I felt shame.
He held the hotel room door open for me to make my exit and kissed me on my cheek before he said, “Thank you for the sex.” That stung a little. Actually, it stung a lot and as I walked out alone in my dress and heels, I felt judged. It was a new and awkward feeling that I wasn’t quite sure how to process, so I blew it off. The muddied feelings of elation and heaviness remained.
Our communication remained unchanged after our fuckfest, and I wanted to see him again. I knew he was bad for me, but he’d dug his hooks deep into my skin and he knew it. By then I realized he’d never stopped looking for playmates like I had. He’d lied to me. He was a man who wanted it all, and he felt he was entitled.
When I figured out that I’d been played so perfectly, I told him to “fuck off.” I didn’t hear from him for months. Then, out of the blue, months later, he began sending me texts claiming that he often thought about me on my knees in front of him. I didn’t think twice when I fell back into lust with my kryptonite.
Our texts escalated to a familiar pattern of raunchiness and we made plans where I would once again be his dirty little slut. We made arrangements to meet on a Sunday morning at a hotel near the airport before his early afternoon flight for a business trip. He told me in explicit detail how he would make me his again, and I wanted it.
The day before our morning tryst was to take place he sent me a text. “Are you ready for your protein shake?” I was stunned. For the first time ever, someone had succeeded in making me feel like a slut. I thought about our conversations that had taken place during our brief reunion, and it didn’t take me long to come to the conclusion of what our relationship was to him. There was no more flirting, no more curiosity about my wants and needs. I had become a booty call, a slut. I wasn’t even his slut anymore. I was just a slut.
I thought about calling him a morally corrupt ass who was flaunting an inflated ego to hide his small cock, but that would’ve been a lie. The last part anyway. Instead, I chose to rise above it and ignore his texts and avoid his calls. I vowed that no matter how apologetic he was or how his carefully articulated words caressed my clit, he would never get into my pants again. It turned out that Mr. Kryptonite was nothing more than an image of what I thought I wanted. A misguided dominant who used me expressly for his pleasure while not caring a thing about mine. I would have willingly been his perfect slut again and kept him wanting more, but he made one irreparable mistake. He made me feel like one.
Fucker.
[...] to do so. I created a brutally honest profile on a dating site expressing my needs and within days, Mr. Kryptonite was hot on my heels. He claimed to be the Dominant I needed, saying all the right things as he [...]