When a dapper dominant enters her shop, Daphne realizes she’s found the man who will make her fantasies blossom.

People always think it’s ironic that a girl like me works at a flower store. I’m the least romantic chick you could find. Usually, 12 long-stems do nothing to make my heart beat faster. I prefer dark clubs to romantic restaurants and leather to the proverbial lace.

That doesn’t mean I’m not successful at my job. The reason I took the position in the first place is that I have a knack for creating beautifully original arrangements, and I do enjoy providing customers with exactly what they want — sometimes even before they realize it themselves. I consider myself an artist. One who works with petals.

Over the years, I’ve developed a sixth sense for what will thrill my customers. My favorite game is to match the flower to a new buyer. Whenever the glass doors to the small shop swing open, I test myself. I’ll look at an incoming woman and think: She’ll like mums and daffodils, with a sprig of Queen Anne lace — the latter being a much prettier name than “wild carrot.” Or I’ll see a hipster and know he’s going to fall for the bachelor’s buttons in blue, paired with bright red peonies. I’m rarely wrong. It’s a gift.

I’ll bet if you lined up 10 customers, I could correctly match the right flowers to each person.

When store traffic slows to a trickle, I water the potted plants and prune their hanging tendrils as my coworker, Cheryl, quizzes me about each person who walks past. On Friday morning, I sold some daisies — a birthday bouquet — but then the shop was quiet for a good, long while. That’s when Cheryl started in.

“How about him?” Cheryl asked. “What would he choose?”

I immediately recognized the man slowing in front of the store. He’d walked by quite a bit recently but had never entered. He and I often made eye contact through the glass, and I was curious if we had a real connection — or if he was simply pausing to admire the blooms on display.

But on this day he entered, and my breath caught in my throat. He moved through the shop’s selections with a seriously dominant air. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and expensive-looking loafers. As he took in our inventory, I played my mental game. Is he a hothouse orchid fan, or does he prefer elegant lilies? I’ll admit, for the first time ever, I was stumped.

There was something about his attitude that made me stand a little straighter as he fingered one of the fern fronds. Perhaps it was the inky blackness to his eyes or the clean line of his chiseled jaw. I chided myself mentally for developing a soft spot for someone who looked like the hero in a romance novel when I usually go for rebellious bad-boy types in leather.

No, there was something else about him. Something special. An essence to the way he moved around the store as if he was in total control. As surreal as it sounds, I felt I could have been working for him or — more honestly — serving him. That thought made my pussy crazy wet. I had to get myself together. I focused on the items he was admiring. I almost approached him. I could hear my voice in my head asking if he would be interested in one of our potted peace lilies or perhaps a spider plant. But then he stopped, clearly finding what he was after.

“He dragged the rose over my pussy. I had no doubt I made the petals wet.”

I should have known. He was going for the gold: the top-of-the-line blood-red roses.

“Two dozen,” he said. I gave Cheryl a look that told her he was mine. I hurried to help him as she conveniently disappeared.

To know me is to know I speak my mind. I don’t pussyfoot. Yet I found myself stammering as I spoke while I wrapped his blossoms in paper and ribbon. I wished I could have come up with a clever comment or two, but truthfully, my tongue failed me.

But it didn’t matter how I behaved. He was buying roses for someone else. Some other woman who didn’t know how lucky she was. I needed to keep my fantasies in check. That didn’t seem to work, however. In my mind, I was on my knees in front of him, with my head bowed as he buckled a collar into place and told me to behave — which is why I was caught off-guard when he handed the flowers back to me.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked, confused.

“I don’t know,” he said, his dark eyes flashing at me. “Did you?”

There was another pause, and then he leaned in even closer and murmured, “The question actually is: Would you like to? Does doing the wrong thing turn you on?”

Holy fuck. Had he said those words out loud? Or had I imagined the flirty dialogue to go with my X-rated fantasies? I cast wild glances around the store. Cheryl was outside fixing the specials on our sidewalk board, staying at a respectful distance.

He and I stood in silence for a moment, appraising each other. I tilted my head and then replied, “I mean” — I swallowed my nerves — “is there a problem with your order?”

“No,” he said, “I’m perfect at ordering. How are you at following commands?”

That’s when I understood he was trying to pick me up. My cheeks grew hot, and I feared I’d turned darker than the petals of the blossoms he’d bought. I said in a husky whisper, “Very good, Sir.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” He paused then added, “Now, that we’ve planted the idea…”

We exchanged names and made a plan for him to pick me up after work. But before he left, he gave me my first assignment. He wanted me to have a safeword by the time I clocked out. Then he leaned across the counter, and he said, “And don’t go touching yourself while you imagine what I’m going to do to you tonight.”

He left without looking back. I stood there, as still as a statue, until I could safely catch my breath once more.

For the rest of the day, I thought up different possible words. I know a safeword can simply be a word. Like “aardvark” or “artichoke.” But it can also represent who you are as a person. I arranged carnations and changed the water in the hydrangeas, but I was no longer paying attention to my current surroundings. I’ve been with dominant men before. I understand the drill, but this situation felt different. This man had drenched my knickers with the way he’d simply stared at me. I wanted to give him something perfect. Something that let him know I was thoughtful.

I wrote myself a list on the pad by the cash register: tendril, stamen, petal, pollen, flora.

But every time I thought of a word, I thought of him doing something deliciously kinky to me. Then my brain would cloud over with the fantasy — perhaps of him cuffing my wrists over my head, or cutting my panties off me, or binding me to a bed with his own ties, like the black one he’d been wearing with his dark gray suit. One fantasy tripped into another until I found myself having to take a break in the back room, locking the door behind me so I could paw at myself.

Would he guess how sensitive my nipples are? Would he know I like the bite of cuffs on my wrists? I rubbed my clit through my panties, almost making myself climax before stopping suddenly.

He’d know. I was breaking his rules already, challenging him for no reason.

Well, it wasn’t for no reason entirely. My pussy was aching. I was so turned on I could hardly withstand the distraction. I didn’t think I could finish my workday, teetering on the brink of climax as I was. Besides, how could it hurt? He didn’t know my tells yet. He couldn’t possibly guess I’d made myself come in the back room.

He just would. He’d know the way I know what flowers someone is going to like. He’d figure it out because he was a true dominant male. He expected me to wait for him.

So I did.

I returned to the counter, and I doodled different words in fancy cursive on my notepad, then I drew a line through each one. I was in such a heightened state of erotic anticipation I hoped I wouldn’t simply throw myself at his mercy when he came back. I could see that image, too: me on my knees directly in front of him, my hands feverishly working the buckle of his belt, my eyes huge and ravenous.

When he walked through the door right at five, he waited — and I knew what for.

“Thorns,” I said without hesitation, not giving a fig what Cheryl might think of the oddness of the conversation. It had been months since I’d been with a true dominant. My last relationship had been bittersweet. Intense sex, but no emotional connection. This man was sending spangles of desire shooting through my body, and he hadn’t even touched me yet. But, oh, did I ever want him to do that.

“Thorns,” he repeated, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips, a crinkling around the corners of his eyes as if he was pleased with me. “That will work.”

There was no question about what we were going to do next. No need to sit through a dinner. No small talk required. I said good-bye to Cheryl, knowing she would grill me the next day about my evening’s adventure.

“He rubbed my clit with his fingers as he continued to thrust inside me.”

At his place, he set my flowers in a vase. (I’d brought the bouquet along with me.)

Then he walked around me, checking me out from all angles. “So you’re sexually submissive,” he said.

I nodded before quickly responded, “Yes, Sir.”

“And you live to serve in the bedroom, but you’re a bit of a rebel. Not a little mousy girl. But a woman with a strong core who simply gets off on being put in her place.”

He was eyeing my knee-high boots, patterned stockings and short skirt. I wondered if he’d made that judgment based on my attire alone.

I used the time to appraise him right back.

“You’re a Type-A,” I said, thinking of how he’d insisted on picking out the flowers one by one. “And you like a girl with an edge. Not a pushover or a marshmallow.”

“A rose with thorns.”

And that’s how we started.

“We’ll go slow,” he continued, “until we know each other better.”

That sounded like a plan, but I didn’t know if I could manage it. I didn’t want slow. I wanted fast and hot and feral. He was chilly in the face of my inferno. Perhaps his icy
quality would cool me down. We’d have to wait and see.

He undressed me and told me if I followed his rules, I would be rewarded. If I failed him, I’d be punished. Punishment may sometimes feel like a reward, but I should have faith in him. He knew what he was doing. Then he proved just that. He took me to his bedroom, and I saw he had leather cuffs attached to the four corners of the bed, and on the nightstand was a collection of paddles and crops. I sucked in my breath. Then I was on my knees, and he’d unfastened his slacks so I could suck his cock.

“Lips and tongue only,” he said.

I obeyed, keeping my hands behind my back and quickly getting accustomed to the way his rod felt in my mouth. I was making love to his dick with my tongue, and I could feel my pussy getting wetter. I’d been aroused since he’d walked into the flower store. But by this point, I was positively dripping.

When he was ready to take our encounter to the next level, he pulled his cock from my lips and brought me to the bed, gently binding me in place. The leather against my wrists was soft. Next, came the ankle cuffs. These were thick and lined. Soon as he’d affixed them, I found myself in an “X” position.

Would he mark my spot?

Then he dangled a blindfold in front of me.

“Yes,” I said quickly, nodding. “Yes, Sir.”

I was blindfolded and bound, and then I felt something velvety running along my belly. He’d brought one of the roses into the bedroom. Its heady scent perfumed the air.

“I saw you,” he said, and I wished I could look into his eyes, but the blindfold kept me in darkness. He dragged the rose over my naked pussy. I had no doubt I made the petals wet. There were no thorns on these stems. I had double checked myself before selling him the bouquet. Any spark of pain I received was going to be from him.

“Are you ready?” he asked. He was close to me. So close. Was he still dressed — or was he naked, too?

I wondered what he meant just as I felt something cold against me. Was it a chain? Then I felt the telltale metallic chill against my left nipple. It was a clamp. I love nipple clamps. “Yes, Sir,” I said breathlessly. The words sounded so right on my lips.

He attached the clamps and then gave the chain between them a quick tug. It felt as if he’d actually flicked a fingertip against my clit. My entire being was pulsing with electric energy.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “Whenever I walk past your store. You always have a way of moving, cat-like, and a way of looking up through your bangs. Very sexy…but also very submissive. And I thought we might connect well.”

His body pressed against mine, warm and hard. He was indeed naked, and he let me feel his erect cock pressing against my thigh. I sucked in my breath. I already knew he was hung from having had him in my mouth, and as he drew closer I realized I was in for quite a treat.

“When I see a girl, I try to imagine what she might be into, sexually,” he said.

Like me and the flowers, I thought, feeling excited. Me and the flowers, but kinkier. I tried to tell him that. I said, “I do the same thing…”

“You see a man and wonder what he’s like in bed?”

As he spoke, he moved directly over me, so I could feel his cock glide between my pussy lips, before he stimulated my clit with the head. I was finding it increasingly difficult to think, but I did my best.

“No, I see a man — or a woman — ”

“Dirty girl.”

I blushed. “And I think about what flowers or plants they might like.”

“What did you think when you saw me?”

I felt my blush deepen.

“Truthfully, you confused me,” I said. “I wasn’t sure. I thought…”

He started to push his cock into me, slowly, achingly slowly. My whole body was on high alert. I wanted him to move fast, but he seemed determined to take his time.

“I confused you,” he prompted, tugging on the chain between my nipples and making me catch my breath. He was still confusing me, and he seemed determined to keep doing so.

“I thought you might be looking for a plant,” I said.

I let out a gasp as his cock plunged deep and then slid back out of me at an agonizing pace.

“Long-term,” he said, fucking me steadily. “Something to care for. To grow. That’s about right. The roses were simply meant to get your attention.”

“You did,” I said, my words trailing off as I savored the sensation of his cock plunging in and out of my dripping snatch and his thumb teasing my clit.

Suddenly, I remembered how I’d touched myself in the back room. I wondered if he’d be able to guess that I’d disobeyed him.

As if he’d had the same thought I did — at the same moment it had occurred to me — he pulled away from me and I felt his nose tickling my fingertips.

I flinched guiltily, even though there was no way my scent could have remained on my fingers after so many hours.

He laughed at my reaction, and I knew right then that I’d given myself away.

“You did touch yourself.”

“Yes,” I told him, “but I didn’t finish.”

“What do you mean, ‘finish?’”

“I was so turned on I couldn’t help myself. I mean, I couldn’t at first. I went to the backroom, and I started to play with myself while thinking of safewords and how you might react to each one.”

I paused for a breath. I wondered if he was upset I’d disobeyed his first direct order. I wanted him to understand.

“So I did start to stroke my pussy,” I admitted.

“I like the way you say ‘pussy.’”

I smiled, wondering if he was even paying attention to my story, or if he was simply focused on the way I said different dirty words. I decided to find out.

“I imagined you tying me down. Spanking me. Fucking me.”

“I like the way you say ‘fucking.’”

I giggled — and I’m not the giggling type. This man was bringing out unusual and unexpected sides of me.

“You’re in the back of the store, stroking your pretty pussy,” he prompted helpfully, “imagining I might punish you.”

This time, I was the one to interrupt: “I like the way you say ‘punish.’”

“Only when my climax had fully flowered did he fill me with his seed.”

The room got quiet. I could hear my heart pounding. I could hear a clock ticking. Then I could feel the change as he undid the bindings holding me in place and bent me over the side of the bed.

Seconds later, he pressed something thin and firm against my backside and said, “This is my favorite crop. It’s the one I’ve imagined using on you for weeks now. What do you think?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

“How many strokes do you think you can take?”

I pictured the implement, and then I said, “One for every flower.”

I hoped I could. I knew my safeword, and so did he. To my relief and excitement, he was completely in charge of my pain and pleasure. He let the crop land softly at first, then followed with a sterner stroke. He went back and forth between the two sensations until I had no idea what number we were at, but I was humming with pleasurable endorphins. He made the last blow count, and then he followed up his punishment by giving me the pleasure of his cock.

I’d earned the bliss he brought me. He held my hips and pounded me with his cock. My ass was hot from the crop, but my whole body felt fluid and relaxed. I was as soft as a velvety rose, yet unwilted and blushingly beautiful.

He let me come first, like a gentleman, ensuring that I reached my peak before he met his. He rubbed my clit with his fingertips as he continued to thrust steadily inside me. Only when my climax had fully flowered did he groan and fill me with his seed.

Quickly, he took the clamps from my tits. When he pulled the blindfold from my eyes, the first thing I saw was the lone rose on the mattress in front of me. And I thought that in the future, we’d watch our garden of pain and pleasure bloom in a rainbow of colors.

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