Seven months. A stretch of time long enough to know the contours of her laughter, the sound of her footsteps, the warmth of her breath as she whispered commands. Despite the intensity of our time together, I found myself sitting alone, grappling with a sense of unease I couldn't quite ignore. My cursor blinked impatiently on FetLife, where I'd poured my concerns into a post. I felt oddly vulnerable, baring my insecurities to an online crowd, but the need for perspective overwhelmed me.
My post began by telling the kinky community, "I've been in a D/s relationship for over six months. We are very close, we love playing and enjoy each other's company. We see each other a lot, she stays over regularly, even for a week solid at one point. I've helped her with job applications, we text constantly when we're not together... But despite this being a relationship based on BDSM I feel like after being together for so long that our relationship should be different."
I went on to include some key points like the fact she's never used my real name just called me Slave, that she's never let me share the bed with her, and that she didn't get me a gift for Christmas. I also mentioned that sexually she'd never done anything pleasurable to me, only ordered me to get myself off. And of course we'd never kissed, not even a hug when she greets me.
The list of what hadn't occurred in our relationship looked damning when written out: the void of affectionate touches, the scant physical gifts or words that could make a submissive feel valued.
My plea for advice continued: "Yes, she should be a Dom in the bedroom, but by this stage I would have expected her to feel more like a girlfriend than a Mistress outside of the bedroom, at the very least she should feel like a friend. I've had one-off experiences with other dommes who have shown more affection - like cuddling after, sleeping together, running their fingers through my hair when I've been going down on them."
I summed up by writing, "I think I need to get out of this or am I over reacting? I'm finding it hard to leave her, probably because this is my first real D/s relationship and I'm worried I'll never find another girl like her but I'm also worried she is taking me for a ride."
Yes, she was my Mistress, a role she played to perfection in the confines of our play, but relationships aren't built solely within the walls of a dungeon or the text of a contract. "At the very least she should feel like a friend," I mused, considering the detachment that had crept in, dulling the electric edge of our initial chemistry.
As the responses started to flow in, I felt a strange mix of relief and trepidation. The first comment hit a nerve: "It seems like you feel like you aren't getting everything you want out of the relationship because if you were, you wouldn't be posting about it on the internet." A valid point. If I were completely content, there'd be no room for doubt, let alone an exposé on FetLife. The remark forced me to confront my latent fears. Maybe my wants were actually needs.
Another commenter questioned if I had taken my concerns directly to her. Well, that was a complicated matter. Communication in a D/s relationship, especially one as nuanced as ours, wasn't as straightforward as one might think. I'd tried talking, emails, texts, but she was a deft conversationalist, skilled at steering the discourse away from issues she'd rather not discuss. The power dynamics made it worse. My role as the submissive often deterred me from pressing too hard, afraid to step out of my lane. The nature of our relationship gave her a built-in escape route from every challenging conversation.
Then came advice that felt like a subtle affirmation: "Your Domme is responsible for your well-being." This simple statement made me reassess the reciprocity in our relationship. Had she ever considered my well-being to the extent that I had concerned myself with serving her? I started to wonder if she was genuinely into the lifestyle or just the perks that came with having a submissive partner.
As more advice poured in, a consensus seemed to emerge: this did not seem like a balanced relationship. Someone even noted that it didn't sound like a relationship at all. That stung, but sometimes the harshest observations are the most necessary. They continued, "It sounds like you already know where you are going with this. Trust yourself."
"I think I do really know where I'm going," I typed back, feeling both empowered and anxious. The feedback had given me clarity and fanned the embers of my self-esteem. My eyes paused at a phrase another commenter had typed: "Wanting to feel like you have a romantic, girlfriend-boyfriend relationship in addition to a D/s one is a valid desire."
That was it. The crux of my issue condensed into a sentence. I wanted more than just a Mistress; I wanted someone who could be my partner in all things. And if she couldn't fulfil that role, if she couldn't even open the lines of communication to discuss this, then what were we doing?
I found myself staring at the computer screen, my hands hovering over the keyboard as if reluctant to put thought to text. The words of advice and consolation from my online community resonated in my mind. I was grappling with the internal tension of wanting to communicate but fearing the backlash. The thing is, emails always felt like a safe distance from her piercing gaze, a gaze that seemed to silence me more effectively than any gag.
I took a deep breath and started typing the subject line, "Our Relationship" God, even writing the subject line felt like pulling teeth. It was a cowardly route, emailing instead of facing her, but bravery had not served me well thus far.
I began the email with an awkward formality, "Hello," pausing because even her name felt like forbidden territory. I decided not to call her Miss J in this situation and opted for Jade. This in itself was a powerful statement.
I laid out my feelings with as much clarity as I could muster, trying to find that balance between candor and deference that had always been so difficult with her. I described how I yearned for a deeper emotional connection, how our interactions left me unfulfilled on many levels—not just sexual or kink-based, but emotional and relational as well. I wrote about my frustrations with not even being able to share a bed with her, how it made me feel more like a convenient option rather than a partner. I touched on the asymmetric emotional investment; how I had supported her through job applications, while I felt she had given little in return.
By the time I got to discussing our power dynamics, my fingers were typing almost of their own accord. "I understand and respect the D/s aspect of our relationship," I wrote, "but I feel a connection to you, an attraction to you, that I never expected to and the D/s feels like an barrier to that. Plus I know you don't feel the same way, so it just doesn't feel healthy for me to pursue this relationship. I feel the closer we get, the more likely I am to be hurt."
I continued, "If we can't find a way to address these issues, then I think it's best if we part ways." My fingers hung in the air, hesitating. I was about to backspace over what seemed like an ultimatum, and it felt like I was erasing a tiny slice of hope. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Clinging to hope when it was becoming clear that what I needed simply wasn't on offer in this relationship.
I deleted the line and took a deep breath. I needed to be decisive, to assert myself in a way I hadn't managed to do so far. "I really hate to have to say this," I began typing, "but sadly, for my own sanity, I think we need to part ways." Gone was the hesitancy, replaced by a strange feeling of liberation, as if I were shrugging off a weight that had been pressing on me.
I felt a pang of sadness as I typed the next lines. "I genuinely wish you all the best. You're an amazing, smart, beautiful woman with a bright future ahead."
There was no room for misinterpretation, no space for her to talk me around this time. The end of the relationship was stated as fact, not as a conditional based on her actions or responses. I signed off with a simple, "Goodbye."
I hovered over the 'Send' button for just a moment this time, not an eternity. Then I clicked it. As the screen informed me that my message was sent, a sense of finality washed over me. It was a complex mix of relief, sadness, and a newfound respect for myself.
This time, I felt like I had taken control not just in words, but in action. It was a bittersweet feeling, but I knew it was the right one. I had stepped out of the shadow of this half-relationship and into the light of my own needs and self-respect. The feeling was at once freeing and terrifying, but at least it was authentic. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was being authentic to myself.
