I go over to the studio. In the middle, near the large window, a hoist-and-pulley device is suspended from the rafter in the ceiling. And from the hoist hangs a contraption of chains and clips and metal bars and black leather straps. It seemed part of the studio at first, but now I see that it isn't. With my eyes, I follow the hoist line, see that the rope is tied off on a metal cleat that is bolted to the wall.

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James comes over and stands behind me. Faintly, I smell the muskiness of his cologne. He doesn't touch me, but I feel his body close to mine, almost brushing against my clothes. "That's a harness," he explains. "For suspension bondage. I don't usually keep it out, but I used it last night. After I whipped her."

I reach out and touch it, the smooth leather, the chain slightly cool. I finger one of the clips.

"That's called a panic snap," he says. "It's a quick-release device, in case something goes wrong." He reaches over my shoulder to show me how it works. With one hand, he slides up part of the clip. Instantly, the hook drops open and, with a thud, the leather harness falls to the floor. "A panic snap can get you out of a dangerous situation," he says.

A panic snap. My amnesia is like that, allowing me to escape a dangerous situation. It's my own quick-release device, so I don't have to face the truth. But the past is still there, and something did go wrong. A panic snap didn't save me from that.

Reaching up, I touch the clip again. The hook, empty of the harness, dangles open. The contraption, the hoist and chains and metal bars, frightens me. "Maybe we could save this for another time," I say.

He closes the drapes on the loft window, then walks over to the trunk and sits down. The trunk looks antique -- dark wood, intricate hand carving on the panels -- and it's very large and sturdy, with metal rings secured on the bottom. He says, "Lesson one, Carly: You don't make the rules, I do."

I don't say anything.

"Do you understand?" he asks. There's a slight edge to his voice, a tightness.

I nod.

"Good," he says. "Now take off your clothes."

I hesitate for a minute.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a wry smile. "You look as if you're being forced to swallow bitter medicine," he says, folding his arms across his chest. "Don't tell me you're not enjoying this -- isn't this what you wanted?"

I don't reply. I kick off my sandals. I take off my vest, then the walking shorts. I start to fold them so they won't wrinkle, but change my mind and let them fall to the floor. I pull the knit top over my head.

"The rest," he orders when I hesitate.

Reaching around my back, I unhook my bra, slip it off, then slide down my panties. I step out of them, I drop them on the pile of clothes. Anxious, I wait for what comes next. I want to cross my arms, but I don't. I just stand there, feeling ill at ease.

He stares at me, taking his time. I shift to my other foot. He looks at my arms. I'm strong for my size, my biceps toned and fairly well defined from my habit of lifting weights. He motions for me to come near. I walk forward.

"Closer," he says. When I get to him, he reaches over to a chest of drawers and turns on another lamp. He continues looking at me closely, inspecting my body as if it were a blueprint to be carefully studied. He doesn't touch me, not once. With each passing minute, my discomfort increases. I feel my scars expanding, snaking across my body, as purple as varicose veins. I realize this is all in my mind. Most of my scars have disappeared, and even the remaining few, from the deeper, more serious wounds, are faint after fifteen years of healing, just thin white lines, delicate, like fine thread.

He tells me to turn around, looks at me from behind, then, when he's finished, has me turn back again. Still, he keeps his hands off me.

He looks at my face next. It's unnerving to have someone stare for so long, taking in every detail, every defect. The doctors took special care with my face, using extra-small stitches and frequent dressings so the scarring would be minimal. The few facial scars that do remain are hidden -- buried in the hairline, behind my ear, under the chin. Even after all these years, I embarrass under scrutiny.

Finally, softly, he says, "There's a vulnerability about you -- around the eyes."

I think, Of course I look vulnerable -- you fractured my eye sockets in several different places.

He examines the rest of my face. I stare off to the side, barely able to endure this. Other than my doctors, no one has looked at me this closely, nor for this length of time.

When he's finished, he leans back slightly. Only now do I look at him. "You have a few scars," he says.

Immediately, I tense, fearing, although I know it's unlikely, that he's guessed who I am. My heart pounds. "I was a tomboy growing up," I say, making my voice sound natural.

He puts his finger on my skin, and I jump, startled by his touch. He traces the scar on my hip.

"Not many men notice them," I say, talking out of nervousness. This is true. I like to keep the lights off while I'm making love. If men notice, they see them the next morning -- but even that is rare. Men, I've found, aren't as perceptive on the morning after.

"I noticed," he says. He traces another scar, the one near my waist, his finger moving slowly, lightly, like the gentle brush of a feather. I hold my breath.

He looks up at me and says, "Are you nervous?"

I nod.

"Good," he says. "You should be." He places both hands on my waist, holding me firmly. He bends his head and -- surprisingly -- licks the scar, his tongue a wet glide, a sliding glissando of moist flesh over flesh, the gesture so sensuous it almost makes me relax, almost makes me give in to the gentle movement of his tongue. And then he bites me.

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