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Climbing Rose

by Rose Maru



"I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalog: "No good in a bed, but fine up against a wall."

- Eleanor Roosevelt



Copyright 2017 Rose C. Maru

First Edition - November 13, 2017 (11-13-17)

Cover and Photos Copyright 2017 Randal Maru



Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only - but if your enjoyment needs cleaning up, please don't e-mail me pictures of it. This series of electrons may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the love and this e-book with another being, please purchase an additional copy for each sentient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your individual use only, then please feel super guilty and return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your very own copy. Thank you for respecting Rose's hard work.

(They said I wasn't allowed to threaten to go ape-bitch on your ass if you rip-off my book - something about the legal statutes don't have a proper definition of 'ape-bitch' for precedence.)



:Table of Contents: (Linear Table of Contents)

Introduction: Climbing Rose

-Fiction & Fantasy-

26 Letters of Gray

Masked Mayhem

Premature Introduction - Wall Climbing Rose

Women's Retreat (Absolutely not in the "shades of gray" category, dammit!)

-Shades of Gray-

Block Party

Embarrassed For You

Gym Jump Start (I will not put this in the non-fiction section)

Slumber Party

Yard Work Helpers

-Non-Fiction-

Anatomy Foul-Up

Chinese Massage Oops

Gift Guide For the Clueless

How To for Men: Guide to Women

If I Was a Boy

Interview with the Author

Job Jar Gone Wild

Locker Rooms

Conclusion

- Master Index -

-Other Works-

Raindrops on Roses:

- Art Director

- Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome (HSDS/HSDD)

Rose by Any Other Name:

- Bath Time

- Braless is Better

Dozen Roses:

- Bigfoot

Coming Up Roses:

- Bigger Brother Cover Shoot

- Q&A with Rose (excerpt)

Rose Garden: My Life with HSDS:

- Introduction to HSDS

- HSDS 2014 Redoubt (From Raindrops on Roses)

- "Treatment" Trial

- Q&A #2 with Rose (HSDS Topics) (excerpt)

Rose Wood At Home:

- RA Rose

Wars of Roses:

- Road Master

Real Randy Rose:

- Hide and Go-Kiss

Buns 'n Roses:

- Take Two

Covering Rose:

- Raindrops on Roses Cover

Rose Art - The Infamous Banned Book

Soul Service, Inc. (Excerpt)

Parade of Roses (the grand master index of Rose kink)

- - - -

About Rose C. Maru

Contact Information

- - - -

:Table of Contents: (Logical Table of Contents)

The Linear Version (... and let's pretend it's all fiction, shall we?)

Introduction: Climbing Rose

Yard Work Helpers

Gym Jump Start

Locker Rooms

If I Was a Boy

Job Jar Gone Wild

Marked Mayhem

26 Letters of Gray

How To For Men: Guide to Women

Embarrassed For You

Women's Retreat

Anatomy Foul-Up

Chinese Massage Oops

Block Party

Gift Guide for the Clueless

Slumber Party

Interview with the Author

Conclusion

Premature Introduction - Wall Climbing Rose

"I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalog: 'No good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.'"

- Eleanor Roosevelt



Who Needs a Bed When You're Good Against a Wall?



I feel the cold, hard stone grate across my fingers and nails... digging furtively trying to gain traction to help lift me higher, rising from the solid, hot thrusts from below.

The bite of rock and masonry against my taut shoulder blades; back arched obscenely in the middle, pushing my chest more prominently forward to meet his hungry mouth, working desperately to minister to each demanding nipple, straining outward for his lavish attention.

Rocking motion hips grind me dangerously downward, forcing him to penetrate me deeper with each lustful thrust. The occasionally mistimed twitch sends my hands once again scrambling to pull me upward to relieve the tenacious onslaught across my throbbing, swollen folds inadequately protecting my clitoral prominence in those intense moments.

Muscled and lean legs, alternate between dangling uselessly below my tensed ass and curling behind his own thrusting buttocks to keep him from straying too far from my fiery needs and early sporadic contractions which try to finish me off before I collapse down again - ever higher, approaching peaks untold. The need to climax building with each 'nearly there' moment pushing me to insane heights.

Bits of grit cling to my clenched fingers, now grinding into his neck in a desperate handful of the nape of hair and neck, forcing him to take my breast in deeper, sucking my nipple out far from my body as I feel the last grips of sanity release in tidal force...



Welcome to another erotic short story collection by your favorite (I hope!) HSDS gal

- Rose Maru

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

Introduction: Climbing Rose

Welcome once again to the weird world of Rose. Little did I know the flood that was to be unleashed upon my return to writing post-sabbatical... along with the exploration that would become an even more weird association with having my neck bitten (gently!) as a reminder not to have an orgasm.

Oops, sorry - oh, hey, yes, well, um, gosh, that was the first paragraph to the introduction. Just a little warning for you folks unaware of my plight: I lack that check-box that can be ticked, "Brain is notified of TMI errors." My default available options list? Yup, grayed out - I can't select not to do that Too Much Information slip. Which means for me, usually "slip" is a tad bit of an understatement. Fucking avalanche is more like it. (Although the good news is apparently I've now been banned from all the nearby restaurants that are ever going to bar me from getting service or entering the premises - the remaining ones on my side of town seem blissfully ignorant - thank goodness there's still entire populations where English isn't even a second language and I can continue to just smile and point to the menu for what I want for my meal... and proceed to happily discuss clitoral engorgement problems with my unwitting dining guests.)

The source of my TMI button being broken is probably closely related to another button being broken. Oh, heavens no, she works absolutely fine. I'm talking metaphorical button, not happy little Lagoon of Mystery sentinel nubbin. The 'sensuality and sexuality' toggle on me happens to be broken off - which means I don't see most normally sexually charged situations and visual cues as impetus to 'get busy.' I'm Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome (HSDS) positive. I won't bore you here with it, instead check out the bonus material if you're interested, or if you or someone you know is also HSDS/HSDD (Syndrome/Disorder - it's all the same to me: I don't remember I want to or even like having sex) contact me and/or grab a copy of Rose Garden where we can commiserate.

So, be that as it may, Skip... you're probably wondering: WTF?

You're not the first to wonder that, trust me. It's because this writing erotica is part of my self-imposed therapy to plumb my depths in an effort to remember to get them plumbed... deeply... and much more frequently this coming decade. Oddly enough, where I was thinking I was a complete failure and my little oddball treatment option pretending to be an author was a solid face-plant... when I stopped writing, things went from sub-optimal to grand-scale nuclear implosion.

That meant Parade, Wars of Roses, Real Randy Rose, and Buns 'n Roses were all loosed upon the world - because it was working a little; especially combining it with some customized Sensate Focus and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy... and one super-understanding spouse. Although he's been the one biting me for the past several months, so, maybe don't feel so sorry for him any longer. I'm just crossing my fingers the fragile beginnings of these hints toward normalcy are here to stay (unlike my bursts of "beast-girl" I've had a couple times in the past).

It was through all those various books and prodding those cobweb decorated portions of my brain toward function that I birthed out a disgusting ton of material in various stages of undress. I mean, incompletion.

So before I goose the gander again with more information that you probably don't really need to know just moments out of the title page, I'll turn everyone loose so we can get to Climbing Rose. (I mean the book, not, like, working your way up my body. Well, unless you're giving me a massage, then by all means, work away.)

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

Yard Work Handy Helpers

Oddly enough, now that I've been doing more yard work, it seems I get more help from the neighborhood boys. Funny, I keep hearing how the "next generation" is a waste. You can't prove it by me, though: I have almost more help than I can put to work.

My gallant and chivalrous cavalry of neighborhood young men seem to always be there for me and are always ready to lend a hand.

I'm also very impressed with how extremely polite they are; not immediately butting in, but letting me handle things on my own, then gently offering their assistance - making it almost seem like I don't really need it. Ha! Oh, how I wish - especially, for example, starting our stupid lawn mower.

From the best I can tell, our lawn mower is possessed by Satan. Hubby laughs, but I swear, it's because I was ogling the cute young salesman who helped me get it out of the Home Depot rack when I purchased it - sort of like a universal balance sheet. Tit for tat. Shit, I mean, not that I showed my... crap, never mind, pretend I didn't mention it.

Anyway, the lawnmower from Hell is difficult to start. I can't do it, I admit it, but dammit! I'm going to try. It's got to be a mental thing, because I get all hot and pissed while yanking on that starter pull cord, to the dull roar of resulting quietude as it fails to stay running. Thank goodness it acts like a "Defenders of the Universe, Unite!" call and at least one or two of the boys show up to cheer me on - I swear, one day I'll get it - and unlike many of you folks that try and try again to overcome some obstacle in life while seething in solitude, I'm going to have a fucking crowd to witness my success!

So getting all hot, bothered, and pissed, I strip down until often it's just me and my t-shirt or tank top - even though I started off in long sleeves to protect me from pollen, sun, and bugs - I always end up sweat dripping from every surface, and many surfaces not even exposed. The only thing worse is when I wear my cover-alls - although, thinking about it, that's not really that bad, because with each yank on the starter cord, it will unzip just a touch more. Huh, I'd never realized that's why I seem to over-heat more in my shirts - I'd always thought it was just a function of layers, but I have automatic air-conditioning that kicks in wearing my cover-alls. It also acts like a timer, because when it gets to my navel, it's time to call it quits and let one of the boys start the stupid mower. (Otherwise, if I let it go down further, I'd risk serious over-exposure... because I'm smart enough to wear only my cover-alls and socks when I work out in the yard - that way I don't get any extra clothes contaminated and needing to be laundered! It's brilliant, trust me - even hubby is proud of me for my fortitude and frugal nature, because usually he's the only one to consider a master plan like that.)

Because these young men are so nice and happy, gathering and just rooting for my victory, I probably try a little harder and longer than I used to. Although I do have to be a little careful, because I do periodically stop and try to mop my brow when wearing a T-shirt/tank - and, well, I've already revealed the unfortunate effect this has ("She's Shed, Gym"). Oh, fine, and I guess I also have to watch my cover-alls, because between all the yanking, biting off the curses before they form, and - uh, how do I put this delicately? - "flopping" around, I've come really close to wardrobe malfunctions. At least I hope I've only come close to PG-13 - but, seriously, I do get pissed at that mower, so it's possible I don't really pay much attention (Rated R... for "Rose Really Tries"). Heck, I shouldn't be worried - the boys are right there, they'd tell me if I were exposing my chivalrous knights in shining armor to offensive material.

When I've finally had enough, they urge me on for another yank or three - until my timer ticks down to 'Navel,' then they step in, let me know it was probably just flooded or something, and I probably got the piston lubed up and warmed now, it'll probably start right up for them. And, dammit all, if they aren't right! But I do know, it's because the mower doesn't hate them... One day, when I didn't have time to wrestle with starting the mower and still have time to mow the lawn, I'd hauled the mower out trying to figure my time frame down - that's when one of the boys popped right up and offered to start it for me - first fucking pull. Dammit!

And it's not like my care I receive from them stops at lawn mowing. These young men are so cute and attentive - although, I have noticed, whether it's because of nicer weather or what - when I'm wearing one of my loose fitting tank tops, or even white T-shirts seem to work, I get more help than other times - often a whole crew there to help me. Well, because the T-shirts also function to gather the crew, I'm probably just being overly sensitive. Especially since it's not like I have to wear my short-shorts every time, because even when starting out in my cover-alls, I'll have boys ready to help.

Please don't think I'm a complete louse, though. There are some jobs I just refuse to turn over, although there's always a lad or two willing to hold the ladder for me when I'm up trying to trim the trees. I have no clue how the professionals do it and make it look so effortless. Half the time I swear the tree is some kind of perv, always tearing and pawing at my clothes. But at least, no matter how tangled I get while up that ladder, I have a safety crew below, anchoring the base down, watching closely to ensure my safety and let me know when the stupid ass, shirt-eating tree has tried to devour my top again (You think I'm kidding? Just read "Peanuts" with Charlie Brown's kite-eating tree! Trees are not the benign creatures they pretend to be! I swear, I've lost more shirts up in several of my trees than I ever lost in strip poker.)

After a while, the boys offer to do it (again, politely letting me try to be self-sufficient and complete the task on my own first), but I don't feel right risking them up the ladder - not to mention, girls are more agile than boys in general, so I can put a foot way out, stretching off the ladder to a split, so I partially stand on a branch, spreading between ladder and tree for added safety - at least when my shorts aren't snagged in the process - see? Pervert tree again, digging up through my crotch and yanking my shorts part way off. I'm pretty sure the branches and leaf bits limit how much the neighbors see of my own bits from a distance - I mean, things are getting tugged to the side, not down... well, not much - more often tugged up, I guess. And when things do go awry, I have my spotting crew to warn me when I've started to descend inappropriately or with too much showing - well, most of the time. Otherwise they at least offer to go up and fetch whatever article of clothing I've left behind, willing to do battle with the evil tree for me - but I'm not that kind of wuss - I scamper back up and try to put the tree in its place: the fucker!

Like I said, I'm not a slave-driver, I do try to treat them right - giving them lemonade and frequent cool down periods when they're doing my yard work. The occasional water fight - at least until some brilliant boy decides the hose is to be turned on me. Then of course, I have to get revenge. Stalking and chasing around the yard, screaming and spraying. No wonder I can honestly claim these count as workout days and I can skip the gym. I mean, hell, wrestling is freaking exercise - especially when I have to take on one after another of the boys to put them in their place - I do not back down from a challenge to country girl supremacy. Although after pinning them (age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill), some more laughter, I let them roll me over and I good heartedly accept the proffered hand of peace - shit yeah, I let them help me up! I think I mentioned it - I'm old compared to these young men. Then I can wring out my shirt, and we finish the job.

Hubby laughs and says I should get a clue, there's a reason the boys don't charge me to do yard work - I always tell him he's just a fucking cynical old bastard - those young men are good, polite, wonderful stewards upon which we should be confident to hand the reins of the world over to... dammit; I'll have to tell him after I send him out to get my fucking shirt I managed to forget that's drying on the back porch where I left it after wringing it out... again.

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

Gym Jumpstart

I admit: I'm addicted. Not necessarily to what you think I'd be addicted to, but addicted just the same. And what I'm addicted to requires that first thing.

-

I can't believe I even let it happen at all, but the effect was so markedly obvious, even I had to accept there might be something to it. At the gym, I lifted more weight, did more reps, performed more smoothly - and a first for me - all with complete and utter professional gym-rat stamina. No running out of breath, no quivering muscles on my third rotation through the machines: solid, good-form pulls, pushes, squats, flexes, and presses - plus gym-rat sweat marks and sticky t-shirt. I was cool in every sense of the word.

That very first time, in what was soon to become my routine 'pre-gym warm-up,' after a few minutes of his usual "helping me get ready," I shocked the hell out of hubby: instead of slapping his hands away and telling him, "You're not helping!"... I let him drop my panties... and I lifted my shirt for better access... which wasn't denied by my helper.

I rapidly responded, achieved lift-off, and he shut off the Hitachi-Vibratex truly-magic Magic Wand, after my body had somehow found its way to the bed so I could rip off that first one. We took full advantage of my response; I barely held out long enough for him to get a condom on - and I stayed super-sensitive and ready... and managed a second one with him in mere moments. After a few minutes of rest, he helped straighten me up, and I went off to the gym for my planned work-out... where I had been headed before I was so "rudely" interrupted by someone noticing my 'high-beams' were on; which, in his defense, I do look pretty darn cute in my work out clothes, which are unusually tight for me. So it would seem I quickly responded more than enough making it possible to see me quite clearly after only a few moments of rubbing that vibrating wonder over my clothes - then the tights came off... then, well, you read it already.

Adding shock-and-awe to what was already an abnormal event, later it hit me: after my "at home warm up," I merely got dressed, pulling everything back up, down, and with barely a touch to smooth the fabric... and I didn't even look in the mirror. Off I went. I never do that. Stunningly, I realized, I didn't really care - and once I hit the first machine, not only didn't I care what anyone thought about my appearance, but I was in awe of the results - bed head, sex hair, and high-beams left on, be damned.

Yes, I live in a science-based family; because I mention it to hubby - and not so vague broad hints I might want to try it again - which is met with eager anticipation.

My body apparently has quickly learned the routine, because those high-beams are now an every time when I put on my work-out shirt and leggings. Heck, it's now done so routinely and everyone is so well trained, I barely pull down the tights any more. Panties stay on - just pulled down or to the side as needed - even my shirt sometimes remains on and pulled down.

When my t-shirt doesn't stay down, I'm even more shocked that I now let him put my hand on my own boob. I know other women are fine with touching themselves, even finding it pleasurable: but certainly not me. I usually find it awkward and it makes me very self-conscious. Well, apparently unless I'm wearing panties and he's currently occupied with both his hands properly preparing me for my impending gym workout, and he reaches up, plays a little with one of my breasts, then if my hand is close by, he slides mine over - and I leave it there... instead of my usual quick withdrawal and a curse. I still don't squeeze, play, pull, tug, or participate - but, I'm shocked it seems okay to leave it there, just the same... and more so that it's not unpleasant.

Anyway, my gym performance has remained better than ever when I get my pre-workout workout taken care of at home.

Before you say it's just me getting in shape - sometimes I still go to the gym without it if he's not around. Although not much anymore, because those few times without? I return home tired, worn out, and I obviously lack something - and sometimes it's not readily apparent to me what the difference is until I get it pointed out (HSDS - it's a bugger, trust me - so, yes, I can manage to forget the routine if I'm not assisted in remembering it) - the null hypothesis still being vaguely tested, or at least monitored for deviation from standard.

But like I said, my body is certainly trying to help me remember. It's hard to miss the beacons in the mirror after I'm dressed and tying up my hair. I think I have him trained to listen for it, too, because he usually manages to get me before I'm out of the bathroom - and certainly before I leave the bedroom. And I let him lead me to where we have left "The Magic" plugged in for convenience.

Addictions are nasty things... I think... or is it acceptable if the addiction isn't nasty, but doing the nasty?

He claims I also give off 'fuck me' vibes and that's why I tire out less, because the men pay more attention to me, which makes me have better form while performing for onlookers. (Oh, puh-lease! Seriously - as if you don't do a better job on whatever you're doing if someone else is watching you!)

He also says I need to start being more careful with my work-out shirt because after being properly prepped, I'm more limber and bendy than even my normal flexible self... which means my shirt, which already bags down, tends to ride up my back when I'm in prolonged bend at the waist - tending to fall up my body and rumple around my armpits.

I guess I don't pay much attention to that: I'm concentrating on proper lifting form.

Oh, adding to the odd things in this whole ordeal, even after he took some pictures of me in work-out type positions, which are rather illuminating... I can honestly say, I don't really give a fuck. If anyone is looking, they deserve whatever they see, because it's not like I'm trying to make them look - I'm there to work out.

Not that I truly hate the attention, but I'm not ready to admit that. I barely admitted I'm touching my own boob while he's vibrating a nice little pre-workout orgasm out of me; and if he wants my hand on my breast, so be it. And if my shirt accidently slides up, so be it. As long as I keep up these effortless workouts and feel like Gym Rat Rose - I'm good to go.

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents


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