Rose Wood At Home

By Rose Maru

I never thought I'd write erotic fiction again. Not to sound melodramatic, but, really, after "Rose Garden, My Life with HSDS," what was the point?
Of course, I never truly grasped what it would be like to wallow in that much estrogen ever again, either, on that fateful trip back to the town I grew up in, to be back under my parent's roof.
And especially not to be faced with old memories flooding through me, catching new currents and eddies, with the influx of everything-is-new-again through the fresh eyes of newly minted womanhood that was my pack of nieces, also visiting during that same time.
Included in Rose Wood At Home:
Welcome Home
-Fiction & Fantasy-
RA Rose
Inhibition Therapy
Garage Test
Measuring Stick
Trust and a Half
Make a Wish
Inappropriate Kin
Picnic
-More Truth Than Fiction-
Not the Hamster Dance
Duh Taste
-Non-Fiction-
Exercise
Women are Liars
Question & Answers with Rose, Session 3
Home in a Small Town
-Dedication Fiction-
Birds and Bees
Truth and Consequences to all the above stories
Oh, and before I get a slap from a fellow-female, I want to point out: when I feel threatened, I assess the threat and determine the most effective counter measures. Even if it means I may be forced to "think" like the opposite sex - because I hate to lose. So I'm not above looking at things from someone else's point of view and determining the most potent method to achieve my goals. He's a male, and to man-brain, the quickest path to victory happened to be actively, sweatily, breathlessly, nakedly re-staking my claim - repeatedly - throughout our visit.
Quite literally, "Rose Would (and Did) At Home."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rose Maru
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310947018

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 In fact, if it weren't for my HSDS, I wouldn't be here and you wouldn't be there reading this - my previously unpublished writings were explorations into kick-starting my, ahem, 'motor.'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

Rose Wood At Home

by Rose Maru

Copyright 2016 Rose C. Maru

First Edition - May 1, 2016

Cover and Photos Copyright 2016 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:

Introduction - Welcome Home

-Fiction & Fantasy-

RA Rose

Inhibition Therapy

Garage Test

Measuring Stick

Trust and a Half

Make a Wish

Inappropriate Kin

Picnic

-More Truth Than Fiction - (Because it freaked me out to put it under 'Non-Fiction')

Not the Hamster Dance

Duh Taste

-Non-Fiction-

Exercise

Women are Liars

Question & Answers with Rose, Session 3

Home in a Small Town

-Dedication Fiction-

Birds and Bees

Truth and Consequences

- - - -

-Other Works by Rose Maru-

Raindrops on Roses:

- Art Director

- Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome (HSDS/HSDD)

Rose by Any Other Name:

- Bath Time

- Braless is Better

Dozen Roses:

- Bigfoot

- Vulva-Vagina Veracity

Coming Up Roses:

- Bigger Brother Cover Shoot

- Q&A with Rose

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)

Rose Art - The Infamous Banned Book

Soul Service, Inc. (Excerpt)

- - - -

About Rose C. Maru

Contact Information

- - - -

Introduction: Rose Wood At Home

Out of left field... or at least at the last point of civilization before you turn left off the interstate, somewhere between there and home, the fires of creativity were lit: a little by luck and a lot by a ton of weird things happening and popping into my brain.

Shocking bunches of ideas with only mild help from my husband; and unfortunately lots of help from my kin - but most of all, probably out of memories and experiences while going back home for a short week where I got to see life again through new eyes brimming with promise and hope, and hormonal havoc. That wonderful emergence from girlhood to woman, the confusing mingle of I want my driver's license to I want my mommy! and Give me freedom, or give me death! Can I have twenty bucks?

What I wouldn't give to be a freshly minted woman again. Sorry - I can't even type that with a straight face, let alone say it. And after almost a week with the herd that has become my teenage nieces, there's no way I'd ever face that hormonal train wreck ever again - at least willingly.

Although I was happy after many moons of not feeling the urge to write and only occasionally feeling that other urge, it all struck back with a vengeance (writing, not humping... although by the end of this book, you'll know the real truth, I'm sure).

So pack your bags, put on your boots, saddle up, and let me take you for a ride back through my life, on what could've been, might've been, or should've been... along with little stops along the way to experience life in a household of spring break women stuck on the farm, and the minions and mayhem they spawned.

Because apparently, Rose would at home... several times as a matter of fact.

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

RA Rose

Resident Advisor. For the uninitiated, it's the older student who ensures the college dorm floor stays close enough to safety code so the school doesn't get in trouble. Additional duties include keeping the floor respectable enough so the janitorial staff doesn't quit halfway through their first shift and various activities to build comradery and interpersonal trust.

Because boys aren't that trustworthy - some would say, insanely stupid - most RAs, as they're called, are female... even in the boys' dorms. We just have a double sized room and a sign to post when we're using the floor restroom or shower.

Oh, sorry, I said, we. That's because, RAs also get free room and a huge stipend for board (meaning food!) - and I'm from a farming family, so cutting costs to go to college was a big deal for me. Much to my parent's dismay, since I got stationed in one of the boys' dorms and not the women's. My folks seemed to think it wasn't safe for a sweet, young, innocent girl like me to be dropped into the middle of thirty or forty young men - and live there like a giant commune of testosterone and stench. Actually, having that many men around campus, each one ready to protect me from all evil? Hell, it was better than being Lois Lane. Quite honestly, I've never felt safer.

Of course, it did take me a college quarter to fully figure out how to not only get their help, but also their undying loyalty. Turns out, boobs help... a lot.

Funny, even though they aren't big boobs, I've always had very expressive nipples... and at that age, apparently any breast is the best breast from what I learned.

It initially happened on accident. Sure, I never felt excessively inhibited, freely walking around my floor in only a bathrobe and slippers, but I still put up my Do Not Enter: RA on the shower room door dutifully. For the first couple months, I was always a bundle of nerves.

I mean, thirty-two boys, one shower room with six heads - and no shower curtain. The shower had three spigots on either side of a tiled room off the entrance / anti-room (or whatever the hell you'd call it) with low benches and hooks on either side. I've never understood the massive difference between boys and women's dorms - and until you live it, you never really have a true grasp what it's like to have so little privacy. I mean, the door to the showers opened directly into the main hall - dead center on the floor. The bathroom door opposite being across the hall (so you had to be dressed between pee and shower).

With that door open, you looked straight through to the exterior wall with the mid-height windows - boy height, not girl height if you get the idea. If you don't get the idea, remember, in most places, boys can go without a shirt. Now do you get it? Luckily we were on the third floor of five, so at least I didn't have anyone looking directly across from us into the shower window - although it was always disconcerting to open the door, or worse yet, for me, to be passing the showers and have someone else open the door, only to look out and see blue sky... and in the latter case with the door being opened accidentally while I was passing as the room remained occupied, the bright glow of white, untanned boy-booty. Ahem, well, I, uh, not that - fine, it wasn't all that unpleasant being the one out in the hall, but still embarrassing for all the parties involved.

Anyway, my revelation into boy-control happened early one evening. I'd just finished rinsing my hair and had got my body lathered up, singing to myself, or maybe out loud - the benefits of dorm-room noise - the door burst open and suddenly I had a horrible noise of retching and sounds of a near death experience happening next to me.

I spun around, all modesty forgotten grabbing at the poor guy.

Rich! Richard! Hey! Stop thrashing - wait, I wiped the gross goo from around his mouth after clearing snot and debris from his nose and he was starting to gasp in air. His frantic uncoordinated pawing around him had stopped. Cleaning and rinsing the washcloth in the water still spraying across from my shower head, I could continue cradling his head off the tile floor.

Slowly the glassy eye look resolved - probably much faster than it seemed - and I pushed a lock of hair up off his face as he took a deep breath. I snagged my towel and pushed it under his head, burst through the door, yelled at the first guy I saw to call 911 for medical emergency, grabbed second shocked dude to come in with me (Later told as, Oh my god, naked chick wants me in the shower!) so we could better position and move Richie out of the shower and - well, the siren could already be heard. While my volunteer held our victim, I grabbed the robe, but, the tie wasn't that important at the time compared to helping him.

We never learned what happened - some say alcohol, but I was told blood tests were clean, only a possible drink the previous day. Instead, allergic reaction of some sort - unfortunately, no known cause so he could avoid it in the future. Then there was the rumor he did it all to get me to rub my boobs on him and play with his hair.

Afterward, though, my floor was hideously loyal to me. I hardly ever had to ask them to clean, I no longer cringed when it was time for my shower - I could knock, no answer, hang my sign, and go right in and shower: nothing on the floor, no half bars of soap, not really even any appreciable scum on the floor. Of course, having someone try to die in filth was a little shocking to everyone - scared straight, so to say.

A couple weeks later, as a thank you to the young men, for all their help - and to show I noticed and severely appreciated it all - we have floor movie night - just us, no visitors, signs on all the doors not to enter. I promoted it as pajama party night. I rented them a couple porn videos. I went from the RA to our cool RA almost as quickly as they noticed I'd worn only my now famous bathrobe. We had several TVs checked out from the AV department linked in neighboring rooms to mine where I made the rounds between them all serving up popcorn, snacks, and non-alcoholic beverages - and proof booze wasn't needed for a good time... maybe I let the tie on my robe remain a little more loose than necessary. They loved it.

What followed after the end of the academic quarter and Pajama Night could only be called complete devotion. Which eggs me on to keep them motivated.

Originally what started as some insanely stupid idea from the previous RA and passed down to me was the 'Good Job!' tokens. Each resident had five in his name, when she caught him doing something 'right' or helping out, he'd get a token - which at the end of some obscene period of time, he could trade for some worthless trinket, a pass on his duties (right - like they did them in the first place), or, well, who really cares? It was stupid.

And I was stupid for continuing it for so long. The following week after a Pajama Party, during another movie night - what the hell? Motivation! Checking out screens and a player was free for the RA and not questioned - a couple bucks for a 'classic boner' video - and I had their attention! - after my revelation about motivating boys, I introduce the new token system. You start with two 'in the pot' with three additional to be earned through various ways - everything from community service and volunteer work to spotless bathroom keeper.

Initially it was a 'yeah, right' attitude until the end of the week - and all the chips went into the bra cup of the biggest bra I could find at the local thrift store - two of the boys hold her cups down, so the chips remained inside, I reach into each cup, draw two lucky tokens. I would no longer be serving everyone on movie night. These two winners would get 'box' seats in my room for our private showing of the movie - everyone else to remain out with the general public seating and movie screens.

Talk about hustle the following week. Especially after rumors got out from the two lucky boys that spent the evening with me.

They'd received explicit instructions on what they had to do and preparation required - hell, they were going to be in my fucking room, I can demand whatever the hell I wanted - they were to shower, clean well, not drown themselves in cologne - in fact, I wanted to smell the shampoo and soap - Axe not permitted - then put on their robe, present themselves to me for final sniff inspection coming directly from the shower... then they were allowed to enter my room. The look of amazement on the other thirty-odd guys was palpable as they watched me greet each nearly naked boy, give him the once over, which included a public swat on the butt with quick squeeze. Hell, I could've just stopped there and let rumors fly.

We made use of their wash cloth/towel they had to pack with them since they weren't allowed to return to their room. Little did I know the ritual would soon get a new, less attractive name: the Crusty Towel.

Honestly, how was I to know boy juice turned hard? Damn, I just lucked out having them bring their own towels. Because during the movie, with me sitting between my two charges, I drop their towels in their lap... then let my hand disappear under it slipping between the folds of his robe. The complete, utter, startled, amazed, thankful look on those boys' faces is worth every second of it. And I do mean seconds. Between the porn, the buildup of being alone with me - a girl - in only a robe, which, uh, I intentionally hung the rob tie on the door knob to the room as a 'do not disturb' sign - it's just too much. But being college boys, their recovery rates are incredible. I'd have to keep track to see what was possible - I could contribute to science! That first week, three and four would be the ledger entries. The only major rules - 'loose lips sink ships' and 'no touching the hostess without permission' - you could look all you wanted, but no touch.

Initially I thought it was going to be awkward, both for me and the boys, but really, it was awesomely discrete. For the young men concerned about their size, their prowess, their sexy powers - I was sitting between them, the towel covered everything, and my pledge to never divulge any secrets was kept. The only concession I made, which none of them ever complained about, was the following day: I made a point to find each of my winners unfortunately near other floor members or in easily visual/hearing range, lean in, give them a peck on the cheek and say none-to-quietly, Thank you for last night. And, and uh, thanks for whatever the hell you did to earn your tokens - keep up the good work. And good luck next week.

The hook was there: next week. As far as I could tell, they kept their vow of silence, but the number of community service hours around the college soared. I got a call from at least two groups thanking me, but their rosters were full for the week - please don't send anyone else down. Can you believe that? Volunteer groups turning away people because too many were offering to help! Damn, the power of a hand job and peek at some boob - the end of world suffering could be at hand (snerk).

I am not ashamed to say at the end of that second week of earning tokens, nearly every member of my group had maxed out - all five in the cups. I have to change from the mega-bra to trash can. Not the sexiest of upgrades, but I don't hear a single complaint in the silence that befell the group at time of drawing and reading the two names. Luckily, two different ones from the previous week.

As before, same 'mysterious' instructions, except the quiet Lucky dog! that I hear from one of the previous weeks winners along with smile and wink at his roomy that had been drawn.

The same sniff-check after they presented themselves, although this time in an honor-guard type ceremony from the other floor members from shower to my room. I remind everyone this was a floor secret. Word leaks out, admin hears about it, obviously it ends - and more importantly, I'd forever be disappointed in them. Years later, I heard back from a few of the men that came through my floor - they'd gone into high corporate or military jobs - they said that single sense of honor was probably the most important thing they learned through their entire college career.

And with the reminder, I turn, strip off my robe belt, tie it around the door handle... but this time, turn back to the group, Enjoy the snacks, the movies, and have a good evening... I know I will, and spin back to the room - the billowing waves of my robe kill any lingering doubts what I wasn't wearing under it.

I am so embarrassed to admit something any young lady should never be forced to acknowledge: I wasn't fibbing with those four words at the end of my proclamation - I know I will. I enjoyed the heat, the different textures, the complete feeling of control those moments gave me. And yet, the innocence of it all.

Absolution comes each Sunday, often more lenient than otherwise might've been because Father knew his volunteer rosters were now brimming over to the point where the congregation was having to choose new and more ambitious goals to benefit the community. Thank goodness for the vow of secrecy: I could walk out, contemplate my wicked ways, and seek guidance - but it was hard to argue with The Lord works in mysterious ways.

And according to some of the young men, it was quite the religious experience: "Oh! Oh! Oh God, yes, do that... that... oh..."

The non-lady-like admission: some nights, I get so into it, I end up so freaking wet, my robe is soaked where I was sitting on it. Thank goodness I can blame it on my previous shower and hope that the boys are still naive enough not to know what it means. Otherwise I'd have to start slipping my own towel under my fanny before sitting - although Lord knows how I'd manage to do that considering I had to keep getting up and down multiple times throughout the evening... how to explain it - back up towel? That's a possibility. I also notice the severe urge to take part. Not that I need any help, but, sometimes - only sometimes! - the ache from down there is so loud, the itch so strong, I truly have a fight on my hands to keep from scratching it. Some nights couldn't end fast enough so I could find relief, in the dark of my room - and I'd be lying if the thought never crossed my mind, With the same fucking fingers that had been wrapped around... just moments ago... in this same room... wearing slightly less than I am now. Fine, it was intoxicating and I got off on it, okay?

I did notice one or two of the boys not as excited as the others. I figure possibly highly religious, although based on their other actions, not really. I finally get up the nerve to call each one into my 'office' (I know, how many offices are equipped with couch, bed, mini-frig...).

The truth is almost as shocking as my solution to getting everyone on the same page - and so obvious I can't believe I didn't see it.

In the big city, later in life, I can admit, even without hindsight it should've been obvious... but in a small college, on the rural east side of the state, not so much:

So, I want to see why I'm not doing what I need to help you succeed, I start off our quiet little conversation.

What? he asks, sitting up straight and nervous on my couch.

I kneel in front of him, taking his hands in mine, look right in his eyes, How did I fail you? You aren't going beyond the minimum requirements - it's like you don't care - about this floor, your roomies, the community... you don't seem to care about me. What did I...

I'm gay! Okay, I'm fucking gay! The trollop from Canterbury! Limp wrist! The...

Oh! Thank god! I blurt out, cutting him off and feeling more embarrassed than if I were standing naked before him - which wouldn't be any big deal, apparently.

What? What the hell? what do you mean, 'thank God?' He seems more confused than I had been.

Oh, sorry - not to reduce your confession to a footnote, but, I don't care about your sexual proclivities. I want you to succeed. I was concerned you didn't care - about anything.

Want to talk to my parents for me?

Oh, hell no. Unless you talk to my parents and explain to them their devote, baptized Catholic, apparently going to hell daughter is not just living with thirty-odd, some very odd, men and sharing a bathroom and shower - but flashing her goods and doing whatever it takes while remaining a virgin to get this team to band together.

Tough choice. Damn. What's behind door number three?

You. Me. And a night made for just us.

Are you serious? Please don't tell me you think you can fix me from...

Fix? Fix, schmix. You're fucking doing my hair, soul-sister! I've been stuck on this floor with all men, no fun girls to hang with! We're going to do dress-up, play with make-up... you want me to find us some naked man porn? All the better! I am so excited, it's hard to contain it.

"Oh. My. Gawd! You are so messed up - and I thought I was screwed up. You win, I'll tell my parents, but there's no way in hell I'm breaking the news to your parents. Can we still have our night, though?"

"Only if you knuckle down... and win fair-and-square. Leave the rest to me after that - I'll get you an out from the actual Friday evening