Four writers for the price of one blog
What is like for a single woman in Southern Italy? My story begins at the very end of spring semester, meeting Benito—a dark haired man with a wide smile, easy mannerisms, but a darting intelligence. He would laugh one moment, then gaze at me as if no one were as captivating. I was smitten. I loved Italians and loved Italy, or at least what I’d seen in movies and fashion.
I had already planned a two week visit. But having only met him in the last week before summer, Benito was already inviting me to Florence. “Why go to Rome?” he asked me, in that beautiful accent between two continents.
I leaned on an elbow, cheek in my hand. “I have tickets to Rome.”
“What is Rome?”
“The Coliseum? St, Peter’s? Nero? Caesar? The birth place of western civilization?”
“Filthy. Polluted. Come to Florence. We have a guest room. It’s beautiful. Lovely. My father is only home on the week-ends. He goes to Barcelona. Do you like deep-sea fishing? My father has a business and can take you deep-sea fishing in the Mediterranean. And my mother? She goes shopping in Milan. She stays with her sister. So, you see? You have a villa to yourself!”
Benito smiled broadly, then in the next instant his expression was of the utmost seriousness. He spread both hands as if to push me away, as if to deny the unspoken innuendo. “You will be upstairs, I will be downstairs, and the upstairs will be yours. When are you coming?”
“The first two weeks of July.”
Benito looked crestfallen. “You must come at the end of July.”
“Then come to Florence after the first week.”
“Rome,” I answered.
He stuck his tongue in his cheek.
We both had places to go but we remained in the little café with its frayed couches, mismatched chairs and 7o’s posters. At noon, he flew to Italy. His knee touched mine. Our elbows touched as we drank coffee. The warmth of his body lingered against mine—I wanted more. By the time time ran out, I couldn’t breathe. I bit my lip. I almost apologized. I knocked the coffee cup over. He put his hand on my knee and that stopped whatever else I meant to say.
“Bella,” he breathed. We kissed furiously.
His hand moved further up my leg. My fingers tightened in his leather jacket. His fingers moved over my pudenda and lower. His lips found to my ear. “Is it permissible,” he whispered, “knowing you so briefly?”
His fingers lightly vibrated between my thighs. “Is it permissible, after only a week, to say that I want to fuck you?”
I bit his neck in answer.
“Do you want change?” asked a waitress.
We sheepishly broke our kiss. “No,” Benito answered. He pulled me from the table, out of the café, and another recessed doorway. He pressed me between the door and his lean musculature. A hand at the small of my back pressed my groin against his and the erection that was so close to my welcoming wetness. My fingers unbuttoned enough of his shirt to lose themselves in the thick black curls of his chest.
“I will find you in Rome, bella” he said.
He abruptly stepped back. I reached for him, longing to be pinned by his weight, but his expression had abruptly changed. He dug in his inside pocket and handed me his smartphone. “Take it.”
I stifled a laugh.
“No, bella, no! This my phone that I use in Italy. Take it. I’ll call you while you’re in Italy. I will find you.”
“Email me.” I tried to pull him back.
“No. It is my phone. I want it back when I am in Italy.”
I smiled. I took the phone. “Then I’ll give it back to you in Rome.”
He smiled broadly. Then his expression changed again and once more he pressed his weight against me, lips to my own. “Now you have to give me something,” he said, his voice crackling with urgency.
“What?” I asked softly, guessing what he wanted.
“A secret.” His teeth glided over the soft skin beneath my ear. “A secret that I will carry with me until we meet again—your secret, the most beautiful secret that every woman hides, the most beautiful in the world. His hand moved to the button of my jeans. My breath caught. What did he want? Here? I frantically peered over his shoudler. Yes, there were cars going by, and voices of other students, but the recessed entryway was dark in a growing darkness. I hid behind him then sharply inhaled. His finger tips found my clit. “You are soaked, bella.”
They moved lightly and quickly.
I clung to his shoulder. I kissed his neck, the stubble of his chin, licking tasting. “No, bella, don’t hide your face,” he rumbled. “Give me your secret. Let me see it. Show it to me. I will keep it with me until we meet again. It will be my most valued possession, bella.”
I couldn’t be silent. My every breath was a cry until I knew there was nothing to stop it. I looked at his boyish wonder, letting him see what he forced me to reveal.
“Bella, bella, bella,” he hymned.
“Is it mine now?”
I nodded. I shook once more, twice, then slumped against the door. His fingertips didn’t penetrate, but lightly pressed there. He never took his eyes from mine, searching for the last, tell-tale shudders that had made my eyes roll. And then he buttoned my jeans and we clung to each other.
I wanted more.
I went back to my room, in late evening, and cried. And then, with his taste still faintly on my lips and fingers, I lay face down and came before falling asleep. I wanted to follow Benito to Italy, not in a month, but tomorrow with a backpack and a plane ticket. I dreamed of Benito, not of Rome.
I swung between euphoria and self-recrimination.
The memory was like a fever-dream. I woke at midnight checking my email. Nothing from Benito, and then finally two days later:
Hello Bella! How strange to miss you as if I had known you all my life! Now I am in Italy and soon will be in Tristan da Cunha. Poor Bella and poor Benito! There is no phone and there is no Internet! But there is an Internet Café, but the Internet Café is only one café and everyone on the island uses it. But I have your secret and the obliging world shows me you are not so far away. In your secret are the little house sparrow’s chirps, the fountains of Florence, and the ocher of its rooftops. You must share more of your secret with me, a thousand times more, and all the world’s mysteries will be beautiful and comprehensible.
With the madness that descends on the love-stricken, I loved him for writing me the second day. I was vexed by his silence the first day. Why did he wait? Did he hesitate? I wrote him back, and more, but this most importantly:
You have my secret and I have nothing. Before you go to Tristan de Cunha, tell me a secret. Tell me what you’ve told no one else; what you would never tell anyone but me. Once I have it, I won’t let you have it back until you find me.
Once again I slept fitfully. Would he write back? How quickly? I waited. I doubted. But then the next morning his answer:
My dear Bella, I am not cruel. You say I’m cruel. All day I’m fishing with my father and tourists on the Mediterranean. The water is blue and clear. I would teach you to give tours in no time. You would be Benito’s American girl. You see how proud and cocky you make me? Very cocky. We shall speak nothing but Italian when we make love, and so the language will always be beautiful to you. But, for now, my secret? I will tell you: Benito is alone. I imagine him seeing you in the depths of the Mediterranean like a mermaid—the sea’s most beautiful vision. I must have you, so I cast my net. You struggle. You don’t like leaving the sea, but as soon as I’ve taken you from the water, your tail becomes legs and you are curious to go inland to my home. I’ll take you to the architecture of Florence: The Piazza, the Duomo and of course the Uffizi. Still, I sense the yearning for the sea in your eyes. We dine, sampling olives, eating bruschetta and panzanella. I take you at night to the Piazzale Michelangelo to overlook the city. And while we enjoy the lights, and though there are others around us, I stand behind you, press myself against the round confinement of your dress so that you feel my desire straining to pierce you. Instead, I lift the hem of your dress, in the front where no one can see. I pull aside your panties. Both your hands are lightly on mine. You cross your knees. You are naturally embarrassed with others also enjoying the overlook, but no one can see what I am doing to you. I am behind you. The waist high balustrade is in front of you. My finger is all that moves, little circles, and I ask you: Do you see this? Do you see that? Yes, you say. Yes. Yes. And then that little trickle running down your thigh that is your last, longest ‘Yes’. I slide your panties back and tug down the hem of your dress even while one heel rises, your knees lock tightly together, and you must hold onto the railing as each ‘Yes’ makes your hips twist. But come with me, I say, before you are done. We walk down the long steps and you must hold my arm. The fading pangs of pleasure elicit startled gasps as we descend. I take you home. You are sleepy. I give you my finger to lick, to taste, as the taxi takes us home. I say to you: This odor and wetness is meant for me, is for my pleasure and my own exquisite delirium. When I have you home, I take you to my bedroom, which is wide, whose floor to ceiling windows overlook the this and that rooftop. There is a spacious white mattress and comforter in the center of the floor—a light and books. I will need only the mattress tonight. In front of the center window, I slowly undress you. You are lit by the streetlights below and the waxing moon. Your nipples are like dark olive seeds and your hips are like ripe avocados. The nipples are erect and I can smell the wetness smearing your thighs. You are ready for me, my love. As I too undress, I kiss your shoulder, lick your neck, and suck one nipple and then the next into my mouth. Your hands fall lightly to my shoulders. But it is time now. Surely you must know the sea is just over the horizon. The sea calls to you. I smell it in your cunt—a rich and delicious smell. I take you by the hand to the mattress. You roll over on your belly, on your elbows and look longingly out the open windows. A gentle breeze lifts the curtains. Now you want to crawl away but it is too late for you. I am behind you on my knees. I feel you start to rise but I gently pull you back by an ankle. Again you try, but I pull the other ankle, each time spreading you further apart. Your fingers tighten in the mattress as if to pull yourself away. You do not look back at me, only at the open window. Perhaps you want to take wing and fly away—but my hand is underneath. I lift you, just the lower half of your belly, arching your back, revealing your glistening cunt. Your knees are far apart, as wide as they will go, and the fringe of the of the comforter is between your teeth. One had is stretched in front of you, as if you might reach for the night air just beyond the window, the other holds tightly to the sheet at your side, elbow up. I take your beautiful hair and draw back your head. Your hips are lifted, so too your tits, and only your belly button touches the sheet. Then, ever so slowly, I open you and sink into your lifted cunt from behind. Ah, your inhalation, the exquisite turning up of your eyes, the wetness that welcomes and embraces, slowly, the full length of me. But soon my thrusts are firm and hard. Both your elbows are up and your fingers spread on the bedsheet. I have hooked you. You cry and shudder, my little mermaid, but I know what must be done to you. We both, at the same moment, suffer the pangs of pleasure. I fill your up-turned offering with the salt of my own sea. We stay like that, like statues, until we both have wrung every last spasm of pleasure from our union. Then, my love, I collapse; but you will not let me out. We fall asleep, your back to me, your cunt cradling my cock.
And that is my secret, my lover; that you will be like my mermaid, that with my lover’s hook I will catch you; and that I will not have to spend another summer in Italy without you. Such is my desire for you.
Your story is like a fairy tale.
It is inspired by a writer named Guillaume Cremisi. He once wanted to write for children, but now his fables and fairy tales are erotic. When he is dead, God will reward him with wealth and fame; but alive, he and God are too lazy.
That night I fell asleep and dreamed that I swam in a beautiful ocean. I saw a Fascinus flying in the water. Its wings were multi-colored and the phallus was in the shape of a hook. I knew nothing of hooks or fishermen. I swam to it and the instant I touched it my tail became legs. I brought the broad helmet of the phallus between my legs. I moved it back and forth over my clit. The pleasure built slowly and I felt the urge to open my legs wider and wider. The skilled fisherman, knowing the perfect moment by the invisible tugs and pulls, gave the Facsinus a sharp yank. I was pierced by the fisherman’s sharp and sudden yank—knees abruptly wide, head thrown back. Only then did I see the fine silver chain. But I had been hooked. I could not take it out. I helplessly orgasmed on the Fascinus piercing me. I held onto the chain. I spun as he reeled me to the surface, out of the water, and into the wind-blown stars of an Italian night.
Some four weeks later I was in Rome. I hurried from site to site knowing that my second week in Italy would be nothing like my fist. My first week was as a tourist, my second week would be as a lover. The men hooted and whistled. I had read about the behavior of Italian men. Walking by every restaurant, I was invited to dine with the fervor of a long lost lover. They would give me their finest wines to drink, spread their finest plates before me, and then they would offer the little American girl, with her budding nipples, her tight hips, and her sweet as apple-pie lips, a special dessert.
“Can I?” she answers.
“Of course,” answers the waiter.
At once, the waiter, the cook and the maître d’, all young men with curly black hair, thick lips and olive complexion, accompany the girl to the restaurant’s very special room. There they have a strong-legged table and, just as they had spread dinner for her, they now undress the girl, lay her on her back on the table, and spread her —a dessert for themselves.
“My, what kind of dessert is this?” asks the American girl.
And one of them spreads her knees wide as wide as they will go. Her hips hang over that side. One of them spreads her arms lengthwise from end to end. One of them pushes her head over the table’s opposite edge so that her mouth opens with surprise. There, just before her lips, is the waiter’s cock, rising from a nest of glistening and curly black hair.
“First we add flavor,” says the waiter.
The girl meant to ask ‘What flavor?’, but as soon as her lips parted the waiter’s cock slipped between them and into her shocked mouth. The cook and maître d’ held her legs as wide apart as they would. Her little peels of surprise were muffled again and again as the waiter’s cock went in and out of her mouth. She squealed, a very muffled squeal, then her eyes went as wide as her knees as she swallowed again and again. The waiter loudly praised the Virgin Mary, the Pope and God, all in Italian.
When the American girl caught her breath, she didn’t lift her head. Her eyes were half closed and stunned. The waiter and maître d’ held the girl’s knees as wide as they would go as the cook pushed. The cook’s large cock was too big to fit, at first, but the lips of the American girl’s pussy suddenly gave way. As the cock sank into the girl’s slender stomach, her tongue protruded from her mouth as if there were not room for both such a large cock and her tongue. Semen dripped from the tip. Her eyes rolled once again.
“Second,” said cook, “we must bake a cake in your little oven.”
She held onto the ends of the table, arms wide, for the cock’s thrusts were strong and deep. The little American girl’s cries sounded in time with his furious thrusts. They echoed in the little room and her toes curled with orgasm when, at last, the cook roared and emptied his cake batter into her oven. He loudly thanked the Virgin Mary, the Pope, and God for providing such a delectable little, American girl, all in Italian of course.
The waiter and maître d’ held the girl’s legs as wide as they would go to be sure that all the batter went inside.
And then, when they knew the cake was baking in the oven, they lifted the girl from the table and put her on her knees. The cook and the waiter held the American girl under her arms. She was nearly faint. Semen not only dribbled from her chin, but also her thighs. The maître d’ was very apologetic.
“I am so sorry,” he said in broken English, “but I married now and vow to my wife I never touch another woman.”
The maître d’ removed his cock and masturbated in front of her.
“Fortunately,” said the maître d’, “all that is left is icing.”
The maître d’ masturbated furiously and the American girl watched him, held upright only by the cook and waiter. Suddenly the maître d’ roared and shouted to the Virgin Mary, the Pope and God: “It comes!” He planted his legs, pointed his cock, drew back the uncircumcised skin as far as it would go, and spurted his orgasm on the girl’s face, lips, throat, tits and belly. She threw back her head and groaned, her smooth and tender skin gleaming with icing.
The three men, with new-found delicacy, lifted their masterpiece and seated her on a comfortable chair in the corner of the very special room, legs open, arms hanging over the arm rests, and head aslant.
“There is no cost to you,” said the maître d’.
“If you would like more,” added the waiter. “I am of course, at your disposal.”
And the cook added, zipping himself up. “I put more cake in the oven, I always have more batter, only say so and I put more in.”
The three men left the American girl by herself. She gazed out the window, she lifted a finger to her lips and tasted, and did not close her thighs until the cook had put a second Italian cake in the little American oven.
But then if I had gone to any of the men who had catcalled, and if I’d said to them, “Fuck me”, I think they wouldn’t have known what to do. But only 9 out of 10 men, perhaps, and a woman never knows which is the tenth man.
I ignored them.
I ignored their leers, smiles, whistles and catcalls like all the other women.
A catcall in Italy is different from a catcall in New York City. I even secretly began to enjoy the attention. When I joined two other students from the hostel, the three of us together were brave enough to accept the invitation of the young Italian men who called to us from the portico of a bar.
The owner, no doubt piqued by the success of the young men, demanded our passports to be sure we were old enough.
One was married, the others were not.
They laughed, spoke English well, and flirted.
“All of you, come together,” said one.
“The drink here is no good,” said another “We know a better bar.”
“Do you take tours?” asked another. “We know everything to see in Rome. Come with us!”
The older Italian youth who was married, looked askance, over the edge of the table, as if he could see under my dress. “Why do you hide?” he laughed. “You can see whatever you want in Italy. We hide nothing. Why do you Americans hide your most beautiful attractions? Do you charge for entry?” Some of the boys laughed but another slapped him.
“Pay no mind to Gaetano,” said the boy. “He is a fool.”
We had our drink. We paid for it ourselves.
That night I masturbated. ‘Assholes’ the other students called them, and all Italian men, but their leers and catcalls were as natural to the Italian men as breathing. They’re not the same in Italy as in America. I didn’t tell anyone that a little part of me enjoyed the pursuit. The Italians adore beauty the way the cats enjoy the beauty of the bird. They praised me from every street corner, voices thick with the promise and deception of their cocks. I was their prey—the girl, the American student, the young and youthful woman. They wanted only one thing from me and in my fantasy I gave it to them.
And I imagined my womb filling with the effluence of this or that man.
I didn’t find Benito. He found me.
In the evening, after I had almost gotten used to the catcalls, when I was just a few doors from the hostel, a piercing whistle startled me. The whistle was followed by the exuberant cry of “Che Bella!”. I immediately recognized his voice. My heart leapt, I shook and I was suddenly short of breath. I stopped. I quickly looked from corner to corner. I bit my lip, trying not to smile too broadly. Then I saw him!
He was sitting, one leg over the other, drinking coffee.
“Che Bella!” he cried again and whistled with a finger at his lips. He smiled his beautiful smile and I floated. I hardly looked both ways before crossing the street. He wore the same leather jacket and the tight black pants. He was beautiful and shouted an order at the waiter. I wanted to run into his arms. He smiled mischievously and pushed out the opposite chair with his boot.
I couldn’t help it. I leaned over him, embraced him, and bit his ear.
Then I sat in the chair opposite him at the little round table. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.
One of the men inside was nonplussed. “Hey, Benito!” he said in Italian. “Do you know this girl?”
Benito smiled, never taking his eyes from me: “I have never seen her in my life. You only have to know how to catcall. Any woman will come running if you know what to praise.”
“You lie!” laughed the man.
Another man turned to me, asking in Italian, as though not expecting an answer. “Do you know Benito.”
I forced myself not to smile and tossed my head. “Non l’ho mai incontrato!”
“Ha!” The man gave a short disbelieving laugh and glanced at his companions. “Why his catcall and not mine?”
I looked at him. I looked at Benito. I stood and slowly walked in front of Benito with a hand on my hip. And now more men were watching and they groaned. They were playing a new game. They hissed and snapped their fingers.
His hand found my waist, cupped my hip, slid his fingers down my leg and suddenly yanked me into his lap. He was erect. I wanted to grind my ass into him but didn’t. His finger traveled just a little, suggestively, up my thigh.
“I’ve ordered coffee for you.”
“I don’t want it.”
Benito didn’t answer. He met my gaze, reached into his pocket, and put money on the table. He lifted me from his lap and took my hand. I wanted to cry. Where were we going? How soon? But we didn’t go far. There was an Inn close by. He already had a key. He hurried me through a little lobby and to a gated elevator.
He slid the gate shut behind us with a rattling and thud of metal.
The elevator lurched upwards and he already pressed me against the back wall. I held his cock, through his leather pants. I had never seen his cock. He was already unbuttoning my dress, then struggling with a button, he yanked it down. The button popped and clattered down the elevator shaft. My breast was in his mouth. The hem of my dress bunched over his wrist and with a plaintive grunt he yanked and painfully tore my panties off.
I gripped his shoulders. The elevator creaked to a halt. He licked his lips and grabbed my wrist. I yanked my dress over my breasts as we hurried by an older woman. She glanced at me with an expression that was somewhere between annoyance and envy. I tried not to look back at her, but waited the eternity it took for Benito to unlock the door and half thrust me into the little room of the Inn. And there was the bed. That’s all we needed.
And suddenly we had all the time in the world.
He was breathless and sweating, but he forced himself to take off his jacket slowly. “Do you always go to strangers’ rooms?”
I grinned, hurried to him, and knelt. I yanked open his belt, unzipped him. He wasn’t wearing underwear. His cock stood upright, almost touching his abdomen, and I gently, covetously, slid the skin down and back. Mine. His. Benito’s cock. So beautiful. I kissed the base and sucked one of his balls into my mouth. He was shaved. My tongue slid upward and finally I had him in my mouth.
“Bella” he groaned and shook. I could already taste his come. “Bella!”
If he hadn’t stopped me, I would have swallowed him, then straight repented. His fingers knotted in my hair before he lifted me. He yanked my dress back down, then the other side over my other breast. He gazed at them as he pushed me backwards. Suddenly his expression changed. He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. I jumped.
“Che Bella!” he said firmly.
I was tormented. I put my hand on my hip and walked in front of him as if I walked on the street, but slowly. He groaned approvingly. He clapped his hands together. He kissed the air. I turned my back to him, one hand on my hip, the other holding down the hem at the front of my dress. I spread my legs and looked over my shoulder.
A clear drop slid down his cock.
With a kind of violence he stopped behind me, kissed my neck, my lips, and wrenched my nipple. He yanked the back of my dress over my ass. He grabbed my hair. He bent me over. He pushed me to the bed. He made me kneel with my ass up. He pushed my knees wider. He shoved my head down.
He firmly, smoothly and deeply sank into me from behind.
My dress remained tight around my waste.
Then the bed shook with each thrust. I grabbed the sheets. My cheek was pressed against the mattress. I screamed each time. I came. Benito bellowed, arched, and held me tight against his penetration.
He filled my womb.
He didn’t see me crying. His warmth was inside me—as if I possessed something of his that made him mine. I fell to my side and he lay behind me, licking and kissing. Bella, he crooned and I was intoxicated by the smell of him behind, around and inside me.
This wasn’t the way I had imagined it. I had envisioned something slower: dinner first, a walk through Rome on a summer’s evening, and then a slow undressing and discovery. When he turned me on my back, his knees between and opening mine, I inhaled when I felt him enter me again. This time my lover and I would be face to face.
I gently palmed his cheek as his thrusting began again.
“Now you have to give me something,” I said.
“What?” he asked, his voice gravely with pleasure.
He smiled as he slowly thrust. “Another one?”
“No.” I shook my head, half groaning with the purposeful depth of him. “A different one.” I opened my legs wider. “A woman must always know more secrets about her man than her man knows about her.”