The second reason that she hasn’t been updating her blog as much is that she just started a new job working at my casino and that’s taken up a lot of her free time. Lastly, and strangely connected to this new job, she and I are getting formally married. It’s a long stony, but she’s planning a wedding for the end of this month, and it’s taking up all of her free time.

I’ve been meaning to out a Podcast out, but every time I think would be a good time, suddenly wedding planning starts happening. Last night I thought for sure we’d have a couple of hours before we left for Texas for the holidays, but a new friend of Roulette’s from work (it does her good to have new female friends, BTW) came over and they were picking out rings for her.

We did record a video on Thanksgiving. It was when she was really overcome with blues about her break up with Jack. Strangely enough, she starts crying about half the way through the video. If you want to buy this video, check out “How to Break Your Man, Part 3″ over in the gallery. I made a preview video for you to watch if you’d like to see it.

Other than that, I hope everyone has a good Christmas.

I consume a fair amount of pornography, and lesbianism has to be my absolute favorite topic. It started when I was an adolescent and got a hold of my first bunch of Penthouse magazines. The sight of Janine Lindemulder getting licked by “Robin” grabbed me in ways that just made me want to cum. I had a real crush on Janine Lindemulder back in those days. I fantasized that I would one day head out to Los Angeles and find her. It’s funny how things work out. Janine’s now the ex-wife of Jesse James, a classification she shares with Sandra Bullock, and is fighting for custody of her children. I remember being in the checkout isle of a grocery store and seeing the title, “Sandra Bullock fights for custody with Porn Queen” and thinking how sad it was that Janine wasn’t even entitled to a name. I guess she should have stuck to girls. Come to think of it, Janine and Sandra Bullock… hmm.

In watching this movie I was envious of two things as someone who has produced a pornographic feature: the first was the beauty of the models they were working with and the second was the fact that they seemed to have the run of the entire hotel. The movie opens and Ellie gives a tour of the entire hotel from front desk to board room to restaurant and so on. Wow, I couldn’t imagine how they managed to basically have one entire hotel in which to shoot. The first sex scene takes place in the hot tub. I have a feeling that real estate values are obviously lower in the Czech Republic, so it doesn’t cost as much to rent an entire hotel for a couple of days. Oh, in case I didn’t mention it, all the women are Czech. No English is spoken in this movie, but they have nice subtitles, like we ended up doing with “How to Break Your Man.”

At any rate, I thought I’d share some of my favorite Lesbian porn for all you horny dicks out there. When it comes to Lesbian porn, attractiveness of the ladies is of obvious importance. But I’ve found that the ass seems to be the most important feature of all. There’s so much action going on right around the vagina, that a gorgeous ass really helps put the scene over the top. For instance, check out Sandy’s ass from Scene Six of “Pink Velvet 3″ (see above). Is that an amazing ass of what? And you can tell she put a lot of work into it the way she’s flexing. Obviously she takes her body very seriously. So when you see another woman planting her face in an ass that perfect in order to lick her vagina it just makes you want to explode. Here, see for yourself.

God damn, don’t you just want to stick your dick in that? Fuck! Of course, as a male submissive, I’ve spent a fair amount of time “worshipping” my Mistresses vagina. She’s almost always on her back, and I’m kneeling at the side of the bed. She seems to powerful to me in that state of reclined relaxation- assured that I am about to bring her to a wonderful orgasm or three while I am most likely denied for the evening. Obviously the vagina needs the bulk of the attention, but you can’t ignore that asshole either. It’s a wonderful little part of the woman’s anatomy, and I particularly enjoyed this scene out of “Pink Velvet 3″ for much the same reasons. In fact, I typically just lick the clit and tickle the anus because inserting a finger in the vagina tends to be fraught with difficulty because of how sensitive the vaginal canal is and attempted finger insertion before an appropriate level of vaginal wetness has been reached can cause some pain. The asshole, on the other hand, often seems to respond just as intensely and I don’t have to worry about lubrication because I’m not actually inserting anything.

Now I the fact that she actually inserts her finger seems like it was just done for the camera. She’s got fairly nice finger nails which look good going in, but I’d have to guess would be a tiny bit uncomfortable going up an un-lubed asshole. But, hey, maybe not. I do like giving a woman’s asshole my tongue’s attention, and I particularly like it when they are one their stomach. There’s something so amazingly sexy about having a woman’s ass checks pressing right up against your face, and they make natural pillows for you to rest your head against as you’re going to town. Of course, the actress isn’t doing that because she needs to keep enough free space for a camera shot, we I think you’ll appreciate.

What’s that you say? You’d like to see more attention paid to the vagina? Ok, here ya go.

Now personally, I think the “tongue fucking” technique is just for the camera. I’ve never had a woman really like it? Instead they seem to like slow, steady attention like we see in the next clip.

What can I say? The woman clearly enjoys her work. And, of course, you can’t forget the tits, and this movies got quite a bit of both natural boobs. Maybe you have a different opinion about whether these are real.

Anyway, I think Pink Velet 3 was a great movie. In fact, it was the one I violated my chastity with Mistress Roulette to pleasure myself to, but, can you really blame me?

If so, I’d love to hear ‘em. And never forget, my group members — my Best Bets — always have full access to not only the chastity journal, but my little devious pontifications. In fact, they can ask me anything they want to.

Would you like to join up? It’s easy — and totally free. (And don’t worry about being approved; I’ll take care of that for you.)

I wonder what wild and crazy things we’ll cook up this time — or if we’ll just be kickin’ it old school. (I do love a good T&D scene.)

Decisions, decisions.

As I’ve written in prior posts, episodes of chastity tend to give me these overwhelming feelings of intensity. On Saturday night, I was definitely feeling it, and she had already let me know that I would NOT be coming this weekend. I felt the telltale sense of growing awe as I got home from work that night and looked upon her; the femininity of her body always seems so amazing about three days into chastity. The shape of her face, the heave of her breasts, and the feel of her ass, all seem to be entirely new; it’s as though she were the only woman in the world to me.

But with that sense of awe also comes a sense of dread, for she is going to use me for her pleasure and I am to be kept wanting. With that in mind, she took me over to the couch, sat straddle of my lap, and started kissing me. She and I really enjoy long make-out sessions, although, during these times my submissiveness really comes through. I just melt under her as she pushes my face back and runs her tongue down the length of my neck. We continue making out as she whips my longing for her into a fevered pitch and then commands me to take my pants off. I do so and sit submissively on the couch waiting for her next move.

She stands before me as I sit on the couch and look at her. Given my submissive mindset and the need to come, the power of her sexuality intimidates and scares me as she lowers her panties to her ankles. I have no idea what she’s going to do to me, but I’m already under her thumb and feel a growing sense of dread as she straddles my lap. She positions herself so that her pussy is rubbing right against my cock and begins to grind away as I’m forced to helplessly watch her get herself off. She makes it a long, slow process this time as she slowly grinds her hips forward and backward and I watch her facial expressions as she throws her head back and begins to really enjoy herself.

“Please, don’t do this to me, honey,” I plead with her as she continues to grind her pussy against my stationary cock in complete denial of my needs. “Please,” I say as I begin to breakdown into a kind of panic. “Please, don’t leave me here.”

“What?” she asks looking down at me. It seems my words had monetarily moved her out of her build to orgasm.

“Please, don’t come without me. Don’t leave me here … Please,” I say in a soft and pathetic voice.

She has a big heart and has always cared a lot for me, and so I am touched as she thinks things over and suddenly seems to acknowledge my demands. “OK,” she says. “Come with me into the bedroom.”

Maybe she will let me come with her. I’m suddenly overcome with hope. She lies back on our bed and invites me to enter her.

“Although,” she says as she spreads her legs, “this doesn’t mean I’m going to let you come.”

At that moment, I just didn’t care. I was just so thankful to be able to place my cock inside her wonderfully warm pussy as opposed to feeling its slippery lips rubbing against my impotent cock as I sat below her on the couch.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” I begin to chant as I penetrate her. “Fuck, your pussy feels so good.”

“Go slowly,” she says as she tempers my clumsy efforts to enter her. “And remember, this is for me. Not you.”

“Yes, darling. Thank you. Thank you so much,” I blather on, as I command my body to do as she wills. It’s wonderful feeling her build to orgasm as I slowly rock my cock into her at her command and rhythm. And then, as she begins to let out the preparatory orgasmic moans, I ask her if I can come.

“Yes,” she screams. “Come for me.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” I being to chant as I build myself to my own orgasm. “My God, your pussy feels so… fucking … good … ” Before I can’t say any more.

And then we collapse together and all of the submissiveness seems to immediately leave my body with all of the tension in a sudden rush. My brain instantly snaps back to its more rational state and beings to wonder just what kind of blathering fool I was acting like and why on Earth I would ever want to engage in these scenes.

“It’s OK,” she says as she moves her hand to my face. “I love that side of you. I always want you to express it to me.”

She wordlessly understands my inner conflict and how I’m feeling right now.

“Thank you,” I say to her for what must have been the hundredth time that night. “I like that you do.”

And we laid together silently for a few minutes as the moment passed.

Unlike other female-led relationships I read about online, ours has power exchange elements that can reverse at times. That is to say, when she’s not exercising control, she allows me certain liberties in regards to “taking her.” I think it’s a fundamental right of all women to be “taken” sexually by the one they want. I think it a primal need to feel desired and wanted and validated that just can’t get expressed during periods of chastity and extreme control. So the next morning I enjoyed a more aggressive sexual experience that culminated in my using her breasts to achieve orgasm. Apparently this was the first time she had ever allowed a man to do this to her, and I was very happy to be one of her firsts.

I love the feeling of my cock sliding between her tits- knowledge that she has used to her advantage during certain teasing scenes. But that orgasm was the last one I’ve had in the last three days and we are now beginning chastity again. At this point, I feel very excited about what this period of chastity may bring me. I’m simply overcome by raw enthusiasm and the hope of new experience. I will, of course, keep everyone apprised as to my progress.

Frustration 1, Arousal 3

See, I wasn’t ready yet. Not nearly. My head was swimming with intriguing and intense behavioural modification methodology, since part of the grand scheme is learning to transform some facets of our darker natures into that which can be better integrated into our base personalities. Namely, his, since mine can be expressed through my fiction, or even being particularly forceful in my demeanour. His, however, needs direct, merciless abuse.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to abuse the one you love? More so, if you have been abused by people who, at points of your life, have claimed to love you?

Talk about a mindfuck.

But he needs this, and to a degree, I do, too. We’ve discussed at length how it’s okay for me to indulge my curiosity regarding how far I can actually push him in chastity: how intense, extreme, and how long he can last. There are times I can’t even keep my inner sadist down, it needs to tear into someone or something with such reckless abandon, it even scares me. While his inner masochist is brought out through chastity, I don’t really know a ‘safe’ way to take my inner sadist out for a spin. Nothing short of honest-to-goodness, real, overwhelming anger and rage.

And that goes against some of my core beliefs in my practise. One should never punish another’s submission through expression of their own rage. Submission is a gift; to be valued, treasured, and rewarded. Now, the inner sadist in me just loves any hint of masochism, because it wants to take advantage of that like crazy. But that’s likely because the sort of sadism in which I resort most naturally is physical: I love caning, paddling, straight up spanking — anything that causes real, genuine pain: Light CBT, and moderate-to-heavy nipple torture. But, see … he’s not a physical masochist, and I know this. He’s an emotional masochist — which, I have no trouble working with. Except, when it comes to the deeper cravings for abuse, and I’m in more of a nurturing frame of mind — well, that’s when things get … complicated. At least, they can. Without even quite realising it, he’ll start to do things that frustrate me — more than anything, becoming overcritical over known irritants — almost just for the sake of it. It reminds me of a TV-movie exorcism. When the shaman, or what have you, wants the demon to present itself inside of the possessed, he (or she) will begin to taunt and disturb, and before long, tormenting it, in hopes that it will make itself known.

My inner sadist can only take so much before it says, ‘All right, that’s it. I’ve had enough.’ But then all bets are off. It doesn’t matter if it’s a game; if it’s well-meant, if, underneath it all, it’s operating off of love. Because anger has presented itself — raw rage — deserved, or not, hardly matters. Now, it just wants satisfaction. It needs to be satiated — and that means however it seems fit. Which usually involves physical punishments, furious outbursts and displays of cold, hard fury. The time for negotiation has ended. Now, it’s on — whether the subject of its ire and abuse wants it or not.

I’m sure anyone with a brain in their head can see why that scares me — the therapist, the well-meaning, logical, non-abusive person. The one that does not hurt the one she loves — at least, never intentionally, and never, ever gains satisfaction from doing so. It’s only during these darker moments of my soul that I derive any kind of joy out of bringing agony and pain. And it’s only if it’s been needled, and begged, and pleaded, and practically forced out of me; the snake will not go back into the can, at that point. (Have you ever tried to stuff the snake back into the can once it pops out? While not exactly impossible, it’s tricky. It’s out and out it wants to stay. Everything around me takes on a greater intensity. I begin to view the world through crimson-coloured glasses. Anything could be a target. It’s stressful, annoying, and leads to even more frustrating scenarios — especially, because this modus operandi doesn’t gel as well as it could with my boyfriend. He craves a different kind of abuse — which, once I’ve reached that point, I could hardly give a fuck what he — or anyone else, for that matter, wants. Or doesn’t. Now, it’s about me. I’ve been pushed to this point, so damn it, it’s on.

Both of us enjoy strap-on play. A lot. I love the fact that I’m able to take him like I’ve been taken — well, as close as can be mustred, given our respective sexes. I love getting to play at being the one with the cock. Sometimes, I decide to use it as a weapon, but I typically prefer being loving, and treating him rather how I enjoy being treated. I’ll make love to him gently, with soft whispers and lots of caresses — I’ll even allow him to touch himself, so long as he doesn’t masturbate to orgasm. (Not yet.) But if I’m feeling sadistic, and I’ve decided upon a harder scene, (which he always inquires about ahead of time) then I’m ready for it — mentally, especially, which is key. I’m ready to be ‘abusive’: cause him pain without harm; hurt him without lasting damage. It comes from a place of love. I can distance myself from the need to nurture and show him love in the usual ways I do, and I can really enjoy it without getting too caught up and losing myself in the genuine pleasure I take in experiencing his agony, fear, and vulnerability. I usually seek to protect his vulnerability — not abuse and disgrace it. But, in those times when it’s been agreed upon by us both way ahead of time, I will. And, again, it’s fine — because it comes from a place of real, unabashed love, respect, and caring.

My anger is a whole other story. It’s pure fury — hard, fast, and burns quickly. If there’s real reason, and it feels deserved, then it may smoulder for some point thereafter, potentially winding down into sadness which I nurse privately. If it isn’t, or is resolved relatively soon (as ours have been) then it dissipates as suddenly as it came. This is minorly incompatible with his vision of ‘abuse’. He doesn’t want it hard and fast, with shouting and demands to strip and submit to a punishment that hasn’t been fully explained to him, outside of it’s non-negotiable. He wants some say, to be able to decide which sort of punishment to which he should submit (or, at least, be able to debate it with me) and then it should be carried out slowly, more deliberately, and not immediately. It should be something with which I tease, taunt, and test him. Reminding him of the punishment that he has coming. Draw out the suspense.

It’s oddly enough, a smarter and safer way of handling these sorts of situations for both of us. It gives me a chance to let the real anger subside, so that I’m not becoming the sort of person I warn against and heavily disparage in my practise and personal life, and the punishment then becomes sufficiently eroticised for him, so that it’s an enjoyable experience that brings us closer together rather than bringing us apart. It hasn’t been the easiest switch to make for me; there are days where I still just really, really want to whack him — but another thing I discuss often in my writings and with my clientele is the need for delayed gratification. That includes me, too. I may desire nothing better than to make my boyfriend strip, cuff him, force him down over the side of the sofa, and wail on him until I’m satisfied when I’m that angry. But I’m breaking one of my most crucial tenets by allowing myself to indulge a behaviour I consider detestable. There are easier, safer, and, in the long-term, more positive ways in which I can satisfy my inner sadist, and he his inner masochist.

For us, that may require a bit of planning ahead, and doing things a bit differently than is utmost-natural for both of us; but relationships are all about compromise. Even those in which there is a power exchange. Yes, especially where it’s total — either some of the time, 24/7 or just in sexual situations. If there isn’t, it’s not a relationship. It’s a one-sided affair where one partner is being used at the expense of the other. Those aren’t healthy — even if the sex is amazing. In the end, it’s not worth it. Sometimes, you’ve just got to spare the rod, and spoil your beloved. That should be natural enough for anyone to enjoy — sadist, masochist, and everything in between.

At any rate, she delayed the strap-on and abuse scene she had been planning for a couple of days after reading my last post. It seemed she couldn’t bear going through with it knowing how hard it made things for me. So we had a long talk last night, mainly about her repression. She has a dark and sadistic side that is the seat of both her cruelty and her sexuality, but she, like me, keeps it hidden under a deeply rational side that feels a great deal of concern and is easily motivated towards guilt. I expressed to her a few things:

• I was a big boy and more than capable of stopping things if they got too intense to handle.
• That she needed to focus on unleashing her dark energy, passion, and creativity, and allow me the choice to tell her when it got to be too much. That she couldn’t try to play both roles because it seemed overwhelming to her.
• That allowing her darker self off the chain could only bring us closer. It always has in the past because she’s able to show me a side of herself that the world has never seen and its able to bring out a side of me that I am also deeply ashamed of. Together it creates this intense feeling of vulnerability and intimacy, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
• That after she does allow me to come, the whole ordeal seems to end. Despite whatever intensity and cruelty I seemed subject to prior, that now I felt free and whole again and that there were no lingering angers or causes for fights.
• And, more than anything, that she would never lose the relationship just because her dark side took it too far. This was a real primal fear for her and it seems I can never give her the reassurance she needs. I’m touched by how important this relationship is to her,

After our discussion, she seemed to feel far more free. She said that in the future, she would engage her emotion spur-of-the-moment impulses and that I needed to be ready for that. She followed this by taking me over to the couch, getting both naked, and grinding her pussy against my cock. She briefly toyed with the idea of allowing some penetration, but then seemed to find the right rhythm to allow her to build herself to orgasm. It was a beautiful moment of both release and denial as I watched her get herself off by grinding against my cock. We had to cut if off because I was getting close as well, and she didn’t want that.

Now she says that she’s not making any promises for what’s going to happen next. That she’ll just she how she feels and go from there. I think that’s a better starting point, and I look forward to what the future brings.

Arousal-4, Frustration 4

Last night she replied with, “I’m right here.” Which, of course, doesn’t really help me because my desire is more specific.

Really what I’m saying is that “I desire to use you to achieve a form or release that will bring us closeness and a sense of fulfillment.” And what she’s telling me, often specifically, is that she’s available to hold me, but has no desire to bring a premature end to our experiment in chastity.

It reminds me of getting my heart broken. When I was younger and experiencing young love, it felt like a well of feelings had sprung up inside me. I was given to feelings of intense infatuation, longing for fulfillment, and the desire to be recognized and appreciated. In those days, it didn’t seem like the sun would rise for me without the approving consent of my beloved. But young love being what young love is, those days would end for one reason or another. And I would be left along feeling empty and abandoned.

I tried to separate myself from my feelings. To intellectualize them away, because all of my feelings would be of her- the object of my desire and meaning. Sometimes an ex would express some sympathy and seek to get together for coffee or something so that I would feel less alone. Those breaks would be a tremendous respite from the feelings of emptiness, but also a cruel trick upon the re-blossoming feelings of desire. We were “just friends” now, and friends didn’t desire each other. At least, they we’re supposed to.

I felt so pathetic in those days. Depressed. Wanting my life to be over. Numb. If I really stopped to think about it, I knew I’d start crying. If I put aside the desire for death, telling myself that things would eventually get better, but those sentiments seemed so hollow in those days. But, eventually, I grew up. Young love passed into the more pragmatic coupling of the late 20s and 30s. I no longer looked to my partners for fulfillment beyond the evening, and no longer burdened them with the messiness of my life. Life became simpler: predictable; scheduled; stable; livable. And that’s the life I chose to settle in and shape my identity around.

I don’t even like to really reflect on the horrible heart breaks of young love. I feel a period of deep shame come across me when I even admit to myself how pathetic everything was back them. Far from the predictable everyday, I only knew a chaotic mess of unfulfilled emotions and a life that felt like it was spiraling out of control. But chastity play seems to be bringing me back to those younger days- an outcome I somehow knew but would not have predicted.

Chastity and teasing fills me with a similar intense longing. I feel flooded by intense, demanding emotions that find no release except for quiet dissipation over time. It’s strange to take feelings of intense longing or, if I’m honest enough to admit it, rage and be told that “It’s OK,” and to just let them pass without acting on them. My mistress is there to hold me through these emotional storms, but that feels as empty as coffee with my ex-girlfriends used to feel. It’s nice and it helps with the feelings of being in it all along, but it only ignites other emotions (often amazingly negative) that then have to be allowed to pass.

I almost feel as though chastity play is an intense experience that can only be truly allowed to dissipate in the same somber aloneness that I used to fall into to try to put some order into an otherwise chaotic life. That when the session is over, the more rational and structured side of myself will once again step in, tell me it’s no big deal and to take a sleeping pill and go to sleep. Until we do it all over again the next day.

I was particularly worried last night when she told me what it was she had planned for this evening. She said that when I got home from poker, that she was going to restrain me, tease me, and then brutally fuck me with her strap-on until she was able to achieve orgasm. All in all, she expected to scene to be a couple of hours and to feature more of the darker and less loving sides of herself. This fills me with considerable consternation.

As I outlined in an earlier post, the ever popular “Getting Bound and Fucked by Your Lady,” I am used to my mistress pushing me to new limits in our strap-on play. But past episodes had featured an orgasm, followed by holding and aftercare. It was during those times when the world would all return to feeling normal and sane. I was able to marvel how intensely out of control I’d felt only just a moment ago as I was able to bond with her over the intensity of our shared experiences. But tonight’s session will be different; I will be brutally violated until she achieves orgasm. Then forced to slowly dissipate the intense feelings that such a unfair violation force upon me. I feel as though the intensity of my emotions will overcome me.

When we’ve experimented with it in the past, the unfairness or her bitchy and uncaring demeanor would match with the rising well of negative emotions I would be overcome by. When asked how I was feelings, I remember cursing her repeatedly. I hated her right then, just as I’d hated me ex-girlfriends back when they were the ones bringing me pain. In the particular session where we experienced these things, my mistress took this negative energy as an opportunity to ramp up the intensity of her violation. She slammed the full nine inches of the dildo deeper and more vigorously into me as she screamed an me what a emasculated slut I had been rendered to. In that particular episode, I eventually folded to feeling of unbelievable need. My cursing eventually gave way to soft whimpers as I begged her to please touch me. The massiveness of her hard, massive phallus seemed to comparatively powerful to my flacid penis, I couldn’t even understand how anyone could bring themselves to pay it any attention.

But then the scene changed, as it often tends to with Roulette. She suddenly took pity on the cowering useless man she was fucking, and allowed me to touch myself. I was so grateful in that moment as she allowed me to bring myself to orgasm. I knew that soon I would be back in the realm of the sane, and able to look what I had just experienced as a strange type of experiment which had now run its course.

But, that was then, and this is now. Putting our play along a timeline, it seems Mistress Roulette has been continually pushing me towards this end. First pushing me to larger dildos, then playing with the idea of unrequited and unloving violation. In our last such scene, she pulled me back from the brink. Tonight, I am not sure I’ll be so lucky, and that has me feeling very weary indeed.

I’ve asked him, again, because I believe in him; I believe in this. He isn’t writing to turn me on, to make me wet, to prove to me that he can do it. He’s writing for me, because I’ve asked him, and because it’s within his nature and talents to do so. It isn’t an assignment; it’s a feeling. Not a task, but a total immersion.

Because when he writes … he steals the moment from me, and holds onto it, preciously, for safe-keeping until further notice. He has done so many times, and in each, he reminds me not only why I love him, but why I always have — even before I really knew it. As I watched him chew idly at (many) pen caps, reclining in an office chair, contemplating his next move: be it to bet, raise, or fold; invest, stop, or pull, engage or disengage from any particular event, or, always stirring in the recesses of his consciousness: where will he go from here?

Here, where we are today, is different from what I’d ever imagined, sitting mere feet from him, at my desk in his office; sharing his space, quietly wondering if he felt I was in violation, or if it was truly welcome. That poker face. I never could read him. He was too good — even for me. (And that is saying something.) I wouldn’t know … for years. I’d never even really, honestly, had a dream come true, as they say, that meant something to me. But it was worth the wait.

Even as I sat disbelieving, watching, wondering, waiting, hoping — just maybe, maybe some day, I’d have a real glimpse into his inner-workings; some sort of passage into the deep inner-sanctum. The place where he keeps his dreams, his secrets, his deepest yearnings, longings, fears, and nightmares … If I could hold that key, we would be complete. Not I, not he — but we would be complete.

I don’t ask him to write for me, but for us. It always jostles the lock, just enough, so that I can peer inside yet again. And the wonders that I behold … every time …

I ask him to write for me — not (only) because it arouses or excites me; but because it takes my breath away.