a fragrant tale of pleasure & pain:
she received a gorgeous bouquet of roses, two dozen in fact, delivered to her doorstep that snowy winter’s day.
what a welcome relief they were. respite from the cold and grey of a new york winter.
they were accompanied by a letter, matte black with gold words. ’ it’s all about you ’ written on the envelope.
‘pet ‘, the letter began, ’ i am so far away but need to feel you. my instructions are simple, please comply, when you’ve finished your task, you will come to know why.’
she held the mass of flowers and inhaled deeply. the gorgeous rose scent, heady and permeating her apartment.
she drew a bath and luxuirated in its relaxing warmth, as she watched from her windows, the snow falling outside.
if only he were here she thought.
slipping into her dressing gown, she lay down on top of her bed, holding the black letter with golden words. ‘you are to find the rose which is most tightly closed almost budlike. slowly rub your wet clit with it. as the petals crush, the fragrance will envelop you. you are not to cum.
you may again find another rose and start again.
are you close to coming? all wet and throbbing? just on the edge of that female waterfall, the one your body tumbles into?
now take the stem of the rose, find a thorn and pierce the hood of your clit with it. just one tiny drop of blood. the same red as the roses.
now you may cum.
pleasure & pain, pet.
one can only find pleasure, through pain.
the next day at her doorstep was a ribboned white box.
upon opening it she saw one red rose fully in bloom.
the letter accompanying it, black stationery with gold words simply held one quote:
‘and the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.’
she was never quite the same since.
to this day, she cannot pass a flower stand without bending over to touch and inhale the scent of roses.