Prehistoric Rose

:Table of Contents:

- Table of Contents Alphabetical - Table of Contents Linear -

Introduction: Prehistoric Excavations

- Fiction & Fantasy -

Adult Slumber Party

Camp Counselor Training

Fairy Godfather

Fan Favorite Fashion Follies

Manaconda

There Is No Pole

Wildwife Adventure

X-ray Ted Pictures

- Shades of Gray -

Boys in Blue

Dressing Down for UPS

Kissin' Cousins

Mowin' Man

Strip Poker

- Non-Fiction -

Better Boudoir Photography

Body Double

Face-Plant Post

Fluidic Space Foundry Foursome

Porn To Run

Question & Answer with Rose Session 11

Conclusion

Truth and Consequences

- Master Index -

-Other Works (Bonus Tales)-

:Raindrops on Roses:

:Rose by Any Other Name:

- Braless is Better

:Rose Garden: My Life with HSDS:

- Introduction to HSDS

- HSDS 2014 Redoubt

- HSDS Treatment Trial

:Dozen Roses:

:Coming Up Roses:

- Bigger Brother Cover Shoot

:Rose Wood At Home:

:Wars of Roses:

:Real Randy Rose:

:Buns 'n Roses:

- Take Two

:Covering Rose:

- Raindrops on Roses Cover Creation

:Climbing Rose:

:Chains - Excerpt from my first full-length novel

:Dare to Bare:

- How to Contribute to Dare To Bare

- Comfort Zone

:Love All, Rose:

:Bed of Rose's:

- Introduction: HSDD, Infidelity, Menopause, and Me

- HSDD Helpful Suggestions

:Planet Janet:

:Cocktails with Rose:

:Corn Rose:

:Morning Rose:

:On the Rose Again:

: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

- - - -

Prehistoric Rose

Like an unopened, yet almost-there flower bud, this collection is a not-so-complex series of layers, ready to be peeled back, exposing various aspects of history. My history.

A history that starts like, what I presume is, any other normal young woman's growth and development into a fully sexual human being. Except I peaked early. Way the hell early. Like months before I got married. Much to his dismay.

Little did he know, my saying I do meant, "I do... well, at least did, but certainly not that any more. Sorry, Charlie."

So this digging down through the layers of my life - and more correctly my Ideas-Not-Used file of sordid tale seedlings - begins even before my husband was there to help me remember and thus uncover my history. Luckily, before I lost a shit-ton of functional memory, I told him bits and pieces. And what I didn't tell him, I jotted down in my notes to recall later - which luckily helped him fill in any missing pieces of my life.

I get to do the self-serving bit now of revealing early tidbits of my life, better exploring what I did, could've done, and probably, at times, completely should have done. Twice.

Plus all the fun that was to become HSDS (and eventually HSDD*) when I started recording and writing down various ideas, dreams, and actual events; which would then be used to force me to think about sexy stuff, and hopefully by 'talking the talk' I could learn to 'walk the walk'... or more correctly, doink-the-dude. My desperate, under-served, husband dude.

Having survived many decades of marriage, though, does tend to allow numerous challenges to two people sharing a life together. Especially a supposedly intimate life, which unfortunately, often lacked the intimacy stuff.

We not only survived my latest kink to the ball-and-chain, but after some difficult times, I think I finally got back on track. Oh, heaven's no, I still don't want sex or orgasm - at least not the way I'm pretty sure it was intended - but I am asking him to jump my bones now-and-then. But at least I can finally, without hesitation, get back to my write myself to sexy pretending to be an author.

Thus, I took it upon myself to clean out my ideas file - which became Corn Rose, Morning Rose, On the Rose Again... and some of the final dredging out of the deepest, oldest muck which settled to the bottom of that goopy mess, which you hold in your precious little hands right now.*

Speaking of which, let's see if we can put those hands to better use.*

-

Start the dredges. Buckle up the safety line in the descent elevator. And let's drop down into the wet, dripping hole of - no! Stop! It's a literary device! Stop trying to flip back to the cover picture to see if you can see my hole! Dammit, that is not where I was going with this passage! - Just, just, whatever. I'm going to the first story. You? Do whatever you want. Just don't e-mail me pictures of it, okay?

- - - -

Truth - Skip Footnotes to Next Story - Table of Contents

(**Wait, what the hell do you mean by Truth? - I wanna know before I click shit like that.)

- - - -

*Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome (HSDS) and later DSM renamed it to Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder (HSDD): meaning the section of my brain that identifies "Oh! Wow! A penis! That can be used for intercourse! A nice, big plump penis! And, look! It's naked and erect. And I'm naked. And... ew! What's all this wet shit coming out of my privates?! - that part of my brain is completely empty. I don't think about having intercourse, orgasms, or sexy stuff naturally for any reason. So I'm only left with that last part of the sentence: ew!" Because for some ungodly reason, my body completely gets it a lot of times. Even if I'm not. Getting it. That way either. {back}

*Oh! Geez! Get the fuck serious! Not already... no! Just, no! Get your hand out of your crotch! Dammit! You will completely have opportunity, if the mood strikes you, to do that later, dammit! This is the fucking introduction! So put both your hands on your ebook reader of choice. And for the two of you that just now put your hand down there because I reminded you... Seriously? Geez! I can't take you people anywhere! {back}

*Dammit! No! Using your hands to hold your ebook and turn the page! Turn the fucking page! To the next story! Not to do that with your hands! Fuck! {back}

**Oh! Hey! Wow, I just realized in final edit, some folks might be new to how I believe people should write books: no matter what, even in Factual (yes, completely in quotes - because everyone's reality is apparently different. Gee, thanks neuroscientists and their 'our perception of the world is merely the brain trying to create order from the cacophony of chaos coming from our sensory organs.') material, let alone fiction and fantasy, I want to know the real truth behind What the hell was she thinking?! (... when she wrote that.) Especially now that I completely get how my brain sees and experiences the world is hell-hole different from supposedly normal. Thus, I give you the option to seek the truth and enlightenment to the story behind the story after pretty much everything I write. If you choose to ignore it, no big deal. Many read it as I wrote it: each titled piece immediately followed by the truth behind the event (although I've been informed this sometimes completely ruins the (ahem) 'rhythm' if it's supposedly working for you (in that way)). Thus, some folks read the book straight through (no clicking on the Truth link), then read the truth section as an entire glop. There is no right or wrong way to do it (as long as it's between consenting adults, species, and/or entities of legal age). Experiment if you like, I'll try to provide easy navigation buttons and hyperspace controls to jump about our shared universe between the virtual covers of this book. (Although usually, get to the next story by just turning the page / sliding down further into the book... unless my footnote section becomes ungodly, like this one.) {back}

- -

Boys in Blue

Lick It or Ticket*

I'm in a near state of panic. I was shooting down the little two-lane road back to college to meet up with my boyfriend, singing the song on the radio at the top of my lungs, windows rolled down in the heat of summer, not a care in the world.

Until there's red and blue flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

Shit! I've never been arrested before.

No, wait, I was just speeding.

Shit! I've never even got a parking ticket before! Hell, I've never even got pulled over before!

What am I supposed to do?

The siren wails. I resist the urge to join in.

I finally remember to pull over to the side of the road. And turn on my subcompact car's emergency hazard blinkers.

By the tilt of my little car, I almost fell off the side of the road and into the ditch when I pulled over. It's severely tilting. Way too far off the road. Making it awkward to stay sitting in my seat.

I don't want him to make me do that walk the line thing! I can never perform under pressure! Aaaah!

I can see him get out of his car in my side mirror. Sort of. But I have to duck way down - or up - because my car is way the hell off the road. His? Half in the lane maybe. Must be nice to be a cop.

He walks up to my car and leans on the roof looking in.

License and registration?

Yes! I answer him honestly and crisply in my mental state of complete panic, white knuckles on steering wheel.

May I see them?

Oh! Oh! Sorry! Yes! and I start the frantic search of the front of my car for my wallet.

How about your registration first, miss?

Oh! Yes! Okay! I can find that easy! and now I'm emptying the contents of my glove box onto the front seat and floor of my car.

I finally find the blessed piece of paper he wanted.

I thrust it out at him.

And smile.

Why do I have to always smear that stupid smile, ear-to-ear, any time I'm nervous? And I start giggling. I never giggle. It's that high pitch little almost-laugh. Like I'm an air-head. Which, honest, I'm not. Except under stress.

And your license?

It's in my wallet. I think it slipped between the seats into the backseat! Sorry! You want to see it! I'll quit talking and get it!

I quickly spin toward the tiny slit between the two front seats - only to hear my seatbelt lock with a loud pop as it tries to separate my left boob off my body.

Frantic to comply, I'm fighting the seatbelt, my tank top, and everything in between. It's when I notice visible skin in places where I shouldn't be seeing skin and I realize the only thing giving is my top. And fall back into my seat.

Luckily I am able to undo my seatbelt relatively quickly.

Sorry! Just a second. I'll lean around and get it!

And I crash my body into the stupid little slice between the front seats - and again, only my tank top gives way, tugging tight, stretching further and further from where it was meant to be. I laugh that nervous laugh and figure I'll just lean over the top of the seat - it's got to be ... right ... <grunt> ... here!

And then all that effort just to wedge myself over the top of the seat, kicking and pushing with my legs.

Remarkably enough, it's at this point that I start to realize, I'm going to jail. I'm seriously going to be arrested because I can't find my license. - and time slows down to a crawl.

I feel the cold metal frame of the door or window seam on the back of my bare leg, sending an icy chill up to my brain: steel. Behind bars.

I curse not doing laundry before leaving the house, because in dodging a stupid bird in the road earlier, that swerve has deposited nearly every article of clothing I own about the back of the car, my giant laundry basket having tipped over. Hell, I was wearing the last two articles of clothes I owned, a pair of too-tight shorts and a too-loose tank top. Oh, and a heisted pair of my sister's ankle socks barely visible out the tops of my sneakers. Shit - prison: I stole her socks on top of everything else.

I struggle into a now nearly upside down position, the blood pooling in my head. I push harder with my leg and ignore the cool, weird feeling in places down below that probably shouldn't be feeling things like this right before being arrested. It's a tingle in an inappropriate spot in this position, like air tickling right on it. That it down below.

I get the entire top half of my body over the seat - which, while granting me more arm length to paw through the clothes and detritus in search of my purse*, I was now facing the unfortunate fight to actually see, as my over-sized tank was now bunching around my neck and flopping into my face.

So I'd shove up (down) on my top with one hand, scramble with the other, before resuming two handed sorting (because with one hand, the avalanche would start again, covering my recently excavated areas where I was sure my wallet would've slipped through the seat to end up back here; thus I had to use two hands and even then just resort to 'feel' instead of sight) with neck-weaves and head-bob's trying to see through openings as they'd form in the gray tank-top fabric fluttering before my face.

That's when I really get the urge to pass out. Flickering gray fabric over my eyes, arms going numb, my stupid sex-bits-below going all haywire and it feels like my private petals are all swollen, a painful bite into the crease of my leg, and my brain pulsing with pooled blood.

I have no clue how long I was over the seat in that position. Completely long enough to where I ignore how challenging it is to get my top situated back onto my body as I flop exasperated back into my seat... only now I'm nearly in tears.

Is that it over there? he asks, pointing to my wallet barely poking out between the seats.

Oh my word! I must've forced it back up through the area where it had tried to slip behind while I was rooting around back there!

Yes! I practically shout as I lunge for it.

I didn't intend to shout so emphatically. But the feeling of my fucking inner labia being ripped off my body (stupid vinyl seats!) had changed my exuberance back to tears... of pain. I so want to ask him to check to see if I tore anything off or if I'm bleeding down there. Because when I get back in my seat and try to wiggle down more comfortably, it's obviously in a small pool of blood, because I can feel the slick ooze of warm body fluids down there. Which, had I not been so happy about finding my purse, I might've wondered why I'd have such precious body parts pressed bare into my vinyl seat.

He barely glances at my license.

Are you serious?! I spent the past ten minutes finding it, and you can't take the time to even run my license number or call it in?

Because he no sooner had my license and I'd barely managed to get settled back into my seat, and he's handing it fucking back!

Okay, I'm giving you a verbal warning, but slow it down, okay miss?

Thank you officer! Thank you! I swear I almost blow him a kiss realizing he's letting me go.

Drive safe, and he steps back from my car.

And I start the awkward fight to get my seatbelt on - duh, he said drive safe, and I drive with it on - always! - so, dammit! Stupid loose tank top. I swear I accidentally fed the belt through the neck hole while quickly and anxiously trying to flee the scene, having grabbed it from the resting point high above my left shoulder, ripping it quickly across my chest trying to smash it home into the latch by my right hip.

Fuck it - whatever - I just force it through. I'm so busy trying to get my car back on the road, I don't notice he still hasn't got back in his car. I barely notice him at all as my little car fights to dig itself back onto pavement.

Which it finally does. She has heart. I love my little car. And I finally fix my seatbelt and get my shirt patted back down. I still have almost an hour to go. And I forget about all the other annoying details, because I'm not in jail.

-

Oh, to be young again.

The flashing red and blue behind me, reminds me of the flashing blue eyes that peered in upon me in years past... and the flash of pink and flesh I apparently provided to help complete the color spectrum.

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

*Not sure about anywhere else, but we have all these 'catchy' reminder signs about ensuring your seatbelt is safely used - as per state law now (mandatory seatbelt use). Most of the signs merely, say, Click It or Ticket with a white seatbelt across the blue sign background. Get the modified version of it I mentioned? {back}

*If I float between calling it a purse and a wallet? Make no mistakes - it was the length and width of my checkbook, and an inch to maybe two thick. No straps, no handle - I called it my purse, but, geez, compared to mom's purse and everyone else's? It was completely a wallet. {back}

- -

Fairy Godfather

Oh holy, Jesus-Mother-n-Joseph! What the bloody hell are ya doin'?!

Fuck! Where'd you come from?! I whisper-hiss.

More critical... Where the fuck are yer panties, lassie?

Fine kettle-o-fish way to meet your new guardian angel, fairy godmother... fucker... 'cuz he's a freaking, flittin' wee-little Irish accent fairy godfather - flashy wings and white duds - not a freaking dress.

It's not fair. All my other friends, if they get a fairy godmother, she's either a pretty little sparkly princess with flowing tresses or pixie-bob hairdo; or she's a beautiful, but matronly older lady - like, really old! In her thirties or something! - but not me. Right in the middle of mid-twattle in the tub, in a poof of pixie dust and coalescing vapors - my fairy godfather appears.

And just why would I wear panties in the bath, Sir Brilliant? I ask him, somewhat indignant having quickly ascertained his lot in life.

Maybe to keep your wee friggin' little fingers from... from... at least put a washcloth over it you perky little nymph twat!

Oh. Sorry, and I quietly move my wash cloth from covering my sprouting chest bumps down to cover my freshly shaven glory below.

Obviously I'm not known for my luck. Like that whole hairy situation: pubic hair first. But boobs? I hope second, but there's very little to be faithful for that happening any-time-soon looking down now at my bare little nubbins just poking out above the water li...

Oh, good God and Jesus-H-Christ! Turn down the brights, lassie! he spews out in some foreign-like language.

I mean, what is that? Oh: Irish accent. Duh? Only now I'm more confused on what to cover in front of him, vaguely shamed into silence just staring, forlornly at the potential to hopefully get a pair of...

You need to grow up and start taking yer shower, not t'bath!

But I like being soaking wet, I unhelpfully confuse my word order.

I'm sure ya do, lassie - but, get a clue... yer mum: she showers, right?

Oh good Lord! You don't really see my mom naked, too, do you?

Thank the good Lord, yes - she's a fine one she... oh! Oh! No, no! I mean, heaven's no! Stop talkin' like that lassie! You'll get me wings clipped! But that handheld, adjustable shower head is there for a reason, girl.

"Yeah, I know: to clean the shower easier. Mom says that's why every woman should always insist the husband install one in the..."

That's not what she uses it for, lassie. Least'n not to... Lass? She don't really need that long in the shower, now does she? But she's certainly 'cleaning' something really well with that pulsing spray o' water.

Yes, he was an odd one to get used to, but I guess he was better than nothing. And if that shower massaging thing was just half as good as what he described it...

Wait: how do you know all that?

I told ya - yer mum, she...

She's got boobs. You like looking at her more, I say, realizing I can't even be attractive to my own fairy godfath-

'Course I like lookin' at her boobs! 'Fairy' is a job-descriptor, not a psycho-social class... 'n she's got a fine set'o...

Can you make mine bigger? I ask hopefully.

Not my job, not my monkey. Speakin' of which, why's yours bald?

It's not, I lift my hips, slipping the washcloth off, I have to shave it. Didn't you bother paying attention earlier? I got pubes not boobs.

Yer mum's got both. Connect the dots, girl.

It doesn't work that way.

Could. Maybe. We should go on a fact finding mission and compare as many boobs and pubes as we can find.

Perv.

No, McClancy. Pervy's was the next dale over. Odd lot they were.

You're weird, I just had to say it, even though it obviously hurt his feelings.

Yer one to speak, baldy no curves.

Hurt? Why would some little flittery jerk's words hurt me? I'm a tough son-of-a- crying like there's no tomorrow little girl.

I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. Truce? he asks, holding out his little hand.

It's true, though, I say between sniffles, wiping my nose on the wash rag before chucking it into the small layer of water as the rest runs down the drain leaving me high-and-dry. Even my mom is a turn-on for some guys in her big, bulky sweater. Me? Even spread naked in the tub, swollen and wet-as-hell I can't even get an old Irish dude's attention.

Yer plenty attention gettin' - just I've got, you know, and he shrugs.

A thing for huge knockers?

Yer mum's not more'n a C-cup. I should know, he says way too authoritatively for my comfort.

Which starts to irritate me anew.

See? I'm unattractive. Or you'd be able to - you know - respond, I stand covering my apparently hideous form under a robe.

No, it's... I... but yer mum... oh! I've got a, you know, a 'block' that keeps me from, you know - around you! That's it!

So you can't, my chin dips and eyebrows arch.

Not at all, I assure you, otherwise it'd be, you know, improper 'cause I'm hopefully gonna see a lot of you naked. So I can't get one, he says confidently.

I snag the little bastard right out of the air and hold him down by the wings with my left hand, thumb and middle finger of the right - leaving my right index finger free to...

Whoa, whoa! Hey! Stop that! You're...

I didn't know fairy godfathers carried around a stick between their legs, I point out to him doing cute little circles right over his...

It won't be fer long if you keep... oh, good, holy...

What's that pulsing? Ew!

Dammit, girl - I'm gonna have to go see about another pair o' trousers.

-

Minutes later I hear him behind me... I untie my robe - remembering I'd been interrupted earlier from my project.

I scratched your itch, now you get to help me with mine, you wee little twat tickler! I grit my teeth, taking either side of the robe opening in my hands - twirl in a flashing motion ripping everything open, I'm gonna smear your wee little head all around my wet little - that! - and use your flittery wings all over my rock hard, aching nip...

My eyes open to rip the breath right out of me.

Hello, a more resonate voice...

Oh, holy Jesus-Mother-and-Joseph! I scream yanking the halves of my robe closed. You're not tiny!

Why, thank you, lassie! But you ain't seen nothin' yet, he said, hands held before him mimicking... ew!

What the hell? You're supposed to be a wee little fella, you...

The big guy figured I deserved to be full size because of that last little incident you pulled. Check out me new trousers: plaid!

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

Porn to Run

(... out of the room screaming hysterically)

There's no actual smoke coming out my ears, but I am in total brain meltdown.

What do you mean, you 'watched porn with her'? I ask coldly and in complete denial how any conversation between a husband and wife could get to that sentence.

Friends sometimes watch porn together. What's the big deal?

"A bunch of guys get together and watch porn together. A bunch of gays get together and watch porn together. A bunch of gals go out and watch a Chippendale's show. But a guy does not sit alone with a girl and watch porn together!"

They do if they're friends...

At this point I'm trying to figure out if he has a point, because I get a little weirded out watching porn with him - and we're more than friends. And I claim I almost