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The absolute core of the problem was that I was worried that maybe I didn't even know whether when he said "Of course I don't think of you that way" (in response to me screaming "That's right--that's right--I'm a hysterical female tree-hugger--there's no reason to care that our world is going to Hell in a handbasket you privileged fuck! You just want me to forget about my ethics and take whatever you and your family are kind enough to give me!") he was lying, or, maybe worse, telling the truth but unable to realize that subconsciously he did think of me as a subservient wife, and the whole fucking me in the ass when I demanded that he fuck me in the ass thing was a sham to cover over an icky traditional man from an icky traditional family.
Even worse than that, I wasn't able to articulate the above at all. I was just screaming at Charles, for about five minutes, and then, which is the worst possible sign with me, I got very quiet, and very precise, and I left. I didn't start crying until I had reached my favorite spot on the Green, a bench near Center Church, where some of my ancestors are buried. (So I've got a Mulan thing, so what?) Then I just gave myself over to the sobs.
So you're probably thinking, if you've seen the Steve Martin/Diane Keaton re-make of Father of the Bride, that this is like the blender, and it totally is, I guess, except for the anal-submission, which Kimberly Williams' character just doesn't look like she's into (you never know, though; I often wonder whether anyone can tell just by looking at me that I'm what Charles, when he wants to make me weak in the knees, calls an "ass-wife" [see Emily's Dark Gift]; that's also what the Roissy triskelion ring is for in Story of O of course--so if a ring is needed to indicate a sub who's any master's to use, can it be obvious?).
Yes, it was a typical pre-marital "How do you see me, really?" fight. But I had by that point given Charles everything to an extent that I think most people who say they've given their spouse or their prospective spouse "everything" can't even dream about. You can see it in conventional terms of a modern young woman coming to terms with the patriarchal traditions of marriage, but it was more complicated for me because I had sought in Charles a partner who, precisely, would play out the D/s side of those traditions with me in the bedroom (well, and the living-room, and the library, and any dungeon he might build, and, if he felt like ordering me to my knees in a darkened movie theatre. . . you get the idea). My erotic life revolved around the sexual side of exactly the traditions whose political and social side I had suddenly come up against, so when I thought about Charles' family controlling my financial existence I couldn't be sure that my incurable, panty-moistening yearning to be over his knee learning how to be a good wife for him had blinded me to my less stimulating but more important ethical need--indeed, duty--to be a virtuous, free woman.
Here's what I'm proud of. I didn't let the sex--the unbelievable, life-altering, dream-fulfilling sex--matter, in the end. I suppose I'm being cliché there, and I should hedge and make you think better of my powers as a narrator by admitting that the actual sex rarely rose to that height. Angles are uncompromising, and in the moment you generally have less than a minute to get an angle right before one of you, or both of you, have become so anxious, or so angry, that your chances at something really wonderful are gone for the night. But the play, and, more, the feeling that I had someone to play with--well, that's the life-altering part, and I had it, and have it, with Charles.
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