Author’s note: I first became a member of Black Rose, the DC-based educational, support, and social organization for people involved in both the psychological (dominance and submission) and the physical (BDSM) aspects of such relationships, in 1986, and I’ve maintained my support of BR even when I’ve lived far away from our nation’s capital. Among other distinctions, BR was the first group of its kind to be recognized by the IRS as a 501© 7 non-profit educational organization.

BR started many years ago as a chapter of People Exchanging Power, which at the time was an organization composed of local chapters for BDSM-oriented people. But the DC group soon changed its name to avoid being associated with PEP’s well-known and publicly outspoken founder. Technically, BR doesn’t have members, it has contributors. Many of its contributors were and are in high-level government, military, and contractor positions; in the past, even more so than today, they required absolute discretion, and membership lists of organizations are potentially subject to subpoena.

While I had the starting premise of this story in my files for a long time, completing it was one of my more recent efforts. It’s true that I have the type of BR luggage tag on my carry-on that’s described in the story, but the rest of it is entirely wishful thinking, aka fiction.

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 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?”