Day 25: "Cherry blossoms" | original female character | mature
Title: Cherry Blossoms
Fandom: None (original)
Rating: R
Character: OFC
Summary: A woman takes a moment of pleasure under the cherry tree.
Word count: 846
Warnings: Slightly angsty
The sun is shining and the air is saturated with the scent of bird cherry flowers, as always in the late spring. The scent of these flowers is everywhere, almost intoxicating and wonderful.
She walks across the lawn and stops under the sour cherry tree. It is small, but still big enough for her to stand upright under it. She feels the white, delicate flowers touch her face when she turns it upwards.
Cherry blossoms are strange, she thinks. They won’t last long, a couple of days, and when thje decay begins it is unstoppable. But while they are in full bloom, they look eternal; young and fresh, as if they are carrying a message of hope: ‘Let’s all be happy! The world is wonderful! You deserve to smile!’
She can never look at them without a smile. But then she doesn’t look. She closes her eyes and she just stands there, allows herself to be springfully happy, and when she breathes in she can smell them, the flowers. Their scent is more discreet than the omnipresent bird cherry scent.
The song she has been humming fades from her lips as she stands there. All she hears is the wind. And the birds. And the insects. And then, a voice; it’s like the whisper of a voice from far away. The voice whispers of joy, of life, of pleasure.
The cherry blossoms against her face are like a gentle, light touch. When she makes a small movement, they are brushing against her lips. She can feel a need stirring inside of her. A need to be touched by more than flowers. She brings her hands to her face and caresses it slowly. Her skin is tingling. She moves her fingers down her neck and takes her time, and then down - to her breasts.
Carefully, she cups them. Her thumbs brush against the thin fabric of her shirt, over her nipples.
As if she can’t help it, she presses her thighs close together. There’s a sweet, tingling burn.
Springtime is made for lovemaking.
Her lips part and a soft sigh escapes. Now she knows that she can’t stop this. She is standing under the cherry tree and feel her nipples hard as cherry stones under the fingers that move over them with more determination and force, and the growing burning sensation is oh so exquistit. Oh how glorious it is to be young, ready and ripe, in full bloom!
Her legs are twisting a little, her hips jerking. She wants to. She needs to. She unbuttons her trousers and slides a hand in. She cups her sex, captures it with her hand, presses hard against the hand as if against another body.
She imagines someone else’s presence and she can no longer stand, she doesn’t want to, and she is on the soft, young grass.
Now she is spread out on the grass under the cherry tree and she lets her fingers explore her wetness. She shivers with pleasure and anticipation as she dips a finger slowly into the moisture just past her entrance. She keeps her finger there, exploring, touching, basking in the sensation.
Then she slowly lets her finger journey on. The destination is close, but she goes slowly - there! she touches the swollen pearl with the wet tip of her finger, eliciting a sound. Then she begins to let her finger move over it and now it is this part of her body that decides the rhythm and the speed.
Oh! She goes harder and the hand that played with her nipples goes down there, too. Her hips move, she spreads her legs even wider as a finger finds its way in.
She is blind to the world and unaware of the sounds she utters as her hands move faster.
Springtime is made for lovemaking.
Her body undulates and she is taken over by frenzy, and then she tenses - and with something in between of a cry and a sigh, it is over.
It takes a while before she opens her eyes. At first she is not thinking about anything, and then, about how good it had been, how wonderful. Then she thinks, again, that thought:
Springtime is made for lovemaking.
She opens her eyes then and looks down on her half naked body sprawled over the green grass. A breeze shakes the branches above her and a couple of flower petals lands on her wet and still slightly throbbing sex.
Yes, how lovely a moment like that can be! And yet, through every wide open part of her the insight floods in and hit her like a tidal wave: She is alone now; she was alone a moment ago, too. She has always been alone.
Unlike the cherry blossoms, she has very little hope. They seem to want to tell her that spring is made for lovemaking, but she has no one but herself.
The sun chooses this moment to disappear behind a cloud - where did it come from? - and she gets up, and away from the grass under the cherry tree.
Fandom: None (original)
Rating: R
Character: OFC
Summary: A woman takes a moment of pleasure under the cherry tree.
Word count: 846
Warnings: Slightly angsty
The sun is shining and the air is saturated with the scent of bird cherry flowers, as always in the late spring. The scent of these flowers is everywhere, almost intoxicating and wonderful.
She walks across the lawn and stops under the sour cherry tree. It is small, but still big enough for her to stand upright under it. She feels the white, delicate flowers touch her face when she turns it upwards.
Cherry blossoms are strange, she thinks. They won’t last long, a couple of days, and when thje decay begins it is unstoppable. But while they are in full bloom, they look eternal; young and fresh, as if they are carrying a message of hope: ‘Let’s all be happy! The world is wonderful! You deserve to smile!’
She can never look at them without a smile. But then she doesn’t look. She closes her eyes and she just stands there, allows herself to be springfully happy, and when she breathes in she can smell them, the flowers. Their scent is more discreet than the omnipresent bird cherry scent.
The song she has been humming fades from her lips as she stands there. All she hears is the wind. And the birds. And the insects. And then, a voice; it’s like the whisper of a voice from far away. The voice whispers of joy, of life, of pleasure.
The cherry blossoms against her face are like a gentle, light touch. When she makes a small movement, they are brushing against her lips. She can feel a need stirring inside of her. A need to be touched by more than flowers. She brings her hands to her face and caresses it slowly. Her skin is tingling. She moves her fingers down her neck and takes her time, and then down - to her breasts.
Carefully, she cups them. Her thumbs brush against the thin fabric of her shirt, over her nipples.
As if she can’t help it, she presses her thighs close together. There’s a sweet, tingling burn.
Springtime is made for lovemaking.
Her lips part and a soft sigh escapes. Now she knows that she can’t stop this. She is standing under the cherry tree and feel her nipples hard as cherry stones under the fingers that move over them with more determination and force, and the growing burning sensation is oh so exquistit. Oh how glorious it is to be young, ready and ripe, in full bloom!
Her legs are twisting a little, her hips jerking. She wants to. She needs to. She unbuttons her trousers and slides a hand in. She cups her sex, captures it with her hand, presses hard against the hand as if against another body.
She imagines someone else’s presence and she can no longer stand, she doesn’t want to, and she is on the soft, young grass.
Now she is spread out on the grass under the cherry tree and she lets her fingers explore her wetness. She shivers with pleasure and anticipation as she dips a finger slowly into the moisture just past her entrance. She keeps her finger there, exploring, touching, basking in the sensation.
Then she slowly lets her finger journey on. The destination is close, but she goes slowly - there! she touches the swollen pearl with the wet tip of her finger, eliciting a sound. Then she begins to let her finger move over it and now it is this part of her body that decides the rhythm and the speed.
Oh! She goes harder and the hand that played with her nipples goes down there, too. Her hips move, she spreads her legs even wider as a finger finds its way in.
She is blind to the world and unaware of the sounds she utters as her hands move faster.
Springtime is made for lovemaking.
Her body undulates and she is taken over by frenzy, and then she tenses - and with something in between of a cry and a sigh, it is over.
It takes a while before she opens her eyes. At first she is not thinking about anything, and then, about how good it had been, how wonderful. Then she thinks, again, that thought:
Springtime is made for lovemaking.
She opens her eyes then and looks down on her half naked body sprawled over the green grass. A breeze shakes the branches above her and a couple of flower petals lands on her wet and still slightly throbbing sex.
Yes, how lovely a moment like that can be! And yet, through every wide open part of her the insight floods in and hit her like a tidal wave: She is alone now; she was alone a moment ago, too. She has always been alone.
Unlike the cherry blossoms, she has very little hope. They seem to want to tell her that spring is made for lovemaking, but she has no one but herself.
The sun chooses this moment to disappear behind a cloud - where did it come from? - and she gets up, and away from the grass under the cherry tree.