small muscles low down, gliding across the expanse from bottom to top until the tip of my tongue scrapes lightly across the rock-hard button now exposed from its sheltering hood. Two, perhaps three of those licks and she'll go rigid, her legs locking around my head as she teeters on the edge and then, with that last little rough flick on her clitoris, tumble over into orgasm.
I can bring her to orgasm three or four times like that, Diary. Sliding my tongue into her channel to dine on her ambrosial fluids. Stroking her outer lips as she recovers from the little death, and then bringing her back up to the peak and tossing her over again by focusing on her clitoris and that super-sensitive expanse of soft skin right above it. But eventually, my mouth won't be enough. She'll push me away. Push me onto my back and smile in the candlelight. The edge of her hunger is sated, and she's ready to play a bit more.
Before she and I got together, I really wasn't into blowjobs. They didn't do much for me. But with her, they're oh-so-special. She's so talented, and to think she never tried this before me. Everything she knows about giving head is because she practiced on me. The long slow licks along the sides of my shaft to bring me to an aching hardness. The bathing of my head in her saliva by swirling her tongue around it like an ice-cream cone. And then, she'll envelope me, sliding me into her mouth, one smooth slow move, back along her tongue, past the soft palate and into her hungry throat. She loves to do this, knowing that I can't hold out. Four or five of her slow moves to deep-throat me and I'll be gushing a creamy torrent straight down into her stomach. Which is exactly what she wants, Diary, because otherwise I wouldn't be able to finish her off. With that first blast done, I'll be ready for long-term action.
She'll spend a nice long time on the shaft, avoiding the head until the nerves cool back down and I'm ready again. Then, she'll spread those impossibly long legs again and straddle me, looking down into my eyes from her own passion-hazed ones, as she grips me and edges me into her core.
It's amazing beyond words, Diary. She clasps me in an embrace that feels like silk that been soaked in hot water, dripping her fluids along my shaft to lubricate my entrance. And she'll take it slow, pushing herself slowly down onto me until I'm fully seated in her. She likes to start slow, her legs trembling as she fights the urge to slam herself down on me. And then she'll start rocking her hips moving me deep inside her to rev her engine...
...and then...
