Literally. We have never met. I begin many days by asking her to send me a picture. Left to her own devices, she would send crude, nude, spread shots. I’ve taught her to see the beauty in (or trained her to feed my hunger for?) a little more subtlety, nuance. I’ll take a curve pressing against fabric over naked flesh any day.
She tells me of her liaisons (or really, hook-ups). They typically sound joyless, driven. She gets little physical pleasure from them – what she values seems to be some combination of feeling desired and feeling the power of making a man cum. And servitude. She likes that.
I value her responsiveness, and her beauty. She is unexpectedly beautiful, and delicate, given the harsh, even brutal way in which she seems to go about her sexual life. And she responds like a marionette to my requests: send a picture of your ass, your breasts, a breast in your hand. And instantly, or as close to that as possible.
And when I send a picture of myself – I do occasionally – her praise is instant, insistent, lavish. One would think I were sending her pictures of Adonis. Don’t get me wrong, I’m cute. But not accustomed to the effusion with which she rewards me.
It’s a lovely relationship – hot, gratifying, and easy.