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Hot Bulgarian Coworker

“What would you love?”

“To kiss you.” he says. 

And we do. And the yearning, aching, innocence within us claws for one another. We’re kissing, and before I know it he’s on top of me, his dick hard against me, I’m pulling at his clothing. 

The world fades and there he is. Smiling. His afflictions floating away. Clouds clear and behind it he is the sun. Radiating completely and in all directions. Unblocked. All the patterns and rhythm of his trauma that I feel so strongly and so often disappeared in the face of my desire. And I see myself in his eyes. See how he creates me and desires me. He is doubtless. Feel his commitment solid and deep.

I want to cry. I want to fuck.

We’ve decided not to fuck though. He is afraid he will lose interest in me if he makes love to me. If he falls for me, he’ll run from it. And he doesn’t want to. 

And so my head is in his lap and his hand is down my pants and he finds my clit and stares into my face with wonder as he strokes me. I give him the first feedback he’s ever had, and he is good at learning. His lap embraces me. His arm cradles my head. And his other hand is quick, hard, and too much friction. I ask him to slow his roll and he does, and I feel my toes curl and the heat rise and I try to keep my eyes open but worry about what they look like when they roll back in my head and my body contracts and it is short and hard and I moan as I come under his hand.

And he laughs. I bury my head into him.

“You’re laughing.” I say slightly shyly, but less so already knowing why. I feel his emotions easily.

“I’m laughing because of joy. When your face contracted before you came it felt like I was about to come too. I felt it in my body.”

I smile.

“You don’t have to stop, the second one won’t take as long.” I say, as he still has his fingers on my clit.

He doesn’t stop. My hot Bulgarian coworker finds another spot and the boyish look of fun and glee on his face as he makes me come again still shines behind my eyes. He laughs again.

And then again. He works hard for the third one. I feel how much fun he is having and the weight of our responsibilities and the workday lift and float away and I just want him. I want him in every way. And I come hard, crying his name. 

This time I stop him.

“Three is great. You can keep going if you want, but three is great.”

Before I even board the plane to Bulgaria, I text him from the waiting area.

“I’m not sure about these Bulgarians. They all look like thugs…”

“Most likely they are.” he texts back with a laughing face.

When I arrive at the airport in Sofia, I sense the same thing. Thugs. No better word for it.

After a few days in Bulgaria, I do come up with a better word for it: Savages.

Everything I learn about Bulgaria is absolutely no surprise, yet adds to the surprise that this place exists and I haven’t heard about it being this way. It’s the most hardcore savage, thug, mafia country in Europe. I’m baffled it’s in the EU. It’s gangsta through and through.

“We used to tie acorns to a stick and beat each other with it as kids.”

“Of course you did.”

“I started smoking and drinking at 11.” 

“Of course you did.”

“Hip-hop, racing/drifting and parkour are big here.”

“Of course they are.”

Bulgaria is an ex-slave country and the United States has a large ex-slave population that has an even larger cultural influence. There is a familiarity to what happens to marginalized people suddenly left in charge. The whole world, who took hundreds of years to develop what they expect to be instant in these places, pointing their fingers and laughing, when they themselves never had that added burden during their own discovery.

I know Bulgaria immediately. The logic runs through my veins. I feel it my bones.

We are before we meet two animals, sniffing at each other. Neither of us sure that the other is what we want, yet both of us considering it on some level. There’s a connection. It’s undeniable.We’ve chatted incessantly, enough to know we have different and clear goals in our lives. There doesn’t seem a way to blend them. This governs how we see one another.

We are both fast as lightning. Quick thinkers. His mind moves faster than mine, but in a narrower band. I am much more easy to derail, which is both a benefit and sometimes not. He is faster. I am wiser. I feel him tempted to lord it over me. 

He asks how fast I type. He races me at doing my own job just after I’ve gotten high for the first time two months. I can see he wants to best me. And it is oh so easy to see the ways that he does. He types incredibly fast, in two languages with two different scripts, and he codes at that speed as well. 

But at some point, back when I used my hands for a living, I didn’t sacrifice my body and myself to get where I wanted – I looked down the road and stopped

And he is incapable of doing that for many things. But, when it comes to women, he is not. 

So this matters for many reasons, but firstly: he is fast. I am fast. We both use these powers of speed to quickly figure out that we’re not meant for each other. 

Yet… part of me needs him. I don’t care why. I just care that it’s mutual.

It is.

He has a friend pick me up from the airport. We sit in silence, listening to an awesome mix of classic, 80’s heavy USAmerican music. I feel the love and special treatment already.

This expands when I get there. He’s nervous about hosting me, dealing with my expectations. I’m grateful that someone offers me a place to stay not 15 days after I felt the first symptoms of SARS-CoV-2. I’m basically recovered and I get my period the day I travel to Bulgaria. Pesky.

He treats me exceptionally well. He feeds me. Pours me water. Opens doors. Holds my coat. When I offer to help him move a mattress in the room he won’t even consider it, because I am a woman. 

I rebel against this. I am used to my gender not mattering. 

In many ways – he shows me that in Bulgaria: it fucking does.

It’s before we’ve become intimate and we are sparring. We are discussing the poor quality of the weed. I am unimpressed with it. Give it a 2.3 on the scale of weed. I vacillate between smoking/vaping it and refusing to smoke/vape it. It doesn’t seem worth it, I just had Covid. I know I’ll be back in Barcelona doing dabs in a month.

He’s rolled out the red carpet for me in many other ways, but he admits he has access to better weed in Bulgaria. For some reason I’m annoyed about this and push the subject. He should have prepared better for me. I am worth it. 

This is, again, before we’ve started being intimate.

He mentions we could go to another town and he could get it there. But traveling with it is a huge no-no in Bulgaria. 

“Soooo… I could just use nature’s compartment.” I suggest. “We could drive there and back in a day, and I’d be the one to take the fall if it was inside me”

“How much could you fit, anyway, 20 grams? It’s not worth it. We’d go through that in three days.” he says quickly, without pause.

I take a drag off the joint rolled way too neatly and excellently for the quality of weed that is within it. 

“Did you just estimate the volume of my vagina?” I ask, nonchalantly.

“Yes. No. I meant, like, women in general, not you.” he backtracks. I laugh.

“You totally just estimated the volume of my vagina.” I retort, knowing that I can have this on him for a long time as long as I repeat it enough to make it a thing.

Later I tell him I’m on the small side, anyway. 

Even later he tells me “You ARE tight.”

“I know.” I reply. 

We are coworkers. I’ve worked at the company for three years, he’s worked there for over twice as long. We’re not in the same department, but we interact frequently online. I have had a crush on him from the moment we first interacted. 

My crushes are rare and desperate. My type is hard to find, unique, courageous, brilliant, men who broke the mold and have transcended great hardship. I let myself have every crush that I do, so they seem more frequent – but truthfully it’s a rare and exotic man that catches my attention. He did from the first moment.  

He’s even more intense than I imagined. Willful and bold. Dripping maleness. I love it. He makes me question whether I’ve ever met a real man.

Our colleague relationship helps my trust. I know that he is reliable, and where his priorities are. He’s driven, and a dedicated worker. Everyone knows he is one of two doing all the work on his team of fifteen. He’s good at his job.

This gives us a strange common ground. We work remotely. We’ve interacted with parts of each other frequently, but most of who we are hasn’t been evident to each other.

At one point I point out that we could be working in an office, and go on a long rant about how we’d have to be in physical meetings together with the whole team, and various people on the team know, and how awkward that would be, and on and on.

“So basically what you are saying is aren’t we grateful we’re not fucking in the office bathroom.” he says.

At work we start meetings with what we are grateful for and he jokes:

“I am grateful that I made Zoe have two orgasms on Sunday and three orgasms on Saturday, and that they were real.”

I tell him that I can tell he’s had a lot of bad sex. It is true that I can. He’s a beginner. Trained on hardcore porn and traumatized girls. He doesn’t know a thing about sex. But his body does. His body is coiled animal masculinity. 

I feel for his dick, rock hard, straining against his pants and underwear. Together we remove them and then I devour him.

“I have never come from a blowjob” he says. I smile, sucking him hard. Putting his hands on my head. He resists. Doesn’t want to face fuck me. Thinks it’s not nice.

“But what if I want it?” I ask.

He needs help to figure out the best way. Soon he’s standing and I’m sitting and the head of his cock is at the back of my throat. He likes it deep. Not sure whether he likes gagging me or likes the sensation or both. I just suck his dick, I love his dick. I love sucking his cock.

Telling him this the next day at lunch, he blushes. His hands drop to his lap to conceal his boner. I smile. 

He’s told me that he kept getting hard the whole day the first day I was there. I had absolutely no idea. It’s not until his direct approach that I figure out that he wants me. He even gives me a massage and I’m not sure that he wants me. I feel that he does and doesn’t at the same time. It feels like a lot to deal with.

Speaking of a lot to deal with, he warns me that he will come buckets and I still am blown away by the load he shoots down my throat. Hot, flowing jets teaching me just what I did to his body for two days… simply by being me? It makes my clit throb to know how much I turn him on. I swallow at least three times.

“You weren’t kidding, I don’t think I’ve ever swallowed that much come in my life.” I say, honestly, smiling at him. He chuckles. Later he tells me he busted even more out in the bathroom after the blowjob. That I hadn’t emptied him. I take that as a challenge.

To be continued…

Getting into Bulgaria:

Other Balkan Weed:

Guest Post at Girl On The Net about a fantasy of a Balkan Man


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