Bloom for Her: The Conservatory, Revisited

An EXCLUSIVE Bonus Chapter by Aurora North

A scene too hot for Amazon — for Bloom & Stem subscribers only

🔥 Three weeks after the wedding. Elle has installed a brass hook in the conservatory, and she has plans. Aria is wearing Elle’s shirt on purpose. The greenhouse door locks from the inside. What happens on a Saturday night in our shop is the most explicit scene in the Bloom for Her universe — and it’s yours.

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⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit FF sexual content: oral, fingering, silk bondage from a ceiling hook, strap-on/penetrative sex from behind over a potting bench, multiple consecutive orgasms, praise kink, marking, D/s dynamics, and aftercare. Intended for readers 18+.

The Conservatory, Revisited

Three weeks after the wedding. A Saturday night at the shop, after hours.

Elle locks the front door at seven-oh-four.

She does it with her back to me, one hand on the deadbolt, the other on the light switch, and I am standing behind the counter pretending to reconcile the register with the receipt tape from this afternoon but actually watching her the whole time. She knows I am watching her. She has, for the last nine minutes, been making deliberate small show of closing the shop — turning the sign from OPEN to CLOSED with a slow, neat flip; stacking the last of the day’s delivery tickets; walking the length of the shop to pull the blinds down on each of the front windows, one, two, three — and I have been leaning on the counter, doing nothing, watching her.

She turns.

She says, “Aria.”

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “You are not reconciling anything.”

I say, “I know.”

She says, “You have been pretending to reconcile for nine minutes.”

I say, “I know.”

She says, “Come here.”

I come around the counter.

She walks me, backward, through the shop, through the workroom, and — without breaking eye contact — through the glass-and-steel door into the conservatory.

She closes it behind us.

She thumbs the small brass lock on the inside — the same one I watched her use on a Saturday in July two months ago, the one she showed me existed for the first time that night — and I hear the click go straight down my spine.

She says, “You remember what we did in here.”

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “You remember.”

I say, “Yes.”

She says, “Tonight we are doing it again.”

I say, “Okay.”

She says, “Tonight we are doing it again, and there are three things about tonight that are different. Do you want the three things now or after.”

I say, “Now.”

She says, “Good girl.”

My stomach does the thing it does.

She says, “Thing one. You are my wife. Which means I am going to do some things tonight I did not do in July, because I was still on my best behavior in July. I am not on my best behavior anymore. Thing two. I have the drawer down here tonight. I brought the strap. I brought the silk. I brought a new thing I am going to show you. Thing three.”

She steps closer.

She puts her hand flat on my sternum.

Her thumb brushes the edge of the deep-cut scoop-neck tee I am wearing, which is hers, which I stole from her drawer at six-forty-five this morning specifically because I had known in advance that tonight was going to be — this. Because I had asked her, at breakfast on Tuesday, will you take me to the greenhouse again sometime, and she had looked up from her toast and held my gaze for about four seconds and said, Saturday after close, and my whole body has been on a slow simmer since.

She says, “Thing three is that the shop is ours now.”

I say, “What.”

She says, “Margaux called Wednesday. Your grandmother’s carriage house is a rental property until you want to use it. Fine. But she was structuring the Bloom and Stem operating agreement again, some quarterly adjustment, and she asked, and I said — Aria, this shop, the one you are standing in, has been in my mother’s name on paper the whole time. The LLC owns the business. It doesn’t own the building. My mother still owned the building, technically, through a trust she set up before she died. I took over the mortgage. I didn’t take over the title.”

She says, “Tuesday morning I signed paperwork that put the title in our names. Both of us. As married co-owners.”

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “This is our shop now. Yours and mine.”

I say, “Elle —”

She says, “Which means that the conservatory you are standing in is, legally, now yours too.”

I say, “I — I need you to stop talking for a second.”

She says, “Okay.”

I put my hand over my face.

I am, inappropriately, aroused by an act of marital real estate.

I am apparently a person who is turned on by being put on a deed.

Elle, across the half-meter of greenhouse air between us, is watching my face with her arms folded and a small smile at the corner of her mouth because she knows exactly what she has just done to me.

She says, after ten seconds, “Are you done.”

I say, “No.”

She says, “Take your time.”

I take my time.

After about twenty more seconds I lower my hand.

I say, “Okay. I am — I am ready. Continue. But Elle. You cannot open with joint property ownership as foreplay. That is — that is not a warm-up, that is —”

She says, “You loved it.”

I say, “I am going to need you to fuck me in our conservatory.”

She says, “That is the plan, wife.”

She has been busy.

I realize it as she walks past me to the potting bench and pulls a canvas bag out of the low cabinet. She has, at some point today — between the two-o’clock wedding consult and the four-forty-five delivery run — come down to the greenhouse and set up.

There is a folded blanket on the corner of the bench that was not there this morning. Soft, cream, our bedroom throw from upstairs.

There is a small glass jar of oil — the one from the nightstand drawer — sitting beside a clean linen towel.

There is, most notably, a brass hook I have never seen before, screwed into the wooden crossbeam at eye height over the potting bench, which cannot have been there for more than eight hours because I have been in this greenhouse yesterday morning and it absolutely was not there then.

I look at the new hook.

I look at her.

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “Yes.”

I say, “You installed a hook.”

She says, “I did.”

I say, “For —”

She says, “For you, yes.”

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “I have been thinking about it for a month.”

I put my face in my hands again.

She says, through my fingers, “Are you ready.”

I say, “Yes.”

She undresses me slowly.

She does it the way she did the first time in this room — no preamble, no kissing me first, just her hands coming up to the hem of the t-shirt I stole from her and lifting, and me raising my arms for her. The t-shirt goes over my head. She folds it. Sets it on the edge of the potting bench because she is, even in this, a woman who folds.

She unhooks my bra. It joins the shirt.

She slides the waistband of my jeans down.

I step out. Underwear, too, at her nod. Socks, on the cedar floor of the greenhouse. She places my shoes to the side of the bench so I do not step on them.

I am standing naked in our conservatory at seven-twenty-three on a Saturday night in August, and she is still — still — fully dressed, in her work jeans and her rolled-sleeve chambray, and she is looking at me the way she looked at me the first night I was in her bed, which is the way she has looked at me, I have realized, basically every day since.

She says, “God, Aria.”

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “You are so —”

She does not finish the sentence.

She crosses the greenhouse to me.

She kisses me.

She kisses me against the potting bench. My bare back against the edge of the cedar. Her hands in my hair, on my jaw, my waist. The kiss is deep and unhurried and a little brutal, the kind of kiss that announces a scene rather than opens it. Her tongue is in my mouth. She sucks, hard, on my lower lip, and I make a small sound, and she smiles against my mouth.

She says, into my ear, “I have been thinking about this since Tuesday.”

I say, “I know.”

She says, “I have had a brass hook in my pocket for four days.”

I laugh.

I laugh into her shoulder, and she pulls the silk out of the canvas bag on the bench behind me.

It is the same silk from July. Cream. About three feet. Hand’s-width.

I am, again, tied up in front.

This time, though, she does it differently. She wraps the silk once around each wrist, separately, not crossing them. She knots a soft loop at the top. She tests it with her thumb. Good circulation. Good slack.

Then — and this is new — she lifts my arms over my head and she hooks the silk loop over the new brass hook in the crossbeam, and she lets my weight hang forward into it.

My arms stretched up. My feet still flat on the cedar floor. My back slightly arched away from the potting bench.

I am held.

I am held in a way I have not been held before.

She says, quietly, “Okay?”

I say, “Okay.”

She says, “Try it.”

I pull, experimentally, against the silk. It holds. The hook creaks very slightly but does not give.

I let my weight fall into it.

It holds.

She says, “Kyle sold me a 300-pound hook.”

I say, “Kyle is a hero.”

She laughs.

She laughs with her mouth against my throat, and it vibrates through my whole body, and I am — I am ready. I am already so ready I am ashamed of myself. She has not touched me yet below the collarbone and I am ready.

She notices.

She says, “Already?”

I say, “Elle. It has been eighteen days since the wedding. You worked eleven of them. I am — ready.”

She says, “Well.”

She steps back a full step.

She looks at me, hanging from her potting bench, naked, bound, arched.

She says, “In that case.”

She undresses.

Not fast. Not slow. The way a woman undresses when she has walked a partner up to a bound position and wants her to watch the next move. She unbuttons the chambray. One button. Two. Three. The shirt comes open. She does not take it off yet. She unbuckles her belt. Opens the jeans. Pushes them down.

Her underwear comes off with the jeans.

She is in the open chambray and nothing else.

She walks back to the canvas bag.

She takes out the harness.

My mouth goes dry.

She says, “This one.”

I say, “Yes.”

She says, “You’re sure.”

I say, “Elle. Yes.”

She says, “I am going to take my time.”

I say, “Please.”

She steps into the harness. Settles the silicone toy in the ring. Adjusts the straps, one-handed, the way she has done a dozen times now. The harness is black webbing and it sits low on her hips and the toy is navy-pink and it is not pretending to be anything other than what it is, which is a thing she is going to put inside me, and watching her put it on is doing things to me that I was not, frankly, prepared to cope with hands bound above my head.

She comes over to me.

She picks up the jar of oil.

She unscrews the lid. Dips one finger in. Rubs it between her thumb and index. Warms it.

She says, “Look at me.”

I look at her.

She says, “I am going to touch you for a while before I fuck you.”

I say, “Okay.”

She says, “I am going to keep you right here until you cannot form sentences.”

I say, “Okay.”

She says, “Then I am going to let you down and I am going to take you over this bench and I am going to fuck you from behind until neither of us can walk up the stairs. And then I am going to carry you upstairs, and we are going to eat, and we are going to sleep, and we are going to do this again tomorrow. Okay?”

I say, “Please.”

She says, “Good girl.”

She warms the oil in her palms first.

Then she puts her oiled hands on me.

She starts at my collarbones. Palms spread wide. She slides down, slow, over my breasts — not lingering, just passing, priming the skin — over my ribs, my waist, the flat of my stomach. The oil leaves my skin shining in the low light.

She crouches in front of me.

She slides her hands down the front of my thighs. Up the inside. Over my hipbones. She is not touching me there yet, even though I am, I can feel it, dripping. She is avoiding it on purpose. She is priming every inch of skin around it and making me wait.

She kisses the inside of my left thigh.

She bites it, gently.

I make a noise.

She says, against my skin, “Patience.”

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “Patience, wife.”

She stands up.

She kisses my shoulder. My throat. The mark she left last Saturday which is now a ghost of yellow. She lays a fresh mark on top of it, and I feel the pull of the silk at my wrists as my back arches up into her mouth.

Her hand finally — finally — slides between my legs.

I sob.

I sob because I am so ready it hurts and because she is touching me with the pads of her fingers, lightly, exploring, not working. Her thumb circles my clit once. Twice. Then she stops.

She says, into my ear, “You are so wet for me.”

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “Look at you. Hanging from my potting bench. Dripping for me. I could pin you to this cedar and fuck you until you forgot your own name and you would let me. Wouldn’t you, baby.”

I say, “Yes.”

She says, “Good girl.”

She slides two fingers into me.

I shudder.

She works them slow. She works them with her mouth on my throat and her other hand on my breast and her body pressed up against mine, the harness pressing against my hip, the toy trapped between her stomach and mine.

She takes me up the cliff slow.

She takes me up the cliff for — I do not know. Five minutes. Ten. She is reading me. Every time she feels me getting close she slows, or she changes angle, or she pulls her fingers out entirely and flicks across my clit lightly until I whine. She has been learning my body for three months and she is using every single thing she has learned tonight.

When she finally lets me come, it is with a third finger inside me and her thumb on my clit and her teeth on my shoulder, and I scream — I do, I actually scream, into her neck, because the door is locked and nobody is in the shop and nobody is on the street and nobody can hear me but her.

I come hanging from the hook, weight into the silk, shaking.

She works me through it.

She pulls her fingers out slow.

She does not take her mouth off my shoulder.

She says, “One.”

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “That was one, wife.”

I say, “Oh god.”

She lets me down.

She unhooks the silk from the brass ring, slow. She unwraps my wrists, one at a time. She rubs each wrist. She kisses each palm. She walks me two steps forward to the blanket she has laid on top of the potting bench.

She turns me around.

She puts one hand, firmly, on the back of my neck, and she bends me over.

My cheek on the cedar. My hands on the far edge of the bench. My hips at the edge. She kicks my feet apart, gently, with her own.

She is behind me.

She is lining the toy up.

She slicks it with oil from the jar. I hear it. I hear her palm sliding along it. I hear her step closer.

She says, “Are you ready.”

I say, “Yes.”

She says, “Say yes out loud one more time, Aria. With your full name.”

I say, “Yes. Aria Bloom says yes.”

She laughs — a low, delighted, proprietary laugh.

She says, “Good girl.”

She pushes in.

She goes slow the first inch.

She goes slow the first two inches.

By the third inch my forehead is on the cedar and I am saying Elle, Elle, Elle, under my breath like a chant, and she is stopping, waiting, letting me adjust, one hand flat on my back between my shoulder blades, the other on my hip.

She slides the rest of the way in.

She seats herself fully. Hips against the backs of my thighs. She does not move.

She bends forward over me.

Her chest against my back. Her mouth against the back of my neck.

She says, against my skin, “How are you.”

I say, “Full.”

She says, “Good girl.”

She begins to move.

She fucks me over the potting bench.

She fucks me the way she said she was going to — slow at first, finding the angle, her hand on my hip steering, her other hand pressing me flat against the cedar. She finds the spot. She finds the angle. She knows my body. When she finds it my whole back arches and I sob and she says, against the back of my neck, there? and I say, there, oh god, there, and she stays there.

She fucks me steady. She fucks me relentless. She is not rushing. She is not edging. She is not playing. She is just — working me, with a full, long, deep stroke, exactly at the right angle, and she is talking to me the whole time.

She says, against my ear, “Look at you. Taking me so well. Taking the whole thing. You were made for this.”

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “You were made for me. I am the only woman who gets to do this to you, Aria. The only one. Ever. Do you hear me.”

I say, “Yes.”

She says, “Say it.”

I say, “Only you.”

She says, “Good girl.”

She reaches her free hand around to my front. Her fingers find my clit. She works it in slow circles while she is still fucking me, and I am — I am breaking, I am breaking against the cedar, I am breaking into the blanket, I am making sounds I do not have names for, and she is steady behind me, not speeding up, not faltering.

I come with her hand on my clit and the toy deep inside me and her weight holding me down against the potting bench.

I come screaming into the blanket.

She fucks me through it.

She does not stop.

Here is what I did not know, before tonight, about being fucked in our own conservatory over our own potting bench three weeks into being my wife’s wife.

I did not know that the coming down, this time, would take longer than the coming up.

She keeps fucking me.

She keeps fucking me, slow, steady, while I am still twitching, while my clit is still too sensitive, while my whole body is still vibrating — and she talks me through it, and she kisses my shoulder, and she slows when I need slower and picks back up when I need more, and inside of three minutes I am, impossibly, moving back against her, and she makes a sound at that, a low proprietary mmm, and she says, there’s my wife, and I start climbing again.

The second one is harder.

The second one is harder because I am already wrecked from the first, and because she is not letting up, and because the position is — god — because the position has my cheek on the cedar and her fingers laced through mine on the bench and her mouth against the back of my neck and the toy fucking up into me at an angle that should not exist, should not be possible, should not have been designed by any engineer on earth, and I am shaking, and saying Elle, Elle, Elle into the blanket, and I come the second time silent, a broken-open silent one, with my whole body going tight and then loose and tight and loose, and she rides me down through it, slow, hand over hand, until I am just — breathing.

She pulls out.

Slow.

So slow.

I make a small wounded sound.

She says, “I know, baby. I know.”

She unclips the harness. I hear her drop it on the floor with the toy still in it.

She pulls me up off the bench.

She turns me around.

I — my knees are not great.

She catches me. She has expected this. She lowers me, slow, down to sit on the blanket-covered edge of the potting bench, and she crouches in front of me, and she kisses each of my palms, and she says, very quiet:

“Hi.”

I say, “Hi.”

She says, “Still here?”

I say, “Still here.”

She says, “Very good.”

She reaches for the linen towel. She wipes her own thighs first. Then mine. Then between my legs, carefully, gently.

She kisses the top of my knee.

She says, “One more.”

I say, “Elle —”

She says, “One more. On me. Up here. Come here.”

She climbs up on the potting bench.

She sits on the blanket with her back against the cedar wall. She reaches down and pulls me up onto her lap, straddling her. I come up. I settle against her.

I am naked. She is in the open chambray, nothing else. Her legs are bare under mine. Her hands are flat on my back.

She is very, very wet.

I can feel her, under me, against my thigh.

She says, “You do not have to. If you are done, I can finish myself in about forty seconds, I am frankly right there, you can just sit here and watch —”

I say, “Elle.”

She says, “Yes.”

I say, “Let me.”

I slide my hand between us.

She is dripping. She is soaked. She has been hard in her own harness, riding me, for twenty minutes, and she is desperate.

I touch her slow the first second. Then not slow.

I know her body now. I know where she needs it. I work her clit in the tight small circles she likes, with two fingers, while my other hand slides inside her, curling up to where she has taught me to curl, and she puts her forehead against my collarbone and she breaks.

She breaks inside of a minute.

She comes with her mouth open against my chest and a low shaking oh, Aria — and her hand tight in my hair and her thighs squeezing around my wrist.

She comes undone.

I work her through it.

When she is quiet, I slide my hand out. I wipe it on the edge of the blanket. I wrap my arms around her shoulders.

We sit there on the potting bench in our conservatory at nine-oh-seven p.m. on a Saturday, in the dark — Elle has, at some point, turned off even the low lamp, and we have been working by the moon coming in through the glass roof — and neither of us moves for a long time.

Eventually she lifts her head.

She says, very quiet, “Hi.”

I say, “Hi.”

She says, “How are you.”

I say, “Elle. I — I am very okay. I am very, very okay.”

She says, “Good.”

She says, “Food?”

I say, “Food.”

She says, “Stairs?”

I say, “Carry me.”

She says, “I was going to.”

She wraps me in the blanket. She picks up the harness and the jar and the silk, one-handed, with the other arm around me. She kicks the canvas bag shut with her foot. She unlocks the greenhouse door.

She carries the blanket-wrapped bundle of me back through the workroom — pausing to turn off the last of the overheads — and through the back door of the shop, and up the back stairs, barefoot in an open chambray shirt with a jar of oil in one hand and her wife wrapped in a throw in the other arm.

At the top of the stairs I say, into her neck, “Elle.”

She says, “Yeah.”

I say, “You put your name on a deed with mine on Tuesday morning.”

She says, “I did.”

I say, “You installed a brass hook in the conservatory at seven-thirty this morning.”

She says, “I did.”

I say, “You have a plan.”

She says, “I always have a plan, wife.”

I say, “You are — Elle. You are a menace.”

She says, “I am.”

I say, “I love you.”

She says, “I love you, Aria Bloom.”

She kicks the apartment door open.

She carries me inside.

She lays me down on our bed.

She goes to the kitchen for the food she made this afternoon and set aside in the fridge, which she did because she is a woman who plans, because she has been planning this night since Tuesday, because she is — God. Because she is my wife.

In the morning, I will wake up with her arm across my waist and the conservatory lock-click still somewhere in the back of my head, and I will roll into her, and I will say, Elle, and she will say, sleep-rough, again? and I will say, again, and she will say — yes, wife. Again.

But that is tomorrow.

Tonight, the greenhouse lamps are off. The potting bench is still warm. The silk is folded on the nightstand. The brass hook is holding up nothing at all, in the dark, in a conservatory in a flower shop in a small town in the Hudson Valley, waiting for the next time.

I am in our bed.

She is bringing me food.

I close my eyes.

I wait for her.

Want more from Elle and Aria? You’ll love the whole Aurora North sapphic line.