Prolly not for children...

  Glass Roses

     The door in the room won't open. I tried to push it but something is blocking it from the other side. When faced with a pressing situation sound advice dictates one should not panic, but I can't help it; I am bound in a sheen material with minimal give and my palms are slick with sweat. I'm wrapped in a way that I'm able to walk and move, but I breathe with difficulty. I slow and deepen my shallow breaths because passing out from hyperventilation will only make me more vulnerable.
     I look out a window to orient myself, but there is only a wall of stained glass. A rippling, rose pattern so dense it distorts whatever is on the other side. It could be grass. It could be water.  I'm anxious an light-headed and unable to fully grasp my surroundings.
     I'm in a room of wood and glass and a lazy fire crackles in the corner. On a stretch of wall hang two paintings. One of two lovers, draped in fabrics, sprawled on lush garden greenery, the only light coming from a half-moon and an oil lamp on the verge of extinguishing. The woman's breasts are exposed, her eyes closed, and her mouth parted in what is either an agonizing or ecstatic moan. A satyr is bent over her, kneeling between her; hairy-legged and cloven-footed. His back muscles ripple as he holds her thighs apart and his face is in shadow. The small, shiny horns on his head dimly reflect the lamp's flame.
     The other painting depicts a small cabin with a thatched roof in the middle of a meadow. Everything is grayed under an incoming storm, and through a window a blazing fire can be seen with a hand holding an iron poker.
     I'm sitting on a sofa upholstered in soft velvet. Next to it, a bouquet of flowers in a crystal vase sits on a marble top end table.  I stare at the door across from me, willing the iron handle to turn.
    There is a knock at the door.
     "It's time. Are you ready?"
     Time? Ready? I swallow hard, and manage to answer, "Come in."
     The handle turns then stops, but the door doesn't open. There is a struggle from the other side, rattling the door until finally it swings open and a woman appears. "That's odd-- your shoes were jammed under the door. They're a little scuffed but no one will notice. Let's get them on."
     The woman kneels and slides the white satin heels onto my feet. She grabs my hands and helps me stand, reaches around me and pulls the bouquet from the vase, shaking off the excess water and leads me through the door into the other room. It has another fireplace, a large wooden canopy bed and a long full-length mirror. I stand in front of it and the woman hands me the flowers. It takes a minute but it all comes together; I'm a bride.
    It's surreal, me standing here in this room, in this gown, with this woman. I can't remember the specifics of how I got here. I search my memory banks trying to figure out how I got to this point, but all I can recall is hazy flashes of my life. I've clearly lost my mind. My face pales and the woman hands me a glass.
    "It's okay," she says. "Drink. Slowly." I obey. "Atta girl. You'll be fine, I promise." She takes the glass and leads me down a walnut corridor into a large hallway with French doors. More roses etched into the glass. More distortion. She pins a comb into my hair and pulls a veil over my eyes. She knocks on the door, music begins and they swing open, held apart by two men in suits. A roomful of people stand and stare at me. "Go on, dear," the woman says, putting her hand on the small of my back, giving me a nudge.
     I walk at the pace the my gown allows not at the pace the music demands. Passing the sea of faces, some smiling, some bored, all of them looking the same under my veil; shrouded and unclear. I look toward the altar with difficulty focusing as beams of light shine through the glass ceiling. I squint, looking for him, the reason I was here. A cloud passes overhead and for a few seconds, I am able to see him, my intended, his face looking at me, covered in shadow.

      I go through the motions. A declaration. A kiss. A dance. Cake. Congratulations. I'm carried away by the man I'll now call my husband down the long corridor, back to the room I started where an attendant opens the door, allowing my husband to carry me inside. The heavy wooden door creaks as it slowly shuts behind us.
     He stands me in front of the mirror,  I can see the fireplace reflecting behind me. A fire has been lot for us and flames are flickering, intertwining, and spiraling into each other. Merging into one then starting the dance over with a new flame. The night's events are just as blurred as those leading up to it and as my new husband appears in the mirror behind me, I know the evening is not yet done.
     The man, handsome and familiar, mysterious and powerful, reaches over my head and removes the comb with the veil and drapes it over the mirror. He unfastens the buttons that run from the top of my neck to the base of my tailbone. With each button undone, I can breathe a little easier. His fingers are fast, as fast as the flames which highlight only parts of his face, revealing bits and pieces of my future. He slips my arms through the sleeves and my dress drops in a pile on the floor; the remnants of a camellia that has dropped all its petals.
     He lifts me and I close my eyes. I let myself go limp in his arms as I float across the room. He is strong and sets me easily on the bed. My eyes open. I see half his face; shadows dancing on his skin. He is serious and quiet. He leans in closely, and I look into his eyes, alive with fire. He unhooks the front of my corset, positioning himself between my legs. I take a deep breath, deeper than any breath I can remember, and I feel him hardening against me. Warm skin against warm skin. I turn my head and look in the mirror and see the painting of the lovers come to life. My new husband is bent over my body, my breasts exposed, his hands holding my thighs apart, his back muscles rippling and face buried in my neck. Although married, he is still a stranger to me, but in this moment he is my lover and I'm joined to him.
     His arousal stirs something inside of me. I'm no longer limp and hazy. Trying to figure out how I got here is no longer important, because I'm here, and that's not changing. I put my arms around him, one hand grabbing a fistful of hair, the other digging nails into flesh. He groans. Whether it's pleasure or pain, I don't care. I pull harder and dig deeper. This excites him. He pushes my thighs further apart. This excites me. He can feel my warmth and that I'm ready. He thrusts against me and enters.
     I close my eyes and envision the painting of the cabin. The oncoming storm threatens the fire. I see myself inside, stoking the fire, knowing that I must keep it going. If the storm drowns out the flames, I'll be left cold and in complete darkness. Then I'm back. Back to the thrusting. To the heat in my chest and the fire between my legs. I can't hold onto my breath anymore. I open my mouth and exhale and as I do I catch myself in the mirror, mouth parted in ecstasy and sighing in realization. My husband looks back toward the mirror and smiles because he knows. He knows me, what I want and what I need. Who I was is now irrelevant. I've been shattered and remade. In this moment, I'm sexual pleasure in its purest form; lustful, frenzied, and burning. Manipulated through heat and touch, I melt away, giving into what I was meant to become.