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Angela a Love Story by Vickie Tern I should have guessed there was a serious problem, but I hadn't a clue, I suppose because I was utterly, absolutely, head-over-heels smitten with her from the first moment I saw her. And I still feel that way. There she was, completely herself and stunning, standing in Ralph and Evelyn's hallway at their annual 'Come Anyway' New Year's Day brunch, sipping a screwdriver Ralph had just handed her and looking around. Angela. Alone just for a moment. Her short blonde hair brushing her cheeks, her thin nose tilted up, her skin-tight jeans and sculpted man's shirt squeezing past her curves and embracing a perfectly proportioned body. My eyes drifted up from the tight V of her crotch past hardly any waist at all to generous tits shaped like wine goblets. Oh, Lord in heaven! I couldn't breath for a moment! I came up to her and introduced myself, Ralph's old college room-mate, ya-ta-da, and tried to chat. She tossed her head back and flashed me a polite, impersonal smile, not really interested. I could tell she wasn't. Yet, her eyes remained on my face, so I kept going, and I took heart as she stared into my face more and more intently, as if examining me closely for something or other and finding it. Finding what? I didn't care, I'd lucked out, she was gorgeous, and I felt flattered even though she also intimidated me. Still does now and then. It turned out she'd been brought by a mutual friend who worked in Ralph's office -- he didn't know her and she didn't know anybody else. I did notice that she seemed a little nervous as we talked, as if she were somehow uncertain of herself, or maybe of me. I didn't understand that at all. In my experience beautiful women are always superbly self-assured, altogether at ease with anyone. As why not? All their lives their adolescent classmates and then grown men have danced attendance around them in exchange for brief smiles. This was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and standing in the same space I also occupied. I felt privileged and awed to be near her. I took her scrutiny of me as a good sign and pressed to see her again. She smiled, bemused about something, and shook her head no, but finally she agreed, OK, since we both work in the financial district and we both have to work late every evening next week -- there were end of year audits and the new year projections and so on, you know. So she could take time off Tuesday for a casual dinner together by convenience, then back to work. It would help take our minds off office things if we could amuse each other with each other before returning to the grind. We did, and it was wonderful. We laughed about the same things, and found we had lots of the same opinions about the same people. She seemed a little tentative the few times she disagreed with me, but I have to admit she was mostly splendidly self-confident and ... not really ever wrong. She had a quick mind, incisive, exacting, yet her manner was charming and personable, never seeming to threaten my male ego. And her face was so incredibly delicate! So beautiful! What a combination! Oh was I hooked, Oh my! Before we'd split the check that first time together I was determined, I had to marry her, I had to persuade her to marry me. So I overwhelmed her hesitation about a second dinner with me the following night, and the night after that. I didn't push myself on her but she knew I wasn't just passing the time either. She kept looking me over as if judging me for something, deciding something about me. Just as when we'd first met. No matter. I knew what I wanted. She was what I wanted. And little by little she acquiesced, and warmed to me. We began real dating, and friends congratulated me because many had tried and none had succeeded, she was not known to date local men. No matter, there came that unforgettable morning when she called me before I could call her, and assured me she'd had a marvelous time last night, and asked if I was willing to attend Magnum Industries' Spring ball as her guest. She wanted me! She wanted to be seen with me! By all the people she worked with! I was beside myself! I bought a tuxedo tailored to my slim frame so my shoulders would seem more manly, and Angela wore a strapless emerald gown that seemed a second skin as it flowed around her breasts and past her hips and down into a train that pooled on the floor. When we arrived there and stood among all the lawyers and accountants and managers, I learned that she was high up on their totem pole, being considered for a vice-presidency. She asked me to be especially nice to that VP's wife over there, and to offer to help that gray-haired man at the punch bowl, he was one of the firm's Directors. So I absolutely charmed both. I knew something about quilting, it had been one of my mother's passions and the wife's too it seems, and she glowed as we exchanged opinions. The Director was no problem either. I'm a crack CPA for my company, and I gave him an easy way to cope with a recent government regulation he thought outrageous, and he became my friend for life. Angela's anyhow. That evening seems to have made up Angela's mind -- I noticed that she stopped staring at me as if evaluating something. We became a couple. Then engaged. She did become a VP and she credited me in part -- I'd validated her propriety and her taste in men with two key officers at Magnum, so they'd dropped their objections to having a woman VP. This woman VP anyhow. That Fall we got married, and I was unimaginably overjoyed. It was the happiest, the most ecstatic moment of my life. God how I loved her! Angela had lots of friends, it seems, though no family, not any more. I had only a brother who served as my best man, clapped his congratulations onto my shoulder, and then went back to being an overseas representative for some farm machinery company. So most of the wedding guests were people Angela knew, mostly women, some with a few men attached and some with a few men in tow, most of them single and all of them comfortably friendly with each other. All members of her old gang, friendships dating back to high school for many of them. They had an intimate, cozy, joking relationship with her, I saw. She was one of them. Now no longer, she was mine. They mostly welcomed me -- "I can see just what Angela saw in you!" Some showed various degrees of wariness, however, and quite a few seemed cool, even antagonistic, as if I'd intruded on something special they'd had together. I suppose I had. I wasn't good enough? Instead of congratulating me they said grudging things like "We'll see!" and "I suppose she thinks she can make something of you." I was too happy to care. "No ex-boyfriends on your invitation list?" I'd asked her at one point during the planning. "I don't mind gloating." "I never did let any of my boyfriends get too close," she replied. "Maybe because they were always after only one thing," Inexplicable. I was after everything about her. Then with our marriage a real problem emerged, something we had to deal with. An old insecurity she'd always felt when dealing with a man who was too close to her, she told me. She had no problem with her impersonal and collaborative relationships with men at work, but with me came a full-blown difficulty. The more intimate she felt, the more affectionate and loving -- and she assured me she felt deeply affectionate and loving -- the more unsure of herself she felt. Very unsure. It was weird that the more secure with me she should be feeling, the more indecisive and uncertain she felt. About everything related to our physical closeness. Everything related to sex. Before we were married she hadn't wanted to go the distance ... well, OK, fair enough. But all through our honeymoon and afterward she was so concerned to be doing the right thing for me, whether it was what I really wanted, did I want this or should she do that, that she'd end up over and over unable to commit herself to this or that, unable to do anything with me wholeheartedly, mindlessly, passionately, as lovers should. Unable to abandon herself to everything her heart craved. So there was little enjoyment in it for her, and less for me. I'd never asked her about prior sexual experiences, nor had she asked me about mine. She'd had some, she wasn't altogether new to anything we tried, I could tell that much. But whatever we tried, she seemed somehow at cross purposes. Which was odd. Because when it came to everything else in our lives and her life she was always confident, competent, thoroughly in charge. So boldly decisive that I marveled at how timorous she became in bed. At Magnum the other corporate officers came to trust her with the toughest as well as the most delicate of negotiations. They'd put her in charge and she'd lay her plans carefully, and then no matter how intricate the scheme it always worked out as predicted. She could tell exactly when others intended to hold or fold. Or if she couldn't, she could tell everyone exactly what she didn't know, and given the contingencies what was the best course of action to follow nevertheless. Then she'd issue the appropriate orders. She could see triumph where others anticipated disaster, and her judgment when to stay and when to cut and run proved sound over and over. She was wrong sometimes of course. But even then, more often than not she was wrong in ways she'd foreseen and hedged against. So she was never a loser. The same thing with all our domestic affairs. She took charge of all of them at her own request, except for our alternating dinner and cleanup responsibilities, where we each tried to out-do the other. Almost all of them. She chose the house we bought together, selected it from among hundreds and negotiated the price, financing, and closing dates in no time, hardly consulting me, assuming I'd approve. Assuming rightly that I'd approve -- of course I did, I wanted what she wanted, and my faith in her judgment was boundless. She made our nest and feathered it. "I want to create your whole world for you, my darling," she told me once. "I want to surround you until there's no you, just us. Just trust me!" So of course I did. She even negotiated purchase of the matched pair of cars we each drove to work. As we set up housekeeping and settled in to live our lives together I watched her decorate the house and buy furniture, groceries, clothes, or toothpaste with a similar decisiveness. She'd briefly pick up three brands of anything in the supermarket, reject them all, glance at a fourth, then toss it into her shopping cart. That one was the right one. She always knew why, too, and she'd tell me why whenever I asked her. But sometimes she'd merely reply, "Because that's what I wanted," and that was sufficient explanation. The same with our friends. We kept some as new-married couples do, mainly other new-married couples, and we shed my bachelor buddies altogether, though Angela remained close to her old crowd. Some of these women we'd have to dinner or a party, with or without their current men. Some of these -- including all those who didn't approve of me -- became part of Angela's "away" gang. Every week or so they'd have a hen-fest at one or another of their places, maybe a night-time ramble, Angela'd return home cheery and exhausted, maybe a little tipsy, yet refreshed by the companionship. She never invited them to our place -- "some of them still don't care for you much," she said. Meaning, at all. With me though she became someone else, a different woman. Fine in most respects, but the more intimately physical the circumstance the more unsure, the more tense. She loved me and said so repeatedly, I was her heart, her help meet, her life. Yet she was endlessly at odds what to do about it. Eager to please me yet unsure how, a demanding perfectionist who couldn't seem to meet her own demands. Then because she was both eager and unsure she'd become anxious. And so it went. It especially affected our sex lives. No, it blighted our sex lives. Each kiss or caress was tentative -- the pattern I saw was that she couldn't settle on the optimal kiss, the best kiss done the best way. "I do want to satisfy you," she'd say. "I really and truly do. I want to reach into your heart and fill it." But her mind never surrendered to her feelings -- she never quite felt sure how. When she'd touch me she'd immediately change her mind and touch me somewhere else. "Is this good for you?" she'd ask. "Or is this better? Am I too fast? Am I hurting you? Would you rather not, not now, maybe later?" When I reached to touch her I could tell by her furrowed brow that her mind wasn't on how my fingertips felt but perhaps on the textures of her skin -- could I feel her imperfections, her rough areas, her undetectable cellulitis. Maybe I'd discover that excessive fat on her belly or her thighs that she'd never noticed before because there wasn't any? That, I was pretty sure, was what was on her mind as she withdrew herself from me despite herself. We'd both be exhausted by the time I kissed her nose and rolled off her. Not because of passionate excess or orgasmic bliss, but because her lovemaking was always ... edgy, one long ordeal of self-doubt. More exhausting than satisfying. Unsure. Tentative. All the while I was trying to fuck her she'd peer at me, worrying whether I wanted her moving or still, whether her legs should stretch straight down or wrap more tightly around me. I'd assure her it didn't matter, I didn't care, I wanted her to forget herself and just go with the flow, take it as it was, surrender to herself, her feelings, good enough was more than enough, we should just enjoy each other. But even when she believed me she didn't believe me. Talking did no good. Finally, a few months into our marriage, she tried counseling, and one possible reason for all of her stressful perfectionism emerged. As she explained it to me, it seems that all through her upbringing her father had been a strict, exacting, overbearing taskmaster who was never wrong and never satisfied. He'd held Angela and her mother to extremely high standards, his own, and when they fallen short he'd sentenced them to his extreme disapproval. He was a large man who could intimidate anyone merely by leaning forward and raising his voice. And when angry -- which was often -- he could be terrifying. Dr. Hawkins, Angela's marriage counselor, asked her how her mother usually responded to this, and Angela had to admit, badly. She'd been unable to settle her mind on even the simplest things. There was so much at stake in even the most trivial choices that a wrong move seemed catastrophic. She could decide nothing. When her father finally died she'd moved to an "assisted living" facility where her every need could be anticipated and attended -- she'd gotten so she didn't care to do anything for herself. It seemed that Angela had inherited her father's intelligence, confidence, and self-discipline, and those were the traits that qualified her superbly to run her business affairs and our household. But they'd utterly unfitted her emotional life. She needed to love and feel loved her way, but she didn't know how. She feared she didn't deserve loving. She cared deeply about me, but when we made love she demanded the impossible from herself, she had to be perfect for me. Every kiss and every uniting of our genitals had to be flawless, the first time every time. And since lovemaking is always variable and impulsive and often messy she was never ever sure she'd done it right. Most often she was convinced she'd done it wrong. Her fear of failure assured that most of the time she would fail, that I'd end up frustrated and she'd end up inconsolable. All this emerged during months of therapy, but the crucial breakthrough came during a session I was invited to attend. Angela reviewed what she'd found out -- it was a revelation to me, but it explained a photo Angela had on the wall of her study of her mother in what must have been one of those assisted living facilities. She's seated with another woman, looking well-dressed and well-coiffed enough but utterly defeated, while the woman who stands behind her -- a care giver? -- by contrast looks confidently into the camera. I'd glanced at it and noticed how Angela favored her mother, though she was vastly prettier of course. Angela then turned to me and said, "Honey, I just realized. I married you because you're so different from my father. He was stern and humorless, and you're sweet and good-natured and generous. He was physically large and menacing, and you're no taller than I am and really no physical threat at all. But one crucial similarity remains. He was the most important man in my life, and now you're the most important man in my life. He always made me feel unsure of myself, so now without meaning to, so do you." We were both astonished by the simplicity of this explanation. She went on. "When I was little my mother and I were terrified to seem less than perfect in his presence, and that paralyzed her utterly. It paralyzes me with you. Other men are no problem -- I cope with them the way my Dad did, only I'm much nicer, you've seen how easily I handle subordinates. But when I was young, the impressionable years, my dad was the source of all the love and caring I needed, the center of my life. Now you're that source and center, Jesse. So I think of you the same way. I can't help it." That was quite a declaration. I couldn't speak I was so moved! "Jesse?" The counselor was urging me to gather myself up and respond. "What can I say, Angela?" I said with all the heartfelt earnestness I felt. "I want to be the source and center of your life. As you are mine. But I'm not your father. I love you unconditionally, non-judgementally, just as you are, any way you are, any way you wish to be. Because of what you are. Whatever you may do. That's how I am and how I want you. And I will never love you any other way." She looked at me, barely able to hold back her tears, this young woman whose self-assurance gave tycoons sleepless nights and sent them fleeing to $600 an hour lawyers. And then she broke down sobbing altogether. Uncontrollably. I leaped to console her, to hug her, but her counselor waved me back to my chair, signalling for me to sit, wait, say nothing, let her cope. So we sat for some time. Finally Angela lifted her face and spoke to me. "Oh, Jesse," she said between sobs. "I know. I believe you! I want to believe you! I do! But ...." And she was silent. "Can you see what's needed now?" Dr. Hawkins asked me. "I tell her that all the time," I said, anguished that she was anguished. "You just heard me say it again. I love her. What else can I say? What else can I do?" "'What else can I do?'" the marriage counselor repeated. "Is that what you just asked yourself?" Then she sat silent. I was baffled at first by what she meant by that. But she watched my face as I watched hers, and gradually understanding dawned. When she was sure I understood what she'd meant, she articulated it herself. "Yes," she said. "It isn't what you say, it's what you do. You need to demonstrate the unconditional acceptance you speak of. Not only tell her but show her in every conceivable way that you are utterly trusting, non-judgemental and undemanding. You need to differentiate yourself from her father in other ways too. Change what she thinks you are. Urge her to ask you to do things she'd never ask of her father, to demand them sometimes. Then do those things faithfully, prove to her how different you are. In sum, until she's altogether rid of the notion that you've replaced him, let her take charge of your relationship. Require that she take charge. Can you do that?" "I can try," I said earnestly. "Can you, Angela?" "I hope so," she said, still sniffling. "I have such strong urges sometimes, I don't .... But if that's what's needed. And Jesse, if you're willing, if that's what you want, I'll try." "That's what I want, Angela," I told her. "With all my heart." She looked at me intently. "Then I will." "Just beautiful," Dr. Hawkins finally said. "I think we've made significant progress today. This session's over, but for both of you the work has only begun. Give it serious thought, and don't be afraid to try anything. Angela, I'll see you again the usual time. Jesse, it was good to meet you at last -- Angela will tell you if it's advisable for the three of us to meet again together. Probably not. Remember what you've pledged to your wife today." "I will," I said solemnly. I gave our session serious thought. Christmas came and went. I gave Angela gifts in token of my devotion. They told her how I felt. But her father had also given her gifts. And gifts didn't demonstrate my acceptance of her no matter what. Nothing changed. Finally I found a way for us to begin. We were at a New Year's Eve party and were kissing the old year out and the New Year in, and as usual Angela was unable to surrender to the moment. She couldn't decide in front of others similarly occupied whether it was more appropriate to kiss me passionately on the lips or demurely on the cheeks, or whether to kiss me at all but instead merely press cheeks. And if she chose wrongly, whether I'd misunderstand her. All the other couples had their mouths welded together, so she decided at first to allow me to express my love for her just that way. I wanted to from the bottom of my being, to demonstrate my overwhelming appreciation of everything about her, her body, her mind, her character, everything but her timidity. My love. So I did. My tongue went into her mouth as far as it could. But then she began to wriggle free, as if we were engaging in an indecency. She broke off and looked quickly to the left and right at the couples who were no way thinking about us at that moment, suddenly embarrassed that our displays of affection might seem excessive. Or that I might want something else from her in addition. Or she might. That irritated me then and there, even angered me, and she sensed it. Then when we got to bed at 2:00am still slightly drunk, and I tried to make love to her, she couldn't decide how to make up for it. Where I could now feel free to kiss her. Anywhere? Where first? She offered her face, her body, then she'd pull back and hesitate, then apologize for every gesture, every hesitation. Then encourage my efforts, then frustrate them. There was too much at stake. She couldn't handle it. That confirmed the New Year's Resolution I'd just made, and late the next morning when we were sitting in our breakfast nook over coffee I shared it with her. We were each dressed in the other's token of affection. I was wearing the bathrobe she'd given me for Christmas and Angela was wearing the sexy short satin wrapper I'd given her. We felt relaxed, the tensions of the previous evening finally dissipated. "It was exactly a year ago that we met," I said. "And I fell in love with you at first sight. Immediately. All at once." She nodded. "And I do love you still. Passionately, devotedly, completely." She nodded again, waiting. Her eyes glistened. Then I told her what I'd resolved. It was not a matter for agreement or discussion, I told her. It was settled. As when her father made decisions, but only this once, it would happen because I'd decided it would happen. And then it would continue for a full year whether or not either of us wanted it to continue -- it was irrevocable. That was how it had to be. She listened attentively. I'd resolved that from now and for the whole of this new year our personal lives, especially our intimacies, would be devoted entirely to her. To gratifying her pleasure or whims. Not mine unless incidental to hers. Whatever she wished would be what we did. Now and then I'd expect her to initiate new things. To let her imagination go browsing among her desires. Anything goes, I told her, anything at all, no matter how casual or whimsical or strange. Her intent should be to please herself, not to please the surrogate father she saw in me, not to appease me as if I were her father's ghost. She had to test me, test my devotion to her. Whatever she wanted to do would have my full cooperation, because whatever it was I wanted it too. There should be no uncertainty on either side. No hesitation. She should be utterly selfish, self-regarding and self-satisfying. Then a year from now, on New Year's day, we'd reconsider together where we've been and where we were and whether to continue. It was a long speech, and she stared at me as she listened, overwhelmed. Tears came into my eyes and then hers as I explained that I wanted her to feel as self-assured with me, as certain of herself, as she was with everyone else. That I loved her. That my willingness to do what she wished was the one supreme gift of love I could give her. That I trusted her love for me, so I was holding back nothing. I didn't mention that it was a gift I was giving myself too, because if she could quit with her indecisive ways in bed I'd benefit. That was my hope. I admired her assured manner with others, and wanted to see what it would be like to make love to a woman who was that confident about herself. There were dangers. If she cared less about how I felt, she might begin to care less about me. Certainly she'd feel a little distanced from me once she began subordinating my desires to her own -- but she had to. Again, she might grow overconfident and propose something I'd find objectionable or hurtful, I knew that but I had to trust her. There would be no safe words to worry her, no calls for time outs. And her indecisiveness with me, her suggestibility did carry a risk -- she might discuss this with friends who had their own unresolved issues with men, and these women might give her bad advice. That could happen. There were those who resented my marrying her, who might want her to punish me for the injury done them by making my life impossible. I knew that before she'd gone to see Dr. Hawkins she'd consulted several, did they have the same problem with their men, what could they advise her. But if she could quickly develop her own self-assurance the risks were minimal. Angela seemed amazed by what I'd just said, half-uncomprehending. I told her that tonight I'd make it easier for her to decide what she wanted to do. That she'd see for herself. Just wait. This would be the first day of a liberated year of marriage devoted entirely to her. She took my hand gratefully and smiled. Half to herself, it seemed. But she also looked worried. "You don't know my fantasies yet, Jesse!" she said. "I've always hesitated to impose my desires on any man. Remember, it isn't just lack of assurance. It's also the opposite. I'm like my father in some ways. I can be as intolerant of others as he was. Sometimes I'm afraid you'll leave me if I let myself go with you. I don't want to offend you." "You can't offend me," I said simply. "I've given you my word as well as my heart. This year is yours." Her eyes glistened. She swallowed. "Thank you, sweetheart!" was all she could say. And she stood up and came to my side of the breakfast nook and came very close, and I stood and embraced her, and we kissed the New Year in as we should have done it the night before. We felt very close indeed. I took her to bed and gently, forcefully, had my will with her, and while she was mostly passive, she allowed it. ****** That evening I made sure I was in bed before she emerged from her night-time cleansing and pampering routines. I was naked and covered only by a sheet, lying on my back and waiting for her, a little apprehensive but eager to begin. She emerged and sat down on the bed to take her slippers off before sliding in alongside me, so her back was still toward me when she heard me tell her to tie my wrists to the two posts above my head on either side of our headboard. She turned to see if she'd heard me correctly. "Do it, Angela" I said gently but firmly. "You see those velcro straps on the bedposts? Once they're fastened I'll be helpless and altogether dependent on you until you undo them. And that will be whenever you see fit, no sooner. Once I'm fastened down, you are to pay no attention to anything I may ask or demand. Tonight and for the next year you issue all the orders, all the instructions. I want you to tell me 'Do it!' in exactly the same tone of voice I just used, if there's anything you want me to do." A bit uncertain, she nodded, leaned over, and fastened my wrists snugly with the wide velcro bands I'd fastened to the corners of the bed. "Is that too tight?" she asked. I was now lying flat, my arms spread wide apart above me. She looked at me. I looked at her. Then instead of answering her I asked, "Is there anything you want to do with me now that I'm restrained and helpless and you can work any wicked wile on me and the most I can do is wriggle?" Finally something occurred to her. Still sitting on the edge of the bed, she bent her face over mine. "Kiss me," she said. A wonderful beginning! That was the first erotic request she'd ever made perhaps in her entire life, certainly to me! Yes! I closed my eyes and lifted my head to try to meet her lips with mine, but she withdrew her face ever so slightly. When I opened my eyes, my head and shoulders were strained upward but still not-quite-able to reach her face. It was as far away as ever, higher in fact, still just out of reach. I lunged, but only gained an inch or so. There was a faint, satisfied smile on her face. She was teasing me! "Oooh!" she said. She liked this little game. I thought of something. "May I kiss you?" I asked. She caught on immediately. "May you kiss me what?" she replied in slight singsong, her faint smile now turning amused. "May I kiss you, Ma'am?" I said. Wonderful! She was teasing me! She smiled, satisfied. So far, so good. "May I kiss you Ma'am what?" "May I kiss you, Ma'am ..." I asked, and paused as she still hesitated, waiting. Still nothing. Then came inspiration. "Please?" "Please," she replied. "Yes, you may, since you ask so nicely." And she leaned forward to press her lips against mine. I closed my eyes and savored their soft, velvety smoothness as I pursed my lips against hers. It was such a beautiful feeling. I loved it! I rotated my head so our lips rubbed together slightly, and she permitted me to do that, though for only a moment. Then she pulled her face up again. "Thank you, Ma'am," I whispered. I don't know exactly why. But this was the first time Angela had ever accepted or given affection undistracted by any other considerations, and I treasured the purity of the moment. So, it seems, did Angela. "I loved that," she said. "Mmmm," I said, meaning the kiss. "That too," she replied. "I meant you saying 'Thank you, Ma'am.' When you're grateful to me, it seems like a gift, not an expectation. 'Thank you, Miss Angela' would do too. I used to imagine that my dolls called me that. Sweetie, from now on when we're alone would you do that too, please? Call me 'Ma'am' or 'Miss Angela? I love the sound and feel of it." "Not 'Ms. Angela' or 'Mrs. Angela'?" She ignored my question. She wants to think of herself as a little girl again, playing dolly with me? Unmarried? Well, OK, I thought, if that helps her feel liberated. Then she noticed. "You have an erection, my darling." I certainly did. A rock-hard boner. "It's for you. It's yours. To use as you see fit." "All right," she said. "Then I will." And tentatively, she stretched out and lay down on top of me, face to face, breast to chest, toe to toe. She was wearing her shorty nylon nightgown, I realized, the mate to her shorty wrapper, and my lower parts came aware of the warm, moist air suspended above them and surrounding her humid crotch. She wriggled her body against my pelvis, her weight sustained by my belly and my two hip-bones. And she kissed my mouth again. I sighed audibly. "Mmmmmmm," she said. "Mine," she said as the head of my penis found the opening to her vagina. "I wonder if I can find some place to hide this so it'll be nice and safe." And with that she reached down to grasp my cock and place the head against her slit. She wriggled against it, then slid it into her. Then slid down and snugged it into her hard, all the way. Then began to move. "Is this good for you?" she asked as if faintly worried. I closed my eyes, smiled slightly, and looked away. She understood. "All right then, you stay stone still," she commanded me. "I don't want to match to your rhythms. If this is for me, we'll do it all my way." And she began slowly to rock back and forth, my cock embedded in her but sliding in and out slightly, pressure from her vulva alternating on its upper and lower sides, then mingled when now and then she squirmed daintily. When she rocked way back I bottomed in her. I thought I should help, so I pushed up to meet her on the down swing. She rebuked me as if I were an office clerk -- "Surely you heard me, Jesse!" I froze. She held her body utterly still and waited. "Yes, Ma'am," I replied finally. Then because I felt embarrassed, I added, "Miss Angela" as if in jest. She seemed not to notice, maybe she thought that title was her due. It was all I could do to keep from thrusting up at her after that, pumping her, cramming myself into her. But each time my abdominal muscles tensed she felt it and slowed down her rhythm, and once when my hips did rise she seemed ready to end it all -- she lifted herself off me altogether and just stared at me silently, until I lowered myself. I schooled myself to lie there with my eyes shut, passive, listening to her breath quicken, feeling her body roll on mine in stronger and stronger reciprocating twists. A deep, delicious satisfaction began to grow in my groin. And in my chest too. I suddenly came aware that her fingers were rolling over my nipples, pinching them lightly as her whole body undulated atop mine. "Ooooooooo!" came out of me involuntarily, a high-pitched moan. Then again, "Ooooooooooh!" Almost a squeal. I was nearly out of my mind, holding my crotch and cock stock still while she writhed on them. The fantastic satisfaction I felt within grew to liquid joy. "Ahhhh! Ahhhhhhh? Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!" she responded with each roll of her hips in her moderated flute-like voice. Then her whole body tensed and began squirming furiously. She'd gone out of control. There was no hope now, so I crammed myself up into her and pressed close and held on as she bucked and I spewed and spewed, unable not to thrust up, trying to thrust my body and soul and all my being into her quim as I'd desperately wanted all along. "Oh, God!" I realized I had been shouting through it all. "Oh, God! God! God!" "Yes!" she whispered in reply in the most intense hiss I'd ever heard from her. "Yes! Yes! Yeeeessss!" I think that may have been the first full orgasm I'd ever given her. It was the greatest she'd given me. She fell forward and lay on top of me exhausted. And for good reason. "This is how we'll do it," I heard her mutter. Then aloud she said, "I won't think of you as a man. You're a heated dildo I use as I choose. For my pleasure. To satisfy myself." That would work, I was thinking. That met the specs I'd laid down. "Yes," I said. She opened her eyes and looked at me, still dreamily dazed. "Did I ask you to agree with me, darling dildo?" she asked. I'd been presumptuous, and said nothing more. My penis softened and slipped out and fell free of her crotch, and our mingled cum began to trickle out of her onto my balls and belly. She flattened herself out again and lay full length atop me and closed her legs and wriggled her belly against mine a second time. Now both our bellies were sticky. My semen sealed us together. She just lay there on me some more. I waited, and eventually I began to fear that she intended to go to sleep on me, her head under my chin and our lower parts glued together. My arms began to ache from the prolonged strain of their stretched out immobility. "Angela," I said in a low voice, as if fearful of disturbing her. "Do you want to release me now?" As if speaking to herself, she replied drowsily but playfully, "What was that, my darling dildo? Do I want to release you now what?" She hadn't been asleep at all. She'd been thinking about what had just happened. Processing it, analyzing it, reaching her own conclusions about it. "Miss Angela? Ma'am? Do you want to release me now?" and I hesitated. It was a simple word, signifying minimal politeness, signifying nothing more, really, but I sensed that when I said it this time I would be granting her an enormous concession, a power I could never recover. But that was my purpose, wasn't it? So as if half-begging, I added the magic word, "Please?" She didn't respond. I waited. She just lay there. "Please, Miss Angela?" I asked her again. "Yes," she said. "All right, then. Since you ask so nicely." And she lifted her head and looked directly into my eyes. There was such triumph in her expression! Her eyes gleamed! "Oh, sweetheart, I loved that!" she said. We both understood what she meant. I was satisfied. She reached up and pulled the velcro free from one of my wrists. "You do the other," she said, and waited to see what would happen. I realized it was a command, her third since she'd said "Kiss me" and "Don't move" one mind-blasting orgasm ago. I undid the other velcro as ordered. Then I lowered my arms and wrapped them around her and hugged her as she lay prone on top of me. "Mmmmmmmmm!" she responded contentedly. And right then, right there, she did fall asleep. I didn't dare move, nor did I want to move. After a while, despite her weight pressing on me, I fell asleep too. It had been the loveliest night of our lives together. We did the same thing several times more that week and the next, always finishing up with our bellies and genitals sealed together by the cum that drained out of her. My arms got accustomed to the strain of bondage. Some nights she'd apologetically release my wrists from the velcro as soon as she'd orgasmed, as if she were ashamed that she'd taken advantage of me. Other nights she'd wait, and imperiously kiss my face now and then as I lay there helpless, unable to respond except perhaps by trying to kiss her in return and then often only kissing the air between us. Part way through the month she found that teasing my nipples with her fingers, caressing them, quickly made me hard again, and that sucking and licking them set me moaning helplessly. She found that if she caressed my nipples while squeezing my cock with her pussy muscles, I could be made to cum within thirty seconds. That amused her. She giggled to herself when it happened. "So, your nipples turn you on?" she asked. "The same way mine turn me on?" The answer was obvious. When I was stiff enough she'd lower herself onto me again and rock herself to yet another orgasm. Then when she was ready to sleep, she'd roll her pelvis on me and caress my chest and I'd explode one last time. Bliss! Yes, bliss. Strangely, I found I enjoyed the passivity. I looked forward to lying there helplessly, grateful that my darling wanted to use me this way, anticipating the erotic joy I would feel in my nipples and my cock, the intimations of feelings that grew stronger than mere feelings, more like yearnings and strivings that built stronger within me until -- powerless as I was -- they overwhelmed me, overwhelmed both of us. It was so good. Oh, did I love it! I loved her. And this new bed-time relationship, Angela in charge with me subservient to her wishes, began to affect our daytime life too. Subtly. She'd expected me to make all the decisions whenever we went out, where to dine and sometimes even what she should order. Who to invite in, whether for dinner or an evening party, whatever. Which invitations to accept. But within a few weeks she was making those decisions. It began harmlessly enough, asking if I'd mind our trying out a new Indian restaurant one of her friends had recommended. I agreed, of course, I always agreed. Then a few weeks later it was that I'm such a good cook, she wanted to have a few of her friends in to dinner at home, would I prepare them something special? Of course. They came, three of the unattached girlfriends who'd attended our wedding, three who'd clearly disliked me and to judge by their expressionless face when I greeted them, still did. I worked in the kitchen all day and made a Canard a l'Orange that used every pot we owned, and served it with finesse and flourishes, and tried to be gracious. They chatted away the Angela the whole time and ignored me utterly. In fact they were having such a good time together that I just left them to enjoy each other. When I went to bed they were still at it. Angela barely glanced at me as I left them. The next morning I asked genially what time they'd left, and Angela merely reported, "Late!" I waited for more, so she added, "We had a lot to catch up on." When I asked her if she was all caught up now she smiled secretively and said, "O yes! O yes!" When I commented that they still didn't seem to like me, Angela just replied, "Oh, give them a little time. They're coming along. They think you are too." A few weeks after that Angela was merely informing me of our evening plans, if any, sometimes leaving me barely enough time to change and dress appropriately. She stopped asking my opinion about her outfits, their color matching schemes and accessories and so on -- she made up her own mind now that she knew I'd approve anything. And as we took turns fixing dinners, she no longer asked me what I'd like or told me worriedly what she planned, she just did whatever she felt like doing. After dinner she started disappearing into the living room to read or watch television, leaving me to do the cleanup regardless of who's day it had been. I resented it at first, especially when I saw that it was intentional, not an oversight. But the less she worried about my attitudes, the more stable our relationship. I gladly filled in as the price paid to build her confidence where I was concerned. It was little enough. The process was working, and that's what we both wanted. Then one evening she surprised me. She was sitting atop me soon after we'd both orgasmed, both of us recovering our breathing. I was still softening inside her when she said, "Jesse, I need to ask you something." Suddenly I was her husband again, not her darling dildo. "What, dear?" I asked. She sat silent. It rarely happened these days that we'd converse after sex. She kept her own counsel. "Ma'am?" I asked her. More silence. "Ma'am? Miss Angela?" "Instead of my leaking all over you when we've done this, I think you should clean yourself out of me." "Of course," I said, immediately realizing that she'd have to free my arms for that, no more nights spent sleeping with extended aching arms thank God. "Do you mean, with a washcloth of some kind?" I asked. "No, nothing so impersonal." She looked down at me with her eyes half closed, as if imagining whatever it was she had in mind and gauging my response. "I mean I sit on your mouth and let all that goop drip in, and meanwhile you lick me until my pussy is clean." Her gaze never wavered. She was watching me with an odd, tentative curiosity to see how I'd reply. "Would you mind?" I'd always wanted to eat her, I'd have loved to, but in the past whenever I'd moved to try she'd pushed me away, and whenever I asked her why she'd look embarrassed and say vaguely that it seemed, you know, a little nasty, that she wasn't clean down there. Now, eat my own cream pie? That I guess did seem a little nasty. Kissing her lower lips, licking her clit and sending her heavenward, that would be a heavenly delicacy. But sucking up what we'd both secreted, her copious cunt juices and my own semen, my squirted jism with all those little live sperm, swimming around in a kind of mucous? Cannibalizing them? Not very appetizing. Even so, what I was thinking was, here is a genuine sexual initiative. An actual proposal. However tentative, an expression of a private desire, never mind what kind. And also a new way for us both to get more intimate. To feel closer to each other. "If you want me to, I want to," I replied without allowing myself to think about it further. All this was for her, I told myself. And yucky or not, the notion was strangely exciting. It was a new way for me to show my affection for her. Intimately. "I do want you to. But there's a complication." "What's that?" "I can't help it. Remember when I told you it seemed to me ... nasty? Disgusting?" "I haven't forgotten." "Well, I can't help it, you should know that when I'm up here looking down on you, watching you feed yourself whatever's in my cunt, sucking all that ... mess out of me and swallowing it, all those excretions, you should know that no matter how much pleasure it gives me, I'll ... I'll ... I'm sure ... maybe I shouldn't say it." "Say what?" I asked. She remained silent. "Ma'am," I added. She looked down at me and spoke with a peculiarly exact rapidity and detachment. "You should know this, Jesse. If you do that, if you're willing to do that, I'm bound to lose a certain amount of respect for you. I'd have to, I don't think I could help it. It would seem to me so ... self-demeaning. So dirty. Maybe degenerate. Perverted, in a way. I mean, there you'd be, hardly a man I could admire or look up to, giving up all pretense of dignity or equality with me, lowering yourself to lick up our bodily discharges the way dogs lick their own vomit! My juices mixed with your -- what is it men call used condoms, oh yes, scumbags -- your own scum. To become my scumbag. To swallow whatever you found in there, no matter how odd it smelled or tasted. I bet I could even trickle urine into your mouth and you'd sip it and never even know it. Maybe even learn to like it. Do it eagerly. Feel honored that I allow you to drink my piss. How could I ever again admire someone like that?" "Do you want me to do it?" I broke in. I didn't want to hear any more about her disgust and the risks to my respectability, she just might persuade me too that eating her out was despicable. She might persuade me not to, even though if she did want it I couldn't refuse her. Yet what she'd said made me uneasy. There'd be a cost. I'd pay a price. "Yes! Oh, Jesse, yes, I do want you to do it! It would feel so good, your soft lips pressed against my pussy and tugging on my clit like a nipple. It would be so deliciously depraved! You serving me and my pleasure down there, willing to swallow down ... everything, anything. Maybe even my bloody discharges from my periods? It would be so sweet, looking down on you and feeling you nurse on my cunt like a helpless baby sucking on mommy's teat. You'd seem like some lower life form. I'd feel so ... superior!" "If I did it, you couldn't respect me any more?" "Oh, I'd be grateful enough. I'd feel honored and awed that you were actually willing to sink that low for me. But I'm trying to be honest. I'd feel so much above you! It would confirm in me this subversive thought I've been having lately, that in some sense you're where you truly belong, where all human dildos belong, your face belongs inside my cunt and licking my ass, cleaning up its own messes. The way you clean up the kitchen these days. That you're not a lover, you're a douchebag, a servant obliged to keep me clean no matter how I may mess up. I can't help feeling that." "So wouldn't respect me?" I persisted. "You'd lose your love for me?" "Not altogether," she said, watching me closely. "I respect anyone who does his work well. I respect anyone at the office who pleases me by serving me, by providing the reports I need and so on. I respect the janitor who empties our wastebaskets each evening. But I couldn't respect you as a husband. Not really. Not any longer. Not even as a man." She paused, silent, but her eyes never wavered. "It would be more the way I respect someone who cleans toilets." "Angela?" I was now cringing a little. In this case she was couldn't ask me directly to do it, I had to offer. Yet she was no way ambivalent, she wanted it. She was being honest, hesitating for a specific, stated reason. The choice was mine. We agreed, she should be in charge. She needed to feel in charge. "Ma'am, despite all that, you want it?" I asked her. "Oh, yes, yes I do! I certainly do! It would be so ... satisfying!" "Then I'll do it." "No. Tell me you want to do it. You have to want to do it." "I want to do it." "Because darling, I'm not exaggerating, you will pay a heavy price. I guess in a way we'll both pay it, but you most of all. Any man who sucks my cunt after a cock's been in it, and swallows down the cum that cock squirted into it, that man won't ever again seem to me to be much of a man. More like a human bidet. A condom, a scumbag who swallows whatever semen oozes out of a real man's prick. A hygienic convenience." She paused. "Maybe even a cocksucker at one remove, a wannabe who lacks the guts to approach a man and ask him straight out." That was extreme. "Even lower than your dildo?" I asked her sharply. She looked at me. "A lover willing to serve as my dildo is still a lover," she corrected me. "Someone who restrains himself out of loving concern for my pleasure. This would be quite different." "I don't see how," I argued. "He'd be the same man, a lover who's willing to kiss you down there until you were tidy again out of devotion to you. You can't see him that way? Devoted?" I was trying to persuade her past her own doubts, to do damage control, to lessen the cost to me. To assure her that I didn't share in her devaluation of such a man. Yet I did need to reinforce that she's now her own woman, no way subject to my whims and opinions. Oral sex? She said she wanted it, so I knew I'd do it. Eat my own cream pies? I had to. Maybe I'd lose her esteem. But surely there'd be a gain too, in gratitude toward me perhaps. She replied in a small voice. "Devoted? I'd appreciate him. His willingness to ... to suck up to me. But I'm afraid I'd feel a little condescending. Maybe more than a little. I'm sorry sweetie, I can't help it, that's how I know I'd feel." I said nothing. She might merely be rationalizing her uncertainties as usual. I hoped so. I gazed steadily into her eyes. I had a duty to perform. "I want it!" I said again. "I want to suck your pussy. I want to clean cum out of your cunt always and make it sweet and neat for you." And at that moment my cock flopped out of her. She felt it disappear from her confines, of course. And glanced away for a moment. Then glanced back down on me with a slightly changed expression. Casual, almost indifferent, as if she'd just heard instructions being repeated by someone menial. A household servant? I'd chosen. "Very well," she said. "If you wish. Do it. Suck me." And then as if instructing a careless cleaning woman, she added, "Just be thorough about it." Immediately, instead of letting my semen and her cum puddle on my belly as before, she crept up me on her knees while pressing her crotch tight against my body, sticky stuff tracing up my belly and past my chest but nothing escaping from inside. Her knees came to rest on my outspread arms, pinning them. Then, with a sigh, she settled her rump snug on my jaw. Her buttocks cushioned my cheeks -- she fit perfectly. Her pussy lips pressed against my lips, molded themselves on mine. Our juices began to dribble into my mouth. Salty sweet and slick. She lifted ever so slightly and my tongue and my lips found the two swelling flaps of flesh that were her labia and kissed them devoutly. I sucked and lipped and tongued her delicious slit, then found her clit and concentrated on it! It was thrilling to be beneath her thighs performing this act, and I passionately dedicated myself to it. Now and then I opened my eyes and stared up at her and saw she was looking down at me impassively, preoccupied with her own feelings. Her thighs tensed slightly, then vigorously, and then she began to writhe on my face, then to shake her head back and forth, her hair swinging, more and more losing control of herself. Until finally she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the ceiling and with a single great cry she orgasmed. Her vulva convulsed mightily. Great gouts of phlegmy cum squirted out of her and filled my mouth, globs of slop smeared across my face and eyes and momentarily blinded me. I swallowed, I had no choice. And swallowed again. Surely all these secretions weren't mine -- she was pouring out her own cunt juice too, she found this tremendously exciting. She wriggled some more, her bottom sliding and rotating smoothly all over my cum-lubricated face, her labia wiping themselves repeatedly on my lips and nose as I continued to lick them, her anus now and then also a target of my compulsively thrusting tongue. Finally her pussy and her butt tasted only of my saliva, and she came to rest. She sat on my face a while longer while I continued to lap at her. But now I tongued her delicately. Finally she slid down again and rolled off and lay alongside me. And reached up and stroked my hair. "That was quite satisfactory," she said. "You're a dear pet. I did love it. I must confess, I did pee a few squirts just now when I came, I couldn't help it, and it pleased me that you swallowed it all down along with everything else. You're incredible! But now you're completely soaked! Your hair and your face are all covered with my smell, and maybe of pee too! You're all fishy pissy pussy smelling, sweetheart. A little bit rank." "I know," I said. "I can taste it. Will you release me, please, so I can rinse out and clean up?" "No, honey. I want you to get used to that taste. And that smell too. That's you with me from now on. I want you to miss it when it isn't there, so you'll look forward to it gratefully. So when we're having sex, being intimate, this gets to be the best part of it for you and you look forward to it. So your dildo still does its thing, certainly, but when your nose is buried in my pussy that's when you'll really feel you've come home." Her face took on a sweetly satisfied look. "So you'll know deep in your heart that's where you truly belong, under me servicing my cunt." So I lay there still smelling of her, and watched her fall fast asleep, thinking it was marvelous how her confidence had grown in just a few weeks. My arms were still fastened to the bedposts. I spent an uncomfortable night. The next day she was gone from the bed when I awoke. I found one arm already released, so I released the other and finally I got to the shower. A new surprise. My usual herb-scented "Irish Spring" soap was gone -- instead I found only a fresh bar of her "Floral Accents" beauty soap. I understood. She wanted me to smell of her all the time, during the day of her skin and at night of our spunk. I'd wear her scent the way servants once wore livery, to signify that I belonged to her. Well, I did belong to her. I'd belonged to her ever since our marriage. Though she understood it differently now. ****** When I came down for breakfast she was still there. She looked up brightly at me and smiled and said, "I did so appreciate last night, so very much. Don't think I didn't. Everything, especially those little licks you gave me toward the end when I was practically all clean, so dainty, so gentle. Just like a pussy lapping up milk. Your face in my pussy felt heavenly ... " She smiled at a new thought. "You were being my pussy's pussy, weren't you?" "I guess so." "Did you love it?" "Yes. Yes, I did." I did like it. All of it, even waking in the morning to find my face glazed and sticky, her smell grown strong overnight. It was a new way to feel intimate with her. "I see," she replied. "You don't feel it was beneath you?" She looked down, then away, as if to spare me a pitying glance. My sucking on her cunt was beneath me? Beneath her, certainly. She'd said I'd be lowering myself, so I suppose to her I was. I sensed a faint condescension as she continued, "Then I guess that really is your proper place. I think then that's what you'll do, since you don't mind, push your face into my pussy to clean me up after I've taken my nightly pleasure from my dildo. My sweet Pussyface. That's what you are now." It was a statement not a question, and it required no answer. She stood up, ready to go to work. "My turn to supply dinner. I'll bring home short ribs from Sal's, I love how his ribs fall off the bone." She smiled, self-amused. "You won't mind how his sauce smears your face the way mine does. Licking it off your lips. You're into that kind of thing now, aren't you?" She looked at me with a certain ... no mistaking it, disdain. No mistaking it now. Borderline contempt. I was shocked. "Or maybe I'll just open a can of cat food for you to gobble face first from a dish on the floor. Pussyface!" And she was gone. I frowned, but there was nothing I could do. Her new name for me stuck. I became "Pussyface" or "Pussy" to her. That was what she called me from then on, privately at first. It replaced 'Jesse' almost altogether. At first she teased me with it, mouthing it to me soundlessly at dinner parties or when we were out with friends, and those who noticed thought she was blowing me private kisses. Then she began calling me "Pusspuss" or "Pussy" aloud in our friends' presence. This seemed to me a little risque, even though the others decided it was no more than an affectionate pet name. It sounded cute. I knew that Angela meant it as an indulgent put-down, demeaning, in a way dismissive. She was using it to remind me of the lower position I'd assumed with respect to her. That my proper place wasn't by her side any more, though she permitted it when we were with others, only with my face under her crotch servicing her. That was confirmed one evening at a dinner party, when she dismissed an opinion I'd just uttered and then called me "Pussyface" directly. Twice, as if reminding me I should be at most seen and not heard. Other men at the table smirked, and the women kept carefully neutral expressions. "Please, Angela," I told her that evening when we were driving home. "Don't call me 'Pussyface' when others can hear you." She looked at me silently. "Ma'am, I mean." She said nothing. I realized I should have asked her, not told her. "Please," I said. "Would you mind not calling me 'Pussyface' when we're in company, Miss Angela?" I felt I was begging. "But that's what you are now, sweetie!" she said as if puzzled, as if my request didn't make sense. "That's your name. Whenever I look at you that's how I see you, under my crotch, your large brown eyes looking up at me full of hope, eager to please while I grind my ass into your nose and your tongue sinks into my cunt. That's what you are now because that's what you do." I felt crushed. What have I done? I must have shown it. "Don't worry about it, Pussyface! Oh, I know you're my husband and all that, I always know that sweetie, and I do love what you do, never forget that either. But it's your face I see night after night sucking all that cum out of my pussy, that's what you've always called it. Should I respect that? You should feel privileged when I call you 'Pussyface.' It gives me such a wonderful squirmy feeling each time. You don't think it's an honor?" What could I say? I'm honored that she wipes her cunt and her ass on my face, and looks down on me? From then on she maintained her physical distance from me except in bed, and her psychic distance too. She didn't want my mouth to touch hers any more. When I moved to kiss her she'd turn her head away and offer her cheek as if offering me hand. As if a kiss from me was no more than the respect due her, nothing intimate, nothing she felt obligated to return. Certainly not on the lips that had been doing the dirty for her down there. She did love it though, my licking and lapping. I know because she'd begin to orgasm almost as soon as my tongue buried itself in her. Yet sometimes she took it for granted. Sometimes while I was sucking up to her, her attention seemed to drift elsewhere, as if I were a plumber brought in to clear the kitchen drains. Despite my spending most nights with my face buried in her pussy and coated with its secretions, I began to feel less intimate with her than ever. Less her partner, her companion, her lover. More as she'd warned me, her douchebag. She began to seem less interested in me. Not at all interested, in fact. I mentioned this to her at dinner one day -- an especially delicious meal I'd prepared -- we still took turns fixing or bringing in the evening meal, though I now did all the cleaning up afterward. "If you say so," was all she replied. She was abstracted, her mind elsewhere, as unconcerned with my uneasiness as -- I realized -- with the meal she'd just eaten as if no more than her due. So I tried raising the issue another way. I sat down near her that evening, and casually, as if merely asking her how an afternoon dental appointment had gone, I asked her if she still pissed in my mouth now and then. She looked up from her book. "What do you think?" she replied in a level voice, almost as if it were none of my business. Then she returned to her reading. That really bothered me. "Angela!" I said angrily. "Look at me! We have a problem." She glanced and saw something in my face, then immediately she put down her book and said, "Oh, honey, I don't mean to upset you! If you don't want me to pee in your mouth, then say so and I won't. It's just little squirts, really! They help me feel more ... more in control, more as if I can do anything I want with you. Frankly, to confirm how these days I feel ... superior to you. I enjoy it, it strengthens me. Isn't that what you wanted? Isn't that what you proposed when all this began? I thought you liked me being in charge!" "Well, I do, but ...." "Now I'm unsure what you want. Oh dear, have I been doing everything wrong?" Was she saying that to warn me to back off? To remind me of my New Year's resolution? She uttered these flustered words in a calm voice, looking steadily at me, not at all distressed. "No, no," I hastened to reassure her. "I want you like this. Just like this. Even more so. We've had the best sex of our lives with you like this. It's just that these days you seem ... you're less ... well, affectionate." She seemed surprised. "Sweetheart, we do the most intimate imaginable things with each other. In that sense we couldn't be closer. You give me enormous pleasure, and I'm grateful to you every time. But I did warn you, I can't help it, I just can't feel that a man who ... well, you're my partner for life, and of course I love you I suppose, but you simply aren't ... manly. Not at all. Don't get mad, but you simply aren't ... I can't admire or respect a man who ... all right, who wants me to sit on