Sofia’s pussy used to be mine. Now it’s not — or not entirely. The story of how that happened, and how we both feel about it.

I want thirty more minutes of her time, and I know exactly how I want her to spend them.

Five minutes at a time, five times over, no coming. I like to be precise in my instructions.

Thirty minutes with Sofia, and I know exactly how I want each one spent.

I want to tell you what to do. I want to tell you what to wear. I want you to say “yes” to me.

I keep promising Sofia something simple, and I keep failing to deliver. The why of it is more interesting than the failure itself.

A reader in her 40s asks whether I prefer younger women. The honest answer is complicated, and has to do with the difference between 2-D and 3-D.

Sofia lives thousands of miles away, sends me more than my imagination could conjure, and does whatever I ask, smiling. Here she is.

Sofia has been lurking in the background of this blog, and it turns out she’d rather not be.

The getting feels better than the having — and that realization explains more about me than I’m entirely comfortable with.