Jealousy as fuel: massages, other men's eyes, and his cage

Nobody warns you that the most reliable fuel in a female-led marriage is jealousy — his, deliberately dosed. I come home from a massage on Thursdays warm and a little flushed, and my husband kneels in his cage and listens while I tell him exactly where the hands went. He hates it. He asks for it every week.

This is not a hotwife blog in the usual sense: there is no other man in my bed, and there might never be. There is attention — mine, to being wanted — and his compersion, which he had to learn: the ability to be glad about a pleasure that isn't about him. Below is how that grew, where the line is, and what I tell him first, always.