I have to admit, I love everything about her. I love the way she
laughs too loudly in restaurants, and the moment when she realizes
everyone is looking so she puts her hand to her mouth, but you can
tell she's not really embarrassed. I love the way she dissects an
issue, any issue, finally throwing aside intellectual argument,
decidedly summing up her stance to the only thing that ultimately
matters to her -- how she feels. I love the way she walks on her
tiptoes when her feet are bare, the absence of shoes making her body
recall years spent in ballet slippers.

    And I love the part of her she only gives to me. The part that
craves rules, and consequences. I love the desires for
self-improvement and sexual excitement that have carved out the
basis of our relationship. Her need to do better, be better. Her
need to be punished, to atone. Her need to submit to me, to please
me, though what I've done to deserve that gift I will never know.

    Tonight she looks up at me from our bed, looking over her
shoulder as I slide my belt from the loops, the leather belt she
bought for me, wrapped carefully, offered as lovingly as she now
offers her submission. There's a glimmer of fear in her eyes, and I
know it's only partly in anticipation of the pain. The fear goes
deeper than that, the fear that this time she's been too bad, done
too much wrong to win my forgiveness once again.

    I command her to put her head down, partly because I want her to
feel ashamed and small, partly because if I look too deeply in to
those eyes I might throw the belt aside and assure her she is loved.
But she needs something else from me before that can happen.

    And I give it to her. Again, and again, leather hisses in the
air and finds its mark, stripes appearing on the pale, white skin I
adore. Her cries are muffled in the pillow, her sobs shaking her
body, but never does she leave her position, never does she give me
another reason to scold, to admonish. Finally, her apologies come,
though she never says she's sorry until she feels she's paid her
price.

    I lie beside her, my hand resting on her burning skin, my other
hand wiping tears from her face. And I tell her she's a good girl.
And I tell her she is loved. And I tell her she's forgiven. She
looks at me, mischief replacing the earlier fear in her eyes, and
asks me if it's time to move on to easier things, as she runs her
hand across my bare chest.

    I have to admit, I love everything about her.