I share my heart with two men. One, of course, is Ahmed. He will forever own my heart. There are really, really good reasons for this, and one of them brings me to my other love.
Michael. Ah, Michael. Though my darling Ahmed reigns over my soul and the deepest passions of my spirit, you will always command one small corner of my heart and a considerable segment of my lustful longings.
Your supple leather sings to me, Michael. I long to feel the smooth, firm straps against my arms... wrists... shoulders. I can't deny it. Your black straps can leave their rosy marks upon my flesh any time you want them to.
You know it, don't you?
Don't be smug, Michael. Don't. You'll ruin what we have, and what we have is beautiful.
And why will you never truly own me? It's not because you are a gay man who has no interest in a fat woman you've never met.
No, it's because that cagey, magnificent bastard I long ago gave my heart to knows me far too well. And while you can smile smugly in the knowledge that I crave your leather, Michael, do so knowing that only Ahmed can wield mastery over me. Only he is wise and powerful enough to realize an anniversary delayed by poor health and distance could only be salvaged by your Black Leather Ashbury Work Tote and it's seductive brass hardware.
And so, weak strumpet that I am, I will be subject to two men. But only one is my soul mate. And if I wear the imprint of your leather upon my skin, Michael, the straps were wielded by a master.