Been a while since I've done one of these previews: how is this, d'ya think, for a description of Ms. Sofia Vergara? (Patreon)

Sofia Vergara, of course, didn’t mind having first claim on the money of anyone who struck it rich. She would proudly say she was the town whore—even with two other girls, Jade and Tori, working the brothel, she was the town whore. At thirty-four, she was in danger of becoming the cliché of the tired old hooker: less an object of desire, even sinful desire, and more set decoration. Something to pad the word count of a dime novel so it didn’t sell for a mere nickel.

But so far, age had given her more than it had taken away. Slender in her youth, she had firmed and plumped with maturity. Her chest was two generous handfuls of creamy flesh, each teat the size of a ripe cantaloupe, spilling over even the accommodating corset she had bought special order—and the feel of them had never disappointed a man enthralled by the sight of them. And her hips bloomed with a fullness that had no need of a bustle. Her buttocks were as abundant as her bosom, swelling out from ample hips and a comparatively narrow waist. She was not fat, despite her voluptuousness. Her thighs were thick and her belly was as soft as pudding, but her proportions did not disappoint, even outside the unnecessary corset and stockings and heels that unnecessarily accentuated her body into something men worshiped more than simply adored.

She was a half-caste, with something of the Spanish conquistador to go with mestizo swarthiness, putting a dusky cast to her skin and a raven blackness to her hair, which fell in haphazard curls to between her shoulder blades.

Her accent was lustily Mexican: it shook her words and made her Rs a thing of beauty. She was not quite fluent in English, but more competent at it than she let on. Some men particularly disliked accents like hers and, in a pinch, she could speak without it. But she liked her accent, flamboyant and occasionally impenetrable as it was. When men liked it, she took it as a sign of good taste on their part. Men’s hunger for her body, though, was something she took as simply inevitable.

She was tall as well, almost six feet, as if a statuesque frame was needed to give her curves a proper canvas to work on. But for all her rounded hips and jubilantly plush breasts, her face was her greatest feature. It was round without being moony, appled cheeks a touch rosy, chin strong and broad. Her lips were pillowy and pink, even without make-up, her nose straight and long with the characteristic exuberance that applied to her entire body. Even her eyebrows were thick and dark, emphasizing the green-flecked brown of her warm eyes—sweetheart eyes, she’d heard them called, for every man they looked upon thought in his wishful heart that he might be her sweetheart.

It was a decadent body—an enthusiastic body—a God-given gift of a body to a woman who wished to live passionately, wildly, or not be alive at all. For Sofia was exactly as she appeared and made herself out to appear: a woman with no timidity, no hesitance. She wanted what she wanted with all the desire she could summon and she hated the same way, no coldness, no calculation, but with a white-hot flame that might simmer for a time, but could flare into a forest fire with only a drop of lantern oil to its credit.