Here is the 1st Runner Up of the Sensual Stories to Turn On To Writing Contest . Tune in to read more. Today we present the 1st Runner Up - Read her story here:
Early morning had always been her favorite time; the first light of dawn filtering through the trees; the silence, as if the earth had paused in between breaths to rest for a brief moment; the coolness of the air that preceded the coming heat, soft as her love's caress on her naked skin, causing tiny goose bumps to form; the dampness of the dew clinging to her bare feet as she stepped slowly into the lush green grass.
She could smell the first hint of the roses kissed by the sun's rays. Those salmon colored roses with their heavenly scent had always been her favorite. She scooped up the flat hand-woven willow carry basket and pruning shears on her way to the rose bushes; happy to select the perfect blooms for her bath this morning.
Marian was so grateful for this day all to herself. It had been a difficult struggle getting David to agree to this alone time. She and three of her closest friends discussed the possibilities for hours. How would they manage the children? Who would go first? What they would say to their respective partners? They finally reached agreement among themselves to each take one Friday night after supper through Sunday morning breakfast per month to have all the children come to their house so the other women could have a rest day.
When she first broached the subject with David that she wanted one of her three free Saturdays per month completely to herself, he was very reluctant. He had finally, begrudgingly, agreed; only to delightedly discover how much more relaxed, how much more satisfied, more willing she was after a day to herself. Now, he would gladly deliver the children to their weekend destination home; go on to stay with friends or go camping on one Friday night; and return Sunday in time to have breakfast with her before the children came home.
Marian gathered her roses in that cool morning air, smelling deeply of each bloom; stroking the slender stem; caressing the dainty leaves; lightly pricking her fingertips with the little thorns as a tease; brushing her cheek with the downy flower head and trailing it slowly, carefully down her neck, over her naked breasts, along the curve of her belly, down her thigh before gently settling the bloom into her basket on the ground. This morning, six blossoms were perfect for her plans.
The rough willow basket brushed against her leg as she leisurely strolled around the backyard garden, admiring the other flowers; enjoying the early morning sensations on her naked skin. The cat meowed plaintively and rubbed his velvet fur against her calf, purring, looking for attention. Marian bent and scratched the cat along his spine, laughing as he arched his back against such delight. His tail lashed the air as he twisted and turned, begging for more.
It was time.
Returning to the house, she grabbed the goblet of fresh squeezed orange juice from the fridge. She lingered in the kitchen for a moment, drinking in the quiet of the house, swaying to the natural music of the early morning world.
From the kitchen she wandered into the living room and the stereo there. The selection of her favorite music was set up and ready to go. A push of a button; Stravinsky's “Rites of Spring” filled the house with a different kind of music.
Next, the stairs. Glide a hand along the silkiness of the polished walnut hand rail. Revel in the plushness of the wool carpet under bare feet. Drink deeply the faint scent of vanilla which lightly filled the air as it mixed with the headier scent of roses in the basket. Hold the cold damp glass against naked skin to shiver with the delight of that icy touch. Step from warm, soft wool onto the cold Italian tile floor of the master bathroom.
The master bathroom. A work of art she designed herself. She remembered the Saturdays, before the children came, spent with David, searching out the perfect cast iron bathtub, gigantic enough for two, the pedestal sink, the commode and bidet, the Italian tiling for the floor and tub surround, finding the perfect paint and wallpaper combination, the hand-crafted oak cabinets with the antique drawer pulls, choosing candle holder and scented candles. All designed to delight the senses. The memory of the hours work they did to renovate the bath to their liking glided through her mind and she whispered her gratitude for this sanctuary.
Candles lined the specially built shelf that surrounded three sides of the tub. She arranged the roses in the cut-glass vase, centering it on the shelf. The glass of orange juice she set near where her head would rest. A bowl of crisp, lightly salted almonds and walnuts occupied space beside the glass. She lit the candles. Strains of Stravinsky wafted up the stairs. Plush towels sat on the low stool beside the tub. She turned on the taps, adjusting the temperature until it was perfect. She carefully dropped in the essential oils; added a scoop of unscented bath salts. She had looked forward to this all week; a long hot soak with no interruptions.
She sat on the top ledge of the steps leading up to the bathtub and savored the cool sensation of the tile on her naked buttocks. She swung her feet over the edge of the tub and into the water. Slowly, she lowered her body into the warm scented water; laid her head back against the bath pillow; sighed a contented sigh as she relaxed into the water's caress.