#710) The Italian Job

I was on a modeling photo shoot in Milan, my first time out of the country. The shoot was going well, even though I was intimidated by the other models, by everything when I was so young, just twenty.
One day I was at the open-air market, and I saw her. It was like I’d only seen pure-bred pedigreed dogs up until that fateful moment, and for the first time saw a mongrel bitch who was entirely self-sufficient. She was feral and fascinating, almost wild and most wonderful! I watched her, wondering if she was going to try to steal something and run away. Was she a gypsy? Were there still gypsies around? But she paid for her raw ingredients that I assumed would become her dinner that evening. I approached her as she paid for her purchase.
“Do you speak English?” I stammered. She nodded. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever beheld…” She smiled. “Uh, I’m Jean Marie,” I offered along with my outstretched hand.
“I’m Angelica,” she smiled, and I thought that she certainly was. “Well, good day.”
I had nothing that I had to do, so I followed her at a discreet distance. I wanted to see where she lived, how she lived. Several blocks down the street, she stopped to look at a street merchant’s wares, and, to try to conceal my motives, I walked a little bit further, then stopped to do the same as Angelica, on the other side of the broad street.
Suddenly, that melodious voice, the most mellifluous sound I’ve ever heard, was right behind me.
“Are you tailing me?” Angelica accused.
I blushed because I had been studying her bottom as she walked, how it was so muscular, yet so tremulous at the same time. And because her choice of the word “tailing” was something out of a spy novel. I couldn’t help but smirk.
Angelica raised her hand to strike me across the face. “You laugh at me, you follow me?”
I put my hands up in self-defense. “No! I mean, yes, but… I meant no harm. I just was watching how you moved, you move like poetry…”
Angelica laughed, took me by the arm as if I was an old friend or a lover, and started walking again. “You must join me for a little lunch, if you think I am so poetic,” she scoffed.
We strolled arm-in-arm, I told her that I was a model from America on a job here in Milan.
“You are telling me nothing I did not already know when I first saw you,” she responded. “Tell me something important to you, something secret…”
I didn’t know how to respond to this request, just looked at her blankly. Her smoldering eyes were so hypnotizing, I know that she saw me melt.
“…For instance, do you like women as much as you like men?” she rejoined, gripping my arm tighter in the crook of her elbow.
I could not find the words to say what I wanted to say, so after a brief moment, she added, “I do…” and she kissed me quickly on the cheek.
I was undone, but she just kept walking, so I kept pace.
“I am expecting a man for lunch,” Angelica said as she steered me into her palazzo, “but I’d like to share a little meal with you first…” First, I was surprised at her accommodations; I half-expected her to live in a cave or some circus wagon at the edge of town. Second, I was surprised at the lavishness of the accommodations; it was a big place. Third, the realization occurred to me that she might be a kept woman, someone’s concubine.
Angelica put the small block of Parmesan cheese down on the laden table, then pulled a chair out for me. I sat, and she reached to rearrange the various foods on the white tablecloth. Her midriff was level with my face. I thought I could smell her sexual scent, wondered if she could sense my concupiscence. The spaghetti-straps to her dress and brassiere kept falling off her shoulder, and she often just left them there, exposing a generous glimpse of her breast.
“You never answered me,” she chided. “I told you my secret. I am as attracted to women as I am to men. I would just as soon seduce you as I would the man who is expected in half an hour. Are you a rude American, in the habit of not playing fair? Or will you tell me this about you, something I already suspect…”
“It’s your bold honesty that left me speechless… not any rudeness on my part… I’ve been smitten by you since I first laid eyes on you… I was ‘tailing’ you, literally! I was fantasizing about doing all manner of things to your tantalizing tail-end, Angelica…! YES, I think I love women like I love men, romantically… sexually…”
Her lips were pressed to mine before I could get all my words out. Her hands were on my breasts, and I knew she could feel my racing heart. Then my hands were on her breasts, not through any clothing, as hers were, but pulling her breasts free, and fondling them directly and wantonly. I never wanted anything so much in my life as to spend hours in her presence, spend a leisurely time eating her food, eating her body, spend sexually in her talented hands, in her sensuous mouth, but it was not to be.
We both heard the loud knocking on her front door. We both froze stock-still in the heat of the day.
“Go out the back way,” Angelica ordered in hushed tones and pointed to a door.
I wanted to ask when I could see her again, to profess my affections, to yell, “Go away, leave us alone!” But I obeyed and left. But I did not run after closing her back door. I stayed with my ear pressed to the portal, unwilling to leave Angelica entirely.
I heard Angelica answer her front door. “You’re early, I’m so glad! I missed you! I’m so happy to be with you again, Marco!”
I opened the back door an inch to watch; listening wasn’t adequate. I saw Angelica kiss this man passionately. His hands wandered over her body as mine just had, getting her breasts out, kissing them as I had wanted, still wanted to. She sat this businessman where she’d seated me, served him a plate of food. But he didn’t begin to eat.
“Are you alone?” he asked pointedly. “I sense the presence of someone…else…”
“Of course we are alone,” Angelica replied. She sat on his lap, distracted him with more kisses.
“You are lying to me,” he accused, “I can tell…”
“No, you are being foolish!”
He manhandled her, turned her from sitting on his lap to sprawling over it. This Marco slapped her across the ass.
“Tell me!” and he hit her again, yanked her skirt up and slapped her pantied-bottom. “Tell me!” and he pulled those panties down. “Do you need it as hard as you got it the last time?” and he spanked her in earnest, hard, more spanks than I could count. Angelica fought, so this man reached over to some nearby shelves, took a length of rope, and tied Angelica’s hands behind her back. That’s when her punishment really began. The sounds that the undomesticated goddess was making made me wonder if she was being pained or being pleasured.
I opened the door further. My head was spinning. I thought about declaring my presence, telling him that it was me he had vibed-out before, that it was me who deserved to be punished. I’d never seen the reality of what I’d fantasized about for so long. A spanking was both more brutal and more beautiful than I could have imagined.
Reason got the better of me eventually, just about the time he slowed his hard thrashing of her very ruddy backside. He rubbed her there, she sighed. He let her up and untied her wrists. She didn’t scratch his eyes or slap his face; she kissed him. She extracted his erection from the fly of his suit pants. I knew what was to come, so softly closed the door and ran back to my flat. That hot afternoon, I first masturbated to real images, not imaginations, in my mind. To this day, when I want an assured orgasm, I’ll rekindle the memory of Angelica across Marco’s knee, her flaming red ass, the look on her face when it was over… I don’t call this act masturbation or jilling-off; I call it the Italian job.

6 responses to “#710) The Italian Job”

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