My twenty-third birthday – our official second anniversary – is coming up in a few days. A nearby symphony is performing Tristan und Isolde in its entirety as an orchestral piece with chorale and vocal soloists on that weekend, so this year, we're celebrating by traveling up north to hear it from the good seats in the front of the lower balcony in the concert hall. Since neither of us likes to go through money as if it's water, we're hearing it as a matinee.

   That will also leave us plenty of time later that evening to find other, more private ways to celebrate the occasion.

   I don't have anything particularly nice to wear to the symphony, having by now outgrown the vintage granny gown I wore to my sorority formal years ago, and decided, after adding an extra tier of lace to the bottom of the gown so that it would cover my ankles again, that the result just looked weird. This is why I'm browsing the racks at the thrift store that's within walking distance of our apartment, searching for any kind of clothing that might be useful for occasions requiring fancy dress. (The thrift store, fortunately, is not a Salvation Army store; after the Salvation Army turned me away from a shelter on one of the coldest nights of the year for being "sinful" and "unnatural," I have no desire to give them any of my money. Yes, it was years ago, and it was probably my fault for answering truthfully when the captain who ran the shelter asked me why I had nowhere to sleep that night, but there are some things I just can't let go of).

   One of the nice things about not seeing my bank account in a constant state of hemorrhage due to household bills is that I actually have some money left over from my job after paying tuition for my college courses and contributing somewhat to my upkeep. Magister objected to my helping with non-rent household expenses at first, on the grounds that I should be saving for any present and future college-related expenses, but my argument for a while has been that as long as I can afford to help out a little, I will; I refuse to be a burden or, worse yet, something of a cross between a dependent and a household pet. This month I have enough disposable income that I can splurge some of it.

   Usually going shopping would involve browsing for books, but today I'm looking for clothing. It doesn't take long for me to remember that I find shopping for clothing to be a purgatorial experience.

   Almost nothing ever fits me well. I like to borrow Magister's shirts, because they cover my arms down to the wrists rather than halfway past my elbows, which means I can make up my own mind about whether I want to roll them up or down; they don't seem fancy enough on their own for a symphony outing, though, which means I'm looking through racks of women's apparel for something that's pretty, but that also has sleeves long enough to cover a gorilla's arms, and preferably is long enough in the trunk that I don't wind up displaying my navel when I wear it.

   Eventually, an unusual black velvet blouse appears, peeking out from a hidden spot on the plus-size shirt rack. It's long enough that I guess it must have been a tunic or a short minidress on anyone of a more normal height than mine, and the lace accents and black faceted buttons (surely, they aren't made of real jet) make it look vaguely Victorian. The velvet is soft and reminds me of nights spent between the sheets and of the things Magister and I do between those sheets. It wants to be touched.

   I grab it before someone else can find it and look for a coordinating skirt. All I own for bottoms are leggings, sweatpants, some jeans and slacks sized for adolescent boys, and a hand-sewn drawstring skirt I made from a massive tube of calico fabric on one of my more creative days. None of these are appropriate formalwear.

   It takes some poking around, but I find something suitable, a filmy number made of silky black gauze that flares in a full circle when I twirl in it, and manages to at least go down to my calves, which is more than I was expecting from a maxi skirt that was designed for a normal person, rather than someone built along the lines of a flagpole the way I am. It has a built-in slip for modesty, too, thank goodness. I don't think I'd have much luck finding a long slip here. I'm not sure where I'd find a long slip anywhere. A bridal shop, maybe.

   I head for the cash register with my findings. The counter near the cash register has a bin of used records and cassettes sitting on it, unsorted; on a whim, I grab the Jefferson Starship cassette that sits at the top of the pile and offer the person tending the cash register fifty cents for it. She adds it to my pile of clothing, and I walk out into the light of day, squinting at the afternoon glare. April here is chilly, but as bright as summer.

   A bus pulls up to the stop just as I'm walking past the stop, and I have change in my pocket left over from my thrift store expedition, so I decide to ride downtown for one more shopping trip. There's a mall near the university that used to be a cereal factory before it got converted into retail stores and office space as part of a halfhearted attempt on the part of the city council to revitalize the downtown area. In it is a little perfumery that sells essential oils and perfume oils, and toiletries that a customer can add personalized scents to. It's where Magister gets his sandalwood products. I sometimes browse here on less busy days just because everything smells so good.

   After going inside and spending time sniffing various tester vials, including one with the white musk the shop is locally legendary for, I purchase a couple of bottles of essential oils: frankincense and spikenard. I like the way they smell on me, and the frankincense in particular reminds me of when Magister and I cast circle. I also have the oils added to shampoo and conditioner. I like the idea of my hair smelling like magickal work.

   I decide to go home before I spend any more. I don't mind being decadent, but I don't want to cross the line into profligacy. It isn't a good habit to get into.

   "What is that you're wearing? There's definitely some frankincense in there, but there's something else blended in that I can't identify. It's not myrrh. Is it vetiver, maybe?"

   "Spikenard."

   He pauses for a few minutes. "It smells like consecrated savagery... It's very you," he says at last. "I like it."

   "Want to see what else I picked up to wear to the concert? It's really snazzy."

   "I've never seen you in formal clothing before. This should be interesting. Yes, please."

   I make a hasty exit to the bedroom, where I shed my street clothes and don my new apparel. It occurs to me as I do so that I don't have any shoes that would go with it – all I have are a pair of sneakers and a pair of penny loafers, neither of which are appropriate for coordinating with formal wear – and I will have to go out again sometime in the next few days to purchase a cheap pair of black ballet flats or sandals or something, and coordinating hose, if I can find pantyhose that fit me. Terrific. More shopping. The last time I wore pantyhose was when I was a freshman in college and was only about five-eleven. Do they even make pantyhose in my size?

   "You can look now," I say at last, once I have on the velvet blouse and the skirt. It took a long time to button up the blouse; there were a lot of buttons to push through loops.

   The expression that appears on his face is extremely gratifying.

   "Well, well," he breathes. "Very striking indeed. Black is certainly a good color for you. I'm surprised you don't wear it more often. It makes your red hair stand out." A corner of his mouth begins to twitch into a smile. "The effect is rather intimidating. You might want to make note of that; it could come in handy later. That blouse, in particular. I'm not sure what I want to do more, run my hands over it, or congratulate you on your instinctual good taste in dominatrix couture..."

   "Run your hands all over it, of course, and then devour me. That's my suggestion," I offer helpfully.

   He grins. "Certainly. Your wish is my command."

   "Oh, stop," I reply, giggling, and fall into his arms.

   "Happy birthday," he says, and hands out a small box.

   Oh, dear.

   Inside is an opal pendant set in white gold, on a matching chain.

   "It looked like it would go well with your earrings. Don't worry, it didn't set me back too much."

   I love opals, especially fire opals like this one. "It's beautiful," I sigh. I shouldn't fret so much; he's right, if the necklace only cost as much as my Christmas earrings, which seems a reasonable assumption, the symphony tickets cost more than the earrings and necklace combined. Semiprecious stones are not generally very expensive. "Would you like to put it on me?"

   "That's a very loaded question. And yes. I would."

   When he fastens the clasp, tightening the short chain, the pendant barely brushes the hollow in my collarbone.

   The longing look he has on his face pierces me to the core.

   We sit side by side, hands clasped, under a ceiling of gold, watching a lit screen above the orchestra and singers display an English translation of Wagner's German lyrics as we listen to the performance. The lovers have just drunk wine that has been adulterated with a love potion – a potion that was supposed to have brought instant death, except that Isolde's maidservant, Brangaene, substituted a love potion for the poison at the last minute.

Isolde! Tristan!

Escaped from the world,

I have claimed you!

Supreme joy of love,

Now I am yours, I only know you!

   Our hands squeeze. Yes, this is something we know very, very well.

   The chorus of sailors chants in rhythm as they unfurl the sail and bring out the oars; the steady pulse of song that is the beating of oars against water is the rhythm of our hearts beating as one.

   When the second act begins, and the soprano soloist sings,

However the Goddess of Love turns it,

however she ends it,

whatever she reserves for me,

wherever she leads me,

I have become her very own:

Now let me show my obedience!

   I shiver and grasp Magister's hand more tightly. This, too, is something we know very well.

   I glance sideways; I find that he is looking at me with both sadness and hunger. It cuts me to the bone. Oh, the fibers that we have braided into this rope we wind about ourselves. I bring his hand to my lips, quickly, furtively. I would do more, but this is a crowded concert hall, and there are certain things one just doesn't do in public.

   We do manage a quick kiss on the lips during the intermission. Our hands remain clasped; in my mind, I pretend that our fingers are our limbs, our bare hands our naked bodies, fused in love, and I imagine that he is having the same longings.

In the surging swell,

in the ringing sound,

in the vast wave

of the world's breath –

to drown,

to sink,

unconscious –

supreme bliss!

   Liebestod. And with it, the end of the concert. I wipe tears from my eyes. I look to my side; Magister is not crying the way I am, but his face is tensed, and his eyes are bright.

   "The ending always makes me cry," I sniff. "Silly."

   "Personally, I find it strange that more people do not cry at the ending." He flashes a melancholy half-smile at me, and we sit together while other patrons rise up around us and head for the exits. Eventually, my legs are strong enough to bear my weight again, and after making a brief detour to pay our respects to the case where Wagner's jeweled baton stands on display, we leave the gilded hall behind us.

   Late afternoon sunlight pours down on us as we emerge, and we blink until we have adapted to the unaccustomed brightness.

   Across the street from the concert hall is an art museum, which appears to be part of a well-manicured urban park. We recline side by side on a grassy slope, gazing at the waters of the shallow artificial lagoon that sits on the grounds, and at a statue of mermaids that watch over it.

   "I wish this day could last forever," I say. "I wish we could last forever. Like this." This sunlight, which seems to fall on us almost brightly enough to blind, so that I have to close my eyes and turn my head away from its angle. These first violets of April. These shining waters. These arms, wrapped around me.

   "Yes."

   We fall silent in the face of the enormity of our longings.

   I let my forehead fall against his. Our third eyes meet. I feel a warm, tingling sense of dissolving.

   "Magister - my erastes – what would happen if we could make it last forever?"

   "The day? Our love? Our relationship?"

   "Our love already is forever, I think." I run my hand through his hair, reveling in the way it ripples under my palm's flesh. "While no day lasts forever. I meant us. What would happen if we made it permanent?" My lips seek his. He is so warm. I want him, now; I want him so much that it hurts me. I wish I hadn't said anything out loud. Desire makes me tremble – desire, mixed with fear. "Could we?"

   It would be so sweet, to never have to let go, or be let go.

   His eyes open wide. "Eromene, was that a proposal?"

   Yes. No. Maybe. "I don't know."

   As usual, I can't commit myself, and I hate myself for it.

   His mouth quirks. "Well. Shame on me for getting my hopes up when tempted. However, you want an answer, and I suppose I had better provide it, because I too need to be reminded of what is advisable and what is not. So. What would happen? Permanence. Commitment. I would need an absolute commitment from you if I were to commit myself to you forever. It wouldn't be fair otherwise. This is not the first deep romantic relationship I have been in, and you are certainly not the first woman who has been in a submissive position with me, and on a couple of occasions the two states have, in fact, coincided; but I do not give my heart easily, nor do I give it lightly, and neither do I give the rest of myself lightly. I wouldn't need marriage if you didn't want it – I see a marriage license as a legal convenience, since vows of commitment can be made in private without any signing of formal paperwork, although later in life, legal marriage comes in handy because it provides such civil niceties as power of attorney, inheritance rights, tax benefits, and so on, and those can become important. However, although I see marriage itself as optional, commitment is not. I would demand monogamy, for one thing, since I myself am monogamous. What happens when you realize you need to find a slave of your own? I can't be that for you. Nor can I be a woman for you, and you would not have kissed your friend with such abandon had you not needed her to be in your arms to be kissed. You are still young, and you have a life that wants to be discovered and lived. I think you would eventually find the situation frustrating."

   I sigh.

   "Then there's the other aspect of commitment: ownership. What we have right now is an unusual and unique situation. I could be your lover and your partner forever, although not your teacher, since students do eventually move on. At some point, I would run out of things to teach you, anyway. What would be left, then, would be our romantic relationship. Well. If you have me forever, then you have all of me forever, as I don't think I would be happy spending an entire lifetime with my beloved without giving myself utterly, weaknesses as well as strengths; and I would want to have all of you forever as well. I would insist on possessing you, because I do happen to have quite a possessive streak that I've been trying to keep in check out of consideration for you. At the very least you could expect yourself to wear a collar. For the sake of discretion, I could make sure it looked like a necklace or a choker of some sort, but we would both still know full well what it meant." He traces his fingers along the skin of my neck, where it touches the white gold chain of my recent birthday present, and I tremble. It feels terrifying. It feels exhilarating. "Permanent marks made not just as a result of heavy play, but specifically and deliberately to display my ownership of you, would no longer be out of the question, either; we'd need to discuss that.

   "And perhaps your hesitation to commit to anything permanent is wise. Perhaps commitment would destroy us both. What we have now may very well be beautiful and priceless because it is not compelled. You are your own person, for all that you surrender to me in the magickal circle we cast, and in the bedroom. You control the terms of your own bondage. You control your own destiny. What would happen if you were completely and utterly mine? Would you still be so keen to return to academia?"

   I ponder this. No, maybe I wouldn't. It doesn't make sense to me that my longings would change, but they could. I might not want to go back to college full-time and get my degrees. Instead, I'd want to get lost in his arms all the time. The delirium he induces in me is heaven and hell combined; what need would I have for my dreams? I'm only back in college because he nudged me in that direction. He was the one who insisted I take courses to build up my transcript, even if I had to move in with him to afford them. He pushed me into starting my college hunt afresh. I doubt I would have ever returned of my own volition. Going back to college felt too much like trying to go back to the Garden of Eden, with its gateway guarded by an angel with a fiery sword. I had no strength to face that. I am doing something for myself to bring myself back to a life I had always wanted, and needed, only because I was initially doing it for him. If I made my life with him, for him, what need would I have for my own life?

   Even if I did go back to being a full-time student – and I grudgingly admit to myself that he would have to request it – it might be nothing more than a passing of time to me, and all because I wouldn't be following my inner voice. That voice has prompted me throughout my life, telling me to teach, and not just in a classroom. It's in my blood. It's always been who I am. I apprenticed myself to Magister not because I wanted to submit forever, but because I wanted to learn the physical and spiritual arts of domination, to which my desire to teach and guide seems to be related, a sort of weird vocational cousin if not an actual twin sibling. I could forget all that if I fully enslave myself to him, however, because the part of me that defines me would never see much, if any, use. I would then cease to be myself. It wouldn't happen overnight if it even happened at all – we'd probably have years of happiness – but eventually, it could happen.

   He nods. "You begin to see. And with the loss of your ambitions would come resentment. To this day, astonishingly, although we have had a painful discussion or two, we have never quarreled outright. I think that would change. You have a calling – as do we all – and calls are not meant to be ignored or denied. Abandoning your calling, which is part of your Will, would make you bitter and shrewish, and with time, that would poison us. Your love would turn to resentment, and then to hate, and – oh, God! I could not bear it if you hated me. My eromene, permanence between us might be a disaster. What we have now is incomplete, but it is happy. If that does not change, at some point we may part, but we would be left with mostly happy memories of each other. I shouldn't let myself get too attached to you. It would not be fair to you. That you bring me such joy, that I want you forever, is irrelevant. I can't own you." He trails his finger along the chain on my neck again.

   Oh, my love. So much pain. All my fault.

   I tighten my embrace and cover his mouth with mine.

   The afternoon sun beats down on us like fire.

   We burn like moths.

   Dinner was an assortment of shellfish in garlic butter sauce, served over linguini; a tossed salad of mixed spring greens, violets, and pansies with a light dressing of oil; steamed asparagus drizzled with orange butter; and, for my birthday cake, an impossibly rich New York style cheesecake he made with added sour cream and dark chocolate and allowed to age for several days in the refrigerator. White zinfandel accompanied the food.

   A balmy spring breeze pushes at the kitchen curtains.

   His head rests on his arms. He's been lying there slumped at the table for a while now. It doesn't look like a very comfortable position to fall asleep in.

   "Come to bed," I say. "You look like you could use a rest."

   He nods, and we head off.

   When we sit on the futon, I start working his suit and other clothes off. He doesn't object. The tie presents an interesting challenge, but ultimately, it's much easier to undo a Windsor knot than it is to tie one. The tie is silk. "I love the way this feels against my skin," I murmur, rubbing the tie against my cheek as I take it off. "You should wear these more often, to give me an excuse to take them off. Or give yourself an excuse to do something with the tie once it's off."

   He doesn't bat an eye.

   "My word. You must be tired, to ignore an opening like that." I run my hands along his shoulders as I unfasten his shirt. "Knots. You're in knots... Let me help. Please." When I dig in my fingers, the tension in his muscles feels like stone. He is a study in alabaster.

   I bite a shoulder gently, then dig in, wrapping my teeth around the knot to loosen it, and he groans.

   "My love, how much are you holding in there?"

   His only response is a sad smile.

   "Like Atlas, with the weight of an entire world on your shoulders. No wonder your shoulders are all tied up."

   "Only when I let myself brood."

   "Then don't brood," I reply. "Silly. There. Problem solved." I kiss his mouth, long and hard, taking his face between my hands, and in a few moments am gratified to hear him let out an odd little gasp, almost a sigh. It's a lovely gasp. I could get used to hearing it.

   "Thinking about what I mustn't have does tend to make me brood somewhat, eromene," he says, and leans forward to kiss my neck where the chain of my birthday necklace brushes my flesh. His lips are light, no more forceful than thought. They feel like a soft wind.

   "No. I did just tell you not to brood, didn't I? Stop brooding. Stop even thinking." I lean into him, unbalancing him and knocking his naked body back down onto the pillows, where I pin him between my forearms as I bend over him. "Do you know what I want most for my birthday present? Your happiness." His lips need kissing. I kiss them. "I want you to be blissfully, radiantly happy. I want you to be positively drunk on happiness." He has such beautiful eyes. The lids tremble when I put my lips to them. "I want you to be so happy that you forget how to be sad. I want you to be so happy that you can't think. I want your ecstasy. Let me give it to you. Let go. Just this once." I reach down and rub my hand up against the hardness between his legs. "Let go."

   He moans. It sounds like music.

   "I think you finally want the rest of me," I whisper into his ear.

   "Yes." More gasps. I love his gasping.

   It's made me hungry, although I don't seem to be hungry for food, exactly.

   "Oh, yes. Yes, you do." He seems almost like a delicacy now, one that I ought to sample; I lick and nibble along his neck, until I feel his pelvis twitch and roll under my hand. His cock is so hard. "Don't worry, my love. My Erastes. My beautiful one. I'll be gentle deflowering you."

   I can't tell if that's a laugh or a choking cough. Maybe it's a little of both.

   I think fast about what the most convenient way would be to place him if I want him to be able to move his hips when I have sex with him and decide a straight horizontal line would probably be the most practical for my purposes. "So," I murmur casually as I fasten his cuffed wrists to the middle eyebolt at the head of the futon, "is this your first time on the bottom?"

   "No."

   Well. I wasn't expecting that. How interesting. I raise an eyebrow.

   "I was curious."

   "How did it turn out?"

   "Not very well. Curiosity by itself doesn't seem to make for very good love play, at least not for me; and since I don't usually incline that way, anyway... well. It was a valuable experience for the both of us, in its own way."

   "Oh, my love. That's not right. You deserve happier memories. I'll do my best to make it up to you."

   There, that's the ankles taken care of. I rise and begin to run my fingertips lightly down his chest, massaging meridians and pressure points with my fingers when I find them. With any luck, this will also help unknot some of his muscles. His breath catches when I take a nipple between my teeth and start flicking at it and around it with my tongue. So sensitive. It's a sweet, lovely sound when he gasps and sighs like that, so I keep doing it in the hopes of hearing it again.

   He strains underneath me; I roll onto him and let him ride up against my crotch. My pantyhose is soaking wet now, and very much in the way, but I want to drag this out a little longer. I'm not ready to let him go yet.

   When I brush against his face, on the way to giving him my breast to pleasure, he rubs his cheek against my blouse.

   "Heavens. You do like that velvet blouse, don't you?"

   "It's... very nice velvet. And you do look very good in it..."

   A throaty laugh bubbles from somewhere out of me. I make sure he has plenty of contact with the velvet of my blouse as I suggest other places for him to kiss, and I crush myself against his chest when I swoop down once more to steal his tongue from his mouth and tease it with mine. His face, when I wring more and yet more pleasure out of him, fills me with awe. He looks for all the world like a chained god. Prometheus, on the mountaintop, must have looked something like this.

   I lower my head to strike my hair against his chest.

   He groans.

   "Oh, you liked that? Let's do it again, shall we?" I toss my head down again and trail it in swirls after it falls on him. "Unfortunately, I can't keep it up for very long without getting dizzy, but I think I can manage a few more times."

   I make sure to writhe against him, grinding my genitals upon his, every time I lash him with my hair.

   I'm tired of waiting.

   The skirt can stay – I like the way the chiffon layers and satin liner feel when they rub up against my skin – but the hose has to go. The very act of removing pantyhose involves a certain amount of friction, and I nearly come just from that, but something tells me he'd find it more arousing to have me climax around him, so I manage to hold myself off until I mount him.

   His erection is like marble.

   Pleasuring my clitoris with my hand, I ride his cock until I scream, which doesn't take long. I had no idea I would find my own need to be so urgent. How does he manage to keep his passion contained for so long when he plays me? He must have inhuman patience. Practice makes perfect, perhaps. I hope I get more practice in the near future. He did mention wanting to let me rehearse things with him.

   This is something I'm going to discuss with him at greater length, later.

   I lean down and gently, firmly, grasp his face in my hand. His mouth wants more kissing.

   When I lean back to gently hold and stroke his testicles with one of my hands, he moans and bucks up hard against me. That's a nice reaction. I decide to prolong it for a while before going back to scratching his body's nerve endings with my fingernails.

   He arches, crying out my name as he tosses his head. "S'ero," he rasps, "s'ero..."

   I lean back down to ravage his mouth with mine. He's still straining underneath me. Oh, such sweetness. "Is this an improvement over the last time, my love?"

   He lets out a faint laugh. "Yes."

   "Good." His lips are so very warm and alive. I want to draw all that warmth and life into me and let it fill me. Dear God. "Before you come, I have a request."

   "Yes?"

   "Tell me you love me. In English. I want to hear you say it in English. Audibly. And look at me, now. Look at me when you say it."

   His eyes fly open. We gaze into each other, falling, drowning.

   "I love you," he whispers, his breath trembling.

   "Again. Louder."

   "I love you. I love you, eromene. I love you..." And then he is crying it out, over and over, and his body shakes and he spends himself, calling my name, calling out his need.

   I remember to unhook and unbuckle him before we collapse against each other.

   "I love you, too," I murmur, and kiss sweat from his body. "My God, how I love you."

   Just before we both succumb to sleep, I feel him smile against my shoulder, and hear him murmur, "My beautiful rose, you have grown some interesting thorns."

   "Roses generally do. Do you like my thorns?"

   "They seem to suit you."