A part of me hated that he could read my mind, but another, much larger part, loved it. Like how he knew when to put his hands around my neck and the exact amount of strength that he should squeeze. Or when I wanted him to throw me onto the bed and tell me in no uncertain terms exactly how I was going to pleasure him. And that I was going enjoy every minute of doing so.

He was right, and it was infuriating…

I never intended to cheat, yet here we are. Every time we catch up I swear to myself that I will end it. Then of course we fuck, and I vow that it will be the last time. I hold out a day or even a week, but inevitably I find myself reaching for my phone and messaging her. Rinse and repeat.

She has become my mistress, and I am a slave to her every whim…