The woman in the seat next to mine glanced at my carry-on and asked, “What’s Black Rose?”

I never check my laptop case, but I have a luggage tag on it when I travel. It’s one of those tags that has a clear plastic pocket on one side to hold a business card, and that is the side that’s usually face up. But the other side bears the Black Rose name and logo, a signal to anyone who knows it that I’m not just another vanilla corporate wage slave. Now that legend was visible as the tag dangled from the handle of the case on my Delta flight from Atlanta to Dulles.

It was an MD88, which is not my favorite type of plane under any circumstances. The flight was full enough that there wasn’t any space in the overhead by the time I boarded, so I’d taken out the book I was reading and put the case under the seat in front of me. I hadn’t paid any attention to the thirty-something woman by the window when I’d settled into my aisle seat on the narrower right side of the lopsided three-and-two arrangement. Now I turned away from my book and saw a pleasant face framed by shiny black ringlets falling to the shoulders of a nicely filled turtleneck sweater.

“It’s an organization I belong to,” I told her as I fastened my seat belt.

Her facial expression flowed from curious to thoughtful to puzzled. “That’s an unusual combination of symbolism,” she remarked. “What kind of organization is it?”

It was my turn to shift modes; I couldn’t read her interest, so I decided that caution was in order. After a brief hesitation, I said, “It’s a nonprofit support, educational, and social group.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you’re being somewhat evasive?” she asked.

“Because the subject matter involved doesn’t appeal to a lot of people,” I said. “I use that tag so people who recognize the name will know I’m a member, but I generally don’t discuss the nature of the group.”

“All right, I don’t recognize the name, but I am curious. As I said, the contradictory symbolism is intriguing.” She paused, then continued, “The rose is often a symbol of love or affection, but black usually implies darkness, danger, or foreboding.”

“That’s a very insightful observation,” I said. “But the rose is also a symbol of discretion; years ago, people placed a rose on the table between them to signal that they were speaking under the rose, meaning that they were sharing secrets. To answer your question, Black Rose is an organization for people who share an interest in expressions of power in caring relationships.”

“Expressions of power? What does that mean?”

“It means some people have relationships in which they are not equals, but one party is in control over some or all aspects of their interactions.”

“Oh,” she said in a very small voice. The plane had been pushed back from the gate and we were taxiing toward the runway, but when she tugged on the loose end of the strap, tightening her seat belt, I didn’t think it had anything to do with our impending takeoff. Her movement had drawn my eyes downward, and I could see that her breathing had deepened and her slim fingers fidgeted on the seat-belt’s buckle. She was wearing two small gold rings, but each was set with a colored gemstone and neither was on the left-hand finger that traditionally signals an emotional attachment. “Oh,” she said again, and her voice, still quiet, seemed shaky, as though she was a bit nervous.

We had become next in line for departure, and the plane shuddered as the engines revved up and the plane crept forward despite the brakes being applied. Then we were rolling free, accelerating down the runway and lifting off for the last leg of my trip home. I picked up my book again, figuring that she’d heard enough and wouldn’t pursue the conversation further, but I was wrong.

“Can you give me an example?” she asked, pitching her voice low so her question wouldn’t carry over the roar of the jets.

“Sure,” I replied. “But I need a little more information first. What kind of example are you interested in? Which side of an unequal relationship intrigues you?”

She hesitated, then whispered, “An example of what you said, an expression of power.” She looked into my eyes, then lowered her gaze to her skirt-covered lap. “Something you might say if you were going to control me.”

Well, now, this could be fun. “Okay. I don’t know you at all, so we’ll start with something simple. When the seat belt sign goes off, go to the restroom and put all your underwear in your purse.”

Her expression was the epitome of a MasterCard commercial: priceless. There, that’ll teach you to be curious, I thought smugly.

But then the ping sounded, the sign went dark, and I was hard-pressed to keep my own expression blank when she unlatched her belt, picked up her purse, and said demurely, “Excuse me, I need to visit the restroom.”

“Of course,” I replied, and I unfastened my own belt and levered myself up into the aisle so she could exit the row.

“Thanks, I’ll be right back.”

She was true to her word, lightly touching my arm after just more than two minutes. Her hair was tousled when she returned, suggesting that she’d moved quickly to remove and then restore her sweater. After we reseated ourselves, she put her purse on her lap, tilted it toward me, and opened it enough to reveal a set of filmy black lingerie. The shape of her sweater wasn’t noticeably changed, indicating that her bra hadn’t been needed for support. Her face was flushed, from her hasty movements, excitement, a blush of embarrassment, or some combination, but she waited until I nodded approval before closing the purse and setting it aside.

“How do you feel?” I asked her.

She took a deep breath before replying. “Wet.” In response to my raised eyebrow, she went on, “It was exciting, arousing, being ordered to do something daring like you told me to do.”

“Exciting in what way?”

“I’ve dated since junior high, and I’ve always wanted my boyfriends to take charge, but they were all too PC to say anything like that. It was wonderfully refreshing not to have to be the initiator.”

“In that case, from now on, don’t settle for someone who isn’t the kind of person you want in a relationship.”

“Now that I know what it feels like to be directed, I won’t.” She was silent for almost a minute before turning her head and looking up at me through lowered lashes. “Please tell me something you’d say if you knew me better.”

“You mean, like, if we were in a relationship?”

“Yes, like that.”

“Okay.” I glanced down at the pumps with fashionable two-inch heels she was wearing to complement her outfit and shifted into my command voice. “You should know better by now. Your heels are not nearly high enough to please me, and I’m going to give you a serious swat on your butt for every eighth of an inch they are less than four inches tall.”

I swear she actually shivered and squirmed a little when I said that, and it didn’t look at all like a reaction caused by fear. “How do you feel now?”

She smiled nervously. “Wetter. The back of my skirt is going to have damp spots by the time I stand up again.”

I chuckled. “What are you going to do about that?”

Her smile quickly faded away as she turned and looked straight at me. “Whatever you tell me to do.”

“Whoa, hold on a minute. We really don’t know each other; I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Samantha, and I don’t care that we just met on this flight. I’ve never felt like this before, and I want to enjoy it as much as I can.”

“Samantha, believe me, I understand how you feel, but right now you’re like a child playing with matches. With the wrong person, this could be harmful to you. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Then teach me. Please. I trust you.”

“You have no basis for that trust, and I don’t think you appreciate how that puts a terrible burden on me to protect you, from yourself as well as from me.”

She was silent for many seconds, looking down at her hands folded in her lap and obviously deep in thought. Then, with her head still bowed, she spoke. “Thank you for explaining that to me. You’ve already taught me some things, and what you just said is why I trust you. I don’t even know what I don’t know, but I want to experience more of what I’ve been feeling for the past few minutes.”

*

We continued talking in low tones, our heads close together to avoid being overheard. We spoke about relationship power dynamics and the range of activities that can be controlled along a spectrum ranging from casual scenes to a total power exchange in which a slave has no rights whatsoever. She nodded her understanding from time to time, she asked intelligent clarifying questions, and as the conversation progressed it became clear that Samantha wasn’t going to settle for vanilla equal-partners relationships in the future. Then she got personal.

“So where do you fit on that spectrum?”

“I’m somewhere in the middle, probably a bit toward the more serious end.”

“Are you in a power-exchange relationship now?”

“Yes, I am. I’ve been with my Significant Other for more than a decade, and we’ve lived together for most of that time.”

She looked away, eyes downcast, and her face showed disappointment, so I added, “We have a contract, a negotiated written agreement that defines our relationship. It specifies how we will interact with each other and with other scene people.”

She looked up at me and smiled. “Does that include interacting with someone you’ve just met?”

I smiled back. “Sure,” I told her. “As the dominant in our relationship, I can play with anyone I choose to.”

She smiled again.

*

As we began our descent I asked whether the DC area was her final destination or she was connecting to another flight, and Samantha told me she was visiting a sister who lives in Chevy Chase, the Maryland suburb and not the DC neighborhood of the same name.

“How are you getting there? Is someone meeting you?”

“I was planning on catching a cab.”

“My car is at Dulles; you’ll ride with me.”

She took a deep breath, shivered again, and thanked me. Then she asked, somewhat timidly, “Are you still going to spank me because of the shoes I have on?”

“I never intended to actually spank you; you asked me to say something as an example. Even if we had agreed to start some kind of relationship, I couldn’t possibly hold you accountable for what you’re wearing because you had no way of knowing my requirements before we met on this airplane.”

She thought about that for a minute, then said, very quietly, “What if I want you to do it anyway?”

“Why would you want that?”

“Because I told you that I want to experience more. When you just said it, the idea excited me, and I want to know how I would react to actually having it happen.”

“We’ll see,” I told her, and I made my initial plan for the drive from the airport, curious to see how much Samantha would be willing to experience.

*

We checked the displays and made our way to the appropriate baggage-claim area. Ours was a late-evening arrival and the airport was mostly empty. When the carousel started moving and baggage began to appear, Samantha pointed; I retrieved her suitcase, then grabbed my own, and we walked toward the exit. When we reached the ramp leading down to where the shuttle buses load for the various parking areas, I stopped and pointed. “Take your suitcase into the ladies room and change from your sweater to a blouse that buttons down the front.”

Samantha nodded and wheeled her suitcase after her toward the restrooms. Fifteen minutes later she came out and strode toward me, her rolling hips causing her knee-length black pleated skirt to swirl about her thighs. The blouse she’d chosen was opaque, but the top four buttons were undone and she was showing some very nice cleavage. While it wasn’t especially tight, there were two distinct bumps in the blouse where her nipples poked against the fabric. Samantha had brushed her hair and changed from pink to a bright red lipstick that matched the blouse. She had also changed her shoes; she was now wearing red fuck-me pumps with four-inch stiletto heels.

When she arrived at where I was standing, Samantha did a slow three-sixty, followed by a quick curtsy. “Do you like what you see?” she asked with a smile.

“I liked what I saw before,” I told her, “but I like what I see now even better.” I turned and headed down the ramp, and I heard the tapping of her heels on the concrete ramp as she followed me.

The shuttle we needed was waiting at the curb; I took her arm and helped her up the step, then brought our luggage and my laptop case onto the bus. We rode silently, sitting side by side, until the bus arrived at the stop I needed, then I helped her off and we walked the short distance to my car. It was parked facing in, with another car nose to nose with it; Samantha stood beside me while I opened the trunk, put the three bags inside, and closed it. I started walking around the car, then stopped beside the front passenger-side door. Samantha had followed me, and I turned to face her.

“Do you still feel as though you trust me?” I asked her.

“Yes, I do,” she replied without hesitation.

“Then go to the front of the car, bend over, and put your hands flat on the hood.” She nodded without speaking and proceeded to do as I had directed; I followed and stood behind her right hip. There were lights on tall poles some distance away, but there were long shadows, cars were parked all around us, and the lot seemed deserted at this late hour.

She let out a soft gasp when I flipped the hem of her skirt up, exposing a firm and nicely shaped behind above shapely legs spread shoulder-width apart. I reached down and ran my left hand lightly over her rounded curves, and the gasp was replaced by a low humming sound. I started slowly and lightly, the first few swats quite gentle, and her hips began to sway in rhythm with my spanking. I gradually increased the intensity and took longer between swats, and I heard quiet grunts and groans as each smack landed on her reddening butt. But her hips never stopped moving, a sure sign she liked what was happening.

After giving her the sixteen swats I’d specified, I ran my hand up the inside of her thigh and around between her legs. When I slid my fingers through her closely-trimmed bush, she was so wet that droplets of her fluids fell into my palm. “Well, well,” I said, “I guess you enjoyed that.”

“No kidding,” she whispered.

“Are you ready for more experiences?”

“Hell, yeah,” she replied. “Bring it on.”

I flipped her skirt back down over her behind, then took her arm and led her back around the car. I opened the front passenger door and lifted the back hem of her skirt as she sat down so her reddened butt rested on the cool leather of the seat. She swung her legs inside and planted her spike heels eighteen inches apart on the floor.

I reached in, pulled down on the shoulder strap, and leaned over Samantha to slip the safety belt tab into its socket. That movement put the left side of my face in front of her, and I felt her mouth press gently against my cheek. Without moving my body, I slid my left hand up her neck, grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulled down enough that her face was tilted up, then turned my head and kissed her firmly. Her response was immediate; she put both hands behind my head, opened her lips, and kissed back fiercely. I slid my tongue forward; she reciprocated, and our tongues did a mating dance. She pressed her breast into my side, and I felt her breathing deepen and speed up.

I broke the kiss and told her, “Put your hands around the sides of the seat and reach back.” I opened the rear door, reached into the pocket on the back of her seat, and enclosed her wrists in handcuffs connected by a fifteen-inch chain. She gasped as she felt the restraints and heard them ratchet shut. I closed the rear door and stood next to her seat. “You wanted new experiences, right?”

“Yes, but …”

“I thought you trusted me.”

“I do, but …”

“We’re just going for a ride to your sister’s house.”

“I know, but …”

“Just relax,” I told her, and then I pressed the switch to recline her seat until she was almost horizontal.

“But …”

“Trust me, Samantha, you’re going to enjoy this.”

*

I backed the car out of the parking space, paid the fee at an automated lane to avoid cashier eyes, exited the airport onto the Dulles Access Road, and set the cruise control at the speed limit. Samantha squeaked when I reached over and slipped my hand into her blouse, but when I cupped her firm-soft right breast and slid my thumb against her stiff nipple she arched up to press herself into my hand. She couldn’t hold that position, though, and when she relaxed I stroked her breast and toyed with her nipple. She sighed repeatedly and took slow deep breaths as I touched her for several miles.

When we were halfway to the Beltway, I pulled my hand and the left side of her blouse toward me, exposing her other breast. I slid the back of my hand over that nipple and got more positive reactions, now accompanied by soft moans and the lifting not only of her chest but also her hips off the seat. I took her nipple between my middle and ring fingers and rubbed my thumb back and forth across its tip; when that produced even more sounds of enjoyment I squeezed the nipple between my fingers, and that yielded more energetic hip movements and a louder groan.

After we passed through the toll plaza, taking advantage of my EZPass transponder to again avoid the cashiers, I drove carefully to the right and took the ramp for the northbound Inner Loop. I settled the car into the second lane from the right on the loop road and re-engaged the cruise control, then put my hand on her knee and moved it up her thigh, pushing her skirt until my hand was on her hip and her skirt was up to her waist. Next I slid my hand across her taut midriff and down until my palm covered her pussy. I let my hand rest there until I felt a slight upward pressure, then slowly pushed my middle finger into her slippery slit. When it was fully inside her, I dragged my hand back toward her belly, withdrawing my finger until its tip rested lightly on her swollen clitoris. Then I stopped again and waited for a reaction.

I didn’t have to wait long. She moaned, her hips squirmed, and she whispered, “Please …”

I waited a couple of seconds, then replied, “Please what?”

“Please move your finger, why are you teasing me this way?”

“This is a kind of control I particularly enjoy,” I told her. “I like hearing you beg and plead for attention.”

She raised and shifted her hips, trying to increase the pressure and cause my finger to move, then tossed her head from side to side and groaned in frustration. “Please,” she whispered again, “I’m so horny, I need to come …”

I started moving my finger, varying between up-and-down, side-to-side, and circular motions as we rounded the final curve in Virginia and headed downhill. Her breathing became fast and shallow, and she began making soft mewling sounds. When we reached the middle of the bridge over the Potomac, I told her, “Come now, come now for me,” and as we started up the hill into Maryland she started up her mountain of ecstasy.

“Ooohhh, yesss,” she hissed, and then she cried out wordlessly as her whole body shook in a major orgasm. I kept up my finger’s motions and increased its pressure; the handcuff chain rattled from her involuntary arm movements and she let out a long undulating scream as her body vibrated through a longer and more powerful second climax.

I gradually slowed my stimulation until it stopped completely, then maintained skin-to-skin contact as Samantha came down from her high. My timing was good; I felt her body unwind and her breathing return to normal as I shifted to the exit lane and then turned left onto Connecticut Avenue. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“You’re welcome,” I replied.

“Please find a secluded spot to stop the car.”

“Why do you want me to do that? Do you need time to compose yourself before we get to your sister’s house?”

“Yes, I do, and I need to sit up and have my hands free, but that’s not my only reason for asking. I want us to get into the back so I can get you off.”

“Don’t think I’m not appreciative of the offer, Samantha, but that’s really not necessary. I got a great deal of pleasure from your pleasure.”

“I’m glad you did, but I still want to give you more.”

I turned right onto a tree-lined side street and continued for several blocks until I reached an area with no streetlights. Then I pulled to the curb, moved the overhead switch so the dome light would stay off, turned off the headlights and the ignition, and walked around the front of the car. After opening both passenger-side doors, I raised her seat from its reclined position, then unlatched and removed the handcuffs. When I returned to stand next to her, Samantha rubbed each of her wrists in turn before reaching up to pull me down for another kiss. I responded with genuine enthusiasm, but then I took her hands and gently moved them to her lap. I grabbed a box of tissues from the back seat.

“It’s late, and it’s time to get you sorted out,” I told her, and I handed her the tissues. “I’ll take a rain check on your idea.”

Samantha took some tissues and wiped herself, then closed a couple of buttons on her blouse and pulled her skirt down around her legs. “I’ll be in town for two weeks, and I expect you to collect,” she said, and she reached into her purse to pull out a pen and a notebook. I told her my cell phone number, then closed both doors on her side, reseated myself, restarted the car, and made a U-turn back toward Connecticut Avenue. She gave me directions as we drove, and after a few minutes we arrived at her sister’s house.

I opened the trunk and helped Samantha get her suitcase to her sister’s front door. She rang the bell and lights came on in the living room. As the lock clicked and the door opened, revealing another attractive young woman wearing a robe, Samantha turned to me, flashed a bright smile, and said, “Thanks for the ride; it was most entertaining.”

*

Two days later, I received a text message. “I told my sister about our drive,” I read. “I told her all about it, and she wants to meet you. She said she’ll wear her new five-inch heels but you can spank her anyway.”

I brought up the menu, then hit Reply and typed: Both of you be ready for me at six o’clock tonight. You know how to dress.

Copyright 2019 by Left Side Signals