You’ve read a bit about Sofia over the years. Stunningly beautiful, with curly hair and caramel skin, insanely sexy curves, and fucking smart. Though English is her second (or maybe third) language, she writes it perfectly, and speaks it nearly perfectly.

Sofia and I have been doing the “distant buddy” thing for (wait for it)… seven years. I’m astonished. Other than my wife, Sofia is, by far, the longest-standing sexual relationship I’ve ever had. (And I imagine, though I haven’t asked, that I’m hers.)

Sofia and I have been through ups and downs, changes in each of our lives, in our relationships, and in our desires. We have a durable, and a powerful, connection.

Sadly, I’ve failed Sofia in one way. (Actually, in many ways. But in one, particular, specific, and painful way.) I haven’t written about her in a way, or with a frequency, that remotely captures the importance of our relationship to me over time.

In part, this was, I think, an unfortunate artifact of timing: when she and I first connected, when the energy was newest, rawest, there were reasons having nothing to do with her that kept me from writing about her. And, by the time those reasons dissipated? The rawness and newness, which informs so much of the hotter, more sexual writing on this blog had, inevitably, transformed, into something more comfortable, less edgy. And less edgy often means fewer words.

In part, though, it’s an artifact of randomness. With a few exceptions (V, L come to mind), the relationship between the amount I write about someone and the intensity of our sexual connection is something like… random? One example: Nastya. I wrote about her a lot. Not a ton of posts, but a ton of words. And five posts over a period of about three months. In which we had, I believe, two – maybe three – dates. Our connection was troubled from the start. There was some intensity in it, to be sure, but the energy that was propelling my words? It was something that was raw, but hostile. I evoked an anger in her, and she, in me. I’m not sure how much that comes through in the words, but it certainly is what propelled me to write about her.

And there are other examples of other women about whom I’ve written more, or more passionately, than I’ve written about Sofia. This seems unfair, given how much Sofia has given, still does give, me. And given the intensity, and the longevity, of our passion.

It just goes to show you, you might think you know me just from reading this blog.

But it’s a safe bet you don’t.


Just to give you a glimpse into the ways Sofia feeds me, makes my cock hard…. Here’s an exchange we had just the other day:

The exchange had begun a few days earlier. Sofia is applying for a job. And, where she’s from, resumes in applications of this sort include photos. Even though the job is most assuredly not a job for which appearances matter. (I know that in much of the world it’s common for resumes to include photos; in the U.S., the idea is really strange – not least because it’s not even legal to ask someone how old they are, or what their ethnicity is, when they apply for a job.)

So anyway, she was asked to include a photo, and she sent me the one she was thinking of using. In the photo she sent, her pretty eyes are looking just a little down, through giant, sexy glasses. Her full, pouty lips are formed in a sexy, sly smile, as if she’s thinking, “I have a butt plug in and no one knows it.” Her hair is in a curly mop of a fro, grab-able, tug-able. And in the photo, the bottom of which begins just above the top of her breasts, the only fabric visible is: a) two tiny multi-colored straps (of a sundress? a bikini?); b) a leather strap, of a purse? and c) the shoulder strap of a backpack, on her opposite shoulder. She looks smoking hot. She looks young. She looks eminently fuck-able. Oh. And, in the background? Lush, verdant flora.

She wrote to me, in the caption (lightly edited): “I want the first thing a person looking at this photo in a resume to think is that I’m competent, smart, interesting, friendly. Maybe to notice that I like nature. That I’m not formal, too serious (the position is pretty informal). But I struggle with the part about my looks/vibe. I don’t want to come across as sexual, or sexy… I think this photo is ok, right? Or am I missing the mark?”

I responded, “Um. Yes. At least in the US you would be. If you don’t want to come across as sexual, you shouldn’t bare your shoulders or your chest. Something with a neck.”

Sofia wrote, “Yeah… I thought about that.”

I added: “Also, in your case? A paper bag over your face. Otherwise, forget about it.”

A day later, Sofia sent me a few more professional shots to choose from. Seven, to be precise. In all of them, she stands, smiling, against another verdant background. She wears the same big glasses. Her hair, again, is lush, full, curly. Her lips remain full, eminently fuckable. But she’s covered her top: now, she wears a black crew-neck cotton long-sleeved top. Her breasts – not big, but delicious – are visible in shape, but not in the flesh. The shots are… appropriate. Sexy, hot, but professional. There’s no way a person attracted to women wouldn’t think, “FUCK, she’s HOT!” But at the same time, it’s professional, not sexual.

I told her my preference, among the seven.

I added, “Also? I want my cock in that mouth.”

I said something about wanting to dive into her cunt, and she responded with a GIF of her thighs, first, closed, in sweatpants, and then, opening wide.

“Exactly,” I wrote. “But further.”

And she responded with a photo of her thighs open as wide as could be. Again, in her sweats, this time, her breasts also visible in a grey cotton bra. “Maybe like this?” she asked.

And then, she added another GIF, this one, of her pulling her sweats down, showing me her cunt, in black patterned panties, with little hearts on them. “I will also enjoy showing you my panties. I mean, unless you prefer to yank my pants off of me.”

“Oh my,” I wrote. “My preference, actually, right now, would be to shove a hand down under the panties, a finger or two up into you, as I kiss you, hard. That angle is a reach down and in angle, more than a dive in and eat angle….”

Sofia: “Mmmmm. Hat [sic] makes total sense. Now I’m dying for your finger(s) in my very wet pussy. Seriously”

“As you should be,” I replied. “(Don’t imagine, though, that my tongue wouldn’t be far behind….”

“You’re killing me,” she said.

“Am I now? We haven’t even mentioned my cock.”

Sofia responded with a seven-second video of her reaching into her panties and sliding a finger into her pussy. Though the angle didn’t show me the entry of the finger, I could just feel how wet she was by the way her hand moved.

There was back and forth. I sent a video of me, stroking my cock to her. She sent a video of her, again, her fingers inside her. Her moaning was louder, now. (For a while, during quarantine, she had been quiet in our interactions, because roommate. But her roommate was out. And Sofia isn’t a quiet one.)

Some more words. Another video of me stroking my cock, this time, talking. “So if I were there,” I breathed, “I would tear off your sweatpants, and push this hard cock all the way into you.”

“I need to come for you,” she wrote. She sent audio of her pleading, begging to come for me.

“For God’s sake, come for me,” I said.

With audio, she asked, “Do you want to see?”

“I want to hear, but not to watch, this time, please. Next time, I want to watch. Come for me. Now. Please.”

And she did. The audio’s insane. Loud. Desperate. Furious.

Listen for yourself


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