Rosalyn awoke, not to white light, but rather to luscious crimson hues, rippling like satin and silk, awakening every sense.
She found herself wonderfully nude and walking through a forest of vermilion drapes that seemed to go on forever. Shivering in delight as she brushed up against them, she reveled in the scent that lingered on her smooth young skin as she passed through. A scent that was at once familiar and yet foreign, somehow – as if it were the perfected version of a scent with which she only had a passing acquaintance.
“Look at you,” a strong voice sighed, then growled like a randy wolf.
Rosalyn sighed and blushed a beautiful shade of carmine in involuntary response. She then turned toward the voice and there, on a bed billowing with blooming scarlet sheets, was her Henry, looking as young, virile and handsome as the day she’d met him forty-seven years ago.
But Henry had been dead these past nine years. Then that could only mean…
“Am I…” she stammered. “Is this…”
“Roses,” Henry smiled, putting a finger to his lips and beckoning her to join him in bed, “I always promised you roses.”
These photos are used with kind permission and at the request of the equally as lovely Anette Hermann from her series entitled “Eight days with roses”
Suffice to say that they are not to be reproduced or re-used without her permission, though I’m sure she’d be delighted if you discovered her blog, which is just beautiful, darlings.