I don't go into florist's very often, so I never paid any attention to the flower shop that was around the corner from my place. It was tucked between an empty storefront and another shop that repaired windows and mirrors, part of a string of little stores that had been carved out of the basements of a row of apartment buildings on Clark Street a long time ago. The front door was below street level, so you had to walk down a half-dozen steps or so to get to it. I never saw anyone coming in or out, so I didn't pay them any attention at all. They were invisible to me, a part of the street.

Then one morning waiting for the bus it occurred to me that this might be a great way to apologize to Mandy, who was still pretty upset about our last play session where I had used a crop on her for the first time. She hadn't liked it at all, and it looked like my attempts to turn her into a D/s partner were about to hit the same old brick wall as all my others. I'd apologized, but flowers wouldn't hurt. Besides, it was so convenient. I could just stop by the florist after work, order her some roses and have them sent over. It couldn't be easier.

It's pretty rare that I remember anything of what I was thinking in the morning by the time I get home, but this time I did, and as soon as I got off the bus I trotted down the stairs to the florist and walked in.

There was the hot, humid atmosphere of a green house and the overpowering smell of flowers. The scent was so thick that the air actually seemed viscous, but it was delicious for all that. It was a tiny place, and so crammed with flowers and plants that it took me a minute to find the counter. There was no one there that I could see, but I could hear a canary singing in the back.

"Hello?" I called.

A woman's voice called out from the back. "Be right with you!"

I stuck my face in a bunch of flowers, inhaling deeply. Outside it was grey and cold, but it was very nice in here.

She was about the same age as me, a woman just losing the bloom of youth and settling into a handsome maturity, her body still girlishly tight and lean. She had just enough lines to give her face some character, and her mousy brown hair was gathered into a ponytail. She wore jeans and a tee-shirt with a gray florist's smock thrown over that, and she filled it out quite nicely. Her pockets were filled with shears, pruners, string and other florist stuff, and as she entered the shop she was absorbed in applying a band aid to her finger. There were several band aids already on both hands.

"Hi," she said without looking up. "What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to buy some flowers." I said.

"Sure."

She finished with the band aid and looked at me for the first time. Her eyes were dark, clear brown. She waved her bandaged hand in the air. "Sorry," she said. "I was cutting roses. The thorns always get me."

"You should wear gloves." I said.

"Gloves?" She raised her eyebrows, as if that were a novel idea. She smiled. "Yes. I suppose I should. Now what did you say about flowers?"

I bought a dozen red roses and told her where to have them sent, and she got them from the cooler: beautiful, long-stemmed flowers, with a scent that would be overpowering if it came from anything but a rose.

But the real story here wasn't the flowers I sent to Mandy. It was meeting Virginia for the first time. That was her name and she was the owner and sole proprietor. She'd been working around the corner from my apartment for five years without my knowing it at all.

She wasn't very busy that day-she was never really busy—and I was so amazed at having stumbled into this tropical hothouse in the slush of March in Chicago that I just stuck around a little bit. She didn't seem to mind, and was happy to stand at the counter and chat.

There was something about her that I liked immediately. She was very calm, very placid and self-possessed, but she wasn't at all cold or remote. like someone who had come through a very rough time and had discovered that she could survive on her own. She was pretty, and she could have been beautiful if she'd wanted to take the trouble. She was nicely built with visible curves that were apparent even beneath the shapeless smock she wore—athletic, yet with a way of holding herself that was wonderfully feminine, a natural grace.

I was divorced and pretty much recovered from the worst of it. I really was not looking for a long term relationship, but for the past year or so had been trying to find a partner with whom I could explore my sudden fascination with sexual dominance and submission, an interest that had appeared suddenly and unexpectedly a couple of months after I got back on my feet.