190517704_e4eebe11f6_b.jpgThe last night we were together this visit, we went upstairs, and he lit incense and a candle, as he always does. He stood back. “Lift up your breasts,” he said. “Hold them up . . . like you’re offering them to me . . . like you’re giving them to me to do with as I will.”

I did. He smiled. Then his face went serious. “Now lose the bra,” he said, his tone commanding.

I have learned after two years that long explanations are not as useful as action. I lifted my coral-pink cashmere sweater off my head in one swoop and showed him the non-bra, neck-to-ankle nightgown underneath.

“Alright, get ’em out,” he said.

I pulled down the straps of the black cotton, down to my waist. “Now do the same thing again–lift them like an offering.”

I lifted my breasts and walked toward him, my hair curling around my face in a screen, falling around my shoulders, my new collar heavy on my neck, the candlelight glowing behind me and lighting up his face.

His face was glowing too, in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. He almost looked dumbfounded. I could see that I was beautiful to him . . . and also that he was proud of me, lusted after me, loved me, seemed in some kind of awe of me, and knew down to his core that he owned me. At least, that’s what I saw . . . which often really means I felt all those things about him.