My new girlfriend was out of this world. Her routine, equal parts pampering and exercise, only flattered her more with each passing year. She was a capable woman, showing prowess through her grades and her medals from the college swim team. These days, she trusted her firm yet effeminate body for backpacking treks. I let her lead on these adventures, watching her ass and confidence grow with each passing step.

Often, at the top of whatever peak she chose, her insecurity would peek through. Without fail, she would catch her breath, fluff her ponytail, pose just-so, and snap a selfie. I quietly noted how the backdrop and her bralette always matched in color. I never objected, or gave her a hard time. I felt honored to be the handsome man in her instagram stories, each of which gathered hundreds of likes, with a few scoring in the thousands. Quietly, I sometimes hoped our selfies together might have more sex appeal - personally I'd love a mirror shot with me behind her and cupping her breasts, even if it was just between us - but that sort of thing was better left to a more established relationship.

Her career dreams were simple: have an interesting life, make money, and don't work for assholes. It never seemed like she could check off more than two of those three qualities at any given job, but she never stopped trying. It was a quality I really admired.

Like anyone, she felt discouraged from time to time. Like most people, she didn't always care to show it. Our newfound relationship was hottest early in the morning, when pillowtalk and words of affirmation chased off the morning-anxiety, which was something we shared only with each other.

On the rare day we didn't pass the morning in sweet physical ecstacy, I liked to take her out to her favorite coffee stand, a few blocks from downtown. It was by design a drive thru stand, but neatly trimmed hedges on a nearby lot formed a cozy spot. In this quiet green getaway, we would sip mochas and munch on scones or bagel sandwiches.

The stand had a small shelf by the cash register. Being in a hip college town, sometimes the shelf included books of a more taboo nature, and last weekend she'd silently picked up a guide to BDSM. To my complete surprise, she buried her nose in it and approached me four hours later with several ideas - all games wherein she could be submissive. This weekend, we were reconvening.

Only when she sat down - and a glance over her shoulder confirmed we were alone in our coffee nook - did she unzip her jacket to show compliance with my latest command. The pushup bra she wore directly under her jacket had been my choice. Her thong was my selection also, and she sat with the waistband barely visible above her leggings. This was all according to plan, and she smiled knowing she'd be seen as obedient.

Despite my inner thrill at having such a forbidden pleasure - the servitude of this intelligent and independent woman - I feigned a more level-headed reaction, raising my eyebrows and nodding in approval. This was done without putting down my cup.

In the preceding week, we'd tried a handful of different games. There were two nights of tying - one where she was immobilized and one where she was simply dressed in a rope corset and led on a none-too-tight leash. There was also a night of domestic servitude, which was truly the last thing I expected from her. A hot meal was followed by a foot rub, then a lapdance, then a blowjob.

There was roleplay night, when she pretended to be a top-shelf escort (no streetwalker or common whore vibe was tolerated) who was dedicated to my pleasure in exchange for thousands of dollars. Thankfully the prop necklace I had to buy was only $75. She wore that necklace this morning as well.

Today's game was less a set of rules and more of a mindset. Real or fake, she was simply instructed to be the sweetest, most selfless girlfriend ever, to an almost comical degree. It would be unrealistic to sustain this longer than we were, but it was a fun morning so far. Her selflessness extended to a complete lack of self-will, for the short duration of time she specified beforehand. That's how we'd arrived at my choosing her undergarments - and everything else - until lunchtime.

Despite her normal tendency toward a messy bun, her hair was brushed this morning and fell free. She was fresh faced, save for a touch of lipgloss and eyelashes lifted by mascara. I didn't ask more than that on a Saturday morning.

I smiled sweetly, took a deep breath, and let my coffee cup rest on the coaster she'd given me without being asked. I learned inward and spoke softly.

"Well, sweetheart," I began. "What did you like?"