My little Colombian lies beside me like a starfish, his slight snore enough to keep me awake almost the entire night. He turns onto his side; I curl up against him. His stiff morning dick presses against my lower back—pleasant. Still half drunk with sleep, I suddenly feel a cold drop of lubricant slide into my cunt, his hard dick wants to follow.

Easy, easy, I whisper. I guide his hands towards my breasts, my ass, allow his dick to only knock gently on the entrance of my cunt. Dutifully, he begins to stroke my body, like a five-year-old petting a dog.

So different from last time—the Colombian sensuality that made me fall in love instantly, my body set ablaze by such patience and tenderness. I had even cried, and he had said how beautiful it was that I dared to be so vulnerable, how special I was, how pretty, how we didn’t have to do anything if I didn’t want to. Fuck me, I whispered through my tears, and off I went, to the stars and beyond.

Perhaps a standard recruitment strategy: an attractive welcome gift of tender softness to lure new flesh into the cave. A successful strategy, because here I am, the flesh is weak. He throws me onto my stomach with one knee curled upwards, his favorite. His arms rest with their full weight on my hips and he shoves his dick inside me. Boom boom boom. Easy, I whisper again. He slows down and rests his head on my back for a bit. I stroke his hair; now he is the dog and I’m the child. So good, I whisper, which is only half a lie.

That drives him wild; again he stabs me hard and fast, boom boom boom, my hips feel disconnected from my lower back. I breathe, try to relax; it doesn’t really hurt, but it also doesn’t really doesn’t. I bring my hand to my cunt, feel how wet she is, his dick exactly in the right place—boom boom boom—and yet again, I come.

He turns me onto my back, my legs on his shoulders, his arms now bearing their full weight on my small breasts, boom boom boom, I’m almost disappearing. Can I cum, he groans. Yes, amor, I whisper, and he deflates.

So beautiful to watch, every time again, a climaxing man, a deflating balloon pouring all his masculinity into your lap before collapsing like a helpless baby onto the mother’s breast. Come here, amor. I hold him tight, I kiss his head.

Good boy.

Sofie Kramer is an Amsterdam‑based theatre maker and performer known for her bold, physically charged work exploring obsession, vulnerability, lust, carnality, ecstasy, subjugation, submission, eroticism, craving, exposure, temptation, savagery, corruption, consummation and powerplays.

Her acclaimed productions, including A Pole Tragedy and Lodewijk, have been presented at major international venues and festivals.

She contributed this candid, self‑reflective piece of pulp to The Unsafe Journal, bringing the same intensity from stage to page.