A few weeks ago, a young woman (not that young – just youngish) contacted me by e-mail. She liked my blog. Wasn’t sure why she was contacting me. But… hey.
Some weeks later, I’ve had to pay Google to increase my storage quota to accommodate all the work she’s been doing for me. My cock has nearly broken off more than once as we’ve engaged in real time, denying, granting, denying, granting her orgasms, and as she has executed one task after the next for me, flawlessly.
She’s tiny. Just a hair over 5′. She’s brunette, with long, wavy hair, ending just above her nipples. Her breasts are perky, pert, B cups (I would guess). Her eyes are brown, big, bright. And her smile is super-sweet, super sexy, with two full lips that will, I trust, find their way to my cock sooner rather than later. (Sooner, I sure as fuck hope.)
She communicates with me perfectly – openly, honestly. She manages my expectations. She under-promises. She over-delivers. She’s helped me do a bit of work on a tattoo I hope to get soon.
A few thoughts about Marina: first, from the start, she shared her (very pretty) face with me. In this little corner of the universe, in which, among other things, I collect self-made porn, most of the women with whom I’ve engaged over the years, understandably have chosen to maintain some degree of anonymity in the sexts and selfies they send me. I respect this. I understand it. I tolerate it.
After all – I studiously guard my identity – I have so much at risk by sheer virtue of the volume of my disclosure here – and I don’t feel even slightly entitled to anything from anyone – let alone the degree of vulnerability associated with sending me a video of an orgasm that includes a fully identifiable face.
And at the same time, I wrote above that I “tolerate” anonymity. This is true. In addition to craving the face of any woman with whom I’m engaged, I also crave the trust and vulnerability that sharing it would represent. To the extent that a woman has not been comfortable including her face in the smut she sends me, this represents a definite loss to me.
So, from the start, when Marina generously shared her face with me, it… made my cock that much harder.
Marina fascinates me. Oversexed, highly experienced, open, willing, and SMART, she’s allowed me to slide into a privileged position in her healthy stable of sexual partners. She’s granted me windows of time in which I may control her pussy, denying her orgasms, granting them. She’s intuitively learned my tastes, my preferences. I’ve written before about the art of taking selfies. This art is one Marina has perfected. I suspect she perfected it long before we “met,” but I’m the happy beneficiary. Her photos are well lit, well posed, well composed. (But judge for yourself.) They don’t reveal too much, they don’t conceal too much. She doesn’t crudely fill the screen, nor does she position herself at a distance too great from the lens. She responds to suggestion like the proverbial finely tuned sports car.
And, to the extent she’s been having, or thinking about having, sex with others, she’s told me. This isn’t uncomplicated for me: I’m intrinsically jealous, envious, anxious. When she tells me she might get laid, it affects me. I feel threatened, I feel something more primal: alone. But that’s not unique to Marina. That’s true of every woman in the world.
We’ve discussed lots – sex, sexuality, of course – but also, politics, drugs, the coronavirus, family. She’s let me in – to her body, natch, but also to her mind and her heart. And the effect on my cock has been, continues to be, and I hope will continue to be, profound.
I trust you’ll be hearing more about her. The photos, above, are, actually, her, so you can see her. And you can hear her – this was not the first orgasm she sent me, but it’s the first one she gave me permission to share with you. I hope you enjoy listening to it as much as I did. Repeatedly.