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Surprised, I considered the notification, checked the address, read through the again, clicked send. It bounced. The was no longer functional. I leaned back in my chair, unsure how to feel. ML and I had been together for five years, meeting through an online dating site inwhen I was It was not for lack of affection when things ended between us inand we continued to write to each other, periodically.

Inhowever, I suffered a nervous breakdown, and we fell out of touch. Then, earlier this year, I began to dream about her. Again and again and again. Sometimes, the dreams were sexual, but often she was simply there : drinking a cup of coffee, standing on the street corner, opening a door. In the most intense and oft-recurring dream, I stood before my bedroom mirror, only to feel the heat and weight of a body suddenly behind me. Eventually, I wrote her, hoping it would satiate whatever subterranean, unfinished impulse was causing her to surface, unbidden, night after night, from the backwaters of my subconscious.

I do not have — and have never had — her cellphone. I never met any of her friends or family.

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I knew what she did, but not where she worked. The rules of our relationship were simple. ML commanded. I obeyed. As long I obeyed, I would be loved. You have to understand this power dynamic in order to understand why I allowed her to have so much control over myself and our relationship.

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All of our interactions were done via chat, including video, the mediums of her choosing, and we spent hours on it together each day. While our relationship was intensely sexual, much of what we did was just … talk. We discussed our mutual interests in literature, philosophy, cooking, the outdoors. We played chess and backgammon, exchanged books, details of our childhoods. Built intimacy. Like any other couple. Punishment was carrot-and-stick. The stick could be physical — you would be surprised what you are willing to do to yourself, if you believe the price of not doing it is to stop being loved.

More often, though, it was emotional, a complex, psycho-sexual combination of berating, gaslighting and withdrawal of affection, the return of which — always conditional — alled the end of retribution.

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If this sounds like abusive behaviour, it absolutely was; abusive behaviour I agreed to. Everything was fully consensual, as ML would often remind me. ML had a very elaborate, highly detailed description of this fantasy always at hand: what it would be like in our shared home, how pleasant it would be to serve her, days spent indulging in an array of sexual delights, tenderness and intimacy.

A kind of life filled with a kind of love which regular people were too undisciplined and unenlightened to ever dream of attaining, made available to me when — and only when — I was worthy.

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I knew this was a lie, intended to manipulate me. Our relationship felt like a delicious secret, one that made me — a plain, rather unattractive young person, not at all confident in my body, my sexuality or even my gender — feel sexy, complex, even beautiful, things I had never felt about myself before. She wanted to keep me completely emotionally dependent on her, and to control me in ways that were deeper than the physical. And yet, ML never asked me for money, never used me to undertake tasks for her, never photographed or recorded me; never, in short, abused her power over me in a way that would make such elaborate grooming, for lack of a better word, worthwhile.

She often went out of her way, in fact, to help me, was a patient mentor who taught me some of the social, financial and emotional skills which hood of neglect had left me without. She read my work eagerly, encouraging me not only to write but to be a writer.

She believed in me.

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What was she getting out of this, if she never intended to be with me, or to use me in some other way? There were many reasons I left ML, but the catalyst was a small thing: her name. Shortly before my birthday inML did not come online. I assumed it was a test of obedience. When she remained absent for several days, I grew anxious — my gut told me something bad had happened.

I was right.

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A major health crisis had put her in intensive care. I began calling the hospitals in our city, asking if ML was there. At each facility, I was told no patient had been admitted by that name.

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That was true. It would turn out ML had never given me her real name. After three weeks of uncertainty and limbo, ML reappeared. Her health crisis was genuine, and terrifying, and she had a long and complicated recovery. It was several months before I could get her to confirm that yesin fact, the name she had given me — the name I had been calling her for almost three years — was a pseudonym. She used it in the kink community, she said.

That should be good enough for me. She was behaving in accordance with the rules I had agreed to. In many ways, the only person who was dishonest to me was me. Something in me drastically shifted as ML began to recover, however; I pushed harder for details, asked for more tangibles.

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ML either skirted my questions or flatly refused to answer them. I began to pull away, emotionally, as it became harder and harder to believe the lie I told myself; that if I was patient, I would eventually be happy in this relationship. I would always be left standing outside the door of her, my ear pressed against it, waiting with bated breath for a command to enter that would never come.

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I will never know why ML kept things the way she did between us. Maybe she was married, and I was a diversion that got out of hand. Maybe she was not who she claimed to be. Maybe it was something I will never imagine. The M in ML stands for Mistress. L took her coffee black, read historical fiction and had an absolutely terrible tattoo on her lower back. She volunteered with children and had a soft spot for golden retrievers. L was brilliant and kind and bold and, if you caught her at just the right moment, fiercely vulnerable. It was her I was waiting to be let into. After I wrote thethe dreams stopped.

I think, now, it must have been L I was dreaming of. Not ML. Just L. Smiling, her face floating in the mirror, out of reach, her voice tender in my ear. I dated my girlfriend for five years — but I never met her. Lori Fox. Thu 23 Jul My pandemic epiphany: the best part of having eight partners is being alone. Topics Sex features. Reuse this content.

My gf pink sex chat

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