Chapter Text
c. 2212
Illuminated by a single spotlight, Spring writhes on the circular stage, deep in the clutches of her Bloom.
White-streaked tendrils of grey branches carve down the landscape of her pale body, a root system greedily seeking nourishment, leaving only pain in its wake. She is a Cherry Blossom, evidenced by the light vanilla smell permeating the air, the trembling green buds on the branches, soft pink petals peeking out the florets – the same pink that colours her hair and eyes.
Eyes that are in that moment dark and dilated. They betray none of the sensations that war inside, her suffering concealed expertly, the whole spectacle a performance designed only to arouse, to tease.
Aden watches from the viewing booth, her nose nearly pressed against the clear glass. Like all Flowers, Spring is breathtakingly beautiful. East Asian, she has large, doe-like eyes on a sweet and delicate apple-shaped face. She glows under the spotlight, arousal flushing her cheeks a rosy red. With her arms raised above her head, wrists restrained by flowing scarlet silks that descend from the ceiling, she is the perfect picture of a pliable, demure doll, at the absolute and utter mercy of the Blossomer.
In front of her, the Blossomer is as still as a statue.
Contrasted against Spring’s naked, slender figure, the woman is dressed in a white silk robe, flowing down to her ankles, cinched around her ample waist. A middle-aged woman with narrow eyes and a large mouth spread wide in a gleeful smile, she traces the seed – the white diamond shape scar that marks all Flowers, present when they are born – on the centre of Spring’s throat lightly with one finger. And without warning, she yanks Spring’s head back to drag her tongue the length of her throat, making Spring shudder, the markings on her skin shiver.
By Aden’s side, Tsu Mi snorts quietly.
“The Blossomer pays one million dollars for the privilege of completing Spring’s Bloom. They like to… make the most of what they pay.” The Mistress of the House of Flowers turns to her, cool brown eyes nearly level with her own. For a woman in her early fifties, she is astoundingly well-kept. Unfathomable wealth will do that – maintain an ageless beauty free of sun damage. The pristine burgundy red pantsuit cut to her slim figure undoubtedly costs at least ten times what Aden’s suit does.
“At 2.2 million dollars for each Bloom Viewing, Spring is the most expensive Flower in the House of Flowers –” a smug smile graces Tsu Mi’s lips “– and the entire world.” She points at the two levels of tinted glass windows surrounding the revolving circular stage, barely visible in the shadows. “Twelve booths including our own, at a price of one hundred thousand dollars each. But for you, tonight? It’s free of charge.” She lets out a soft chuckle. “On the House, shall we say?”
Aden highly doubts that. But she keeps her voice even, her face placid. “I see. And as you said earlier, you won’t tell me why until after the viewing, yes?”
Tsu Mi’s smile becomes wolfish. “Indeed. All will be revealed in due time, Dr Masters. I wouldn’t want to distract you from this… unique experience of Spring’s Bloom.”
Right on time, a barely stifled moan draws their attention back to the stage. Spring rolls her head forward, eyes boring intently into the Blossomer. She presses her thighs tightly together.
“Please.” Her plea falls from full red swollen lips.
“Please what, Spring?” The Blossomer’s voice is irritatingly high-pitched and nasally.
Annoyance flares in her chest at the Blossomer’s blatant disregard of Spring’s discomfort. It is a well-known fact that the main symptoms of the Bloom include excruciating pain along with urgent arousal. But as the Blossomer draws the moment out, savouring every one of Spring’s heavy breaths, she understands that when one pays a million dollars, they expect to get their money’s worth.
“Please do it,” Spring whispers. “Please fuck me.”
The woman cocks her head by Spring’s mouth patronisingly. “I can’t hear you, sweetheart. What do you want me to do?”
Aden’s fists are clenched so tight that her fingernails bite into her palm.
“Please, fuck me,” Spring raises her voice. “Please.” Sweat trickles down between her breasts.
The digital timer on the base of the stage flashes – twenty minutes into the thirty-minute Bloom Viewing.
Concern overrides Aden’s desire to appear nonchalant. “What happens if she doesn’t bring her to orgasm?”
“Then she will never step foot into the House of Flowers ever again,” Tsu Mi replies coldly, unblinking eyes fixed on Spring. “The purpose of the Bloom Viewing is foremost, to bring the Flower the relief she requires. If the Blossomer fails in that regard, we will bring in another Flower to remedy the situation immediately to prevent the death of the Blooming Flower.”
“That’s good.”
“But, do not worry, Dr Masters. It has never happened before in the history of the House. The Bloom will be completed.”
But the seconds continue to tick on relentlessly, the Blossomer still taking her time. She moves about Spring, touching and kissing, doing anything but what she has paid to do.
Finally, at twenty-eight minutes in, she reaches in between Spring’s legs, causing her to let out a soft whimper, and she gyrates her hips against her touch almost desperately. But the woman slaps one firm hand onto Spring’s hip, stilling her, unwilling to allow her the satisfaction of control. Spring ceases her movements, dropping her head in submission, but she lifts heavily lidded eyes to the Blossomer, beseeching. Satisfied, the Blossomer grins and slips her fingers into Spring and starts thrusting.
Their heavy breathing and laboured moans fill the booth.
Aden spares a glance at the shelf along the wall – neatly arranged luxuriously thick towels and expensive, branded lotions and lubricants – and the large armchair in the centre of the booth; a reminder of what others may be doing in the privacy of their booths.
She forces the thought away, focusing on the stage.
There are only inches of bare skin left on Spring, inches that spell the difference between life and death for Spring. A guttural groan comes from the Blossomer, her cheeks and neck flushed an angry red; she has her other hand around Spring’s throat. She tightens her grip, increasing the tempo.
Aden’s chest tightens. She knows this is a show, that all Flowers are trained to entertain and to titillate, their consensual submission what the wealthy pay exorbitant amounts to consume; that Spring is one of the best, if not the best, entertainers in Bloom Viewings. But as Spring bites down hard on her lip, her eyes squeezing shut, all she can think about is how violating it must feel for her. To not be able to have any say in how she achieves her orgasm.
Spring arches her back, gasping sharply. Her wrists snap the restraints taut.
The Blossomer offers no reprieve, maintaining a steady rhythm.
Then all at once, Spring cries out loudly, rising to the tip of her toes. Her entire body quivers.
Immediately, the Blossomer exits the stage, descending the stairs to leave Spring alone in all her glory. She stuffs her fingers into her mouth as she goes. Aden knows it is part of the deal. All those in the viewing booths will want an unobstructed view of what comes next – Spring in full Bloom.
In an explosion of colour, all the swollen, pulsing buds burst open, painting the canvas of her body in dots and splashes of vivid hues of pink. It is a stunning sight – cherry Blossoms cover her from neck to calves and the flimsy and delicate petals dance as though an invisible breeze is sweeping through. The scent of vanilla, initially light, thickens in their nostrils, becoming sweeter, almost sickly.
Unabashedly curious, Aden leans forwards to observe the markings on Spring’s body, her palms pressing up against the glass. The Bloom is a view reserved for the wealthiest of the wealthy, a sight long scrubbed from the internet by the Houses protecting their expensive and exclusive source of revenue. This is the only time she will witness one. But as she leans forward, she glimpses her reflection. Her hair is slightly ruffled and there is a greedy look in the wide almond-brown eyes on her angular face that she does not like. She shifts her focus back to the stage.
Spring is drenched in sweat, her bangs sticking to her forehead. Her chest heaves heavily, petals fluttering in tandem. With every breath, clarity appears to seep back into her eyes and eventually, she raises her head to blink lazily at the surrounding booths. Very slowly, a smile spreads on her face. It is the smile of one who knows she has every eye on her, knows that everyone present wishes they had their hands on her.
Then, she closes her eyes again, taking another long deep breath. And as her chest expands, the blossoms start to flutter, more violently this time.
It seems the show has not ended.
The light breeze swaying the petals increase into a stronger wind, peeling the pink petals away from the branches, resulting in a mesmerising swirl of movement. Aden watches as a petal crosses Spring’s stomach and dissipates away into nothing on her back. As the petals float away, the branches retract, uncoiling from Spring’s ankles, pulling back slowly into the seed, where they wait patiently for the next time she Blooms, their deathly grip foiled this time.
Aden inches closer, wishing she could study the markings up close. She wonders what they feel like to touch; whether Spring has any sensation of their movements, perhaps like ink spreading beneath her skin.
But the windows turn a shiny black, cutting off all view of the stage and signalling the end of the Bloom Viewing. She knows the move is intentional, leaving spectators wanting more, leaving them clamouring for the next Viewing, funding the House’s deep coffers. In the reflective surface, she sees Tsu Mi staring at her, another knowing smile curling her lips. She reminds her of a shark, a careful, slightly menacing glint always present in her eye, the smile too predatory for one to be entirely comfortable with.
“Well,” Tsu Mi says. “I hope you enjoyed the show, Dr Masters.”
To maintain the privacy of all clients, who are highly important people, exits from the booths are staggered so they can go into their waiting cars and be chauffeured out of the compound and straight to their luxury hotels in Flower Town without seeing another person. This means Aden and Tsu Mi are stuck in the stifling booth for another ten minutes before they are let out into the night.
Aden greedily gulps in the crisp air. Despite the mild winter chill that cools her down, her shirt still sticks to her back. She moves to undo a button on her collar, but she spies a CCTV camera angled towards her and refrains. It is the seventh CCTV camera she’s seen since stepping foot onto the compound. So much for privacy.
“Come,” Tsu Mi says, gesturing for her to follow. “We’ll speak in my office.”
They duck into a side path and wind through carefully manicured hedges, along concrete pavements lit by warm orange lighting. A wooden signpost indicates that Tsu Mi is taking her to the central area of the compound, where the dining hall, recreation rooms, library, and various other amenities are housed. Above the click of Tsu Mi’s six-inch heels, Aden can hear the incessant chirps of crickets and muted laughter somewhere in the distance. Artificial koi ponds and gold-gilded pavilions are nestled amongst the greenery and fairy lights and paper lanterns are artfully strewn about. It is astounding how lush the gardens are – fecund, expansive, a surprising number of flowers still blooming in the thick of winter.
Barely two hundred years ago, one could not find a single plant on this island.
In fact, the island did not exist at all.
The climate crisis of the 2000s rendered large swathes of territories inhospitable, ruined by harsh and unabating floods and droughts and wildfires. Warming global temperatures smouldered the entire equatorial band, reducing the entire area to a scorching wasteland. Food and water shortages meant that in just a decade, the global population dwindled to a fraction of its original numbers. But over the next century, as the apocalyptic weather events stabilised, those that managed to survive began to carve a new life in wholly different conditions. Technology and means of living swiftly adapted to the necessity of living harmoniously with the environment. Water was rationed and distributed evenly. New governments rose from the ashes of the old, lessons learnt and practised with tentative actions.
Slowly but surely, through concerted efforts, the global population rebounded. Instead of countries, new territories were formed, borders shifted by necessity to accommodate the destruction of the equatorial band. For many who had no money or jobs or skills to prove their worth to the territories, the only option was to relocate to the lawless Colonies in the desolate wasteland. In the governed territories, climate-friendly corporations flourished, creating a whole new set of wealthy elites. Plants and flowers became a symbol of status. Only the wealthy could afford land and the technology to make it arable again, to sustain life and growth.
And when human Flowers appeared inexplicably one sunny day – rare, beautiful, arresting – they inevitably became another sought-after possession for the wealthy.
But only after much blood was shed.
“After the Flower Wars ended, my aunty and mother founded the House of Flowers on Jeju Island,” Tsu Mi says. “But as the House grew in popularity, the locals of Jeju became frustrated with the hordes of tourists all year round, with that frustration eventually outweighing the prosperity the House brought. And so, Flower Island was born out of necessity.”
The island’s origin story is infamous. Using their vast fortune, the House dragged up enough land a distance from Jeju Island and converted it into an ultra-luxury resort island, with the House of Flower compound situated on one half of the island. The other half was dedicated to five-star hotels and restaurants, three theme parks, and enough markets and luxury boutiques to entertain the most decadent of the rich.
And that night, surrounded by more Flowers than she can count, it is clear how the House of Flowers accumulated such outrageous wealth to achieve such a feat.
“Since relocating to Flower Island, we have continued to maintain our position as the largest House in the world, with nearly a thousand Flowers in our service. Because of our location in the Asia-Pacific, most of our Flowers are East Asian in origin, but we do offer Flowers from all over the world. One need only request,” Tsu Mi winks.
Aden gives a clipped smile, but the Flowers draw her attention.
They swish by arm in arm, dressed in all manners of clothing – from showy, glamorous gowns, to casual crops and jeans, to their unique kimonos. They huddle together on benches in the gardens, their scents mixing with all the other scents to create a heady aroma. Not having had much exposure to gardens or flowers, the overpowering sweet scents remind Aden of walking through a perfumed section of a department store, nose protesting the excessive input of information. Every Flower that passes by them stop to greet Tsu Mi respectfully, bowing low at the waist. To Aden, they offer a smaller bow, still respectful, but accompanied by coquettish looks and giggles. She feels like a springboard, bending her neck every few minutes to acknowledge them.
When not in bloom, the women are still distinctively beautiful, their eyes and hair the permanent colour of their namesakes. But nothing marks their skin, only the distinctive seeds, embedded in all areas of their bodies. Most of the Flowers look to be in their twenties, with some younger teenagers not yet in Bloom – their eyes and hair still their original colours – and some girls even younger, looking up to the older Flowers with deference, hanging onto their every word. Non-Bloomers – seeded women who for some unknown reason, do not Bloom like the other Flowers – also appear among the Flowers, piquing Aden’s interest as to what their roles in the House might be.
Tsu Mi inclines her head. “Although Flowers do not make their first Bloom until they’re about sixteen years old, we accept Flowers who wish to join our service at all ages. Some are welcomed from as young as newborns and we provide all that is necessary to cultivate them into the exquisite Flowers that you see here today.”
Accept. Welcome. Highly euphemistic ways to phrase buying little girls from impoverished parents under the guise of protection and the promise of a better life, and then selling their services as elite escorts and making millions from their Bloom Viewings. But she keeps her thoughts to herself. Offending her host of the evening is likely a poor move.
Tsu Mi does not notice her consternation. She is still speaking. “For those that join us at a young age, we provide them with an education comparable to the best schools in the territories. There is a focus on relevant skills, such as how to be a lady and entertain, but they are largely free to choose their subjects. All the Flowers are all well cared for and want for nothing. The finest chefs prepare their food from the freshest of ingredients. They have access to any amenities that they could want right here in the compound – tennis courts, gyms with personal trainers, swimming pools, beaches, a cinema… you name it, we have it. And by some unlikely chance that we don’t, they are free to venture out to Flower Town to find what they need.”
“I see.”
“A paradise. That’s what we are. For both Flowers and patrons!” She announces with a flourish as they arrive at the central building – a four-storey circular building seemingly made entirely of glass, tangles of greenery interwoven into its structure. Tsu Mi’s office occupies the entire top floor. It is tastefully decorated, mahogany panelling along a third of the diameter with little alcoves that hold pristine bonsai trees embedded into the wall. There is a sitting area comprising couches set into the carpeted floor, a gas fireplace snug by their side; a meeting area with a table and a few chairs; and a large office table, computers, papers, and stationery neatly arranged in tidy lines.
Floor-to-ceiling windows provide a bird's-eye view of the compound. Aden can see the beach bordering the compound one end, a deep darkness stretching into the night. On the other, thick impenetrable steel walls and bright white spotlights provide round-the-clock protection, armed guards patrolling the ramparts. Low-rise buildings are tucked away further along the central area which she assumes are where the Flowers reside. Dark silhouettes move along the lit windows.
“Please, Dr Masters, have a seat.” Tsu Mi is already settled on the couch, gesturing for Aden to the seat opposite.
A knock on the door precedes the entrance of an older woman holding a tray, olive skinned with grey-streaked black hair and deep lines on her face. She wears the typical uniform of a staff member of the House – a dark grey tunic and a badge of the House crest pinned to her breast – and she sets down a steaming teapot and two matching ceramic cups.
“Chrysanthemum tea, Mistress Tsu Mi, Dr Masters.” She dips her head.
“Thank you, Marion,” Tsu Mi says, dismissing her.
Aden studies the large oil painting hanging above the fireplace. Tsu Mi sits on a golden throne, Spring and three other Flowers in their kimonos standing behind her. They are all remarkably beautiful, each with their own striking characteristics and colours. Her eyes linger on the coy smile on Spring’s face – her signature smile, gracing countless magazine covers and screen advertisements.
“The four Seasons,” Tsu Mi says, pouring steaming tea into the cups. “The highest positions one can attain in the House of Flowers. A Flower must be many things to be considered for the position of a Season.”
“I see,” Aden says, nodding.
Tsu Mi pauses for a long while, and Aden shifts uneasily, uncrossing and crossing her legs again. More for something to do, she picks up her tea, but it is too hot for a sip. She stares back at the Mistress of the House.
“So,” Tsu Mi says at last, “you must be wondering why I invited you here today.”
“Yes,” she says evenly. “I must admit I’m quite curious. I assume there is more to the invitation than the privilege of a free Bloom Viewing. The NDA I signed referred specifically to confidentiality surrounding any further matters we may discuss.”
Tsu Mi’s predatory smile returns. “Indeed, you are correct. There is no such thing as a free lunch in this cut-throat world, Dr Masters.”
“I understand perfectly. So, why am I here?”
“Because I want you to do something for me.”
Aden takes a sip, braving the scalding tea. She keeps her eyes on Tsu Mi, whose smile widens.
“And what is that?”
“I want you to create more Flowers.”