august blooms

She likes buying bouquets of flowers. Bundles of sunshine to brighten a whole room with color and soft scent. She chooses carefully, one that feels like August with heat so thick it settles into the skin, then muscles, then bones - yellow, fuchsia, tangerine. On impulse, she buys two.

When she gets home, she puts one in a glass vase in the living room, so that she sees it as she passes throughout the final hours of the afternoon, straightening, dancing, talking on the phone. The other, she rests on the kitchen counter.

When her lover comes home, hair flowing down, office stress releases from her with each step, like residue or a skin being shed. They find each other's lips very quickly as they stumble backward, through the living room and then into the kitchen until they bump abruptly into the counter's edge.

Clothes peel off and it is then that the bouquet is noticed. With a delighted smirk, the one recently home decides to release the rest of her tension. She turns the other around, leaning against the coolness of the surface with bottom and vulva exposed. She grabs the flowers, soft petals and firm stems. Buds rub against the clitoris, then press into the tight and slippery opening. A tease of a few seconds before she pulls away and begins swinging the stems against the curves of ass. Again, again, again with the soft pops forming a melody. Every now and then, the petals brush gentle against sensitive skin, a kiss during downpour. When the flesh goes from baby-girl-rosy to teenage-rocker-pink to do-me-red, she stops.

She weaves her fingers into curly strands, gentle and firm, moving her florist art from the counter to the floor, and presses her own cunt to softly parted lips. She glides, rubs, fucks. Later, she will return th favor, but in this moment, it is all about her and the smell of open flowers, open lust.