It was during my decade of marriage that I met the Lost Soul. When I met him, I too was lost. Maybe that’s what drew us to each other. I’ll never forget the first time he kissed me. I was still married at the time. We’d been out for dinner together, as we had developed a firm friendship over two years or more, and dinner included lots of wine and brandy. He suggested a drink back at his. I agreed. We left giggling and linking arms on the way home. We sat on his sofa and he played music I loved. It felt like he was inside my mind. I stood in the doorway of his kitchen as he poured me a drink. He walked over to me purposefully and ran his hands down the sides of my body. Skimming the parts I was desperate for him to touch. My breasts. My arse. My cunt. We sat on his sofa and I snuggled into him. He turned my head so my lips met his and kissed me deeply and passionately. I pushed away and he pulled me back. The feel of his tongue in my mouth. Thrusting. Dominating. Owning. I wanted his tongue everywhere. I wanted him everywhere.
I was married still so I pushed him away firmly and made him call a taxi. He sat on the opposite sofa while we waited and all I could think of was grinding myself on top of him. I could see his hard cock. My knickers were damp. All from a kiss. Just from a kiss. “It felt like something happened” I text him the next day, “and yet when I try to explain it, it seems like nothing”. His reply “it was nothing”. Nothing it may have been, but it began something ….
In me it rekindled a fire I had long left to go cold. A fire of passion, desire, dominance, surrender. Over the next 2 years, as the Kind Husband and I separated, the Lost Soul and I spent our time alternating between fucking and fighting. Our relationship was like the Battle of Agincourt. We lived moments of the noblest kindness to moments of the basest cruelty. Being fucked by him brought me such peace. Peace I craved and could not find anywhere else at that time. But I didn’t always get it. I remember once lying naked and spread eagled face down on a hotel room floor as he watched me fully clothed drinking and smoking. My body full of desire. Tilting my hips to offer my cunt and arse to him to use as he pleased. He thrust his fingers inside me. His tongue. His shoe. But not what I really wanted. I remember him as he leant down to me and whispered in my ear “I’m not going to fuck you even with you looking like that for me”.
He would often leave me feeling rejected. I remember him inviting me to his apartment, kissing me, forcing my surrender with his tongue, and then just calling me a taxi. I stormed out full of rage at his coldness and we ended up in a fight in the middle of the street. But he did some wonderful things to me and I kept coming back for more. He was the first man to fist me. To control me with little punishments like pulling out my pubic hairs or spanking me hard over his knee. He would make me strip for him in person or over our Skype calls. I would very often be naked with him fully clothed. He foot fucked me in a restaurant. He licked my cunt out in his office. He would make me come again and again and again.
But he seemed to hate how I made him feel. Hate the bruises on my body the next day that I wanted to wear with pride. Hate the way his body would want my body so badly. The hold I had as a result. He came only once inside me. In fact he very rarely fucked my cunt at all. He fucked my arse a lot. He would even leave the room to come or kick me out and say he was going to do it with me gone. He seemed to hate giving me the satisfaction of seeing him climax. He rejected me too often and the links of the chain necessary to keep a BDSM relationship flourishing began to break. We stopped talking all the time on Skype. We stopped arranging to meet for drinks which always led to fucking. Sorry not we, I stopped and it left him bewildered.
They say you don’t know what you have until it is gone. I still see the Lost Soul every month or so as we move in similar work circles. He’ll always try and find an excuse to get me on my own. He’ll ask to see my underwear. He’ll get his hard cock out and show me I still have that hold over him. And other people notice that hold I have (without having to witness his hard cock on display!) Mutual acquaintances joke that he’s in love with me. I laugh along and never let on what we had. Or the fact I know he’s not in love with me but he is in love with how I make him feel. A feeling he hates to want but want he does. A dominant wants a submissive at his feet. A submissive offering her cunt to him to fist, flog, and fuck. He wants his submissive to replenish and regenerate him. He wants her complete surrender. But once he gets it, he has to take it. This man had me at his feet and he didn’t take me. And now, as he wanders lost through life, he wishes I were at his feet once more ….