6/3/2015 10:23:21 PM: My most enduring fantasy is, perhaps, my most innocent. It lacks the trappings and design of conventional BDSM scenarios; it lacks sadistic and Machiavellian motivations. I imagine how very tame it must seem when held against the depths human depravity can sink to, and I feel ashamed by how simple, how /pedestrian/ my desires can be. And how wildly out of reach satisfaction seems. The scene is set thusly: a kitchen, clean, that smells faintly of lemon and bleach. A dutiful spouse, arms sunk elbow-deep into warm, soapy water - or with hands busy chopping vegetables, making dinner. He's been waiting for me to get home from work all day, anxious to see me. He's wearing his favorite dress, and over it, he's tied his most well-loved apron. He doesn't want to look sloppy when I arrive; he wants me to see how beautiful he is, and how well he is put together. He wants me to be proud of him, for being such a good wife. When I arrive, he is distracted - by his music, or the tv, or the veracity of his own endless thoughts. He doesn't notice me, and so I am able to look at him freely, without any insistence on his part that I spend my time finding something more worthwhile to admire. And without the knowledge of being seen, he is carefree, and he is pretty. I can't resist moving towards him, pressing him into the kitchen counter with my body and caging him in with my arms. He flushes bright pink. Embarrassed at being caught off-guard - but pleased that I am with him, and by the casual possessiveness with which I treat him. He is not an object - but I make him feel owned nonetheless. I make him feel safe. He asks me how my day was; tells me about the chores he's done, the dinner he's made. I smile into his neck, pretending to listen, while I grind my hips against him, and slip my hands beneath his dress. He blushes brighter when I palm his ass - ever the innocent, always surprised at being despoiled. He laughs a little when I wrap my arms around him, when I coax him to turn towards me so that I can lift him by the waist and sit him on the counter. But this position makes it easier to touch, to remind him that he is mine. As I said, it is simple. Simple and odd - a blend of eroticized domesticity and role reversal; very little kink, even less sex. But I crave simplicity sometimes. Gendered pageantry - playing house all 'wrong' - stripping masculinity from a male partner and admiring his performance of femininity - this is what I think about at night, to ease myself into dreaming. It's my dirty little secret.