Coming Up Roses

By Rose Maru

Coming Up Roses (contrary to what you might think, not actually spelled "Cumming Up Rose's") is a brand new twist on a messed up life dealing with yet another road bump in my attempts to wrestle a sex life back from Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder (Syndrome) (HSDD/HSDS). This time staring bodily fluids right in the face (well, maybe not on my face - that's just gross... I think... I'm pretty darn sure, but it doesn't mean I won't maybe tackle it anyway - but I'm not promising anything).
Yes, you've puddled with me through troughs of "I think I can, I think I can..." to the point where occasionally, once in a blue moon, I do. Now I'm having to deal with what happens when I, well, that... and when he does, too... and when the whole group of them - wait - WTF? Group of them? Seriously? Holy mother of...
So cinch it down, cowboys and cowgirls, and prepare for a slippery ride into all things wet and wonderful with this collection of blurred fantasy into my reality with:
Cumming Up Roses
Against the Wall
APRIL First
Bigger Brother Cover Shoot
Dozen a Day
Life Sucks
Office Offense
Porn and Circumstance
Q&A With Rose
Revenge
Twenty-One Cum Salute
When things get confusing, don't worry, each tale packs a jump to the Truth-and-Consequences section where you and I can get things tuned in, straightened out, and cleaned up.
I'm making progress on my HSDS/HSDD - now let's see if I can ooze on down the road to other victories.
So join me in this tribute to accepting the juicy details of my small successes and enjoy Coming Up Roses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rose Maru
• Release date: Jul 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311257048

Rose Maru

Born a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away... no, wait, that wasn't me, but sometimes it certainly seems like it.Before getting into all the fun details, I want to clear the air of a rather large aspect of my writing because it has a huge impact on my work: I have HSDS (Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome). In fact, if it weren't for my HSDS, I wouldn't be here and you wouldn't be there reading this - my previously unpublished writings were explorations into kick-starting my, ahem, 'motor.' I tried to explore anything that might cause a little tingle below, even ideas and concepts my thinking brain refused to hear. Creating an alter-ego in my stories allowed me to safely penetrate the veil of non-existence - I was forced to think about sexy thoughts and situations.I wrote for years covering a wide range of topics, my husband providing a large number of seedlings from which to grow my stories (HSDS... what do you expect? Much to my dismay, what I learned to expect was very raunchy pillow-talk. Much to his dismay, he learned to expect me to leap from bed saying, "Oh! That is so good, I've got to write it down!"). It turns out, writing romantic erotica usually wasn't doing it for me. I gave up on it for a period of time - in essence, I gave up trying to help myself, as well.Then my significant's bright idea: if it didn't help me, maybe it would help someone else. I was back to writing again, or more correctly, preparing my work for release unto an unsuspecting public (I have now officially absolved myself from any evil that befalls you after reading my books - it's all his fault). So I dredged up my folder of rough and unpolished stories - damn, I wrote this much? No wonder I wasn't having sex, I was busy writing about it. (Fib alert: so not true it's not funny. Not the 'not having sex' part, but the lack of bedroom action wasn't really due to my writing.)An odd thing happened, though, as I was rereading my material and editing it. I felt a little something that I hadn't experienced in a long time. I actually felt a little tingle from down below. That soft little call, while editing some stories, started to get a little louder - still very quiet, but it was most certainly there where it hadn't been for decades. I gave in to the siren call almost immediately - surprised the hell out of my husband (thank goodness it wasn't the UPS guy at the door during those moments). Complete, spontaneous, due-to-my-doing rumpy-bumpy. Holy humper, Batman, I'm fixed!I wish. It disappeared again, just as easily slipping back into my 'normal abnormal' routine of never thinking about it within hours. Back to editing. Being the patient sort, I allowed myself to edit a whole three paragraphs before anguish sets in, "It's not working! Ah! I'm broken forever!" Luckily, I have a never say die attitude (Fib alert: ... no, wait, this isn't my stories where I have to include a 'truth' section - let me have my freaking moment), and said, "Piss on it, I'm still going to release my work. I've come this far."And so it went - although much to my joy (and my hubby's) - every so often, I'd find myself showing such obvious responses to passages, it was apparent to even an HSDS girl - and we'd make joy (sometimes several times) to the situation. I wasn't fixed, but at least I had a crutch.Which leaves me editing my old material, exploring new, and tormenting you with it - where I hope it does you some good, too. If it can't make you happy that way, I hope it'll at least provide you a little laugh the other way - especially since I do provide a 'Truth and Consequences' side to all my stories at the end of each book where I detail the nitty-gritty and harsh reality of every piece. This allows everyone's inner voyeur to be released because my HSDS does a great job of preventing me from grasping 'TMI,' so I tend to spill my guts back there in my books.As for my bio (side note: doesn't that make it an 'auto-bio?'), I'm a cute, twenty-one year-old (Fib Alert! Oh my Lord! If you're writing fantasy-fiction, at least make it believable!) - crap, okay, fine, I'm old enough to probably be your sister - from a second marriage - so we're not blood related, which means you don't have to get all weirded out about reading sex stuff about me) - and I live in the Pacific Northwest where I am still happily married to my first husband (very funny - he edits my other fibs so I have to tell the truth, but leaves the happily married one)... at least until he reads the final published product where I changed the truth section in every book back to being brutally honest contrary to his corrections.And, yes, that is me on the cover of all my books, but I'm not spilling the beans here, you have to read the book.

Book preview

Cumming Up Rose's

by Rose Maru

Copyright 2015 Rose C. Maru

First Edition - July 2015

Second Edition (courtesy of morality police - I had to have more petals added to my pictures to pass inspection at the review board for all interior images and cover art. And for those that write and ask why I don't illustrate my stories… I rest my case.) - July 2015

Cover and Photos Copyright 2015 Randal Maru

Revised cover and photos Copyright 2015 Randal Not My Fault 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:

-Fiction & Fantasy-

Cumming Up Roses (Introduction)

Against the Wall

Life Sucks

APRIL First

Bigger Brother Cover Shoot

Office Offense

Revenge

A Dozen a Day

Twenty-One Cum Salute

Porn and Circumstance

-Non-Fiction-

Q&A With Rose

Truth and Consequences

-Other Works-

Raindrops on Roses:

- Art Director

- Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome (HSDS/HSDD)

Rose by Any Other Name:

- Bath Time

- Movie Time

Dozen Roses

- Bigfoot

- Vulva-Vagina Veracity

Bigger Brother (Episode 6 Excerpt)

Soul Service, Inc. (Excerpt)

About Rose C. Maru

Contact Information

- - - -

Introduction: Cumming Up Rose's

You've Cum A Long Way, Rose…

Yes, yes I have. So now it's time for me to tackle another one of my issues - bodily fluids.

If you've been with me from the beginning (Raindrops on Roses) and followed me through revisiting my first writing (Rose by Any Other Name) to go boldly through how I got here (A Dozen Roses), I hope you've got to experience a little of my sexual rebirth. I really am starting to practice what Rosie preaches - much more frequently than ever before - and I'm enjoying it, thank you very much.

On that success, even though it looks only minor to an outsider (huge to me and my hubby, though), I've decided I'm getting brave enough to retackle the cum-issue and face it head on (no pun intended... I think).

In the event you were going to ignore the 'Also Available By' section where I have samples of my other compilations, I tried to customize it to include earlier, ahem, 'waves' of stories that are germane to the topic in hand. I mean, 'at hand.'

So grab onto your handle or slip your finger (or three) into the saddle, and cum along with me while I face my fears. I hope you enjoy Coming up Rose's...

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

Second Edition Note: My apologies to everyone previously offended by my original cover, title page photograph, and my bottom (get it? The end?) in the 'About the Author' section. Oh, wait, no one complained except the publisher's review board. Eh, it got fixed - but the revision looks icky compared to the originals which had serious class and style (if I must say so myself).

At least it's better than my other new book with Randy that was artwork based: it was rejected outright for everything! We were told to 'unpublish' it ASAP. So if you can't find my book, Rose Art, it was written, photographed (over 80 images!), and an attempted publishing on the same day as this book in July 2015. I thought the artwork in there was pretty darn good as well. Maybe it's my HSDS talking or lack of TMI - but if I'm willing to put it out for the public to see (and remember, these are all my body parts you're looking at), I figured it had to have some sort of societal redeeming and editorial value - especially compared to some book titles I see published by other authors on an almost daily basis: Daddy's Little Girl F*cks the Family Dog and other ridiculous drivel. (I tried to download a sample of some of those titles out of morbid curiosity, but all you get is the copyright notice! So if that's 20% of the book, damn!)

Long story to say, please excuse the cover art and pictures - trust me, they were top-notch and I really liked them compared to my A Dozen Roses work (I admit: Randy did everything artsy on this book, compared to Dozen where I probably got too involved in suggesting how it should look). Thank you for your understanding.

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

Against the Wall

My arms are pressed up above my head while his lips cover mine with a hungry kiss. I feel his need; I understand the urge, because deep down, it's mine, too.

His hands run up my blouse and explore soft curves, tracing a path through unexplored territory. Brushing across my nipples, the electric tingle spreads in frantic arcs through my entire body. The flames crackle with an intensity that can't be quenched.

Tilting my head, the exposed curve of my neck invites a trail of kisses, his warm breath managing to slide down between my breasts.

A hand slips below the hem of my skirt. Without pause, driven by lust and longing, fingers slide easily between my folds. My legs spread further to accept him deeper, where he easily dips into the moisture of my own needs and desires.

Knees and legs tremble through the pulsing onslaught below. Our breath quickens as one.

My flowing skirt bunches around my waist, the press of his body keeps me exposed and free of collapse. Tilting my hips, I'm grinding forward, into him, begging for more.

He stands firm, both hands holding my wrists gently but tightly as he enters me. Against the wall.

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

Life Sucks, Then You Die

The luckiest day of my life was about a year ago. I moved into a dump of an apartment.

Yeah, I know, not so lucky, you'd think, but it was like fate wanted to slap me upside the face. I'd just got a relatively sweet severance package, wouldn't have to work for a year or more if I managed my finances right: not bad for a girl that had worked her way up from practically the bottom.

So I moved from my more expensive Pacific Northwest home down South, closer to better weather and cheaper living, after selling just about everything I owned.

There a temporary fourth floor studio was mine. At least it was clean, and the neighbors seemed nice enough. Plus, after my first grocery shopping trip to fill the frig and cupboards, I wasn't complaining about the reverse sticker-shock. But that wasn't when my luck and life changed.

It wasn't long before passing in-and-out of the building, I finally gave into the hand lettered sign on one of the first floor doors, Palm's Red, Know Your Future it proudly proclaimed.

I'd met the lady a couple times at the mail wall. I never had the heart to tell her she couldn't spell, let alone I doubted she could foresee the future - because if she could, she'd see someone telling her to correct her sign's spelling.

I knock quietly at the door.

Come in - I was expecting you, she manages to creak out from her dark little alcove.

Yeah, right. And what else are you supposed to say as a fortune teller?

Thank you.

You're here to know about your future, she says it as a statement.

Another, 'no duh' moment. She's good, I snerk inwardly.

Yes, please, I try to be polite without openly laughing. Why did I do this to myself? This is so stupid.

She indicates a chair next to her. She holds my hands in her own. The mix of warm and cold is oddly swirling in my palms. However she does it, pretty darn cool effect, really.

And she mutters and starts to say something, supposedly sounding like she's in a trance, but really just makes it hard to hear: Life sucks, then you die.

I paid her five bucks… for that?

So when do I know my future will start and your reading will come true? I try to ask seriously.

She makes a little noise like an irk-gulp and her hands tense. I feel my hands dropped from her grasp.

She reaches out, takes a piece of paper and shakily writes out my answer, When your palm's red, your future starts.

I thank her, ask if she'll be okay since she's stopped talking.

She nods yes and I show myself out.

Right. Thanks.

I get back to my apartment and realize just how much my life already sucks. Sure, everything is cheap, but I don't know anyone, I don't have anything to do. Shit, maybe she was right. My life does suck. Maybe I'm already dead. I glance at my hands. Okay, so I'm superstitious! Nope, not even very pink. Whew.

The next day I get up and realize I have to make my place happier. The previous person had managed to paint all the walls a disturbing brown.

Management is all too happy when I offer to paint my apartment. I'm wanting a happy yellow - bright, vibrant - the brown is probably making me down.

I pick out a bucket with brilliant yellow swirls on top from the maintenance room - the manager just shakes his head and says that color should only be applied to the window frames and accent areas.

Not a problem with me, I'll start here, then purchase something to match for the main room - that way I can get a specific color.

I get back to my apartment, slide open the windows to prepare for the fumes, grab a brush, crack the can, and almost faint.

Brilliant and bright, sure - but bright rose red? Seriously? Crap - fine, I start on the nearest open window, applying my free paint. At least it's only the accents, so I guess it'll be okay with the yellow I want.

I've only just started, the one side of the frame done, and honestly, looks sort of hot - maybe this will work. I lean out the window to get the deep, visible framework so I don't have a funky gradient.

My life tries to flash before my eyes as my feet lose traction on the loose newspaper I've unwittingly spread all over the floor to catch drips. I'm lunging and grabbing for dear life, finally catching myself by one hand, dangling out over the sidewalk four stories below.

Scrambling back into my apartment, a combination of curses and thanks to God, I head to the sink to splash water on my face and come to grips with my near death experience.

That was when my life changed. Not because of nearly dying from a fall, but because I saw my hand in glowing red - the paint from the frame rapidly drying on it.

With my clean hand I'm in overdrive digging through the stack of paper and mail by the door - I find my slip of paper again: When your palm's red, your future starts.

Did I mention I'm a bit superstitious? Holy shit, I had been making fun of her - she actually knew what she was doing.

So from that moment on, I vowed my life would not suck - and it would mean I'd never die.

Risky behavior became my mantra: mountain climbing, free-style scaling, hang-gliding, scuba diving shark infested waters, parasailing and paragliders, a couple wild bronc rides, I even took up base jumping.

It was that last one where my luck finally ran out. My chute opened too late - although I was able to convert a considerable amount of momentum sideways, they still figure I hit the ground at a good twenty or thirty miles an hour.

I broke just about everything in my body. So much for my life of adventure, because I found myself in a full body cast when I finally came back to the world of the conscious.

My first few weeks I try valiantly to keep my spirits up and pretend what I was suspecting wasn't true.

In fact, my positive attitude finally attracted a pretty cute nurse's assistant on my floor.

Of course, even his attention couldn't prevent my eventual fall.

I was laying there, alone, the lights mostly out, and I was looking back on my life. Sure, I had a list of excitement to match anyone's wildest dreams; but I had no one to come visit me in the hospital. Hearing people in other rooms started my dark thinking and brewing.

The last straw: I was re-growing my hair-down-there. After years of shaving myself diligently at least weekly to twice weekly, now I could feel the itching, the tingling, the tangling start of a furry patch.

I'd finally had enough. This just sucks, dammit!

I tried to twist or turn in my coffin of plaster, fiberglass, and stainless steel. It only made my itching pussy platform scream out louder. I had no one.

And now I had sealed my fate, admitting my life sucked. Now I'd die.

Before I could fall further, though, my cute nurse became my savior.

Li? Can I ask you something embarrassing?

Don't worry about it, nothing is embarrassing. People in whole body casts, they have to cut out the crotch area so you can pee and poop. We don't even think about that being the only part of you we can see. In fact, I sort of like seeing your little vertical smile every day.

What?!

Oh my Lord, it had never occurred to me being cover head to toes in bandages and hardware, not able to move my head or even look down, that my glory, my re-growing glory, would be out for public display any time someone did come in the room.

Oh my, I am so sorry. That was so inappropriate. Please don't report me, his rushing words stumble out.

I can't see much of him, because he's starting to hide his face - and move away from my vision - but not before I catch the bright red color on his cheeks.

No, that's not it, I'd just never realized how out there I was, that's all. You're allowed to look all you want. Oops - now that was going too far, I'm sure.

Thank you. And I will. But what will your boyfriend think?

Trust me, I have no one. Haven't you noticed not a single signature on my cast?

Sorry, I just thought you were a neat freak since you're usually so clean... down there and all.

No one. I'm all alone in this world. Otherwise I wouldn't have to ask you this - but would you, could you, uh, itch me? Down there?

My pleasure, I assure you - I'm here to help you feel better.

Glory that is all that feels good, that single itch may have saved my soul. I'm sure I'll still die, because my life had sucked already, but at least my itch had been scratched.

I apparently was moaning and carrying on a little too much for my own good.

My, my, aren't we just a naughty little girl, he