Unraveled by Him by Wendy Leigh

autobiographical, or simply a work of the imagination,” he says, and hands me a bar of Lindt salted caramel chocolate.
    I relax slightly.
    Trust him to know that about me!
    I take a big bite of chocolate.
    “Autobiographical,” I say.
    “I was counting on it,” he says, his voice low and husky.
    “So is the victor satisfied with the spoils?”
    “Dream on,” he says, and I want to shake him.
    “I don’t intend to make this easy for you, Miranda,” he goes on.
    “Just being optimistic,” I say.
    “An admirable trait. Now, tell me about the first time you discovered that you were sexually submissive.”
    “Do I have to tell you?”
    “Of course,” he says in a matter-of-fact voice.
    And suddenly, assertive as I think I am, and self-willed, I capitulate to the sheer dominance of the man, to his breathtaking power.
    “I was sixteen, going on seventeen, and had never been kissed, Robert. But before I tell you the whole story, you need to picture me then: short, plump, with frizzy hair, and far from pretty.”
    “Very hard for me to imagine,” he says, and I am flattered.
    “Anyway, my father was marrying an actress half his age, and I was invited to the wedding. Grandpa and my mother both said I shouldn’t go, but something in me felt that I ought to.
    “So there I was, wearing a pale-blue caftan, my fat face framed by frizzy hair barely held in place by my black velvet headband.”
    “And you had no idea that pretty soon you would be transformed into a beautiful swan?” he says.
    “Thank you, Robert. Anyway, I was feeling fat, ugly, and uncomfortable when all of a sudden, there was my father’s best man, his friend Warren Courtney. I’d heard of him, but we’d never met before. Tall, with long legs, sparkling white teeth, and flashing blue eyes; to an unsophisticated sixteen-year-old like me, he was the Marlboro Man come to life.
    “Oh, and he was wearing a black leather jacket. He was dashing, arrogant, and . . . I guess a little like you,” I add, with a blush.
    “He was how old?” Robert asks, ignoring my comment.
    “Forty, but I didn’t care. And when he offered me a lift to the wedding reception in his red Corvette, I almost fainted.
    “I was so flustered that as I got into the car, I dropped my corsage. He picked it up, handed it to me, and said, ‘Just like a woman.’ Well, no one had ever called me a woman before, and I was lost.”
    “You must have been so adorable,” Robert says.
    “You haven’t heard the rest of the story,” I say darkly.
    He offers me another piece of chocolate, and I go on.
    “His miniature dachshund, Polly, was in the car, obviously cold and hungry. I asked why he hadn’t fed her. And he laughed.
    “ ‘I believe in keeping dogs and women hungry,’ ” he said, and pinched my thigh hard.
    “I should have gotten out of the car then and there, and never seen him again. But I didn’t. He was everything I shouldn’t have had in a man, yet everything I wanted. And that was it,” I say, then wince at the memory.
    Robert leans over and strokes my cheek.
    “Tell me as much or as little as you are comfortable with, Miranda,” he says, and I feel a stab of pleasure at his unexpected gentleness.
    So I go on: “I spent a month with Warren in his penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, where he kept a bullwhip on display above the fireplace. Fortunately, he didn’t use it on me.”
    Robert gives a start, stunned.
    “But then what did he . . . ?” he says finally.
    “Almost everything else. Bondage, discipline, pain, humiliation, you name it, Warren subjected me to all of it.”
    “And how did you feel about it all?” he says.
    Nothing to do but to bite the bullet.
    “I hated the pain. But I loved being made to take it. But more than that, I loved him with my whole being,” I say.
    “And during your month with him, what did you learn, Miranda?”
    “That there is nothing more exciting than seeing an urbane, courteous, civilized gentleman