He sent a messenger with flowers, a box from Neiman Marcus and a note. I tipped the messenger $10 before closing the door and removing my clothes.

That had been Rule No.3 or something: all gifts are to be opened in the nude as are all written exchanges and scheduled phone calls. Flowers are to be placed in the vase he had given me on our third date in the nude and the door is to be answered in the nude.

Well, for him anyway.

I sat on the couch laying the flowers on the table and the box across my lap. There was a ritual to this as well; I had to start with the note first because it surely contained the instructions for the accompanying package.

Despite the abundance of Langston's parcels, they never felt like "gifts". They weren't wrapped, the only one with a ribbon was from Hermes and they put one on whether you want it or not.

The things were luxurious, plush and expensive: a three-piece pinstripe suit from Emporio Armani, Prada handbags and shoes from Italy. (no, really. From Italy. He had a friend who played basketball in Florence and would send him whatever he wanted.) A pair of diamond studs (2 cts. t.w.), having my car detailed every two weeks, dinners and crocodile boots, a day in San Francisco at 77 Maiden Lane Salon & Spa and a trip to NY to see The Lion King. Perfumes and dresses and silk stockings and lingerie, lingerie, lingerie.

I appreciated the stuff because they were things I wouldn't have ever spent money on. I definitely felt indulged but let's be real. $900 for a bra?

I think not.

Langston, on the other hand, did not see things that way at all so I had no idea what to expect whenever I got a new delivery. (Oh, yeah, he loves messengers and delivery services. He needs to train a monkey to run stuff from one side of L.A. to the other so he can save money.)

The package on my lap was kind of heavy so I guess it might be a dress. I opened the envelope and pulled out the evening's directives.

He likes to be dramatic about it, using ivory vellum cards and a fountain pen, as if writing invitations to a wedding instead of commands for me. I was glad to read the enclosed message, his only requirements were for me to put on whatever was in the box and be ready to leave in an hour.

I already knew I was required to take a bath first. Showers were not permitted. I also knew that whatever was in the box was all I was to wear, period.

If it enclosed a coat, then that was all I could wear. A hat and thigh-high boots? That was it then. He had never forced me to leave the apartment naked but he had directed me to Pink's in a short crimson Chanel faux fur with nothing but baby oil underneath.

It was thrilling, sexy in the most intense way imaginable for me.

I would get in his car with my skin tingling, my heart beating fast, stomach fluttering like we were meeting for the first time each time.

I would hold my head down and steal peeks at him from the corner of my eye, his profile sharp, stern and in my imagination, he was the epitome of masculinity and strength.

This Nubian king ruled me with an iron hand in the the proverbial velvet glove and I did not resist.

If he wanted me to keep my head down in the car until he gave permission otherwise, fine.

If he wanted me to meet at Starbucks at 6am in a halter-top and hip-huggers, so be it.

I no longer felt the insecurities about my body that had plagued me throughout my life. I was free to be sexy with him and I let him define what appealed to his senses without dissent or defiance.

Of course, at first, I was a little hesitant, but only internally.

I complied with his wishes, indulged his desire to see me in things I would never have even considered before because he rewarded me with approving smiles and incredible passion. He constantly wanted me and I really really loved being wanted.

Let's be real - we all want love.

With Langston it wasn't about hearing "I love you" or expecting him to actually listen to me. It was about the attention.

He had to devote a significant amount of time to manipulating my every waking moment - and some of my sleeping ones as well - so I felt important. 

I felt important putting the card back into its envelope and shimmied the top off of the box. Inside I could see the folds of soft yellow tissue paper concealing a treasure underneath.

My heart started to beat a little faster as I began to fantasize what might be hidden beneath. I could have torn into it but I didn't.

I sat there, my naked black bottom sticking to the couch's black leather, my mind rummaging through a daydream of Bloomingdale's and the last time Langston tied me to the bed.

I must have sat there for about five minutes before finally unfolding the tissue paper.

Lying on top of something made of chocolate brown suede was a silver choker, a series of rows made up of silver bars and balls. I unconsciously checked for a 9.25 stamp. I can't help it: I'm still my mother's child. It proved to be sterling and I gave a little squeak because it was so beautiful.

I laid it in the coffee table and pulled the dress from the box.

It was a buttery tank mini-dress, cut low in the front and the back. I stood up, holding it in front of me. It barely reached my mid-thigh.

I looked in the box for panties but found none.

There weren't any stockings either but there was another note.

"Your shoes will be waiting outside your door as well I. Until..."

See?

That's exactly the kind of shit that blows my mind.