He thinks I don’t notice. It’s in his eyes and the stillness of his breath, hidden behind ravenous sex so meek that anyone else might fail to notice. After three years of marriage, and another two of dating on top of that, there’s very little I can’t see.

There have been other men, but none so meticulous. Nobody worships my body like he does. At first I thought my then husband-to-be was simply the sensuous type, as in the kind one thought only existed in dollar pulp romance novels sat spine up in a bin by thrift store counter. But time reveals the cracks, and in the end only truth remains.

He touches me with a craftsman’s care, and with the same appreciation. His trail follows between my breasts and up my sides, and into the erogenous corners that often go forgotten. Fucking is the last thing on his mind, no matter how I stir.

My thoughts curl into fog. Arousal makes the air thick in my chest. I fall for him all over again, and almost forget…

With every kiss he whispers to me, ‘I love you,’ over and over, maybe a dozen times. His words are heavy with promise; with duty, devotion, and more. In the moment he is a slave to my desire.

A cold pang shakes me from my arousal long enough to see him attend the inside of my thighs. Is it passion, or is it desperation? There’s no questioning his absolute intent, only his motive.

‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,’ he says, and I believe him. No feat too great, no pain too unbearable, though I would never ask for him to suffer. Still, an invisible weight drags on him, whether he knows or not.

It is usually at this point when things change gears; where he would move between my legs and drive inside me, and work until sweat drips from his brow and onto my bare stomach. His raw strength makes me cum so hard every time, enough to make me spray the sheets. Then he would collapse with me in his arms, and I would be there, waiting for him to return from behind glassy eyes.

This time I stop. I sit up, gently guide his head from the cleft of my thighs, and cup his cheek. It’s been a week since his last shave, and the hairs are beginning to soften.

‘Baby…’

His shoulders stiffen like an animal trapped in a corner. He searches me for hurt, for displeasure, or worst of all, for anger. To fail in his role as lover, to him, is the greatest sin. Perhaps it’s the same for me as well.

‘Harder? Softer?’ A nervous twitch betrays him.

All I needed was to ask, and he would tend to my any wish; the greedier the better. I speak, and he obeys.

How many nights had we laid there with me staring down at him while my husband fixed on the ceiling? He would never deny my touch, but didn’t savor the fingertip tracing shapes through his chest hair.

He can never look me in the eyes; the shame is always too heavy. Instead he seeks out my lips and attempts to reignite our passion. Sex is his way of saying he still wants me, same as he did when we first met, and in the morning the darkness would be gone; until the next time.

I ask in a whisper, ‘what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ His answer is faster than expected.

My touch curls under his chin and guides him into my gaze. He remains balanced on his arms, trembling as I draw him closer. If it were anyone else he would run for the hills. I hush him and make myself soft; hopefully enough to counter the shame tugging at his heels.

‘You promised you would do anything,’ I said. His eyes repel from mine, and I pull him back. There’s a storm inside his chest, and I stare down the eye. I ask him, gently but firmly, never looking away, ‘did you mean it?’

‘Always,’ he says, and it’s the truth.

‘Then tell me. Please.’

My lover’s brow twists in torment. He cannot face me, though he wants to.

‘Nothing you say will ever make me stop loving you,’ I say. ‘Even if you hurt me, I don’t think it’s possible.’

He shakes his head.

‘What is it?’

There are tears now, and the words of his father pressing him to be a man. He leans in to distract me with his lovemaking, but I lift his chin. It is only because I love him that I do not allow him to flee.

Finally words climb the lump in his throat. ‘You’re just… so… beautiful,’ he says. Never have the words been so agonising to hear.

I cup his cheek and whisper, ‘what does that mean?’

My husband trembles like a child, and winces as though awaiting punishment. What pain must haunt him. He steels himself, and hides behind the veneer of his manhood. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘But I want to understand,’ I say. ‘Please.’

He faces me, and I see the same yearning and ache he ignores except during the most vulnerable moments, and even now struggles to hide it. His mouth hangs open as he chokes on the words.

‘I wish… I could be…’

Suddenly it falls into place. The endless desire was so much more than I could have imagined.

I pull him into a passionate kiss and roll him onto his back. Oh, if I could only dissipate the pain with my love, but it would need so much more than that. In my arms I see him for the fragile thing that he is, and how strong he’s had to be.

The spring of tears is flowing now, seemingly endless down his cheeks. ‘Baby, I’m so sorry.’

‘Why are you sorry?’ I whisper, and smirk as I lay on my side and gesture to my naked body. ‘Who wouldn’t want to be this beautiful, hmm?’

For the first time he laughs, even if it is in spite of himself. Never before had he dared to hope.

‘It’s stupid,’ he says. ‘Forget it.’

But he can’t hide her, no matter how he tries. Now that I know she is as bright as day, like some fresh faced princess screaming from the window of a dungeon tower. His mouth is clasped shut, but she is so loud.

‘Don’t run from this,’ I say. ‘Do you want to be beautiful like I am?’

My husband appears trapped in a corner, but answers honestly. ‘Yes.’

‘As in you’d like to be a beautiful woman?’

No words this time, only a nod.

I cup his cheek and pull his face to my breast. He’s like a ragdoll in my arms. ‘Can I ask how long you’ve wanted this?’

‘For as long as I can remember,’ he says.

Together we stare down a well of possibility of what this could mean. Is my husband in actuality my wife waiting to be realized? Or perhaps it’s simpler than that; that he, maybe she, is my lover, in pain, too weary even to beg.

Well, no longer.

I run my fingers down his chest, careful to avoid the hairs, and to the mounds of fatty tissue already there. It takes little imagination to transform them into breasts, or kneed them as such. My lover gasps; it’s the first time she’s ever been touched that way.

‘You know I can see it,’ I say. ‘You already are my beautiful girl. In time I know you’ll see it too.’

There are more tears, this time of relief. How could I do anything but treasure this new vulnerability? Things will change as they are meant to, but not my love for her.