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When I paid for my train ticket to London with the same twenty-pound note my parents had given me for food, I felt guilty. They were aware of my difficulties with my first boyfriend and first lover. It was obvious to everyone. My university flatmates were tired of the sleepless nights caused by our heated arguments and the scandalously loud make-up sex that ensued whenever he came to see me.

I was addicted to this passionate emotional rollercoaster. At all times, up and down, up and down. The highs were thrilling, but the lows were terrifying. It was draining. I discovered that no amount of orgasm could compensate for the constant drama.

I felt compelled to end my relationship with him. It happened during a serious phone call. It made sense to do it this way because we lived in different cities and were both students with little to no money. When I told him I couldn’t take it any longer, he remained silent. He simply admitted that our relationship was not sustainable or healthy and that it had to end.

I tried everything I could to remove him from my life over the next few days. In my tiny student room, I got rid of everything that reminded me of him. I even cleaned out our BDSM stockpile of whips, blindfolds, and PVC outfits. I felt lighter, but a little lost, and I thought how I would deal with my extremely high libido. Or, more specifically, who would attend to my needs, as I had yet to find sex toys at that point in my life.

When he called me a week after our official breakup, I wondered I was making progress as a newly single person. He was apologetic and nostalgic, even crying. I’d never seen or heard him cry before. I was taken aback.

‘Please come to London; I need to see you,’ he begged.

‘You already know it’s over. We’re not getting back together.’

‘I know. Please. ‘Just one more time.’

I knew I had to pay him one last visit. No matter how many mind-blowing orgasms he gave me – or how much he begged – I wasn’t gonna be tempted to get back together. Despite this, it appeared that we needed to see each other in order to bring our three-year relationship to a close. That’s how I justified it to myself.

He greeted me at the London train station with a silent but deep meaningful hug that was full of emotion and desire. I inhaled his pheromones as he wrapped his arms around me. Although his familiar scent was hypnotic, something inside me had shifted, and I realized I no longer needed him or the relationship. I was no longer the submissive girlfriend he remembered. Even though I was in the situation, I felt womanly and detached from it.

It was a lovely day in London. People were enjoying the warm weather in parks and bustling beer gardens. After months of winter darkness, the magic in the air was contagious. Everyone appeared to be content. We walked through the streets wrapped in each other’s arms, stealing kisses wherever and whenever we could. Even though it was the end of the honeymoon period, it felt like it.

We spent the next two days in his tiny student bedroom making love nonstop. The sex was passionate and intense, but also sentimental and tender. We had sex whenever we could until our bodies couldn’t take it any longer. I was thinking about how perfect he seemed to me as I caressed his naked body. He was the first naked man I had touched. I adored his physique. I was particularly fond of his cock, and how it felt in my hand, mouth, and vagina. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It’s no surprise I was so taken with him. It was exquisite when it was good. He gave me the most joy I had ever known in my life until that point.

I was grateful to him for teaching me how to be a good lover. He even complimented me on my lovemaking abilities, which was significant given that I had begun our relationship as an awkward virgin. Now someone else will advantage from my knowledge, I reasoned.

He invited me to sit naked in front of the full-length mirror on his wardrobe door and instructed me to open my legs as wide as feasible. I don’t think I’d ever seen myself so clearly before. Doing this in front of his staring eyes felt both perverse and empowering.

‘You have a lovely vulva,’ he said before kneeling in front of me and descending on me for a long time.

I wasn’t gonna be swayed by his compliments or his expert tongue. But I couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t make me feel this way and appreciate me more during our relationship.

There was no time to think about the past. The clock was ticking, and my weekend of breakup sex was coming to an end because I needed to catch a train.

When we arrived at the station, I felt strange in the sense that I didn’t feel strange. I had previously been terrified of losing him, but now I felt strong. The only man I’d ever had an intimate relationship with was about to become a stranger to me. A faded memory. I felt liberated knowing I didn’t need him anymore. I had completed my tasks and was now prepared for the next stage of my life. I wasn’t just returning home; I was embarking on a new chapter of my life as a single woman. Alone.

He walked alongside me on the platform, and we parted methods at the train door. It was strange. I couldn’t believe it had come to an end. When I sat in my window seat on the train, he was still on the platform, smiling at me through the window. I returned her smile before pulling a magazine from my bag and starting to read. Something inside me told me not to look up again, and when the train began to pull away, I looked out the window and saw that he was no longer there.

I never heard from him again or saw him again.

NSFW: yes

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