ROSE GARDEN by TJ Dallas

---

Obsession. Lust. Love. Hate? The lines that transcend and connect can sometimes blur so that one is unrecognisable from the next. One woman incarcerated for a horrific crime, another waiting patiently for her release. The only thing that has kept them both going is their letters and dark desires. But how well can you really know someone through words alone? (TW: knife play, blood play, talk of murder. Sex is fully consensual.)

---

I’ve masturbated to your mugshot so many times, I’ve lost count. Your icy blue eyes have held me captive every single time. 

Your latest letter is in my hand, the faded postage stamp in the uppermost corner of the envelope next to your prison ID number. I’ve read the letter a hundred times, taking in your musky scent from the recycled paper and admiring your handwriting. It’s an eclectic mix of both cursive and block print. A small letter ‘e’ right next to a capital ‘A’ in your description of how much you want to suck on my breasts. The upper case ‘R’ next to the lower case ‘b’ is especially seductive; you wrote it as ‘bReAsts,’ and your literary rule-breaking makes me even wetter. The single underline when you need me to pay extra attention is both demanding and gentle.

While in your desolate cell, day after day, you relish finding unique and artistic ways to describe what you want to do to me. You’ve told me that my letters keep you warm at night. The blurry Polaroid I included with the last one gives you a sense of what I look like, but it leaves enough to the imagination to keep your mind working. I have medium-length hair, a layered bob that tickles the back of my neck. I’m imitating the iconic style of 90s k.d. lang, the Canadian artist you listened to growing up. Is that where you got your rebellious upper/lower case script from, I wonder? She is your idol, you told me. Your gay role model with the voice of an angel. I visited the hairdressers the day before I took that Polaroid, knowing you would recognise the effort I put in for you. The rest of the photo is mostly in shadow, though; I didn’t want to give you too much. Even after so long, you still have to earn my trust.

I know a lot more about you than you know about me. I prefer to keep you guessing, but every now and again, I’ll throw in a tidbit of truth—I’m thirty-nine years old. I’m allergic to dimethyl fumarate, a chemical used in the tanning process of real leather, so your desire that I wear leather for you was genuinely impossible. We also share our favourite k.d. lang song, ‘Rose Garden.’ Like the song, I’ll never promise you a rose garden, but I might stretch to a sunflower or something. You’ll have to wait and see.

It is almost time for your release. When you were condemned and found guilty of murder, they gave you a life sentence with a minimum term of twenty-five years, but the universe had plans for you. I have plans for you. The judge didn’t give you a whole life order, much to the public’s outrage, so you were eligible to apply for parole after you’d served the minimum term. I paid for the best criminal lawyer I could find, citing a wealthy upbringing and a frugal lifestyle, and your striking blue eyes made the front page of the national newspapers once more. Rumours circulated over your mysterious, anonymous benefactor. No one would presume it was me in a thousand years.

More riots took place outside your penitentiary after that article was released. I cut out and delicately preserved every one, pinning them to the wall in my spare room so I could look upon them at all hours of my day. You’re quite the stress reliever.

After that, you were in my debt and we both knew it. While we had been writing letters for years, and had even spoken on the phone a few times, I was giddy yet nervous about your release. If I’m honest, I’ve been hopelessly obsessed with you since I first saw your photo on the news. Your short dark hair was slicked back and a single lock hung over those icy blues. Your strong jaw, with the tiniest wicked grin, is what attracted me to you initially; no one else seemed to notice it, but I found myself tracing a fingertip over the curve of your kissable lips—the absence of remorse ensnared me. It’s not that your expression showed no emotion; your eyes sparkled with unfettered joy and you were exceedingly pleased with yourself. You knew it; I knew it; and you knew I knew it.

You enjoyed killing. 

While you didn’t tell me in those exact words, you let your guard down once. A scribbled line, once paraphrasing another of your sick idols, a far darker one than sweet k.d; “After being decapitated, would I be able to hear my own blood gushing from my neck? At least for a moment? That would be a pleasure.”

I don’t think you’d considered I might recognise it. You had unwittingly exposed your perverse euphoria. Oh, but your twisted sickness didn’t go unnoticed, my love. I felt so much closer to you then.

We both know that the heinous crime you were convicted of wasn’t an accident, nor was it manslaughter or accessory to another. There’s a darkness inside you that holds me enthralled. You are powerful, an authentic villain, a bad girl of the first degree. When I can’t sleep, I sometimes ponder whether you’ve massacred more people. You may have, but you only had to get caught once.

And there’s definitely something wrong with me because that concept floods my pussy. I don’t know the specific name of every kink or fetish in the world—new fantasies emerge all the time—but I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day inside my head when I admit I’m irrevocably and dangerously devoted to a murderer.

I digress. The moment is almost upon us. I scour my flat once more, straighten a picture frame in the hallway, and then close the door to the spare room. I smooth down my skirt, tousle my wig, and check my teeth in the mirror before I grab the car keys to the rental. Even though I’m wearing a disguise, you’ll know who I am.

Another riot is in full swing at the gates when I arrive. The media must have got hold of your release date. It’s tempting to plough through the crowd of radicals with their placards stating ‘KILLER!’, ‘DYKES DESTROY LIVES!’, and even ‘PROTECT US FROM LGBT SCUM!’, but I abstain. I haven’t waited this long and come this far to lose you at the final barrier. Most of those abhorrent signs are nothing new to the queer community, anyway.

I slam the car door and jog awkwardly towards the crowd, pushing them aside until I’m standing at the front. I want to be the first to lay eyes on you. It’s the first day of the rest of your life. You know I’m waiting for you—I’m wearing the red neckerchief we agreed on, a vivid flash of colour that highlights the whiteness of my blouse. I casually pull the fabric away from my throat and swallow thickly in the late afternoon heat. 

When you appear, the furious vitriol of the crowd surges to a deafening decibel, spittle spraying far and wide. I rise on my tiptoes and grasp the links of the chain fence that separates us. My knees buckle, but I stay on my feet as I push through the crush of people. I’m shouting your name, but so are forty irascible bodies, so my voice is lost among them. This is the moment I’ve waited for. Dreamt about. Fantasised over. The nanosecond that has given me countless self-induced orgasms. It’s really you. Not just an image clipped from a newspaper, but the living, breathing you. 

It’s a shame you’re not wearing your orange jumpsuit, which is both degrading and arousing in equal measure, but prison isn’t exactly a “been there, got the T-shirt” type of affair. Instead, you’re wearing a faded and well-worn pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. Not a super fancy once, but it’s the only one you have, apart from the one you wore to your court appearance all those years ago.

When you finally look up and our eyes meet, there’s a shift in the universe beneath my unsteady legs. Your gaze dips to the red knotted neckerchief before rising again. You grin, and suddenly the rest of the world doesn’t matter. In mere minutes, we will touch for the first time. In less than an hour, you’ll be fucking me so hard, I’ll forget my name. I know this because you promised it in your last letter, currently neatly folded up and stored safely in my bra. The rough edge of the paper is rubbing against my hard nipple, which has caused a tiny paper cut to my sensitive areola. A foreshadowing, perhaps?

At the gate, more officers appear to escort you to my car, but first they check my ID. It’s a counterfeit, but they don’t look too closely. With a nod, they let me through. I leave the crowd behind, like a baby elephant severed from the herd and straight into the waiting jaws of a savage predator. They have barely removed your cuffs before I leap into your arms with the widest smile.

Your six-foot frame towers over me. I’m like a lamb to the slaughter, and it gets me far more aroused than it probably should. But we’re the same, you and I—not in physical appearance, obviously; you’re a full foot taller, with a slender neck covered in tattoos, and your upper arms display the result of every single pull-up you’ve done in your cell (I can’t help but squeeze your bulging biceps the first chance I get). Without saying anything, we both know you could snap me in half if you chose to. I hope you will, to be honest, but we’ll see how things go. My pussy clenches at the mere thought.

I’m fully prepared for our night together. I bought the strap-on you requested, all eight inches of crimson ribbed silicone. The choice of red is intriguing; you were particularly adamant about that. Is it the colour of your fantasy rose garden, perhaps? Do the thorns prick your exposed flesh? Do you bleed like the rest of us?

“Hello.” Your voice is gruff, like you haven’t used it much. There presumably isn’t much to say when you’ve been behind bars for as long as you have, and even less when you’re in solitary confinement. Sometimes you started trouble just so you could have your own space to get off to dreams of me; you spent a full week on your own after punching a prison guard once—do you remember, my love?—when I sent you a used pair of my panties. You said it was the best gift you’d ever received.

When we reach the hotel I’ve booked for the night—the Rochester is its full name, but so many lightbulbs are blown on the sign that it reads the Roche instead—you look around the room and take in all the little details I’ve organised: the champagne on ice (it’s a big occasion) and the candles on the nightstand (we need the perfect ambience for our scene, of course). When your gaze lands on a satin pillow, a new dagger and your strap-on waiting for you like an offering to the gods, your eyes light up. I love to see it.

“You really went all out,” you murmur with awe.

“I told you I would,” I reply, looking up demurely through long lashes.

It is only then you remember I’m wearing a disguise. It isn’t the smokescreen of the century, but no one has noticed so far; the fake ponytail, the coloured contact lenses, the stone in my shoe that forces me to walk with a limp. Without that, I’ll be sprightly prey for you, I promise. You brush the pad of your thumb over the beauty spot above my upper lip, but that’s another tidbit of truth, refusing to be wiped away. When you pull the wig from my head, your eyes soften at my dark layered bob. I knew you’d recognise it.

Instead of saying anything, you swoop in and kiss me. The sudden movement takes me by surprise and steals the breath from my lungs. Your large hands hold my petite waist while your tongue explores my mouth, and I’m grateful for the support when my legs tremble. You push me backwards and the soft, tender skin behind my knees makes contact with the unforgiving firmness of the bed. My hands fist your short hair and I hold you tight against my mouth as I lie back. My legs hang off the edge.

You’re hungry and desperate to truly taste me. You drop to your knees and yank my skirt and panties down in one deft move. In seconds, the only part of you I see is your icy blues between my thighs, but even they disappear a moment later when they roll back into your head. I take that as a good sign; I must be delicious.

When my orgasm begins to rise in my belly, you stop. It’s cruel, but I didn’t expect anything different from you. I’m a wanton mess already, but I know we’re just getting started. No matter how good I taste, this scene has been six years in the making; you’re too smart to ruin it on a whim.

Licking your lips and wiping your chin, you stand up. You kick off your boots at the same time your fingers fumble with your shirt buttons. When your glorious abdomen is revealed, it’s only the lumpy mattress beneath my back that prevents me from swooning completely. Rivulets of sweat are in the contours of every muscle beneath your plain black sports bra. “Get into position,” you demand with a sly smirk while unbuttoning your jeans and shoving them down your muscular thighs.

I shuffle back and raise my arms, and you take great delight in shackling me to the headboard. I whimper when they’re a little too tight, pinching the sensitive skin protecting my radial artery. You wanted real cuffs instead of ropes or ribbons, the dichotomy of you being in charge once more increasing the excitement in that chaotic black heart of yours. I can tell. Your obvious arousal increases my own. The metal cuts into my wrists as you roughly rip apart the buttons on my blouse. Your eyes are wide when they land on my chest, the red lace bra barely concealing the ample flesh. When you unclip it, your folded letter tumbles out and you watch it flitter to the floor like a butterfly with broken wings. You lick your lips once more and lean across to the nightstand, momentarily studying the shape of the first candle within reach. It’s no regular candle; it’s in the shape of a skull, with an uncaring serpent slithering out of the mouth and into an empty eye socket.

With a single flick of my Zippo, you light the wick atop the serpent’s head. You close your eyes and inhale deeply; it’s probably the first time you’ve smelled such a heady aroma in a while, my potent pussy aside. You grin and lock eyes with me, the corner of your lip curling. It reminds me of your mugshot. I groan in longing and tug on the restraints while you wait for the wax to soften.

I see the reflection of the flame in your irises when you gently tilt the candle. The hot wax smothers my nipple and trickles down the swell of my breast before it cools and hardens. I like to believe my own cold heart has something to do with it. You do the same to the other nipple, then start to draw intricate patterns on my torso. The thin white streaks of wax are reminiscent of the scars I imagine you’ve left on previous victims.

My cunt is overflowing with desire for you. Slick and hot, my clitoris swells and throbs. Your little lamb’s meat will be extra juicy tonight; all predators know fear can adversely affect taste, so you start off slow and soft to ensure the most tender cuts. I know our scene will escalate quickly; I can’t wait.

You don’t have your original knife, of course. It was an elegant dagger—a short double-edged blade on a heavy hilt of black onyx—but I’ve done my best to locate a similar one using the evidence photos. As yet, it’s an unblemished replica. I really hope you like it. The prospect of your icy blues watching closely while you draw the blade across my delicate skin with expert care and precision is divine. It seems I don’t have to wait long. You are losing control of yourself like the sadistic blood whore I know you to be.

(Hematolagnia. I do know the name of that fetish.)

With a growl, you lift the knife from the satin pillow and, without taking your eyes from me, you draw your tongue across the length of the blade. As though tasting the steel, you twirl it and lick the length of the other side. Your saliva, still tinged with my wetness, is viscous and sticky on the cold metal. I’m sure you’ll warm it up in no time.

I jerk in surprise when you slice a thin cut across my inner thigh, and I hiss through gritted teeth. There’s a brief burning sensation followed by a raw and primal urge to lick the wound. I moan louder when you slice a matching cut on my opposite thigh. When I try to squeeze my legs together, your muscular arm intercepts their path and forces me to stay wide open for you. When I look down, the faint lines are barely noticeable, but they sting, like the paper cut on my nipple currently sealed under a scab of white wax.

My heart is pounding now. Be careful, my love, don’t spoil me too much. Adrenaline is surging through me, causing my sinewy muscles to contract and tense. 

The tapered tip of the blade is sharp against my jugular when you move up my body. I yearn to feel it inside my windpipe, a re-enactment of that decisive kill that led you to prison, splitting the vocal cords I’d used to sing to you on those rare phone calls we had. Viscous scarlet blood trickles down the outside of my throat, the odour of zinc in my flared nostrils, but it is merely a nick to remind me of the power you hold. Like I could ever forget. Your guttural groan of delight when you lick the trail of blood up my throat is a sound I wish I could hear forever.

Your teeth are sharp on the outer edge of my ear. Your serpent-like tongue tickles when you hiss your commands; you don’t need to thrall me, Sire. I am yours.

And you are mine.

The darkness inside you calls to me. I haven’t told anyone where I am or who I’m with; my family doesn’t even know I’m a lesbian, let alone head-over-heels in lust with a vicious murderer. I’m at your mercy. You’re misunderstood, that’s all. Some people enjoy coin collecting, others enjoy playing guitar, or watching football—you, my sexy butch, enjoy a little evil and a lot of blood. You dirty girl.

I understand you, though. Our visions and values align, more so than you know. For so long, we’ve been plotting this perfect scene down to the last detail. It will be righteous, glorious, and filthy.

“Fuck m-me,” I beg, looking over at the strap-on still waiting on its bed of satin. The fact you went for the dagger first before the thick cock tells me so much about who you are; your internal desires, your twisted view of reality, your true calling.

As though I have offended you somehow, the harsh sting of your palm against my cheek causes me to cry out. My head snaps to one side and my belly clenches with heat. The joy of pain is something the psychologists are much more familiar with. I chuckle with a masochistic lilt, slowly bringing my gaze back to yours, showing you I am not afraid. 

“Hold this.” You place the blade of your new knife between my teeth like a rose on Valentine’s Day. You stand at the side of the bed and slip the harness on, tightening the straps around your waist and upper thighs with ease. Each muscle in your torso tenses and twists in the faint light, your bulging biceps glistening with sweat. God, you’re divine.

Before you relinquish me of the blade I’m holding with blessed obedience, you grab one of the bottles of champagne. You crawl back up onto the bed and kneel between my bloody thighs with a grin that would make the Devil proud. With a swipe of your hand across my inner thigh, you smear your cock with my red liquid essence before you pour the sparkling wine over the cut and cause another hiss to escape my mouth. You grin wider and swig the champagne directly from the bottle. 

After a few more swigs, you wipe your mouth with your hand. A tinge of blood besmirches your lips. Setting the bottle aside, you take one new toy from my mouth, then thrust the other deep inside me. I arch my back and moan your name. 

In seconds, my legs are over your broad shoulders and you are pounding me so hard, I can barely breathe. My breasts bounce on my chest, and the wet slap of my soaking pussy is a demonic and depraved soundtrack to our lovemaking. My screams of ecstasy rise to join the ritual, deep feminine cries from somewhere deep inside me. With my body convulsing, my eyes squeezed shut, my head thrown back, and my wrists taut against the restraints, you slice another cut across my belly, just above my navel. It stings with majestic release. I ride the wave of pleasure for a long time, savouring the moment. 

Your smile, still smudged with my lifeblood, is infectious when you finally unfasten the cuffs. It’s my turn. I’ve been waiting patiently for this, twenty-five years to be exact, and I can’t wait a single second longer.

————————————————————————————————————

22:31 999, what’s your emergency? 

22:32 There’s a fire at *indecipherable* 

22:32 Can you repeat that? Do you have an address?

22:32 The… It’s the Rochester Hotel in *indecipherable*

22:32 OK. The fire service is on its way.

22:32 Please hurry. I think there are people trapped inside.

22:32 Do you know how many people?

22:33 No.

22:33 OK. Stay clear of the building. Can you see anyone that’s injured?  

22:33 I can’t see *indecipherable* else. It’s dark, and there’s so much smoke.

22:34 Stay on the line. What’s your name? Hello? Are you still there—

————————————————————————————————————

I throw the phone into the river. It sinks after a pleasant plop and an arc of brackish water. I can see the orange glow of the flames in the distance, the black smog rising like a haunting beacon. I have a fleeting moment of melancholy, but then I’m over it. I’ll miss your letters.

At that moment, I recall your latest letter once again, tucked back into my bra. My nipple stings from the paper cut, and I’ll enjoy the pain of it for as long as your memory lasts. For now, I need to dispose of the evidence, just like you disposed of my brother all those years ago, without remorse, regret, or repentance. 

I light the corner of the paper using the same Zippo I used to light the mattress after I was done with you. I had to destroy any indication I was there, otherwise the forensic police would have found my wetness smeared across your belly, my hair tangled in your fist, my DNA on the dildo and fingerprints on the dagger. (I quickly check my handbag to make sure I’ve brought those with me; I want a trophy of us.) 

The hate I’ve harboured for you over the years has grown into a malevolent shadow in my heart, and the fine line between love and hate caused it to manifest in fun and titillating ways. I won’t ever forget the time we’ve spent together; every second of that twenty-five-year build-up to that unbelievably powerful climax. Talk about a slow burn.

There is no rose garden, nor even a simple sunflower, but I’m not completely heartless. The best I can do is a limp clump of light blue cornflowers on your unmarked grave after the police have buried your charred remains; a final reminder of your icy blue eyes.