Page 20 of Fallen Petal

Chapter 10

Petal

Jayson.

His name has rolled over my lips before. Many times. There’s a strong sense of familiarity every time I give voice to it, every time I hear it, speak it, taste it.

He left after our bath. He left after I found another high on his lap, climaxing on his length for a second time while his fingers dug into my skin as he peaked with me. Out of breath, with our chests heaving and our bodies still burning with lust, we stared at each other as if neither of us could believe what just happened.

And then he left. His face was tense when I stepped out of the tub, leaving me behind with so many questions. Again.

He always leaves when I least want him to. There’s yearning in my gaze every time I watch him walk out of the room.

I hate it. Why does it have to be this way? Why does he do these things to me, just to put an end to everything when I’m feeling more elevated than I thought possible just a few days ago?

I washed myself off and got out of the bath shortly after, putting on the only item of clothing at my disposal—another white gown, new and freshly washed, but with a design very similar to the one he tore off of my body before he punished me with the cane.

The marks on my behind have darkened, painting a clear pattern of red stripes across my body. It looks as painful as it was, but I find myself smiling as I inspect myself in the bathroom mirror. The sight of the marks evokes an emotion that surprises me: pride. I’m proud of them. He left them on me, to punish me, to mark what he believes to be his property.

And I like it.

It’s wrong, it’s twisted. It shouldn’t be this way. But I can’t fight the truth as I smile at the girl in the mirror. She still feels like a stranger, but the beam on her face is honest.

I let the gown fall down over my bruised skin, relishing the slight burn that is nothing more than a tickle as the thin fabric dances across my wounds while I walk over to the bedroom. I meander the room aimlessly, unsure what to do with myself. There’s little to occupy my busy mind in here. If I could, I would journey back into the dungeon room next door, but the locked door is hindering me to do so. There’s only this room, comfortable and pleasant, but so plain that it could drive a person mad. The windows have been my greatest distraction so far, but I don’t feel like climbing up there again, searching for a salty breeze or a kiss of light that could give me an indication about the time of day.

I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me. All I ever wanted was access to this tiny piece of information, and now that I have it, I no longer crave the confirmation.

A sigh echoes through the room as I plunk myself down on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, sitting cross legged with my hands resting in my lap while my eyes latch onto the only other living thing in this room.

The white rose.

It looks a little tired by now, with its head hanging low and its petals changing color at the edges. I shared some of my water with the flower, feeling solace in this odd companionship. The rose is just another piece in a puzzle that I can’t quite put together yet. It evoked a hazy vision that I’m sure was a depiction of a memory that’s been taken from me. He denied my presumption about him being the evil man in the middle, the tall one towering above everyone else. And I believe him. It would’ve been too easy if my guess was true, and the suspicion felt wrong from the beginning.

But who was that man if not him?

It was the rose that woke those dreary images inside my head. Does that mean it has something to do with that man? And why did the memory frighten me? Why did that vision make me feel so different than the rose itself does?

It’s just another piece of the puzzle.

Just like the stew the girl made for me. But there was nothing daunting about the familiar taste of that dish. It was just warmth, trust, solace—and it must be intimately connected to her. A friendship, possibly grown over a lifetime.

Just another piece.

And then there was his name, evoking both negative and position emotions as my lips move to say it out loud.

“Jayson.”

Intimacy. Connection. Fear. Ominous danger. Allure.

I feel everything at once, and I don’t know how to make sense of it. His name tastes bittersweet to me, and the more I ponder on it, the more it confuses me.

“Jayson.”

I close my eyes, shielding myself from the outside world so I can follow a path that scares me as much as it entices me. I’m walking back to that wall, approaching the mystery that lies behind, but this time I have his name in tow. I carry it with me like a guiding light, breathing the syllables again and again, as if I was blowing life into a fire.

And after a while, that’s just what it feels like—a fire being lit inside me. I’m faced with that dreaded wall, standing before me tall and strong, and while the repeated whispering of his name didn’t bring light to this darkness, it did bring something else. Heat. Excitement. A pulse similar to the one I experienced just a few minutes ago, when he was still here. When I was sitting on him, his hardness stretching me while I took my second climax from him. Yes, I took that one. It wasn’t given to me like the others. I took that one, and felt all the better for it.

My eyes remain closed, not minding the blindness while I revel in the soft throbbing that spreads throughout my core. It’s lust, carnal and real, yearning for more of him.

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