Charles kicked his own roommate out, more or less (guys deal with that more sanely than girls, I think [there's no way I could have done it to my roommate], but despite the transaction being relatively businesslike I have to admit to feeling rather stimulated by the urgency with which my betrothed lord went about making sure I would be in his bed every night, to the point of really being a bit unfeeling for the displaced roommate--yet another paradox of hotness, I guess, for he clearly felt it, too: when the door closed behind the roommate and the roommate's stuff, Charles turned me around, my face to the door, lifted my skirt, lowered my panties, and entered me, hard, so that I cried out in a way that the roommate must have recognized), and I moved in with him.
I ended up as a summer associate in New York, which put a small crimp in what we later called our summer of anal love, but, because the firms want you to give them your heart and soul after you graduate, it wasn't too much of a burden in the end (heh).
We experimented in every way we could think of. Various systems of domestic discipline reigned at various times. I was frequently deprived of my panties when going out; I frequently was made to walk around the apartment naked, my butt-plug firmly in place. It was heaven.
This was when we started playing stories from Greek myths, as reflected in Emily, Ravished by Porn. As I mention there, my favorite was Pasiphae, even though Charles often broke the immersion of the scene by talking despite being a bull.
("Goddammit, Charles, you're a bull! Shut up!" I'd say, and he'd sweetly oblige and bellow, unless he decided he wanted to spank me for impertinence instead, though once he said "Oh but what you don't realize is that Pasiphae is telepathic with animals--I'm not talking, you're just hearing my taurine thoughts"; and, scene, because I was laughing too hard. It was one of my worst topping from the bottom habits, trying to dramaturge those stories--I mean, if master wants to be a talking bull, I guess master should be a talking bull.)
The number of myths that can be played as BDSM scenes is practically endless, actually.
I've been Europa (Pasiphae's mother-in-law, in fact), kidnapped and ravished by another bull (the nice thing about the Europa myth is that at least in the Ovid version she thinks she's got this sweet pet bull, but then he swims off with her to Crete. . . and when they get there she finds out her pet bull wants more from her. . . and, at least as played by us, her heart quails at the sight of the bull-cock that's going to ravish her in every way).
I've been Semele, demanding to feel the full power of Zeus, with all his "lightning-bolts" attached (Charles likes that one because it lets him be rough with me as part of the story; too often, most of the time, he's too gentle with me for my taste because he loves me, the dear--it's not that he doesn't get turned on by fucking me hard, he says--it's just that it feels false to him to do it as Charles; he needs to be Zeus in all his thunderous panoply).
But there's something about Pasiphae's insatiability that I find most moving, in that Réagean sense; pretending that Charles was a bull who needed to be persuaded to do something as unnatural as fucking a queen, persuading him with various displays, and touches, and then finally having him fuck me wildly and bestially over the piano-stool that stood in for Daedalus' cow. . . it tended to release the day's tensions.