I might be her Master, but she is the one who taught me all this.
Mitchell gave me more than obedience. She gave me a language for intimacy I never knew I was craving. She showed me how to read a body with my hands, how to listen with my eyes, how to lead without ever losing tenderness.
We played hard. We loved harder. We tore up my flat on the corner of Schoeman and Pretorius more times than I can count—left marks on the walls, the sheets, each other. But beneath the kink, the titles, the dynamic, she gave me something I still haven't found since:
Presence.
Mitchell made my last year at TUT the best one. We did a lot. I learned even more. About dominance, about devotion, about myself. She shaped me—not just as a lover or a Master, but as a man.
And after her, I started searching. For something even close.
But nothing matched.
No one touched me the way she did with just a look. No one obeyed with that wild trust. No one surrendered with that same fire in their eyes. Especially not my black sisters—both here in South Africa and back home. There was always distance. Always fear. Like they'd been taught to never fully let go.
And I get it. The world hasn't made surrender safe for them. It hasn't taught them that submission can be powerful—that it can be holy when it's chosen. Mitchell did that for me. She gave me her darkness, her ache, her obedience—and I honored every drop of it.
Now, every woman I meet, I measure against that silent standard. That honesty. That fire.
And every time, I walk away with a little more hunger, a little more longing. Not just for the sex. But for the space she made me feel seen in.
Mitchell didn't just belong to me.
For a while, I belonged to her too.
And in my quietest nights, in my deepest needs, I still do.