9. Amara

Wren's frown deepens.It had eased a little, as they were telling me… what they told me. But now it's back.

"You want to talk now? You don't need more time?"

"I just wanted to calm down. It was a… shock."

That's putting it mildly. Of all the things that I thought were eating up Wren and keeping them closed off from me, I didn't think it had anything to do with our sex life. I thought the absence of love-making was a symptom of our breakdown, not the cause.

Wren puts their fork down and pushes their plate to the side. "What do you want to talk about?"

"About how it will work… how we will work."

Wren's sigh is as heavy as my heart feels. I don't expect them to have the answers, but I would like it if they showed a bit more hope. A bit of faith that we can figure this out.

Even if I don't exactly know how we will.

Yet.I don't know yet.

Wren opens their mouth and I wait patiently, hopefully for the words that will emerge, but Katja's voice is the one I hear next.

"Have you finished? Shall I take your plates?"

"Yes, please," Wren says quickly, eagerly, as if the interruption is the answer to their prayers.

"Still happy to continue wine pairing? It's a little unconventional to go from red wine to white wine but personally, I like to rock the boat every now and then."

My eyes widen.

"Just like Amara," Wren says.

"Sorry?"

"Rock the Boat is the name of my PR firm."

"Really?" Katja's eyes sparkle as they meet mine.

"Yes," I say. "Because that's what we like to do too. You can't create ripples without rocking the boat a bit."

"I couldn't agree more." Katja beams at me, and I find my eyes settling on her lips. Is it me or has she reapplied her lipstick in the last few minutes?

"Great minds think alike, I guess," I say, returning her smile. Katja stands there, holding our plates, looking into my eyes for a moment a little too long. It's too long because it starts to feel awkward. No, not awkward, that's the wrong word because it doesn't feel uncomfortable or uneasy. Rather it starts to turn into something. Something that has a definite intensity to it. An intensity that I would rather not be feeling right now, at least not with Katja. I need to focus on Wren. I need to help them find their faith in us again.

"Let me go and get your sushi," Katja says, breaking our eye contact.

"Actually," I interrupt and she stops mid-turn. "Can you hold off for a while? That was so delicious and filling, and I'd like to let the food settle. Maybe fifteen minutes or so?"

"Aber sicher," Katja says. "This is your evening, after all. Why don't you tell me when you're ready."

"We will." I nod. "Thank you, Katja."

I wait a few seconds, for Katja to be back in the kitchen before I speak.

"Wren," I say and I pause, waiting for their eye contact. When I have it, I give them what I hope is a kind look. "I appreciate you telling me all this. But it's now something we have to face and deal with. We can't just ignore it."

Wren runs a hand through their hair. "I know, I know." They shift in their chair so their elbows come to the table and cradle their head.

"And I have to ask," I say, carefully. "You do still want us to work out, don't you? You still want us to try and find a way to work around this, right?"

Wren lifts their head enough to meet my eyes. In this slightly panicked state, they look so vulnerable and fragile that I want nothing more than to scoop them up in my arms and kiss away their frown. But I don't. I still need an answer to my question.

"Yes," Wren says, their voice a little gravelly. "Of course, yes."

"Then I need to see that. I need to see that you have faith in us, in me."

"Ama," Wren's forearms hit the table, "I have nothing but faith in you. It's me… I'm the one I don't have absolute faith in. I'm the one who is causing these problems. I'm the one who is changing." They sigh. "I mean, I've already put you through so much. Coming out as non-binary. Changing my name and pronouns. Changing the dynamic of our relationship."

"Stop!" I say, louder than I expect and Wren shifts back a little. "Never talk like that. Never say those things. You didn't put me through anything. Nothing you've done has been a burden on me, especially when all you were doing was being your true self."

"Ama," Wren tries to interrupt.

"No, Wren. I have to say this. I won't hear of it. I won't have you even thinking that you being who you are has been or ever will be a problem to me."

My eyes fill with tears – an infuriating side-effect of a sharp peak in anger like this – but I blink them back as Wren looks at me. Their face slackens and a softness returns to both their eyes and mouth. Slowly, they slide their hand across the table and take mine. I exhale deeply at the warmth their fingers bring and I treasure the possibility that we're maybe over the worst of it, that we'll now work together to find a resolution. I look at Wren's face expectantly and they're also studying me, a small apologetic smile on their lips.

"But this is a problem, isn't it?" they say, and whatever pieces of my heart had joined together tear apart once again.

I look away and suck in a long breath. It doesn't come easy, but somehow an idea does present itself to me, vividly. It lands in my head like a fully-formed thing, a flower in full bloom, bright and colourful and sweetly fragranced.

"Tell me, Wren," I say, twisting in my chair so I face them head-on. "Tell me what you really want, from sex and intimacy."

"I did," Wren says. "I think I want to be more submissive."

I nod. "I hear you but give me specifics. And forget how it's been between us in the past. Pretend I'm not me, that you're telling someone else." I pause as Wren's eyes dart to the side behind my head, towards the kitchen. I ignore it and press on. "Just talk to me about what you would like to experience physically, sexually, so I can understand exactly what you mean. So I can understand better."

"You really want to know?"

"I'm desperate to know," I say. I'm desperate to try and figure this out. I'm desperate not to lose them.

Wren gives the space behind me another look, but then they're talking and I'm listening. Listening and listening and hoping and hoping.

"I want to feel what you feel." Wren looks at me hesitantly. "I want to feel what it's like when someone else is in control."

"And what does that look like. Start at the beginning. How would you want to be kissed?"

Colour tints Wren's cheeks and I fight the urge to kiss the now pink tips of their ears.

"I think it would start even before that," they say.

"Okay. How would it start?" I take a sip of wine.

"With a look." Wren smiles to themself. "With being looked at like they can see into my soul, and they know what I want, what I need."

"And then what?"

"Then they would tell me to stop whatever I'm doing, whether it's training in the gym or working in my office. And they would tell me they need me. Now."

This is no surprise to me. Wren has always loved me telling them how much I need them, and I have gladly done so, but even I can see how the context in what Wren's describing is very, very different.

"Go on," I say, my throat dry.

"They'd tell me to step away from my weights or from my computer, and they'd tell me to get down on my knees." My reaction to this is physical. I feel the same relief I feel when I too am forced to my knees. The surrender that comes from submitting to nothing but that moment. And the anticipation that starts to burn inside as you wait and fixate on what's going to happen next, decisions that are, for once, blissfully not mine to make.

"So I'd sink to my knees and I'd bow my head to them," Wren continues. "And I'd wait. I'd wait for whatever is going to happen, be it pleasure or pain."

"Pain?" I can't stop myself from asking.

"Maybe we should get to that later." Wren gives me a half-smile and it's the closest thing to one of their smirks that I feel my insides melt. They haven't looked at me like that in such an achingly long time. I focus on the joy of seeing it again and not on the bitterness I feel when I realise I normally used to see those mischievous grins when they're dominating me.

"They'd leave me there like that for a long time. Long enough for my knees to hurt and for me to become convinced that they've disappeared for good. That nothing is ever going to happen. It would feel a little cruel, a little taunting." Wren wriggles in their chair and I wonder if they're aware of a growing warmth between their legs like I am. "But then they would reappear. But they wouldn't speak. And they wouldn't stand in front of me. They'd approach me from behind and they'd wrap a hand around my neck to tip my chin up. They'd squeeze my neck so hard breathing would become difficult, but still I wouldn't be allowed to move."

I long to bring my hand to my neck, to replicate the pressure that Wren is describing, but I stay still, very still.

"Then they'd tell me my safe word and would need me to confirm I understand. After doing so, they'd let go of my neck and place a foot on my back and force me down to my hands and knees."

My inhale is so sharp it makes a rough noise.

"Then they'd tell me to crawl, to a bench if we were in the gym, or maybe to the couch if we were near that, or if we were close to the bedroom, to the bed. And I'd do it. I'd do it without hesitating."

"And when you got there?"

"They'd tell me to sit down and keep my head down. They'd tell me to keep my eyes downcast. They'd tell me to wait again. And while I wait, I imagine them getting things ready. Floggers, whips, riding crops. Toys, lube, a harness." My thighs tense with every word. "It would kill me not to look at what they're doing, but I wouldn't. I'd obey."

"Because obeying feels so good. The reward is always so worth it," I say and I feel like I'm intruding on Wren's story, but then they give me an understanding, almost conspiratorial look and things between us shift again. We're meeting each other in the middle of a feeling we've never shared before, at least not on the same page. Before we were always on different sides of the kink equation, but now we're on the same side, craving the same experience and sensations. I still have no idea how we'll ever get to share them, but I find some comfort in this mutual anticipation we both feel.

"Exactly," Wren says. "When they're finally ready, they'll tell me to stand up and take off my clothes, which I'll do, still not looking at them. They'll tell me to fold my clothes up because it's not nice to make a mess."

"It's not," I agree. A loud clattering comes from the kitchen and I turn my head briefly to see Katja washing up some pots. It surprises me to see her going about such a mundane activity when Wren's words are making my limbs feel liquid with desire. I wonder if she can hear us. Does she know what we're talking about? What would she think if she did know? "What would they do next?"

Wren sighs and pauses and they have a recognisable soft frown creasing their forehead. It's the same concentrated look they have when they're lost in coding something important or halfway through a set that is giving them a delicious burn in their muscles.

"They'd sit on the bed and take off their shoes. They'd tell me to move their shoes to the side, somewhere tidy and out of the way. And that on my way back I should crawl again."

"Yes," I hiss.

"Which I'd do." Wren doesn't stop for my interruption. "And then when I'm on all fours, my head hanging low and looking at their feet, their toenails painted bright red, they'd lift a foot and pull down on my bottom lip with their big toe."

"Fuck," I gasp and I don't know when I started rubbing my thighs together but I'm not about to stop.

"Then, and only then would they give me permission."

"Permission?" I practically pant.

"To kneel up and kiss them."

"Yes."

"But it wouldn't be a gentle kiss. It would be a bruising attack of their lips on mine. It would be a battle of tongues and teeth. It would make my lips swell and leave my body shivering."

"Oh, God, Wren." My hands slide across the table towards them, but they stop just before making contact. I'm suddenly aware of how turned on I am and yet, I have no outlet for it. They were talking about what they want to happen to them, not what they're going to do to me. The confusion and frustration of this makes my head spin.

But still, I want to kiss my spouse.

"Wren," I say again. "Can I kiss you? Please. I want to kiss you so much."

There are no words, but still I get my answer, because Wren jumps up and stretches across the corner of the table and finds my mouth. Their lips press onto mine so firmly, my head moves back and I have to match their pressure in order to get my balance back. One of Wren's hands slides up to cup the side of my face and I do the same with mine, cradling Wren's face in my hands. I beg entrance to Wren's mouth with my tongue and they oblige without hesitation. A guttural moan travels up their throat and into my open mouth as our tongues slide over one another.

And I'm lost to this moment. Gone are my worries from before when I didn't know what was going on with Wren and gone are my worries from when I did know what was bothering them. Gone is everything but Wren's mouth on mine, their hand on my face, and their nose brushing against mine as we change positions and attack each other from a different angle.

I start to think that we can do this. I start to believe that we'll figure it out. I start to know that this is not the end of us.

I pull away suddenly to tell Wren this, to reassure them that it will all work out, that I just feel it will in my bones, but suddenly my head hits a hard, blunt edge and while my mouth opens no words come out. Instead, a loud chiming clattering fills my ears followed by a very German string of curses.

"Verdammte Schei?e! So ein Dreck! Das darf doch wohl nicht wahr sein!"

Turning my head away from Wren, I see a cracked plate on the floor surrounded by countless squashed and dishevelled slices of sushi roll.