The Blooming Season

I stare down at Wallflower and grin. Damn, I love the way she nervously licks at her lower lip. I love her silent defiance of me. She tries to look away, but with gentle pressure on the grip of the whip against her chin. I refuse to allow it. I could break all of my rules in the taming of her. If I can manage to convince her that this is where she belongs. I know there will be no boundary left uncrossed. The idea of it has great appeal, such freedom, freeing myself in the process of freeing her. "Welcome to my world, Wallflower," I say and I find that I mean it.

Keeping a tight grip on the coiled whip, forcing her head to remain tilted up and her eyes locked on mine, I reach with the fingers of my free hand and wind them through her hair. The strands are soft and silky against my palm. The stage lights shimmer off the silvery locks interwoven in her natural deep brown tresses transforming them into an array of colors. I'm far gentler with her than I have been with many others. Tightening my fist, I trap her head by the roots of her hair giving her no means of escape.

My primary concern is for her safety. Wallflower doesn't fight me, but eases into my careful grip. I won't take her into places she's not prepared to go. Not publicly at any rate. My world is uncharted territory for her and best left explored in private. Her lips part and despite the bright lights of the stage her pupils dilate. She wants this. Perhaps, needs this as badly as I do.

Maintaining my grip, I guide her across the stage by the hair. She crawls on her hands and knees in utter and absolute submission and it's almost my undoing. To the audience I tout the proper technique for this type of maneuver, for leading a submissive by the hair safely and without real harm. But, there's a deeper meaning behind my actions. I want Wallflower to feel my power and mastery over her and to acknowledge it for what it is. My hold is firm, but not tight enough to damage one lock of her hair. I want Wallflower compliant. I want her to twitch with anticipation over what may come next. I want her to know that she's mine and under my control.

There's as fine of a line between hurt and harm as there is between pleasure and pain. Oh, I want to hurt Wallflower. I want her writhing with pleasure from the pain I deliver in whatever means I choose. Pleasure is a happy memory and pain is a terrifying one not soon forgotten. Harm is different. I've been hurt. I've been pleasured by pain. I've also been deeply harmed by someone I thought I could trust.

Hurting is temporary, superficial, and goes only surface deep. Bruises heal. The reddened stripes of a carefully mastered whip or flogger fade with time. Harm goes deeper. Harm doesn't heal with time or fade like a bruise. Harm lasts forever. Harm can break a person. And I never, ever want Wallflower harmed by anyone especially not by me.

"Are you doing ok?" I whisper. The din of so many people standing so closely together prevents anyone but her from hearing my question. I speak into the shell of her ear. My words are meant for her alone. Wallflower nods. It's a hesitant, shy nod, but certain enough. My breath tickles the curve of her neck and raises goose bumps over her skin. I decide to push her just a little further. I try to steer her toward the cross, but she stiffens in my grip and begins to resist. Immediately, I cover her response and the crowd of eager onlookers is none the wiser. I release her hair and gently help her down over the lip of the stage.

There are too many hands eagerly waving in the audience. Apparently, everyone wants a turn under my whip. I watch Wallflower from the stage. The blonde bombards her with questions. Wallflower ignores her and melts into the crowd. Perhaps, I pushed her too far too fast. Perhaps, I was too lenient.

I must make sure she is ok. I cut my presentation short, take a bow, and thank everyone for attending our party before disappearing behind the curtain. Ginger is quick to cover and fills the empty space I left behind. She talks about her experience as a submissive, but it's a story I've heard before.

What happened between Wallflower and I was private and I'm in need of solitude before confronting the masses again. She touched me in ways I can't begin to process. Something inside of me was awakened and I fear it's a beast that will devour us both.

I watch Wallflower disappear through the doors leading into the courtyard. In the summertime the gardens are impressive and lush. In winter, they're cold and desolate. I'm immediately concerned that her dress is too thin and her shoes too flimsy for the ice and snow coating the paths. I allow her a few minutes of privacy and stop by my private office to grab my beat up leather bomber jacket off the coat rack before heading outside behind her. I mean to keep my distance. Make sure she doesn't stay out too long or slip and fall. She needs space to process what happened. I'm wiling to give her a few minutes alone.

It is cold and the wind howls over the masonry walls of the courtyard intended to block out the outside world. I'm powerless against this woman and instead of staying away as I intended. I'm walking toward her and draping my jacket over her narrow shoulders.

Perhaps, Wallflower isn't the only one with wants she'd rather not confront. I want her. But much like she doesn't want to want me. I don't want to want her either. I was open and vulnerable once and I never want to feel that way again. I never want to be so out of control as I was then. People obey me. I bend them to my will. I don't bend to theirs. I'll have to see how far I can bend Wallflower without breaking her, because I won't let her bend and certainly never break me.

Wallflower

If Master Dane hadn't had a firm grip on my upper arm I would have fallen over the lip of the stage instead of stumbling into the audience in my haste to escape him. The world is full of haters and right now a majority of them are right here in this crowd giving me a jealous eye for earning the rare privilege of being tutored by him. I'm blushing and shuddering, trying to pull myself back together from the unraveling experience.

Dane, I refuse to call him or anybody else Master anything. For a skilled master of pain he wasn't what I expected. Or rather, I should say. His touch and concern wasn't what I expected. His hands were incredibly careful with me to be reputed for such cruelty.

In asking me if I was ok, it was like he was requesting my permission to go on with his demonstration. I could have said no and ended the whole thing. Perhaps, I was trying to save face in front of the audience. I did balk at the idea of being shackled to the cross, but I didn't have to say a word of protest. He was amazingly intuitive and sensed my reluctance. He covered for me with skill and grace allowing me to maintain my brave front. Maybe his caution was part of the act and behind closed doors he isn't nearly as careful. I don't know and I'll never find out.

Other than my hair being a little mussed and a small runner in my pantyhose I'm otherwise unscathed. My cheeks will cool eventually and everything will be as if it never happened. There is one thing that will take time though. Something I'm not ready to admit even to myself. Possibilities I don't want to explore. Dropping to my knees at a man's feet and crawling on all fours as he led me by my hair should have been the most humiliating thing I've ever done. But, I wasn't humiliated. I liked it more than I want to admit.

"You lucky bitch!" Cassandra shrieks enthusiastically into my ear. "Tell me, what was it like? Oh my god! I would have killed to take your place!" She is in my face, shouting to be heard over the din of the crowd. The bodies crowded around the stage press in on me. I'm slowly edging toward panic and have to get out of this place. I need some air. I turn and ignore her, rudely shouldering my way free of the mass of people in my haste to be away from everything and everyone.

Cassandra is so enraptured by the speaker on the stage she doesn't notice that I'm gone. There are still plenty of people meandering their way along the display booths and overflowing into the walkways that there is no clear path to the coat check. I need out of here now. I spot an exit sign toward the back of the room and bolt for it.

I don't have my coat and I don't care. If nothing else maybe I can walk around the outside of the building and come back in the front way to grab my things from the coat check. I'm plotting my escape and barreling rudely through the tide of people. I am like electricity, taking the path of least resistance in my urgency to be out of here.

I can't leave Cassandra here, but I can't stay either. My plan is to take in a few breaths of fresh air and collect myself, find Cassandra and beg her to leave. Get the hell out of this place for good.

I don't know how I'm going to coax Cassandra into leaving early. She's a night owl and for her the evening is just getting started. I'm ready to call it quits. If she won't go, I'll plea a headache and make sure she has her ticket for the coat check. There's a coffee shop across the street. I can wait for her there until she's had her fill. If it gets too ungodly late, though I don't want to leaver her behind. I will. I have enough spare cash on me to take a cab home. I always make sure before getting into something I have a way out.

I hit the panic bar on the door with my full weight and it pops open. It isn't odd that it's called a panic bar considering that's what I'm doing right now. In fact, I find it rather fitting. Frosty air slaps me in the face and the door closes behind me with a loud bang shutting out the nose and the people. I'm in a courtyard winter barren and dormant. It's freezing and I wish I had taken the time to get my coat first, but I just wanted out of that place.

The cold air does its job. My heated cheeks cool and I begin to shiver. The thin dress offers little protection from the elements and my spiked heels aren't really meant for walking through snow. Smokers must come out here to indulge because I see cigarette butts dotting the ground here and there and a bare spot on a bench where some brave soul must have brushed away the snow and taken a seat.

I pick my way carefully along the brick walkway. My heels crunch bits of rock salt beneath them with each step. I hear the thumping bass music from inside out here, but there's a calmness and peace to this place that the chaos inside can't taint. I bet in the summertime the courtyard is lovely. It's lovely now, blanketed by snow, but I'm too cold to enjoy it.

The masonry walls are high and block out the world beyond them. Bits of snow carried by gusts of wind sprinkle down to the ground from the high slate roof of the old church. The path I walk ends at the center of the courtyard. A statue of the Virgin Mary occupies the space. I envy her. She seems so serene, sure of herself, and of her place in the world. But of course, it is fitting that she would. She's made of stone. Her arms open to welcome the weary. Snow clings to the hollows of the statue and a bit of ice dangles off the end of her nose. I'm not Catholic, a believer in God, for certain, but I don't subscribe to any sort of denomination. But, I find myself tempted to wipe away the ice and snow.

I'm an instinctive caregiver and not even a statue is exempt from my need to make things right. I don't want to think about Dane. I'd rather stand out here in the cold and brush snow off a stone statue than consider him for one more second. I can't confront the things I felt crawling after him like some desperate pet in need of her master's touch. I won't admit to the feelings boiling inside of me. That I enjoyed something as outwardly demeaning as being dragged around by my hair or that even now, I'm so easily aroused by the memory of it. I'm not that person. I can't be.

My fingertips are numb from brushing the snow off the Virgin's marble cheeks. It's ironic that a statue intended to represent absolute purity should end up here in possibly the most impure place in the entire city. Behind me the door opens and gently closes. I'm too lost in my thoughts and distracted by the cold to pay it much attention. I assume someone is probably sneaking out for a quick smoke and nothing more.

I'm working at chipping the ice off the tip of her nose with the end of a fingernail when I'm startled by the sudden weight and warmth of a jacket draped over my shoulders. The jacket is heavy and smells of leather and man. I know automatically whom it belongs to and I am not surprised when I look up to meet his eyes.

I'm immediately shrugging myself out of the jacket with the intention of returning it. It's cold and he must be freezing in the thin silk shirt. Dane grips the collar of the jacket and is relentless in his insistence that I need it more than he does. A sudden gust of wind and shower of icy pellets of frozen snow blowing from the roof tempts me to agree. "I was just getting ready to go inside," I mumble to excuse myself. Dane moves to block the wind, but unfortunately unless I want to tromp through the snow. He also blocks the path.

"Trying to get away from me again, Wallflower?" This close, without the glare of the stage lights blinding me, I can see him clearly. Dane truly is an attractive man. His jaw looks as if it was chiseled from the same marble as the statue. I thought his mouth was cruel, but it's not. His lips curve in humor. I suppose its some comfort to know a sadistic master can smile at all. The snow melting in his salt and pepper hair and on the ends of his impossibly long lashes glitters like diamonds in the dim glow of the path lights and streetlights beyond the wall. His long artful fingers rest on the collar drawing it tightly closed around my neck. My frozen limbs begin to thaw beneath the shelter of his jacket, but the warmth isn't welcome.

"My name isn't Wallflower," I hiss. If the cold is affecting him, he shows no outward sign of it. Dane stands with his back to the wind, towering over me and sheltering me from the blast with his broad shoulders. I'm an average height, maybe just a hair short, for a woman, and it's discerning to have to tilt my head to look up to meet him in the eye. His eyes see far too much as it is. They're dark. The true color is impossible to tell in the dimness. But they can see right through me.

"Well, it suits you and Wallflower it will be until you give me a better one to use."

I raise my brow in challenge to his proclamation. I'm shy. I don't like crowds. At this point, I don't really like him either beyond the general eye candy of his appearance. Dane is too confident. Too sure of his place in this world and too used to getting his way. Unfortunately, unless I want us both to freeze to death, I'll have to tell him my name. Hell, a name is just a name. It's on my work ID badge. It's dangling from my key chain. I've told complete strangers my name and I don't see how he's any different from them since, after all, we are strangers. "Amy."

Dane nods and shoots me a toe curling grin of sheer triumph. "See, Amy, that wasn't so difficult was it?" He works the jacket tighter around my shoulders until without my realizing it, I've got my arms in the sleeves and I'm zipped up nice and tight. "Short for Amelia?" he asks.

"No."

"Just plain Amy then?"

"No." I'm reluctant to give Dane this last piece of my identity. I've been an Amy for as long as I can remember, but it isn't my legal name. I don't want to admit that he wasn't too far off in naming me after a flower, even if it isn't a real flower. He arches his brows and stares me down. I can feel his eyes boring into me willing the truth out of me. "Amaryllis. My mom was a hippie," I mumble.

His cool fingertips skate along my jaw and remove the snow dampened tendrils of hair clinging to my cheek. "Well, Amaryllis...Amy, if I'm not mistaken, it's time for you to bloom."

It's true. Amaryllis bulbs do bloom in wintertime. They are a popular Christmas gift, as far as inexpensive, impersonal presents for grab bags and office parties go. Most people though don't have the patience to water a pot of dirt wait for the bulbs to bloom and end up tossing them into the trash or regifting them to somebody else. It's a bit sad to think about, all those bulbs, my namesake, unappreciated and forgotten wasting away in a landfill somewhere.

I turn my cheek away from his exploring touch. I'd rather he forget about me. I don't want to bloom under his particular brand of tender care. If I've blossomed at all, it was a long time ago and the bloom is well faded.

"Tell me something personal, Amaryllis," he whispers so low I can barely hear him over the howl of the wind. "Have you ever bloomed? Have you felt the way I made you feel before? I know you felt it. No more hiding in the shadows, Wallflower. Come into the light. Be who you truly are. Bloom for me."

Dane's questions hit home. I find myself wanting to bloom for him. I've been trapped in a pot of dirt, buried beneath the soil for too long. I also can identify with the rejected bulbs tossed away into the trash. I know what it's like to be unwanted. I'm shivering again despite the warmth of his jacket. "You were named after the Viking conquerors. You think you can conquer me?"

"I know I can," he answers confidently.

"I'm not just another conquest to be won." I'm angry and defiant. I despise his self assured confidence. He thinks he can make any woman grovel at his feet and maybe he can, most women anyway. But, I've spent the last twenty-five years groveling to make a man happy and after, in the final death throes of my failing marriage, begging him to stay. I won't do it again.

"Are you married? Divorced? With someone?"

"No, no, and no."

He nods as if my answers have slid the last pieces of a puzzle into place for him. "Have you ever truly made love, Wallflower? Lost yourself in the abandon of a man's touch. Have you ever given up that much control? What you felt tonight is just a taste of how freeing my world can be."

My jaw is clenched in outrage at his assumption. I vehemently want to deny that he made me feel anything. My fingers clumsily pull at the zipper of his jacket. I want out of the coat and out of this conversation. Dane sees me too well for my liking. I've never had the kind of connection he all but promises me with anyone. Sure, I've had sex, good sex, but nothing remotely close to the level he's talking about. His questions leave me raw and exposed and I want no part of it.

I paid attention during his demonstration on stage. It may have been because his presence was so overwhelming and brokered no other option. Dane might see through me, but he also exposed the core of himself to plain view as well. In a world without limits, he has plenty of them. I peel off the coat and wrench the weathered leather in my clenched fists. I hold up my head and square my shoulders, thrusting out my jaw in determination. "Chingale."

Dane throws back his head and the hearty sound of his laughter echoes off the stone walls breaking the silence of the courtyard and carrying over the soft thumping bass of the party. "Is that your safe word? Chingale? Street Spanish for fuck it? Oh, Wallflower, I can see you beginning to bloom already."

He catches the coat, reaching out with one had as I throw it at him with all the force I can muster. I'm storming off, once again taking the path of least resistance, stomping through the snow. His resounding chuckles burn my ears. "I'll see you soon," he calls after me.

I pause at the door. Like hell he will. I glare over my shoulder at him as he shrugs into his jacket and inhales the lingering traces of my perfume on the collar. At this point, I'd like to exercise my sadistic side on him in the form of whips and chains and no small amount of pain. "Chingale!" I shout over the howling winds and thumping bass. His responding chuckle is low and so much like fingers stroking over bare flesh.