Dear Eric

Dear Eric,

I want you to know that, since I broke up with you back in 1994, I've had a very good life. I married a wonderful man who made me very happy in so many different ways.

Sadly, I lost him to a heart attack a few years ago.

I honestly do not believe that you and I would have made it as a couple. I was the young girl in grad school. I had ambitions. You were 10 years older. A fireman. Set in your ways. Different outlooks on life. It doesn't seem like a big difference now.

The sex with you was undeniably fantastic. You obviously know that it was the best sex I've ever had in my entire life. You never inquired how many sexual partners I had before you, but there were many. So many. Yet you would not have cared even if I had told you, because you were the best. And somehow, you knew it.

You probably also know that you had the largest cock of any man I've ever been with. It was fantastic. I loved every inch of it's enormous length and girth. But it wasn't just the size of your cock that kept me coming back to your apartment every time. No. While that would have been enough, the true reason for why I returned again and again was that you knew how to bring me to the point of orgasm and then deny me my pleasure over and over again. Repeatedly. Until I begged you to have mercy on me. Until I told you I would do anything in return.

I came from a very conservative, religious background. I was attractive, elegant, composed, intelligent, self-confident. You saw through all of that and turned me into your personal slut and sex servant behind closed doors, away from the world to see. You delighted in the degrading, humiliating things you made me do with my mouth and body for your personal pleasure, and you taunted me by asking what my friends and family would think if they really knew the truth about me. The truth about what I would do behind closed doors for your pleasure. Willingly. Eagerly. Repeatedly.

I told you that I was breaking up with you after almost six months of uninhibited, degrading sex because I despised the way you treated me. I hated the way you talked to me. I thought I deserved more. Yet I came back one final time for you, didn't I? I came back and submitted my body for your pleasure the same night I had a date with my future husband, and then I told you I would never return after I left. And I didn't.

It took many years of self reflection, maturity, wisdom, and introspection for me to arrive at a very profound truth, Eric. I didn't hate you for the way you treated me, or the things you made me do for your pleasure, or the way you humiliated me. I realized that I hated myself because I truly, honestly loved it. All of it. Every moment with you. I felt like I could safely remove the mask that society and my family saw me wear every waking moment when I was with you behind closed doors and be myself. Your personal slut. Your plaything. Because deep down I've always been a slut. Secretly. Furtively.

I fantasized about you throughout my 20+ years of marriage to my husband. Often. As much as I loved and adored my late husband, he had nowhere near you sexual prowess, your size, or your dominant assertiveness. That was OK, because he had what I needed in a husband - wit, intelligence, confidence, ambition, adoration. He was my white knight and champion in all things, and I will never stop loving him even though he is gone.

I've seen you on social media. You and your wife look happy. I doubt you ever did or said the things to her that you did to me. Your children are beautiful. It is hard to believe that they are in college. My husband could not have children, but that's OK. We put our energies into our careers and travels and were content. Yet I cannot help but fantasize the "what if" scenario - that it's me beside you in those pictures, that those are our kids, and that I could make you so happy as you seem to be.

It's only that, though - a fantasy. I life that could have been. I'm happy that I have the life I have now. Don't pity me. Not one bit.

I don't know why I'm writing this. Perhaps you'll read it and recognize my descriptions and these events somehow. How you would walk by my patio at the apartments where we met and say, "Hey, college girl." You were so cocky and arrogant. Every time you walked by I fucked you with my eyes while hidden behind my sunglasses.

If by some improbably chance that you do read this, and you do recognize me, I hope you're truly happy in your marriage and your sex life. If you're not, I am yours to do with as you please. Yours to command and degrade once again. Willingly. Eagerly. Just snap your fingers and tell me where to be and when, and I'll be there. Anything goes. No limits. Just like it always was. Not because I care for you, and especially not because I love you. Because you have what I need, and I know too very well how to fulfill all of your deepest, most secretive needs. Don't I?

You made me say something to you numerous times. You made me say it while withholding my orgasms while you fucked me. Do you remember making me say to you that you own my pussy? I honestly believe you always have. I also believe you still do. All you have to do is take possession of it, and me, if even for a short time. It thirsts for you to mark your territory inside it once more.

I know you'll never see this letter. I know I will never get the chance to experience sex with you again. I also know that I'll probably never find another man like you, a man who could give me what I so desperately needed back then and right now.

Sexually yours,

Dawn