The Red Rose

She wondered how anyone could walk across the floorboards and not be heard. She tried first slowly sliding her foot and shifting her weight. It creaked. She tried lifting her foot and placing it gently, ever so slowly lowering her weight. It creaked. She tried different places throughout the floor but the damnable creak followed her wherever she went. She even tried lying upon the floor and rolling ever so slowly. Creak. Creak. Creak. Nothing she did would keep the boards silent other than being still as a statue as she sat in the center of the floor.

She really didn’t know if it were at all possible, but if it wasn’t then how was it each morning when she awoke she found a rose in the middle of the floor. A single long stem red rose.

She had tried staying up one night, hidden away, to spy on the deliverer. It wasn’t until she had closed her eyes for only a moment, only a single solitary moment that the rose appeared. She had heard no sound. She had seen no one.

She was at a loss. There was no way anyone could have entered her house and placed the rose in the time between her closing her eyes and when she had opened them again. She was sure her eyes had not been closed for very long at all. Not long enough for someone to walk across the floor and place the rose.

She lifted the rose she held to her nose, smelling its sweet succulent scent. There were two flowers she adored. One a tulip which she had always quietly adored, a secret she kept to herself. The other, roses, in particular, red roses. The other colors were beautiful but red roses had always summoned her heart. Did the deliverer know this? Is this why he always left a red rose? She wondered for probably the hundredth time, who he was and why every night he left her a single red rose.

She stood up, stepped to the one side of the room which contained shelves, placed the rose in the vase with all the other roses. She was dressed in a flowing sleeveless dress, which clung to her curves without being snug or binding. Its shape belling out from her body so when she moved it shimmered and flowed around her like the wind. The diaphanous multi-colored material so lightweight it was like wearing nothing at all. She wore nothing beneath. Her feet were bare.

The room was empty of all furniture. Two walls opposite each other were covered in mirrors, a third in full length windows contained French doors to the outside, the fourth contained the entrance to the rest of the house and was lined with shelves. The floor was hardwood. She called it her playroom.

The house had been old when she purchased it. Although she had told her realtor that she didn’t want a fixer-up when she was looking to buy, her realtor insisted on her just taking a look. Other than the fixing up part, it had everything she wanted in a house especially the privacy.

She didn’t know why but the moment she entered the house she knew she would buy it. She hadn’t even seen all of it. She just knew. The price had been so low, she could afford to buy it and fix it up and still be lower in cost than if she had bought what she wanted that was move-in ready.

She hired a contractor to do the work. Fortunately for her he had been a good contractor, one who didn’t mind her coming by at the end of each day and looking over the work that had been done and ensuring the work the next day would meet with her approval. They had discussed the floor in her playroom, what could be done with it. His suggestion was to just refinish the hardwood. It was a good solid floor, the creaking was due to age, and the settling of the house, not because of any damage or poor installation. In the end, the cost of tearing out and installing a new hardwood floor that didn’t creak would cost more than she wanted to spend and also delay when she could move in, so she opted to just refinish the floors. After all they could be torn out at a later date and install new floors any time she wanted.

She wondered periodically if the person leaving the rose was the contractor. He had expressed interest in her early on but she had quickly let him know she was not interested even though she had felt an attraction to him, but she didn’t tell him that. He had seemed to accept her rejection and she had pretended not to notice his glances her way from time to time through the construction work. He had not approached her at all after the job had completed. If anyone knew how to enter her house without being detected, he would be the one. He knew the details of the house including the alarm system, though she knew he didn’t have the password, but someone must, how else could they get in her house undetected. Why she wasn’t alarmed by this fact, she didn’t understand.

She reached over and turned on the music she had queued up to play. It would play continuously for over an hour unless she turned it off. She walked back out to the center of the floor.

She began the same way every time, kneeling. She knelt. Focused her whole attention on the music. The melodious sounds emanating around her suffused her body, murmured to her soul, and shut down the constant stream of noise in her brain. The music dictated her movements. At first, someone watching might not see any movement at all, while inside her soul would begin to dance. After a few moments, the slight swaying of her body would be the only indication she heard anything at all, while she knelt with her eyes closed. Like the swaying of tree branches in a light breeze her arms would begin the dance, her fingers playing in the air as if it were her lover. Then and only then would a leg lift, placing her toes upon the hardwood floor to lift her in one single effortless movement.

It wasn’t until she was fully enraptured by the music and dancing, floating effortlessly across the space of the room that she opened her eyes. She didn’t see the room around her. She saw the music in her mind, not the movement she would make next for there was no thinking. She was music and movement born together without separation, without thought. She played out the scenes dictated by the music. If a battle raged, she was the battle. If rained poured down she was the rain. If a heart was torn to pieces she was the heart and her soul became the pain.

When she danced, only the music existed. She didn’t exist. She was born anew and the music became her world. As the hour progressed she didn’t feel her lungs burning, grasping for oxygen. She didn’t feel the fatigue or pain of her muscles as her feet barely touched the floor, as her body bent and swayed, as her hands caressed the air, the floor, the walls, and her glistening body, her dress having long disappeared from her body. And not a creak could be heard.

At the end of the hour, the last piece would begin to play, its song caressing. The touch of a lover. Soaring to a peak to match her own. It hovered and kissed and teased until they both came crashing and shattering to the floor. Only then after the glowing embers subsided would she feel the gasping, grasping pain in her lungs, the throbbing fatigue of her muscles, the glistening sheen covering her body and the wetness coating her thighs. And sometimes the tears that flowed from her eyes.

She would lay upon the cool floor until the throbbing of her body subsided, until the warm moisture of her skin cooled and chilled her aching body, until her breathing eased. Once standing she would look around the room having never remembered discarding her dress. Oft times she would find it piled in a corner as though the wind had swept it there. Gathering it in her hand she walked naked to her room and the large luxury tub in her master bath. It was a luxury she had spent extra on. It had jets that swirled the water and kept it heated while she danced so she would not have to wait and could immediately soak her chilling body.

Lying in her bath, she thought again about the roses that she found each morning. Always placed in the center of the room where she began her dance. No one ever saw her dance. The full length windows allowed her the luxury to look outside while outside no one could see in. It was a mystery she both wanted answered and yet didn’t want answered. If she knew the answer would it make her want to leave, to sell the house and find another?

But if she didn’t find the answer, what then of the rose? Did it signify something more to come? If so, was it sinister? Or something that would steal her heart? She didn’t know which was more frightening.

With muscles no longer aching, she got out of the bath, set it to drain, and entered the shower to rinse and wash her fine shoulder length hair. Her body was hot from the bath and shower, after drying off, she lay across her bed on her stomach naked.

Her body thrumming with arousal from her bath and shower, she let her mind wonder around the possible identity of the deliverer of the roses. Her hand slid between her heated body and the cool sheets of her bed to stroke her moist center. She stroked slowly trying to draw an image of the mysterious person. Logically she knew it could be man or woman, instinctively she knew it to be a man, or maybe she just wished it to be true.

She pictured him tall, broad of shoulder, emanating power, and confidence. Would he be of a pretty face like the male underwear models? No she didn’t think so. He would be ruggedly handsome. Nothing like the pretty boys that were all show, artfully sculpted to mimic strength where no real strength existed. As her mind started to conjure the man, her fingers slowly stroked, keeping her arousal smoldering. Darkness bled into her thoughts taking her deeper and deeper until she lie upon her bed, legs slightly spread, her still fingers curled upon her sex, melting into the sheets absorbing the heat from her body.

Floating between waking and dreaming, her mind wasn’t surprised at the eroticism surrounding her dreams. She could feel her fingers pressing and stroking, fanning her arousal higher and higher and yet one hand was flung above her head while the other was trapped, wrapped in the bunched sheets between her tummy and the bed. She moaned and arched her back pressing into the fingers of her dream.

She fought against waking, wanting to remain in her dreams, while her eyes tried to open but met only darkness. Darkness so deep no light penetrated. Not like the fingers which now moved pressing to penetrate her folds.

Moaning she absorbed the mystery of her dreams. Who touched her? Strength was in the touch of the fingers larger than her own. The gap between her thighs completely consumed by the hand. A large hand. She had no doubt the hand belonged to a man. Could this be a manifestation in her dreams of the man she had conjured as she fell asleep? His fingers stroked and teased, wet and slick from her moist opening. Pressing, then withdrawing before they penetrated to circle and press upon her aching clit.

If only he was real and not a man in her dreams. She could feel her eyes open in her dreams and yet the darkness never gave way for her to see the barest bit of light or shadow. She tried to raise herself up off the bed but to her chagrin he pressed his other hand to the small of her back, firmly holding her down against the bed.

She didn’t feel frightened. She had no idea why, other than it was a very sensual dream she didn’t wish to wake from. No one had ever touched her as her dream lover was and she welcomed it with a fire she had only suspected lay dormant inside of her.

But to have her fire ignited by a dream shook her to her core. If only it was real. If only he were real.

Holding her down with his one powerful hand, his other soon discarded his teasing. His fingers thrust in deep, providing her insight into just what he would do to her if he chose to fuck her with his cock. The thought alone made her body gush around his strong long fingers increasing the sucking and slurping noises caused by his thrusting fingers. He turned his fingers to curl and press them against her g-spot, causing even more moisture to pool around his fingers. She could feel the wetness on her thighs as his hand pumped spreading the moisture over his hand making it easier for his partially closed fist to slide against the skin of her thighs.

She tried to move, to thrust against his fingers, wanting him deeper, but the strength of his hand upon her lower back kept her pinned, her one arm underneath, the other over her head, she tried to reach down but found no purchase to help her to move. She finally stopped and surrendered to his touch, to his control.

His fingers moved with purpose. He knew just where to touch, how hard to press, when to pull out and rub her clit. Over and over, he pressed, thrust, pumped, rubbed, building her arousal. Everything felt so real. His touch. Her arousal. Even his hot breath which fanned across her skin, sometimes at her shoulders, sometimes across her bottom, sometimes next to her cheek.

He was aroused. She could hear it in the tempo of his breathing. She could feel it in the demands of his fingers, and the splayed hand across her back. He still held her firmly though she had stopped her movements. His hand caressed her back causing shivers to run up and down her spine. His two hands made love to her taking her ever higher and higher to her peak. Just as she thought she would topple over the peak, he would pull back bringing her back down, to only begin again taking her back up and up and up again towards her peak.

She begged him to let her cum, but he persisted, ignoring her pleas. Again she thought how real this all felt, and she wondered how it was she had not awakened from her dream as in all her other erotic dreams had her waking long before she was ready for them to end.

His hands persisted driving her mad with need, with desire to have him fill her, to bring her to completion. It wasn’t until she was so mindless, that she finally surrendered. She whispered to him to do as he pleased, she was his. She no longer demanded. She no longer pleaded. All that existed was his hot breath upon her skin, a hand upon her back, and another hand between her legs driving her mindless, feeling her body coil like a spring, tightening into an ever tighter heated coil, as his fingers played her now like the music she danced to consumed her. Where nothing existed but his fingers and the need burning inside of her.

Like an explosion that demolishes a building to rubble, her mind, body and soul shatter into dust. The world around her convulsing and throbbing for an eternity.

When she awakened the sunlight filling her room was blinding as if she had just come out of a pitch black room into sunlight glaring in her eyes. She felt extraordinarily sated, as if she had just spent hours with a lover. A lover who knew her like no other. In a way she had. She could still feel the solid strength of his hand upon her back holding her down. She rolled to her side and looked down at the sheets. They were as wet as the sheets in her dream no doubt had become. The air in her room was saturated with the smell of her sex. She had never before had a dream consume her as this one had.

She got up and got dressed, preparing to go out to meet her girlfriend at a cafe and run some errands then come back to work in her garden. Just as she was straightening her bedding before getting ready to leave, she spied something on the floor peeking out from under the head of her bed. She lifted it up. Peered at it curiously. Wondering at the black satin material. It was long and only a few inches wide, similar to the widest part of a man’s tie. She had never seen it before. How had it gotten here? She looped it over her headboard to check it out later. Right now she was running late to meet her girlfriend at the café.


About Kate Spyder

I'm a creative individual finding her way in her writing. I enjoy expressing my deep thoughts through poetry and stories. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoy writing them.
This entry was posted in Erotic Fiction, Erotica and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to The Red Rose

  1. Pingback: A Submissive’s Journey – 2May2014 5:29pm | Breathe In My Touch

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