Her mind spinning with all the possibilities that might come from this. He looked down upon his lover with loving eyes. Just the sight of her made him wanting for nothing else. He lay down besides her… Her arms moving to try and embrace him. But not yet, this was not his time for pleasure, but hers. A single rose was held in his right hand… the petals slowly dragged across her flesh. Running over her cheeks. Her nose allowing her to smell the sweet sensations with in it. The rose danced across her body. Brushing over her sensitive nipples before moving across her damp exposed sex. Everything he did to her brought both moans of pleasure and whimpers of excitement to produce out. Her mind not knowing what to do with such a tease. Soon the rose was discarded… he stood onto his feet moving to the dresser… gathering that of the next three items. She gasped at the new smells and sensations. Perfume with in her lover’s hands stroked down her thighs, over her breasts and her feet. Rubbing. “Who’s that?” I asked, handing it to him.He didn’t reply. He went out the room to answer the call and shut the door firmly behind himself.*Everyone from our office was huddled together at Reception on the fourth floor, consoling one another and frantically calling loved ones. We drank tea. Hot, strong tea. A never-ending supply. The television played on the wall behind the reception desk, the screen pouring out news, amateur footage and expert opinions.Reports said that there must have been dozens of suicide bombers. An organised attack. A tight-knit terrorist network. Externally orchestrated and horrendously executed. People made speeches. Celebrities cried. Politicians cried. There were emergency government meetings. World leaders expressed their condolences. #CommunicateNotHate. And the flipside. People to blame. Agendas and division.It struck me that similar tragedies were almost routine for some countries. But other people are too far away to care about. Images on television.
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