This isn’t the sort of thing that you come here for, but I’m going to tell it anyway. This is at the behest of Jasmine herself, and while I’m not one of those folks that follow her commands, I thought it over, and decided to do it. That she suggested it, and I agreed to it and then did it says a lot about the two of us, I think. More than we originally considered at the time she asked that I write this.

Jasmine and I dated. We were a couple. We were for real, flesh and blood boyfriend-girlfriend. We were going steady. We were seeing each other. Whatever you want to call it, just know that it was for real. And then I broke her heart.

We met online, of all things. I know that’s almost passé these days, and I even have a couple of friends who got married after meeting online, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but back then, a handful of years ago, it was still a little bit of a novelty. We e-mailed, teased, flirted and eventually met. We got along famously, despite being very different. Most of the pictures I had of her were leaning towards Goth, something her photosets don’t really show. She liked the Goth scene and still does; I was more conventional, my tastes ranging the spectrum. That’s pigeonholing us actually, she was as well rounded as I was, and I was into some surprising things, or so some people said once they got to know me past my appearance.

We got to know each other intimately. All the advice about not going too fast was kind of lost on us, but it was a comfortable pace for each of us, with no regrets. We were pretty narrowly focused on each other, and rarely spent time out of contact.

We were both givers, constantly wanting to do for the other person, when most relationships seem to be a giver and a taker, with both people generally satisfied about having their own mental needs met—the giver needs someone to dote on, and the taker needs the attention. We doted on each other, but never nauseatingly so; public displays of affection were honest and never vulgar. And we had the same opinions on the tough ones like religion, children and sex.

That’s the stuff you come here for, isn’t it? Well, ok. Sex. The sex was amazing. No, amazing isn’t the word. I don’t think there is a word for it. We were two people for whom sex was a priority, and in finding that in the other person, wallowed in it. We had sex daily. Sometimes more than daily. If it wasn’t for the real world creeping in and the limits of the male physiology, we would’ve had each other three times a day, like meals. And with Jasmine being in the sex industry with her phone work, often masturbating along with her callers, she was well laid. I was very tired.

We fed off of each other’s energy to stay in a constant state of low desire. We had sex at the drop of a hat. Any hat. We masturbated and left recordings of our climaxes for each other to find on voice mail. We only dressed in each other’s company when going out in public, preferring sleep wear or less when we bummed around, the easier to get at each other. We damn near made a religion out of the other person’s body.

That’s the kind of stuff you come here for, right? Well, there’s more. And it’s important.

Jasmine brought me into the world of BDSM.

It had only been reading material for me until meeting her, and a mild curiosity. My main fantasies always ran towards groups and multiple partners—which after discussion, we found we were both somewhat in agreement on the subject, but never indulged, too busy fucking each other to fuck someone else (well, there was the photographer who snapped some quick topless pictures of Jasmine on top of a sporty number at a car show. In trying to get the pictures, or maybe get some more taken, Jazzy let him take her from behind in a bathroom, with my encouragement. If she hadn’t said, “I’ve had better,” we might have actually got the pictures. But I digress…) I hadn’t thought about whether I was submissive or dominant (and you hardcore folks forgive my lack of capitalization, I’m lazy), but I knew submissiveness didn’t seem right on me, and as a lot of us have learned, Jasmine is at home being submissive.

We had rough sex that grew into a power exchange where she became more submissive and I became more dominant. It was something she liked, and I enjoyed doing something for her that gave her the headspace she needed to be a healthy, functioning member of society. She worshipped my cock, sleeping with her head on my thigh to nibble, suck and lick as the mood struck her. I found I could fuck her face at any time during the day or night. Her ass was my home. She was always pliant, supple and willing. A day wouldn’t pass without her mouth on my balls. She would form her body into a table on all fours for me to pay bills or eat in front of the television, remaining still but not locked into place, her breathing almost trancelike to get through the time that I needed her there. She played with my ass on my command, went around on all fours, and eventually told me about her most intimate fantasy: puppygirl.

Twice, with conviction on both our parts, we played this out with Jasmine being my faithful puppy, serving her master, incapable of speech, eating from a bowl. I think the hottest it ever got sexually, was when I pulled out of her and told her to get back on all fours and masturbate, bringing herself closer to climax while I stroked and watched her. I made her put off her own orgasm as mine got nearer, and I shot my load into her doggy dish. I then put my hand on the back of her head and with agonizing slowness, my own needs satiated for the moment, pushed her face into the bowl, commanding her that she could not cum until she felt her lips touch the warm fluid inside. She moaned, and whimpered as she got lower, desperately trying not to disappoint me by climaxing, fighting her body so that she could meet my command. Then, with the dish blocked by her hair, I knew she had made contact because the resulting orgasm shook the very earth. And as she lapped up her dinner, gasping in pleasure and gulping her food, the act was tied to the exquisite release of a denied orgasm, and the satisfaction of having pleased me.

I owned her. She was my property, and as proud of that fact as I was of her. Once, while laying down on her back in front of me, I ejaculated on her neck, and watched the semen drip around both sides, not quite meeting itself in a full circle. I snapped a real collar around her neck, outside of the cumcollar, which we knew after being absorbed in her skin would never go away. She loved it, thrived and reveled in it.

Now, here’s where it gets tough, as facts lose their place to emotion in my memory. You’ll have to forgive any inaccuracies, but I’m very clear on what I was feeling. As Jazzy and I crept closer to a 24/7 power exchange relationship, I felt myself disassociating from it. The responsibility of dominating Jasmine got heavier; I didn’t have to make twice the decisions, hers in addition to mine, but the reliance on me to be the strong dominant male was intimidating. The intimidation itself caused a loop of growing inadequacy. Along with that, I felt like I couldn’t give her the physical pain that she needed, as well as the true sub-space that she longed for in our encounters. Now being biased towards multiple partners, I kept in my back pocket the idea of loaning her out to someone more experienced than I was, someone who could give her what she needed, physically and mentally, knowing that her love for me would stay constant. I never got around to that.

One of the wonderful things about Jasmine is her boundless energy and love of adventure. She is part wild child, and I’m part library assistant. It was about this time that I learned something about myself sexually that I didn’t have the words for then. If I did, I might not have hurt her. What I learned was that where BDSM is concerned, I’m not cut out for the lifestyle. Bedroom play, sure. In fact, I’m better at it now than I was when Jazzy and I dated. But outside of the bedroom, maintaining that control is just too tiring for me, and I lose interest. Add to that the fact that Jasmine can be a little extreme at times… There were times when I was scared of the kind of devotion she was showing me, and it was very intimidating. But it came from a very real, sincere place, and when I added that to the kinds of things that I felt she needed but that I was incapable of, I got really, really scared. And I did the only thing I could do.

The words for that come from Monty Python and the Holy Grail: “Run away!! Run away!!”

I had met another girl prior to Jasmine, and had distance and circumstances not been a factor, we certainly would have tried a relationship. We had stayed friends, our low-level romance replaced by a genuine friendship when I met Jazzy. You can do the math from here, I think. Frightened by her devotion and submissiveness, I bolted for the may-be-might-be-could-be undeveloped romance as a safe haven. At the time, I genuinely felt like I couldn’t commit to Jasmine when my heart felt like it had prior dibs on it. It was a lame excuse for not sitting the girl down and trying to fix what we had become, because without realizing it, I had inextricably linked our BDSM experience with our relationship, instead of one being a part of the other.

Could we have eliminated the BDSM, and still been in love? I don’t know. I’d like to think so. All I know is we sure didn’t try it. I told Jasmine about the other girl, that I was wrong for giving her false hopes when I would always be thinking about someone else. It took time and wisdom to know that what I thought was the whole reason, a could-be relationship over what was real at the time, was only part of it. I was just plain scared. And maybe rightly too, because I later read in relation to BDSM the phrase, “don’t break something you can’t put back together,” referring to the always fragile headspace that exists in those relationships. We might have gone too far to have backed out without Jasmine being upset that I felt I could no longer dominate her, but it didn’t matter, because I was compounding it with breaking up with her.

You don’t need to know what happened next. It was a bad painful breakup, and I don’t know that she ever knew how bad I felt about it. I talked with a friend a few months ago, about the silent agony of being the one who “ends it.” I don’t say that flippantly, mind you. Having a conscience is a real albatross when it comes to hurting people. You hurt yourself at the same time, with guilt, but you’re not allowed the luxury of showing it, because there’s someone else more deserving of empathy: the person you just dumped. But I hurt her. I hurt her bad.

Since then, Jazzy and I have talked a couple of times, and within the last couple of months really got everything out in the open, our lives having moved on and realizing that there needed to be some closure. No apology would have been sufficient, but she graciously took one. And what, in the past since the break up, was a few short words here and there online, or in an e-mail, is now a real friendship, the kind that can only be forged in a certain kind of fire. It would be stupid to ask, “What would I have done differently,” the only question is which part I would do differently… I broke the heart of someone who cared about me, plain and simple. And maybe writing this is the final twist of the retaliating knife that she and I joke about, now that scars have healed. Jasmine has since relocated, and we rely on the internet for communication. And the phone. Now get your minds out of the gutter, it’s not like that. We talk frequently, and she’s still on the list of people I love.

And she knows that she can call me anytime, day or night for anything. I would do anything for this girl, and I don’t mean that in a submissive, money piggy sort of way. And let me tell you something. If any of you want to mess with her, first you have to go through me. And if any of you hurt her, I will find you and demonstrate why what you did was a bad thing. Does she need me to defend her? Nope. One of the first pictures I had of her was showing off a bruised knuckle from knocking some other chick out. But she’s got me whether she wants it or not.

That’s it, for what it’s worth. You now know someone who has real life history with your Dirty Girl. Don’t take her for granted.