Every intimate story holds two truths.

Find the her perspective at the end.

The Dance Of Distance

It was our third night together.

The first night, she slept on the daybed. We did a little pillow talk before she headed to her room — just enough to feel close, but with care to not push intimacy too soon. A quiet test — to show that I could hold space without needing anything in return.

The second night, we realized we both hadn’t slept well. I offered a shift: “Maybe we’re too far away. Too much space. Want to try the same bed?”

With the note that either of us could return to the daybed at any moment.

She said yes.

That was the first night we kissed.

Nothing rushed. Just softness. Warm skin. Stillness.

Trust beginning to take root.

Then came the third night.

She’d fallen asleep on the daybed again, wanting a little space to write. I went to bed, uncertain if she’d return. I took off my underwear — the previous nights I kept it on, but this time I thought, “If she’s not here, I might as well sleep the way I usually do.”

So I settled in, open to however the night might unfold .

But then I heard her wake up… and coming over.

She slid into bed next to me, and I turned gently toward her.

Our familiar rhythm resumed — hands brushing in the dark, that quiet electricity.

She felt my arousal against her leg. She reached down slowly, her hand soft.

No urgency. Just exploration.

I moaned quietly. Let her play.

We drifted off like that — touching, feeling, learning the language of each other’s skin.

When we woke up, I felt that now, having gotten closer, maybe we didn’t need underwear anymore.

I said, “I want this pussy to breathe. To be unconstrained.”

And I gently pulled down her panties.

She welcomed it.

The Flower Unfolds

Now we are both naked under the sheet.

I start with presence — just resting my hand gently on the lower part of her belly.

A simple hello.

I know the female body — especially the pussy — needs time to open, to trust.

It’s a flower. You never force a flower to bloom.

Especially with a new person. It’s always about building trust first.

She never knows what to expect.

How attentive of a lover will he be?

Here, attention and patience are key.

I cup her softly. Feel her warmth.

She isn’t open yet, and I don’t want her to be. Not before she’s ready.

That’s part of the beauty.

So I hold her and wait.

Let her feel my hand not as a request, but as a resting place.

Then I go under the blanket, slowly.

It’s the first time I really see her.

Her pussy — so uniquely hers.

She is tall, authentic, noticeable… and I thought her pussy was a beautiful reflection of

her essence— distinct and pronounced.

Outer lips that frame, not hide.

Inner lips like thick folded petals. A third fold — secret invitation.

A gradient from dusky pink to vibrant rose.

Closed… but curious.

I kiss her slowly, taking in the details, listening to her response.

I start massaging her outer lips lightly.

Squeezing. Pulling gently to the sides. Awakening the senses.

No pressure. Just invitation.

I moisten her with my breath, my tongue.

Move to the inner petals. Slide towards them.

Massage. Unfold. Open gently to the left, to the right.

There it is — that deep, rich pink.

The kind of beauty that makes you quiet.

I feel calm and excited at the same time.

I know this won’t be anything wild. Not today.

This is exploration. The first meeting.

Her pussy seeing me. Me seeing her.

If I build trust and bond with her, there will be many more encounters.

No need to rush.

The Pulse Beneath Stillness

Now that the initial trust is there, I want to show her a glimpse —

A sample of the pleasure that waits on the other side of connection.

So I gently lift the skin above her clit.

Just enough to reveal the gem beneath.

I place my tongue there.

Still. Present.

No movement. Just pressure. Quiet attention.

At the same time, I rest one finger at her entrance.

Not inside. Just at the door.

I listen.

Her breath deepens.

I feel it — that subtle, electric pulse through my tongue.

Haptic. Alive. She begins to moan softly.

I stay.

No rush.

I move my tongue, and my finger, very, very slowly.

Searching for the places where electricity hums between us.

She moans again.

I feel her beginning to receive pleasure.

Not performative.

Cellular.

The Sacred Pause

And then — we stop.

Not because it’s over.

But because it’s enough. For now.

I pull her close.

Hold her.

We talk.

She tells me how in the past, most men rushed.

Didn’t ask. Didn’t listen.

That this… felt different.

To be seen. Held. Honored.

She cries.

And I tell her: her tears are sacred.

That witnessing real, raw emotion like that…

Is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever known.

That day, we realized this social experiment was "hacking" something: intimacy. This feels valuable, potent and calling to find forms to be shared. So, we declared the entrepreneurial intention and named the project: Fruit & Flowers.

Every intimate story holds two truths

This was his.

Read her perspective here

New York, June 1, 2025

Two Perspectives by Fruit & Flowers