THE TRIBUTE
It is a weekly ritual, a moment where we pause and reaffirm our connection. A reverential reflection, a process of contemplation that draws us back together amidst the noise of the outside world.
Every week he kneels before me, hands outstretched, waiting for me to accept. We have an understood minimum - and a shared belief in it. Rather than an allowance for me, it is allowance for him. An opportunity to share in my joy throughout the week. A chance to contribute to the inherently selfish things I deserve, but might otherwise neglect to prioritise for myself.
Sometimes there is more, in honour of a shared experience, a celebration, or a desire to lift me. Other times a thoughtful gift accompanies - extravagance unwelcome where it is hollow. I want to be seen, understood, known. His gifts reflect his perception of me, an accuracy gained through a level of trust and access few are allowed.
The exchange can also be repentance. A chance for absolution, a confessional experience afront the altar that is me. A motivation to do better in his actions, as well as a purpose to his work - those long hours at the office suddenly meaningful, creating opportunity for us both.
We are bound by the ritual but not confined to it. From afar it is reinforced by choice, as is the strength in our foundation. Flowers to congratulate me on a milestone, a voucher to treat myself when I've had a bad day, a small send to ensure I stop for a coffee and think of him.
If I am neglected, taken for granted, this choice is removed - replaced by more fervent demands. It becomes a humiliating retribution, one we both enjoy using to regain equilibrium. There are times we both crave this side just for the thrill, but it is he who begs for it. Pleads to be degraded and pillaged, to feel the adrenaline and fear like a child on a carnival ride - giddy at the rush and desperate to go again.
At all times I accept his tribute without guilt. Without shame. Without ill intent. I accept his tribute as wholeheartedly as I accept his submission. I know he awaits the same joy I do - a knowledge that this gift will be spent on me. He hopes, but never expects to witness its purpose.
I allow him glimpses and exclusivity, further moments of shared mindfulness. A picture of the coloured polish chosen upon my toes. A bite of the pastry held out gently to his mouth as he tends to the chores. An outfit worn just for him, boots for him to worship.
Or maybe nothing more than the smile on my face.
The tribute is a gift to us both.
