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Message-ID: <37265asstr$1026321005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "smilodon" <smilodon@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 10 Jul 2002 10:41:36 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} The Scent of Roses (m/f, first)
Date: Wed, 10 Jul 2002 13:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Not quite sure if this qualifies as a Flash. 468 words, every one hand
tooled by Wessex peasants.


The Scent of Roses


There are roses in my garden. I sit and breathe their fragrance as the pale
summer evening softly dips to night, remembering. I remember her face. Not
beautiful, not even extraordinary, but hers. The years have rolled and
ravaged but her face remains unlined in memory. My first love. Oh, it's easy
to say that now but back then, in the fecund hothouse of my youth, I couldn'
t manage it.

She loved roses. And now, through the placid ripeness of age and summer
evenings, so do I. The floribundas and the hybrids, the ramblers and the
teas, I love them all. There is something in the swirls and folds of petals,
the dusky pinks and subtle reds that is quintessentially female. I was so
blind when I was young.

It was so long ago. We were seventeen. I saw only the immediate, she saw
roses. I can see it now in every perfect detail. The slow sweep of the
river, the solemn, ancient oak that watched over us. I had flung the rug
between the roots, brushing away the acorns with my foot. We were both
trembling. I quivered with anticipation, she with love. I unwrapped her like
a child  at Christmas, all eager hands and excitement, rough, exuberant. The
present that she gave me would only be offered once and she chose me.

Oh, I regret it now. Not the gift but the manner of its acceptance; swift,
frenetic, blundering. I know I hurt her but she made no sound. Ramming my
maleness into her, clutching, grasping, thrusting, sweating, lost in the
madness of the moment, I didn't see her at all. For me, she was a cipher. My
eyes were filled with lust and conquest, hers held only love.

It was over quickly, of course. She smiled at me and traced her fingers down
my chest. Her face swam into focus and I felt stricken, ugly. A sense of
overwhelming loss engulfed me. Offered a flower, I had trampled it to dust
with bovine stupidity. She kissed me. "Was it good for you?" was all she
said. I couldn't hold her gaze. Words hovered out of reach within my mind. I
stretched a smile across my face and nodded. I hid within her hair. It smelt
of roses.

That was the last time I saw her. I hated her for what I'd done. It sounds
irrational now. It was irrational then. Only the sense of loss was real
within me. I didn't understand. I don't know what she thought but I can
guess. If only I could have explained. You see, the crime was mine and mine
alone. I didn't need her forgiveness, just my own. It rankles still.

Now I have found a kind of peace in the scent of roses.



smilodon

comments welcome as always

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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