Planet Janet Rose in Cosmic Chaos

By Rose Maru

Planet Janet includes several distinct continents with varied populations within each:
Fiction & Fantasy: Mr. Sulu, Standard Orbit; April 1 Central (Working Up to April Fool's (from 2014), Work Oops April Foolery (2015)); Concussion Cuties; Pen-Jan (2017); Planetary Illusions Dream; Workplace Wonder (2014)...
Shades of Gray (not quite fiction, way too much reality): 6° of Inappropriate; Avalanche; Blowing in the Wind; Blush-Flush Team; DIY Clit Pump; Embarrassed For You (2017); I See England, I See France (not the same as what you might recall from Covering Rose); Job Jar Gone Wild (2017)
Non-Fiction (for the record, note that Do It Yourself project is *not* in this section!): Do Your Boobs Hang Low; Humpable / Not Humpable (2017); Janet From Planet 'X' vs HSDS; Question & Answer with Rose, Session 8; Q&A 8, Subsection "J" (2013 - 2018); Xenotitulus; Planet Janet Occlusion
Plus, those polar regions of Truth and Consequences and bonus "Covering the Planet" section.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rose Maru
• Release date: Jul 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463566220

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 In fact, if it weren't for my HSDS, I wouldn't be here and you wouldn't be there reading this - my previously unpublished writings were explorations into kick-starting my, ahem, 'motor.'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

:Table of Contents:

- Linear Table of Contents - Alphabetic Table of Contents -

-Fiction & Fantasy-

Mr. Sulu, Standard Orbit (Introduction)

April 1 Central

~ Working Up to April Fool's (2014)

~ Work Oops April Foolery (2015)

Concussion Cuties

Pen-Jan (2017)

Planetary Illusions Dream

Workplace Wonder (2014)

-Shades of Gray-

6° of Inappropriate

Avalanche

Blowing in the Wind

Blush-Flush Team

DIY Clit Pump

Embarrassed For You (2017)

I See England, I See France

Job Jar Gone Wild (2017)

-Non-Fiction-

Do Your Boobs Hang Low

Humpable / Not Humpable (2017)

Janet From Planet 'X' vs HSDS

Question & Answer with Rose, Session 8

~ Q&A 8, Subsection J (2013 - 2018)

Xenotitulus

Planet Janet Occlusion (Conclusion)

Truth and Consequences

~ Covering the Planet

- Master Index -

-Other Works (Bonus Tales)-

Raindrops on Roses:

Rose by Any Other Name:

- Braless is Better

Dozen Roses:

Coming Up Roses:

- Bigger Brother Cover Shoot

Rose Garden: My Life with HSDS:

- Introduction to HSDS

- HSDS 2014 Redoubt

- HSDS Treatment Trial

Rose Wood At Home:

Wars of Roses:

Real Randy Rose:

Buns 'n Roses:

- Take Two

Covering Rose:

- Raindrops on Roses Cover

Climbing Rose:

Chains - Excerpt from my first full-length novel

Dare to Bare:

- How to Contribute to DTB

- Comfort Zone

Love All, Rose:

Bed of Rose's

- Introduction: HSDD, Infidelity, Menopause, and Me

- HSDD Helpful Suggestions

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

- - - -

Planetary Notes: the Story / Tale / Chapters / Sections listed above with dates in parenthesis have been previously released in the books listed within the respective truth sections. In good faith, I have tried to include them in their entirety with the original truth entries intact (however tactless the parties involved may appear). Please remember these events occurred a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

- - - -

Captain Rose to Command... Orbital Entry Procedure Initiated

Below the viewport is a strange new world. Somewhat familiar, but completely foreign and dissimilar to anything I've experienced before now.

Janet. From a distance, she looked so normal. Pretty. Confident. Curious. Ready to jump right in with whatever happened. A new coworker. And a future friend. Eventually a confidant.

Of course, little did I know that exploring this new world with her would expose me to workplace horrors untold. Almost all accompanied by uncontrolled laughter and acceptance: someone else lacking an appropriate TMI (Too Much Information) filter.

Thus it would be recorded in the intergalactic astrometrics and cartography charts, Should've remained unknown by the dot designating Planet Janet - as the inappropriate world with my previous coworker and partner in crime, Janet, would prove to be a minefield of messed up opportunities to embarrass myself.

Because contrary to what she probably would've shouted, #MeToo isn't supposed to be said with one's hand raised, waving about luridly and breathily volunteering, Ooo! Oooo! Me too, me too! like it was an offer that shouldn't be missed.

So join Missionary (position) Rose probing this exciting new world, Planet Janet.

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

Janet From Planet 'X'

Janet crash lands on my HSDS

You want me to fuck him for you? she asks matter-of-fact.

What?! I know what I just heard, and I really don't want to hear it again - but I'm dumbfounded.

You know I would - you know I'd do anything for either of you, she sounds just a little hurt that I'd doubt her loyalty.

Are you crazy? I can't stop with the questions, because she's also sounding way too serious compared to the flippant usual way she'd say this. (Don't ask: this isn't the first time something like that phrase has been offered - just the first time a different consonant has been used - I was barely getting used to hearing her offer to give him a blowjob.)

Sure I'd do your husband if you asked, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit I'd probably enjoy it.

I can't believe you said that! My brain just came unwired. Completely.

I'm sorry, but you know I'd do anything for you, even sleep with...

Not that part! I blurt way too honestly before I can stop myself.

Wait - you mean you're not upset I just offered to bonk your husband?

- And while she goes off trying to explain why she would likely enjoy it, I'm lost in confusion. Not the least of which is why I'm not tweaked someone just said they'd gladly fuck my husband - if only I give my blessing - but that she'd enjoy it. Sex. She'd enjoy having sex. And I realize just how different I am from people without Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome (HSDS - even if we didn't know this is what I had at the time). And it hurts.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean I want to do your..."

It's not that part that bothers me.

What? Wait - so you just don't like that I think I'd enjoy it? She finally starts to unravel my tangled knot... but not really. Not completely right. She goes off babbling about why she thinks she'd enjoy it again...

Yet it's just that first part of it I'm so confused about: "She thinks she'd enjoy it."

That's my problem: fine, someone else screws my man. I might be a little upset, but it's that second part that really and truly gets me: how can you say you'd enjoy it? Or enjoy sex enough to even think about doing it?

Amidst the burning debris and scattered ashes, she's singed, but not burnt. No, she doesn't get it. And I'm not completely comfortable with any of these discoveries myself to begin the rescue operation and post-crash investigation. That will all come later. Hopefully much later.

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

6° of Inappropriateness

(A celebration of all the ways to not do what's expected of a normal person)

As the bride's maid, you have some additional duties nobody ever truly tells you about. So take the bull by the horns and prove you were absolutely the best choice for this coveted position: including personally being sure the groom is ready for the honeymoon and not desperate, hair-trigger sensitive down there in the romp-department (and ensure he's up-to-date on how Ladies First isn't a suggestion, but a requirement). It's also your duty to arrange a threesome for the blushing bride (preferably well in advance of the wedding ceremony): be completely certain she has reason to blush... and maybe walk a little funny down the aisle (trust me, those in attendance will just think it was the alcohol during the wedding shower and night-before-the-big-day nerves... not tweaky 'straddle' sore legs... neck... arms... and, "Oh good Lord, what is that happening to my ass?!) I don't even need to point out the bride's maid is the perfect choice for who comes out of the bachelor's cake or should act as the bachelor party Party Favor" making sure the boys in attendance behave... or at least keep it all clean, because everyone knows the bride's maid got a clean STD bill-of-health in preparation for the big day, so she can be safely passed around the group.

If you can't beat 'em join 'em: Oh! Hey, that was so sweet of your guy. I know you need to get to your appointment... you want me to give him a blow job for you? Yeah... nuh... well, okay - but I am not going to swallow. Ever.

Out shopping, you find possibly the perfect top... but not only is the dressing room too far away, but looking that direction over the clothing racks, it looks backed up forever with no fitting rooms available. So you just try it on where you stand. It's way the hell more efficient. And it is the lady's department. Problem solved!

Grab the nearest friend, because you really have to pee, in the absolutely worst way, and drag them into the restroom with you... hand them your bag/stuff, Hold this, will you? having them stand while you piddle. Notice them staring at you while you're wiping, You don't expect me to put my stuff on the floor, do you? (Extra points if you realize at that point the nearest friend choice you grabbed to bring with you into the restroom maybe shouldn't have been the opposite sex.)

Choose the gym locker that is closest to a power outlet... so you have somewhere to plug in your Hitachi Magic Wand. For the pre-workout work out - hey, not my fault my ride showed up early before I could finish it off at home! And no one said she had to stand there and watch after we showed up at the gym (Geez! Take a pill! I kept my panties on!) I was (half) joking when I finished, tried to stand up, and handed it to her after wiping down the bench, saying 'Your turn with the machine.' And you certainly didn't have to get so far into it! Your workout pants and panties ended up around one ankle. At least I'm not a screamer. And bunching up your top so you had access to your - did you have to pull on them that much? You made it so they wouldn't go down through the entire work out session afterward - you were hogging all the men. You certainly didn't have to agree you'd have to show up earlier next time - and we'd take care of it before we left because the bench was a little uncomfortable. Asking if your husband could watch was just too much. In the future, make him keep his hand outside of his shorts - that's just disgusting. I hate it when someone out inappropriates me: to hell with both of you. Get your own damn Hitachi.

Speaking of the gym, now that we've got the pre-workout workout routine going full-force and the actual gym workout is buffing me out like I belong, it's time to help your fellow gym-rats out. If you pass by a compatriot work-out hound straddled over the bench lying back working on his upper body, and you notice he's off to the side - it'll be more comfortable having it back in the middle, where his gym shorts, which have slipped up and tightened around his crotch, may have managed to cut off circulation - thus affecting his equipment - no need to interrupt his work out, just fix it for him yourself: That better? and give the head a little pat, like a good house pet (I have no idea how men can work out with those things in the way, so I try to do my part helping every one of the impaired gender.)

Over the years, being worn down from hearing it way too often, just finally telling Janet, Yes, please - suck or fuck him, just get him off my back; and give her the keys to the house... tell him, Knock yourself out - you finally get to cum inside someone: she's on the pill. Then go off and get yourself a massage, knowing a couple hours should be more than enough for the both of them. Come back bearing donuts for all. Win-win-win.

At Target, flag down the stock person in personal grooming and toiletries. Ask for the best razor to shave your kitty with; let him know the last brand of razor you bought sucked dog balls, Here - feel! and shove his hand down the hem of your skirt to check out the stubble on poor kitty. Show him the red bumps and ingrown hairs marring that pretty pussy for bonus points.

Lastly, and so far out of my inappropriate range, I was stunned speechless as I witnessed it:

While mixing up food, if your husband, 'chef-wannabe,' splashes something on himself, when did it ever become acceptable for your niece, who is standing right there learning to cook, will see it as appropriate to help him clean his shirt cuff? By delicately licking and sucking on the stain until it came out? And by the grace of God, do not ask me about my reaction, or question what I found later, because I had to leave the room soon after she started on his shirt... and at that later moment in time vaguely hinted above, I found what looked like spaghetti sauce remnants on the bulge of his fly. Pants. Fucking. Zipper. Fly. (Partially cleaned off.)

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

The Answer My Friend Is Blowing In the Wind

Concerning blowjobs and Janet saying she'd even swallow in reference to 'returning a favor' to my husband for doing something she regarded as 'super worthy': Are you fucking kidding me? No, I mean, like seriously? In your freaking mouth? For the longest time, I thought she and porn stars were the only ones 'that' would even come up in the conversation. Until I accidentally got caught up in that sort of weird conversation with her... the type where it's said in the first place... and the train wreck that would follow....

"Then what do you do with it?" she asks.

Do with what?

You know - so you've never swallowed? At all? Like never?

Oh! Fuck no! I'm freaked out just having to answer the question.

So where do you spit it? I mean, you've got to have done him when you didn't have...

Wait: what? Spit? Spit what?

If you don't swallow. You spit, her brows are wrinkling all up like she's the one that's confused.

Back. The Truck. Up. What?

When you suck him off - duh! It's what we've been talking about. Even you can't deny that we've been talking about blowjobs.

Me: Silence (and stupid look on face).

Don't give me that! You've got two choices: spit or swallow, she's sounding exasperated, like I'm being difficult.

"You mean, like he... in your mouth?!" I try to keep my eyes from remaining fixated in that wild-eyed stare, which might suggest I'm the crazy one.

I always thought that old joke about 'that's why non-smoking motel rooms still have ashtrays' was all about, isn't it? I don't let him smoke in the house any more, but cross-my-heart, I've never gotten rid of his old ashtray by the bed. Gad, I'd hate having to get up and run to the sink each time.

Er, you mean, to... - Uh, you spit?

You are all woman! Seriously? You swallow every time? Damn, girl, she unfortunately is sounding very impressed.

"Um, my truck is still backing up. You have, like, his stuff in your mouth?!"

Oh! I get it! Little miss shaved porn star. I forgot. What? Face? Tits? She has the nerve to wiggle her hips at me with a little pelvic thrust forward to emphasize her crotch.

"What?! Fuck! Are you like insane or some sort of shit? Like letting him ejaculate on me? Holy fuck, no! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

So you swallow. Do you know... I mean... what... To you what does it... Uh, do you like the taste of it? I think it's sort of like...

La-la-la-la! I don't hear you! See? Fingers in my ears! and I squint my eyes shut for good measure.

You are so weird. It's okay if you like his taste. I mean, some guys it was really...

"They taste different? Wait! No! We are not having this second conversation while we're not done not having the first. In fact, that second conversation will never be finished. Because it will never be started. What the hell do you mean I have to swallow?" I can't keep the mild ring of panic out of my voice.

There's no other option for you, sweetie: you spit or you swallow after he ejaculates in your mouth during oral sex. Is that what you need me to do? Spell it all out?

That! There! What? Are you like twice as fucking insane as I thought you were? In your mouth?

Well, unless he's done something special; then if I don't swallow, I'll do the porn star on my tits thing. He gets seriously off on that.

Don't you just cover him in a towel? And just keep it there for a while as you cuddle and play? Then toss it in the laundry? I finally manage to just blurt out my technique, biting down the feeling that one of us falls outside the bell-curve of 'normal' sexual deviancy.

Wait. My turn: Back the truck up, she's looking at me in awe.

What?

You're that good? You can tell when he's going to, and you have enough time to grab a towel and smother his squirtin' little hosepipe?

No! Hell no! I'm too busy going 'la-la-la' in my head so I don't think about the fact that I have his penis in my mouth. He pulls my head back and I eventually get a clue, grab the towel before he blows a gasket - although it's funny watching him hold his breath and turn bright red all tensed up and waiting to, uh, 'spring' if you get my drift, I'm chuckling, waiting for her to now come clean and admit she finds the same thing amusing about her husband's pre-climax appearance.

Instead, a single eyebrow kinks up in consternation, Seriously? Never? He's never even 'oops' in your mouth? You know, like when they're all just freshly KYed all up and he 'accidentally' fucks you up the ass, saying, 'Oops'? Like that's an excuse for butt-fucking me before asking. So when he's 'oops' and slipped and he has done it in your mouth, you spit. See?

Er... yeah... no. Never. I desperately hope my playing on her own word style distracts her.

Never spit? So always swallow! Ha! Got you!

Instead, her previous topics catch up to me. Wow. Up your ass? And you've swallowed? And you've let him on your boobs? And you have the nerve to call me 'porn star'?

"Wait. You're trying to tell me: never? Ever? Like 'never ever, ever, never ever going to get back together again. Ever.' type never?"

I try to ignore the fact she's now returned the favor in playing off my own type phrases, because standing before me is an incredulous, shocked shitless woman.

I'm screwed. I just figured out who's living life outside the sexual bell-curve: Don't look at me like that!

"Fuck. I so have to give your husband a blow job."

... Yeah. That kind of conversation.

- - - -

Truth - Q&A Subjection J Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

Workplace Wondering

I thought Randy was seeing things, imagining them, or just not telling me the truth. That is until I notice it myself, and then I can't deny it - Janet was looking at my boobs.

I know my personal-fan-club hubby had always said I jiggled nicely when I went to get the mail at work in just my casual Friday T-shirt, but I barely notice it.

Today, though, I was in the office and had taken off my uniform top earlier to get all the laundry washed at once - and every time I went to talk to her, I could see her looking down at my chest. The undue attention was making the girls perk up, which seemed to only make them more of a magnet for her gaze.

Finally I can't take it any longer - I'm going to have to say something to find out what was wrong or if she was bothered by my free movement or just what was drawing her attention down so dramatically that it was making me conscious of it.

Of course, I can't figure out how to ask it smoothly, so on the spur of the moment, I decide I've probably changed in front of her in the past, so what the hell. And before I know it, I've lifted my shirt right in front of her.

Sorry, is there something wrong with them? You keep looking! You're making me self-conscious, I blurt out to her, my chest bouncing slightly with emphasis.

Oh. Oops, my bad - I just kept wanting to ask you, well; I mean... she's at a loss for words, but she also isn't about to look away, which shocks me. She's now freely staring at my naked chest - the cold and being out for inspection making my nipples even harder.

I tentatively put my shirt back down, breaking her trance.

Here! If it makes you feel any better, and she pulls up her own shirt, rolling her bra off her breasts - as she also responds to the coolness and, well, who knows what else.

I can't believe she just did it - that's when I realize I'm staring at her just as much. It's interesting watching someone else respond just like I did out in the cold, the curves and everything, even a few stretch marks from pregnancy.

Does that make up for it? For staring at you? she asks in a somewhat quiet voice.

You know you can look any time, I was just concerned I was offending you by not wearing a bra, I admit to her.

Not at all. I wish I was that confident I could go without.

So it doesn't bother you? I ask, amazed the world doesn't panic when it realizes I don't wear the social-mandated brassiere.

Not in the least. If it did, I'd tell you. I mean, I've even handled you before, sort of on accident, while working with you. It's just interesting to watch and wish I could pull it off, she gives a small laugh realizing what she'd just said.

Not even me lifting my shirt offended you?

Did my lifting mine offend you? she shoots back good-heartedly.

Why would it? I continue our line of questions used to answer questions.

I notice she still hadn't put hers back down again.

I'm packing too, you know, I continue my thought and lift my shirt back up once again.

So like two school girls, we stand there for a couple minutes just looking at each other, comparing, comforting each other with the after the results of pregnancy and breast feeding. We're obviously much more relaxed now around each other, neither of us standing at attention any longer.

Eventually everything gets put away, shirts tucked back in, and both of us more confident about our appearance. And to think, I was sure Randy with his bad habit of changing in the laundry area was going to be the one to accidentally flash everyone first.

- - - -

Truth - Table of Contents

- - - -

Job Jar Gone Wild

The things you find stuffed in old, random computer folders; in an unremarkable file, amid the detritus of our digital graveyard, I found an old Job Jar source file.

Of course, anyone can have a job jar, right? Heck, a good majority of the married men I know have them, or the equivalent that is their Honey Do list.

Before you yawn and claim you have one, too, Boring! Next story, please! I might beg to differ, because how many of your job jars include blow job as one of the tasks?

I know, sounds like your dream To Do list, huh? Well, for me, it was actually penned by my husband long before I knew that HSDS had a name - although it certainly had me.

We had been in a rut for quite some time - well-past the 'seven year itch' stage in marriage - and that other sexless rut, obviously since just before we got married. (Hey! Knock off with the trash talk and negative vibes, friend... even the Cubs call it a 'rut' (update 2016: oh, holy crap - you mean there really is hope?) and theirs is worse than my own - I have a long way to get past the century mark.)

Back then, he was still periodically trying to help me, thinking he just had to find the proper treatment for the clinical signs - screw diagnosis, he just wanted me fixed. I'm pretty sure my job jar came about during a significant rough patch, extending well beyond the bedroom, and possibly spurred by our new work friend, Janet, who had just got married and was always talking about their 'date nights' and what she would have on the plan (extravagant, even if inexpensive - her neat ideas took real planning) versus her husband's ideas which she later referred to as 'crap nights' instead of 'date nights' ("Seriously? If I want a can of chili opened and slapped on some chips to sit in front of the TV, I could do it myself. Oh, wait! I did