Fabulous beaches, ancient temples–and gorgeous men.
This was more or less the scenario I was visualizing for my Greek summer when I signed up for a seminar on ancient mythology in Athens. The course focused on the influence that myths had exerted in shaping the beliefs and political creeds of contemporary culture.
The period we would focus on was the fifth century B.C., commonly referred to as the Golden Age because of the many extraordinary works of art and architecture created in this time. But besides discovering what had helped form the cornerstones of Western civilization, I secretly hoped to meet a modern Greek Adonis and create a few myths of my own.
Dressed in a short, clingy black dress and matching mules and trailing a long blonde ponytail, I spent most of my time wandering around the stones of Athens’ Acropolis “high city” –dedicated to Poseidon, the god of the waters, and Athena, the goddess of wisdom, whose tree, the olive, is omnipresent here–and listening to lectures around the Parthenon, the largest Doric temple ever completed and the only one made entirely of marble. Commissioned by Pericles to give the city eternal honor and to solve its unemployment problem, the temple was built in only nine years, thanks to the labor of thousands of Athenians.
Besides the intricate images carved in a marble frieze called an Amazonomachy, which depicts the Athenians in battle against the Amazons, and the depictions of battles against other foes, including the Trojans, I was most excited by the erotic images that revealed the wild cavorting and reveling apparently common at the time.
Though I tried my best to concentrate on the technical aspects of the marvelous architecture, my mind couldn’t help but fantasize about those weeklong orgies frozen in the slabs. The sight of muscular nude torsos on horses, naked slave girls pouring wine for their masters and sexual trysts with multiple partners was making me very horny. The ancient Greeks clearly cared about satisfying their voracious appetites, in accordance with the philosopher Epicurus’ dictum of not bothering with death but only with pleasuring themselves while they were alive.
After a grueling month under the relentless Athenian sun, I was seriously craving Epicurean delights of my own. In fact, notwithstanding the majestic Doric temples and surrounding sense of history, I couldn’t wait to flee the Greek capital’s dusty chaos–and my professor’s droning voice, which made even an orgy sound boring. I knew it was time to leave when I realized that the sight of a nude man straddled by two women sculpted in the marble was making my nipples hard!
Needing to experience the sexual adventures I was studying firsthand, I planned my “escape.” I would take the night ferry from the port of Piraeus to the island of Rhodes off the Turkish coast , then proceed from the city of Rhodes to the eastern-coast town of Lindos, perched atop cliffs overlooking the dark blue sea. I wasn’t dissuaded at all by the fact that I would be traveling solo. On the contrary, I couldn’t wait to embark on my quest for sexual enlightenment on Rhodes, rumored to have the best-looking men in all of Greece.
That night on the ferry, as the waves rocked me to sleep, I dreamed about the epic vicissitudes encountered by Ulysses on these seas, as related by Homer in The Odyssey: his crafty victory over the fearsome Cyclops, the literally irresistible lure of the Sirens’ songs, the sorceress Circe’s forcing him to make love to her for a year.
After my night of tossing and turning, I finally arrived in Lindos, generally regarded as the most beautiful town on Rhodes. In fact, dating back to the days when the island was menaced by a sizable pirate population, this Greek gem has been an object of envy and desire. Behind its whitewashed houses and cliff-hanging views, Lindos gives off a tantalizing air of secret, centuries-old debauchery. After the many hours I had spent studying battles and politics, this was exactly what I was looking for.
Since, thankfully, no hotel construction is permitted in this visually alluring town, almost all the old homes have been converted into pensions. After finding the one I was staying in, I was thrilled to discover that from my shuttered window I could look directly down onto a secluded half-moon beach below, which I intended to visit for a little skinny-dipping, a popular sport in Lindos.
After offering me a generous breakfast of yogurt, honey and figs, my hosts mentioned offhandedly in broken English that their son Andreas would be arriving that night on a short break from Corfu, where he worked as a doctor. I didn’t really pay much attention to what would turn out to be the defining moment of my entire stay in Greece.
After a refreshing shower, I left my hair wet to dry in the sun, put on my black sunglasses and a low-cut blouse that barely covered my breasts, and tied a sarong on loosely. I put on some high-heeled sandals, which aren’t common Lindos attire, but since they made my legs look long and sexy, I figured they would do. With my tits nearly on display and a thong cozily ensconced up my ass, I strutted on out through the winding cobblestone streets, feeling hot and horny.
Since Lindos is one of Greece’s few pedestrian-only cities, a policy that of course helps maintain its ancient allure, I had a lot of walking to do. After a cup of strong espresso and a delicious pastry at a patisserie on the leafy Eleftheria Square, I crossed the main thoroughfare, Acropolis Street, which leads all the way up to Lindos’ premier attraction, its acropolis, which stands on top of the sheer cliffs and is veiled by old women selling intricate lace along the way.
On the way down from the acropolis, I succumbed to one of the many offers of donkey rides, the traditional and still only mode of transportation in Lindos. Straddling the donkey under the late afternoon sun, with my sarong riding so high up my thighs that I felt the ass’s prickly hairs tickling my ass, was definitely turning me on. Since my thong had also moved to one side during the ride, part of my cunt was actually bare and rubbing pleasantly up and down against the hairy back of the donkey.
Just as I was about to have the most wonderful not to mention totally unexpected orgasm, the ride unfortunately came to a stop. That left me thinking that if this donkey had made me feel so worked up, maybe it was going to be necessary for me to take matters in my own hands.
I didn’t have to worry too long, because as soon as I walked in the door of my house, I almost had a head-on collision with an unbelievably gorgeous hunk, who–the gods be blessed–turned out to be my hosts’ aforementioned son.
Tall, with a beautiful head of black curls, magnetic olive-colored eyes and full red lips, Andreas looked absolutely luscious in faded jeans and a black T-shirt. Still unbelievably horny from my pussy-tingling donkey ride, I thought euphorically that I had found my real-life Adonis. There was no question in my mind that I had to have this Greek lover boy. Andreas smiled when he caught me pausing longingly at his crotch. I made a mental note to thank Zeus for making me come to Lindos.
I guess you don’t need the wisdom of the ancient Greeks to know what was foremost on my mind–or, in this case, my pussy. Luckily, Andreas’ parents were out to dinner, so we had time to get to know each other. After the customary formalities were out of the way, he asked if I wanted a drink. He promptly took out a cold bottle of local white wine with two glasses and some kalamata olives to munch on.
Indicating the reclining sofa on the vine-covered veranda, he motioned for me to sit next to him. Taking in the vista overlooking the sea, I couldn’t help but think that this was a perfect setting for the Greek romance I so desired.
As Andreas explained that he had come back for the weekend to escape the loud tourist scene in Corfu, his eyes looked appreciatively at my tan legs, visible under my loose sarong, and my breasts, which were almost dropping out of the low-cut blouse. He whispered with a knowing smile that he was definitely happy about his decision to come home.
I was so mesmerized by this physical incarnation of all the lusty heroes I had studied back in Athens that I barely noticed when the door opened and Andreas’ parents came in! Since the veranda was quite secluded, and they retired to their room soon afterward, it didn’t really matter.
We drank the cool wine and talked easily, shifting from Greek art and culture to jazz and the differences between Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk, and a million other topics, as my mind raced ahead to when exactly it would be appropriate for me to rip off his clothes. I was thinking single-mindedly about making wild, passionate love to this sexy stranger, and when he got up in his snug jeans to put on a record of Billie Holiday and grab a bottle of Martini the vermouth, that is , I was gone–hook, line and sinker.
I wasn’t sure what the Greek modus operandi was, but I knew without a doubt where this American girl wanted the night to end: naked in bed in Andreas’ arms. When he started berating Lord Elgin for stealing part of the marble frieze from the Parthenon and selling it to the British Museum a favorite Greek topic of discussion, I discovered , I decided I couldn’t wait any longer, but had to make my move.
In a sexy saunter, I came over to him with my glass in one hand and placed my firm, round ass on his lap. My thong had now hiked up out of sight beneath the sarong, and I couldn’t wait for him to run his hands over my Elgin-marble-smooth ass cheeks. With the most “come hither” look I could muster, I took his strong arms and wrapped them around my chest until the palm of each hand rested on one breast.
So now I had Andreas’ rough, manly hands under my shirt, resting cozily on my bra, and his thick cock pulsing under my slightly opened and eagerly inviting ass. I couldn’t believe my Greek god had the self-control to continue talking about the architectural features of Doric monuments!
His aloofness, of course, made me even hornier. I thought I would go out of my mind with desire. I felt an irresistible itch deep inside, which needed to be satisfied by my Greek-island macho man. Still, while he played Mister Detached, his true feelings were betrayed by the unmistakable–and, I have to add, promising–hardness I felt beneath my buttocks.
When Billie began crooning her irresistible “The Way You Look Tonight,” I took it as my cue. I slowly unbuttoned my top and pulled it over my head, leaving only my daffodil-embroidered bra on. My taut nipples pressed against the fabric, yearning for Andreas to caress them, until finally I lifted my large breasts out of the bra, feeling like the sorceress Circe luring Ulysses into temptation.
I finally got to experience my own private epiphany when Andreas twirled me around passionately, so that I was facing him, and opened my legs wide until they were straddling his knees. The thong moved to one side of my pussy, leaving it bare and desperate to be filled by his cock. I received his tongue eagerly deep in my throat. Perhaps it was my imagination, or the sound of the waves breaking against the rocks below, but I felt like I was tasting the delicious salty sea.
As his juicy lips covered my mouth, his hands found their way back to my breasts. He cupped them gently and tweaked the nipples to attention with his index finger and thumb. With a satisfied expression, he watched them harden as he alternately flicked and squeezed them. Then he lifted my burning breasts toward his mouth and cooled each nipple off by lapping it with his tongue, nibbling playfully on the tips.
At the same time, I led his hand down to my “Grecian urn.” From the grin on his face, I guessed that he liked the moisture he was helping build inside my well of love. His index finger slid easily inside me and stayed there as his tongue continued to lick each nipple inexorably faster and faster.
Thinking back to the images I had seen in the marble sculptures in Athens, I begged Andreas to let me be his sex slave. Eager to comply with my fantasy, he got right into the part, going to get a long coral necklace with matching earrings and bangle bracelets, which he said to wear in place of my clothing. This was in fact the exact attire the young slave girls wore while serving their masters and their guests.
Standing naked in front of him, in only the coral jewelry, with my cunt shuddering from desire, I felt like a real slave girl from ancient Greece, and eagerly awaited the commands of my handsome “master.” Andreas smiled with his newfound power and caressed my ass lightly with a possessive gesture while he thought of what he might have me do.
Finally he said for me to walk around, so he could watch my ass move in the clear moonlight, and then to come over and pour him a glass of the Martini. He said for me to feed him some olives, and happily watched me bend over to pick up some pits that he “carelessly” dropped on the floor.
Afterward, he had me help undress him–an “order” I was thrilled to hear–and then massage some aromatic oils on him. With his hands crossed behind his head, he watched, amused, my attempts to spread oil over his entire body and not just linger on his glistening manhood. After I started outlining his balls with my long, tapered nails and setting the tip of his cock between my lips, he declared jokingly that the slave girl was not only freed but, in a rare twist of fate, made his dominatrix.
This was the command my dripping twat was really waiting for. Without hesitation, I mounted my Greek stallion and rode his cock all the way to the acropolis, so to speak. With my tits bobbing up and down in unison with my bangles and earrings, I came with ecstatic abandon. This, I murmured, must truly be the preferred method of transport in Lindos, superior even to the orgasm-inducing donkey.
After a night of lovemaking of mythological proportions, I woke up alone and realized that Andreas must have snuck out at dawn so as not to be discovered by his parents. Feeling like a naughty teenager sneaking around, I walked furtively to the bathroom. When I saw that somebody was already in there, I was about to turn away. Suddenly I felt a hand grab mine and pull me inside!
Andreas smiled mischievously as he locked the door. He was naked, and my eyes couldn’t help falling to his grand cock, which was growing bigger by the second. In no time at all he was sitting on the old-fashioned porcelain tub, and I was down on my hands and knees, with my cotton nightie hiked up to my waist, getting reacquainted with his better half–what I already considered Lindos’ best-kept secret. I joked mentally that this is the sort of thing people really want to read in their travel guides, while hungrily giving him head, alternating my mouth with my breasts.
Hmm, a little creamy froth for my morning cappuccino–what better way to start the day! But before allowing him to come, I led him to the shower, so he could soap me first with one of those large yellow sponges Lindos is famous for. After covering me from head to toe with soapy suds, he hoisted me up against the ceramic tiles and pushed his cock through my slippery pussy.
I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist, so as to get him as deep inside me as possible. My ass banged back and forth like a pendulum, but I held off coming until I felt his lava explode in me like volcanic sulphur. Then I rubbed myself against him while his hands worked my ass as though he was kneading pita dough. At the same time he held the shower nozzle deep between my buttocks, until I could no longer resist and succumbed to a shattering orgasm.
We washed the soap and sex off of each other and tiptoed toward our separate rooms. At the breakfast table, though, I had the distinct feeling from the mother’s suspicious darting eyes that she had an inkling of what had gone on. Of course, this didn’t stop me from rubbing my foot deep in Andreas’ boxer shorts while I licked some honey that was dripping from my spoon.
Naturally we couldn’t wait to be alone and naked as soon as possible. But we exercised restraint. We spent the day riding Andreas’ scooter leisurely around the outskirts of Lindos, so I got to whiz through a maze of narrow streets as he pointed out the ancient scripts carved in wooden door lintels along the way. I watched the gorgeous vistas from the cliffs, holding onto his broad shoulders and dreaming of the moment his heroic Greek shaft would be inside me again.
When hunger struck, we stopped at a romantic ouzerie with dramatic waterfront views, and whiled away the rest of the afternoon there with before-dinner drinks and appetizers. I thought it was a wonder that Greek women are able to maintain their figures with all this delicious food and these hourlong meals, and speculated that perhaps the answer is ample quantities of pure animal sex.
I returned to the house for a pre-dinner shower, this time by myself, then changed into a sheer black sheath with no bra or panties–a fact I informed Andreas of when we ventured out again, after we sat down at our table at Apollonia’s, a wonderful seafood restaurant. We started with delicious appetizers called mezedes, including the salad known as choriatiki, perfect with a retsina from the famous Macedonian winemaker Boutari. Then we dined on the catch of the day.
Afterward, unable to resist any longer, we peeled off our clothes and went skinny-dipping on a secluded beach Andreas knew of. While frolicking and fucking in the cool, refreshing waters in the dark blue moonlight, I smiled contentedly. This was truly the perfect end to a perfect weekend.
Andreas was leaving the next morning for Corfu, and I decided to leave too. It was time to return to Athens to finish my seminar. After all, Lindos had already provided me with much more than I could ever have dreamed of.
Getting over a broken heart is never an easy business. There’s the matter of low self-esteem, the sudden feeling of abandonment and the unanswerable question: Why did this have to happen to me? To add insult to injury, you soon discover that people are dying to give you loads of unsolicited advice on how to cope. They’ll tell you that time will heal things, that it obviously wasn’t meant to be, and conclude paradoxically that in a way you’re lucky–the rationale being better now than later. All this, of course, in an extremely sympathetic tone which barely hides their relief that this has happened to you and not to them. And while their words may contain some degree of truth, when you are down in the dumps and feeling like a participant at your own funeral, this sort of “pat on the back” is the last thing you need.
At the time I found myself in this sorry state of affairs I was only twenty-one, but already I felt that my life was over and no longer worth living. In a split second, which is the only way I can make really huge decisions, I decided to turn my back on everything, including law school, and head for Naples, the capital of southern Italy.
With its crazy traffic, lawlessness and reputation for corruption, Naples may not exactly sound like your typical dream destination. But it was precisely its aura of off-the-beaten-track chaos which lured me, with the added incentive that I had an eccentric aunt who lived there and was willing to offer me hospitality. Perched high above the rocks of Posillipo, her house had miraculously survived the earthquake of 1980 and was therefore in dire need of serious renovation. It boasted, however, a fantastic view of Capri, Ischia and the entire Mediterranean bay. With its closed shutters, rows of dusty books and old coin collections, the house almost seemed stopped in time. Since my aunt spent most of her time locked away at a medical lab, where she worked as a researcher, I was free to wander about undisturbed. This suited me perfectly, since the last thing I needed was a sympathetic relative inquiring, “Are you okay?” every minute.
Anyway, it is from this experience in Naples that I have concluded that there is only one really successful way to get over an ex-boyfriend: go out and have sex–lots of it. In fact, the more sex you have, the less likely you are to think of that sorry loser who dumped you. So if you need a quick fix, get out there and score some serious bedroom action. Of course, in my case it probably helped that I was far from home and in a gorgeous Italian city with a reputation for Latin lovers and romance.
With the beauty of its bay and the fascination of Mount Vesuvius, Naples has always inspired countless writers and painters it was even an obligatory stop on the Grand Tour, a custom popular with the wealthier classes of the nineteenth century. The poet Goethe claimed in 1775 that everything in Naples defied description, and even Homer chose Naples as a setting for some of the raunchier parts of The Odyssey.
On a sunny day in early autumn, as I walked over the broken-cobbled sidewalks and past the ivy-covered villas of Posillipo, I had more mundane preoccupations on my mind. I was looking for something to eat. My aunt’s fridge contained only suspicious-looking mustard jars and empty water bottles. Unfortunately, it seemed that all the stores were closed. The reason was that it was September 19th, the feast of San Gennaro, patron saint of Naples, and everybody had rushed off to the Duomo. Here, in the great thirteenth-century cathedral, Neapolitans hope each year to witness a repetition of the miraculous bleeding of the saint a ritual which dates back some six hundred years or more. The blood of the saint, which is kept in two phials, supposedly turns to liquid, and in Naples this event has the power of an oracle, for the story is that if this miracle fails to occur, disaster is imminent.
I was about to give up hope of eating anything at all when I noticed a small corner shop with its shutters partially open, and I went in to inquire about buying some tomatoes. The shopkeeper, who was closing up to go to mass, informed me that I wouldn’t find any bread stores open at this time. Noticing my questioning look–since I had asked for tomatoes, not bread–he muttered under his breath, “Foreigners.” He then explained in broken English, as though speaking to a dimwit: “What good is a tomato salad without the bread?” With this hostile declaration, he disappeared behind some curtains, only to reappear with a piece of freshly sliced bread from his own table.
This first sign of the famed Neapolitan generosity nearly brought me to tears. Walking back toward the house with a paper bag full of delicious San Marzano tomatoes, leaves of fragrant basil and my home-baked bread, I couldn’t help but think things were about to take a turn for the best. Perhaps my overly emotional state was to blame, but I took this as my own private oracle.
Through my aunt’s connections I was soon able to get a job teaching English. In order to get to the language school I had to first board the Neapolitan funicular railways. These gravity-challenged cable cars have hauled people up and down the slopes of the Vomero hill for almost a century, and have even inspired the popular song “Funiculi, Funicula.” The trolley ride was the fun part once I got off at the hectic Mergellina Port, I still had to board a seedy subway to Bagnoli station, walk through an abandoned tunnel and exit near a dilapidated former military base, where the lessons were held. Come to think of it, it’s a miracle I didn’t get mugged. I soon realized I had two options: either get myself a motorcycle, or get myself a man with a motorcycle. Since I’d never driven a motorcycle and had bad coordination anyway, I opted for the latter, concluding that it would also be more fun.
Pretty soon my prayers were answered. One day, as I was jogging down the Posillipo hill in shorts and a tank top a decidedly un-Italian getup , a really hunky guy on a Ducati motorcycle stopped to say hello. Tall, with a very dark tan and blondish hair, he actually looked familiar, and I realized that I had already seen him a couple of times at a cafe near my house. It was in Naples that I truly began to appreciate coffee. The Bar Botteghina served coffee with a particularly distinctive aftertaste, which is the true sign of a good brew. In addition, it had a friendly bartender who also had a night job as a bouncer at the most popular club in town. On any night he could get me in for free, notwithstanding long waiting lists. I was quickly learning that in Naples connections are everything, and in fact never in my life had I gotten so many things for free–good seats at the theatre, free wine with dinner, free entry to discotheques. Of course being female and single probably helped quite a bit.
Anyway, the alluring guy on the Ducati introduced himself as Roberto and inquired whether I was the new American girl who lived on the Posillipo hill. Over a hot cup of cappuccino and a warm cornetto brioche with jelly, I admitted to being that very girl, and then mentioned offhandedly that I also gave private English lessons. With impeccable timing and a mischievous look, he professed an urgent need to learn the language. In hindsight, considering what turned out to be his total ineptitude for learning, I am happy that I was smart enough to charge him double my usual price. Even his good looks and his motorcycle barely made up for the way he killed English grammar. On the plus side, he had an imposing physique from playing water polo semi-professionally, and, more importantly, he lived just at the bottom of the Posillipo hill. It turned out that I could almost see his balcony from my apartment. This was going to be almost too convenient.
I spent the next few days whizzing around on Roberto’s huge Ducati, intoxicated by the variegated tastes and colors of Naples. Before class we sometimes headed for a famous pizzeria known as Da Michele, which happens to be in a rather disreputable part of the city called la Ferrovia. But once you taste the pizza there you’ll be willing to take the risk. Neapolitans, in fact, don’t mind waiting for hours to get in, and it’s not for the interior design, which consists of marble slabs for tables nor for the wide selection, since there are only two types of pizza– the “marinara” tomato, oregano and garlic or the “margherita” tomato, mozzarella and basil . On our way back we often stopped at the outdoor cafe area called Borgo Marinaro to sip a frappe drink called “gia sai,” which roughly translated means “Don’t bother asking.”
But it was the ritual we practiced after my class which soon became my favorite part of our relationship, and which greatly helped me get through the tedium of teaching the labyrinth which is English grammar to a room full of excitable Neapolitans. It started after my first Saturday class, when Roberto took me to the delicious pasticceria Scaturchio, a historic cafe and bakery in the piazza San Domenico Maggiore, an area which is referred to by some as an open-air museum because of its rich array of churches, squares and historic buildings. In addition to Scaturchio, which is conveniently close to the university and an obvious favorite with the students, there are many unique shops. For example, there is the only ospedale delle bambole hospital for dolls in the world, where porcelain dolls, marionettes and puppets are repaired and restored. And of course there is the Ufficio del Lotto. Every Saturday time stands still in the narrow alleyways as Neapolitans eagerly wait for the numbers to be called. On a table in the office, for free consultation, there is La Smorfia, the lottery bible, which contains about sixty thousand entries, the numbers of which can be matched to any dream or real-life event. Since even sexual fantasies have a corresponding number, I quickly skimmed through the pages looking for: sex with guy on a Ducati motorcycle. It turned out to be number 5028. A Honda would have been 5029.
After playing the lotto we headed for the Scaturchio bar to drink a “cafe shakerato,” a sort of iced cappuccino frothed in a cocktail shaker, and eat some delicious pastiera, an exotic concoction of ricotta, eggs, vanilla, cinnamon and orange flower water. After stuffing ourselves almost senseless with pastiera and sfogliatelle layers of crunchy millefeuille pastry with a ricotta center we naturally felt obliged to burn off those calories. After all, in his Divine Comedy, Dante condemns those guilty of gluttony to one of the lowest circles of Hell.
So we wasted no time riding back to Roberto’s loft. There, with my mouth still full of the sweet taste of creamy pastries, I leaned back against his strong, manly chest, savoring the texture of his hands as they rapidly traveled under my shirt and over my breasts. I was still dressed, but he quickly got buck naked, and I couldn’t help but stare at his impressively huge shaft. At first I almost doubted that it could actually fit into my tight, Anglo-Saxon twat. But pretty soon I realized the error of my thoughts, and appreciated the sheer pleasure of such a winning combination. Before getting into the thick of things, he asked me whether I minded if he recorded our tryst. I didn’t mind at all, but I had an even better idea, and persuaded him to let me see his previous recordings. That way I could screw him while watching him getting fucked on the screen at the same time, a virtual reality of sorts. I slowly undressed until I was down to only my high heels, a flowery bra with small daisy prints barely covering my thick nipples, and tiny matching panties with a little daisy right on my crotch. Roberto didn’t waste too much time smelling the roses–or the daisies, in this case–but popped in one of his home videos and pulled me toward him as he swiftly whipped off my panties, leaving me in only my bra and heels.
Positioning him on the bed so that I had the perfect view of his large Neapolitan prick, on the screen, plunging deep into some Italian lovely, I gingerly straddled him. As he slid deep inside my wet cunt I almost felt as though I was part of a movie by Bertolucci. Mesmerized, I began taking my cues from the screen, so that when the dark beauty gave Roberto an energetic blowjob, I lowered myself and replaced my cunt with my mouth, hungrily encircling his macho cock with my lips. Hot lava soon bubbled out of my mouth as I tried unsuccessfully to swallow the enormous quantity of rapidly flowing come. I couldn’t help but wonder what number this would translate to in Lotto terms. I was already beginning to think like a Neapolitan.
A couple of days later Roberto let me in on a centuries-old Neapolitan secret by taking me to the National Archeological Museum. Unlike any museums I remember going to on class trips, this one is full erotic artifacts from Pompeii and Herculaneum. Closed down at the end of the eighteenth century by King Francesco, who was evidently shocked by what he saw, it was reopened by Garibaldi in the 1860s, only to be closed again in 1970 by the regime of the Christian Democrats, allegedly for “restoration.” But now Neapolitans are once again free to enjoy the bronze statue of Pan making love to a consenting goat, the erotic paintings from Pompeian brothels used as suggestions for indecisive customers, and a collection of phallic talismans, such as a warrior furiously “battling” with his own penis, which has turned into a wild beast. Ah, the virtues of a classical education!
After such a visual orgy we obviously couldn’t wait to get back to Roberto’s apartment, where I could take matters into my own hand and battle with the huge and throbbing beast of my insatiable lover. I was still wearing my jeans when Roberto guided me onto my hands and knees on his fluffy carpet. There he quickly lowered my jeans and underpants, spread my thighs as far apart as they could go with the jeans still clinging around my knees and pushed himself impatiently inside. It felt good, but having previously felt the full impact of that huge cock stuffing me to the limit, I wasn’t about to settle for anything less. So in a frenzy I pulled away, slipped out of my pants entirely, then got back down and opened my thighs really wide, lifting my ass as high as possible. With a smile of understanding, Roberto obliged, gloriously filling me up with the full length of his pole. While thrusting in and out, he eased my breasts out of their bra until they were dangling freely beneath me, and playfully tweaked each nipple from behind until I collapsed on top of him in a shuddering climax.
It wasn’t that I was bored with my water-polo stud, but one night I just had a sudden itch to get out on my own and explore the town. I grabbed a taxi in front of the hotel where the soccer star Maradona allegedly had his little cocaine parties, and asked the driver to take me to one of the more fashionable discotheques in the city. We agreed on the fare beforehand, so he didn’t even bother turning on the meter–another popular Neapolitan custom.
While flirting with the DJ at the club, I spotted a good-looking guy in faded jeans and a peach-colored sweater. He looked cute enough to eat. After catching my appreciative eye, he left his group of friends to introduce himself as Matteo and buy me a drink. After a couple of cocktails, I was feeling decidedly friendly, and we began dancing sensually to the music. Rubbing up against his crotch, I could feel that he was getting very turned on, and if first impressions mean anything, he definitely seemed very promising in that department. We ended up making out in his Alfa Romeo after he drove me home, and we parted with an agreement to meet the next night for dinner and an opera. I imagined that this was the conventional Italian date, but it definitely turned out to be less traditional then I expected.
First we went to a small restaurant in Marechiaro, just below the Posillipo hill, reputed to have such a romantic coastline that even the fish make love in the moonlight or so the famous Caruso song claims. Thanks to its private cove, it is an obvious destination for those fooling around on the side an activity more popular and widespread than soccer . Since the restaurant menu is dependent on the catch of the day, the seafood is truly fresh, as I discovered while sucking the baby vongole out of their shells, simultaneously exchanging meaningful looks with Matteo. We then washed down our pasta con calamaretti e carciofi baby squid and artichokes with a chilled bottle of local Falanghina wine. After this very rich dinner we repaired to another sumptuous setting, the Teatro San Carlo, to see the opera Don Giovanni.
Since we did not have advance tickets, we only managed to get seats way up in one of the side balconies. The negative side of this was that the stage was only partially visible. The positive side was that so were we. In fact we soon discovered that the potential for undetected sexual maneuvering was huge. So, in our very private red and gold boudoir high up in the San Carlo theater, I wasted no time sitting on Matteo’s lap. His hands deftly found their way under my shirt. I wasn’t wearing any underwear, and since I had on a short black leather skirt which gave him easy access, he was able to immediately slide his long shaft deep inside me. I was already appreciably wet, thanks partly to Mozart’s dramatic music, but mostly to my awareness of the hundreds of clueless audience members all around us.
Even though we were pretty much concealed by the dark, Matteo lifted me quietly up and down with his hands on my ass, which couldn’t help wriggling excitedly with the music. Matteo set the pace, following the brisk Mozartian tempo an allegro sostenuto, if his cock and my cunt were not mistaken , and I eagerly followed until I could barely hold back any more. Just as the tenor belted out his solo, Matteo let loose his juices inside me, and I climaxed so violently that I almost fell right out of the balcony.
The next morning, after a thirty-minute trek on my own up Mount Vesuvius in order to collect my thoughts, I contemplated the scary view from its heights. As I observed the awesome scene, I reflected that with a volcano looming right over their heads, it was no wonder that the Neapolitans lived each day as though it were their last. It is this sense of fatalism and lust for life that I encountered in Naples which helped me recapture the zest for life I thought I had irretrievably lost.
On what had seemed to be just an ordinary day in July, my husband Michael walked through the door wearing a broad grin on his face and uttered the unbelievable words: “Honey, pack your bags, we’re going to Vegas!”
Waving two airplane tickets in his hand, he explained that, having reached a very high sales target at his software company, he had just qualified for an all-inclusive paid trip to the entertainment capital of the world. Departure date would be in exactly one week, and we would be joining other winners from worldwide branches of the company
Since Michael had never mentioned the possibility of reaching the required quota, or even told me about the potential prize, I was completely blown away by the news. As I started belting an impromptu rendition of Elvis Presley’s legendary: “Viva Las Vegas,” I had visions of cocktail waitresses in fishnet stockings, heart-shaped beds and croupiers yelling, “Place your bets!” at the roulette table.
My husband explained that his company would be practically taking over The Venetian, a ritzy five-star hotel where we would be wined and dined for three days and nights, as well as enjoying a complimentary day of pampering at their renowned spa. Dreamily sipping a glass of wine, I eagerly studied the detailed program Michael had brought along with the tickets, so that I could pack accordingly for this luxurious getaway. Murmuring with a sly smile that this little trip was just what we needed, he gently stroked the back of my neck, which just happens to be one of my more erogenous zones. With the long hours he had been working, this time together would be almost like getting reacquainted. Arching backwards in my chair, I closed my eyes and fantasized about the romantic nights of passionate lovemaking we would indulge in. I did not yet know that this would just be the icing on the cake when my seemingly strait-laced husband fell under the influence of decadent Vegas. So, with a mental image of corporate glitz in the desert, off I went to pack, tossing into my carry-on everything from bikinis to sunscreen to sequined black dresses.
And so, on a hot summer evening one week later, we landed at the McCarran International Airport, only about a ten-minute drive from the heart of Vegas. From the windows of the small air-conditioned van which zipped us into the city, I watched the famous neon artery lighting up the broad avenue known here simply as The Strip. Seeing the display of glamour and glitter, I had to agree with our guide that nighttime is by far the most impressive time to arrive in Vegas. I was immediately drawn to this magical town that boasts of never sleeping and of having just about everything available. It’s no wonder that so many people start out by “just passing through” and end up addicted to the gambling, the nightlife or just the pursuit of pleasure.
It was hard to realize that this extravaganza of adult entertainment was actually established in eighteen fifty-five as a trading post by Mormons. Las Vegas only really took off, however, in nineteen thirty-one, when gambling was officially legalized in Nevada, and in the nineteen sixties it had become the playground of the so-called Rat Pack, headed by Frank Sinatra.
After the short drive we stood in front of our hotel, where grandeur and glitz had melded to create a faux-Venice motif, complete with serenading gondoliers floating down canals, and marble mosaics. All starry-eyed, I felt like I had arrived in fairy-tale land.
According to the schedule, we had just enough time to check in and freshen up before we were expected to join the entire group for dinner. The rooms, as might be expected, were up to Vegas standard, and therefore immense. We wasted no time in chitchat, but quickly stripped off our clothes and jumped into the shower together figuring on killing two birds with one stone: getting rid of both the airplane grime and our built-up sexual tension. Observing my husband’s huge throbbing shaft saluting the air, I saw that there was no need for preliminaries. Under the powerful jet of the shower he soaped my naked body with a large sponge, paying particular attention to my inner crevices and getting me hornier by the minute. Just being so faraway from our bedroom made everything more exciting it was almost like being with a stranger, with the added plus that he knew exactly which buttons to press. Wasting no time, Michael lowered himself to his knees, cupping my buttocks tightly and licking deep inside me as the hot water poured down on us. When I was just about ready to come, he stood up so I could hoist myself onto his sturdy haunches, wrapping my legs tightly around his waist. Leaning back against the marble wall, he slid his cock deep inside me with no effort thanks to the soapy suds and my own wet arousal. I squeezed myself around him as he stayed there for a while without moving, while his tongue slithered in and out of my ear. My large breasts were pressed up against his chest as he slowly let his cock slide out, only to quickly slam it right back in. In no time at all we were both climaxing.
When we got out of the shower we rubbed each other dry with the fluffy towels provided, and then stood naked next to each other while I put on some makeup and he brushed his teeth. Ah, the domesticity of married life!
When we were dressed we rapidly made our way down to the dinner, which was being held in the Marco Polo room, adorned with reproductions of frescoes on its vaulted ceilings. With that unmistakable freshly-fucked glow on our faces, we held hands and admired the linen-covered tables overflowing with tempting delicacies. From the rows of Veuve Cliquot bottles and trays of Coquilles St. Jacques, I could immediately see that the company had spared no expense. I opted for an ice-cold vodka after a spoonful of deliciously salty caviar. The cold air conditioning was making my nipples harden visibly under the strapless silk top I was wearing, and from the lusty looks I was getting I could see that, though there had been no specific dress code for this first event, I had definitely made the right choice.
I had heard that Vegas had become a sort of mecca for conventions, and being the artsy, freelancing type–which most of the time is just a nice term for unemployed–I must admit that I felt completely out of my element. Totally alien to the corporate gung-ho atmosphere, I watched, slightly baffled, as a performing duo dressed like the Blues Brothers got on stage as part of the welcoming ceremony. At this point it was clear that I needed what any self-respecting out-of-work artist needs–alcohol. After nearly downing a bottle of Cabernet, I started to feel more like I was fitting in, and decided to liven things up by dancing my ass off with any guy who asked me. I saw my husband from the corner of my eye chatting up a pretty blonde number, so I guessed he was doing some mingling of his own. But since we were both pretty exhausted from the trip, we soon decided to call it a night, promising our newly-made acquaintances to meet up the next day and get to know each other better. Walking through the huge casino filled with no less than two thousand slot machines and over a hundred gaming tables to an early retirement was definitely pretty lame behavior for Vegas, but we determined to make up for it in the coming days.
When I woke up just a few hours later at the ungodly hour of five in the morning, due to jet lag, I decided to explore the hotel on my own, since there was no chance of waking up my comatose husband. Looking out of the window just in time to catch a gorgeous sunrise, I slipped on a short black dress and made my way through the silent corridors, where the constant whirring of the air-conditioning was the only noise. Down at the casino, of course, the gambling was going on as if the time of day were irrelevant, and I decided to try my luck on the slot machines with some complimentary chips the company had supplied. But after losing the entire lot, I decided the timing wasn’t right and headed for the breakfast room, which was already set up for us. I sat down with some of the guys I had danced with the night before, equally jet-lagged since they had come from faraway Australia.
After devouring a large plate filled with scrambled eggs, sausages and fried potatoes, plus freshly squeezed orange juice and black coffee, I promised to catch up with the guys later at the pool. So, later that morning, along with my awakened husband, I headed for the pool to meet up with our new Aussie pals. After such a huge breakfast I ended up settling for a liquid lunch of banana pina coladas, while frolicking in the water as a relief from the glaring sun. Afterwards, lying face down on a lounge, I saw the Australian guy I fancied most walking up to me. He looked like a combination of the Crocodile Man from the Discovery Channel and Russell Crowe, with broad shoulders and curly black hair. His name was Nicholas, and as we talked he confessed that before joining the Sydney branch of the company he had played professional rugby, which of course explained his marvelously sculpted six-pack abs.
Loosening my bikini strings so that I wouldn’t get any nasty tan lines, Nicholas kindly volunteered to spread lotion on those spots which are impossible to get at when you’re on your own. After lingering on the backs of my upper thighs, he made his way to my ass, which was on full view since I was only wearing a G-string. After gingerly massaging each cheek, he asked me to turn over so that he could do the front as well. I began to sit up, forgetting that my bikini was untied that’s my story and I’m sticking to it , so of course it slid off. As I started to pull it back up, his hands swiftly covered my breasts, naturally with the idea of spreading lotion on them as well. Luckily his broad body was mostly hiding me from indiscreet eyes, though as his hands caressed me I quickly became too intoxicated to care who could see.
“You have beautiful breasts,” he whispered, gently rubbing each nipple with thumb and forefinger, and he went on to confess that he had wanted to do this ever since he had seen them tautly outlined under my silk chemise the night before.
Nicholas was just re-covering my tingling breasts with my bikini when my husband came out of the pool and walked over. At first I was a bit worried, but as the two men smiled at each other I realized that there was no tension or hard feelings. After all, this Australian foreplay had gotten me all ready for Michael. In fact, my husband took one look at my huge nipples and horny expression and all but gave the guy a tip as he whisked me back to our room for a little afternoon fucking. He didn’t even seem to care that my mind was still in the Australian outback. On the contrary, as I sprawled nakedly over his body with his hand lazily playing with my cunt, he mentioned offhandedly that watching Nicholas fondle me had really turned him on, and that he would like to try a threesome that very night. I showed my enthusiasm for this plan by moving “down under” myself and giving him the most mind-boggling head I could conjure up.
That night, after a delicious dinner of sirloin steak and shrimp served by the pool, we made our way toward Nicholas, who was eating with the Australian entourage. He immediately caught the gist of our desire, and asked us if we wanted to join him for a midnight dip in the hotel’s hot tub, which was conveniently located on the terrace. When we got there, it was obvious that bathing suits weren’t required, since the spot was quite secluded at this hour, and Nicholas quickly stripped and jumped into the bubbling water. He gazed at me with steady intensity as my husband unzipped my dress, unstrapped my lacy black bra and helped me out of my panties. Standing completely naked at the edge of the tub in the moonlight, I was in very plain view, and before taking off his own clothes Michael gave my breasts a proud squeeze. As I stepped into the delightfully hot water and slipped between my husband and this Australian wonder guy, I knew I was in for the night of a lifetime, and all with the complete knowledge and even the approval of my supposedly conservative husband.
Commenting on the soothing quality of the water, Nicholas draped an arm lazily over my shoulder and allowed his fingers to tease the top of my breast. I couldn’t wait to feel his hands all over my body, but out of marital loyalty I turned first toward my husband. But to my surprise Michael gently pushed me away, whispering in my ear, “I want to watch you get it on with Nicholas first.”
I didn’t need much encouragement for that, but the fact that my husband was an accomplice made me even hornier. So as Michael looked on leisurely, his hands folded beneath his head, I eased myself on top of Nicholas, straddling his knees while facing him, so that my breasts were dangling in front of his mouth. He began licking each nipple while at the same time spreading my legs with his knees to let the water flow into my cunt. After a while I felt his fingers enter me, and I threw my head back in delight. Then, with those strong rugby-playing arms, he lifted me and turned me around so that I was now facing my husband, with my pussy positioned right at the tip of his enormous cock. My thighs opened wide automatically to welcome him, urging him to fill me up as soon as possible, and he accommodated my silent request by shoving his throbbing manhood deep inside me, while his hands firmly grasped my breasts.
My husband now had an unobstructed frontal view of his wife being pumped by another man’s cock, a man whose hands were playing with those nipples that formerly only he had been privy to. Out of his head with the pleasure this newly experienced vision provoked, Michael sat up on the edge of the pool and motioned for me to take his cock into my panting mouth. So I was now a very busy bee, steadily riding up and down on Nicholas’s large shaft, while my mouth sucked on that other cock that I knew so well. With an unprecedented urgency Michael’s hands pushed my head up and down as with lusty eyes he watched Nicholas’s rod fuck me under the water. Finally he couldn’t hold back any longer, and filled my needy mouth with his frothy come while stroking my tangled hair. Almost from habit I started to come along with him, even though it was another man who was filling my twat. But at that point Nicholas pulled out of me, jumped onto the edge of the pool and deftly replaced my husband’s cock with his own. So now my mouth, still virtually in the act of swallowing my husband’s come, had to accommodate even more flowing cream. I seemed to be swallowing for ages, and I could see my husband watching with revived lust as I joyously gulped down more come.
“Sweetie,” Michael said then, “how about we show Nicholas how you howl at the moon.” Which was our personal code for me getting on my knees buck naked, with my head pointed toward the sky, and howling like a sort of werewolf while my husband entered me from behind, not pulling out until he did some howling of his own. As we got into position, Nicholas promptly sat down Indian-style right under my face, so that when I got tired of howling at the moon I could bury it in his bushy crotch.
Since my hands were busy holding me up, I had to rely only on my lips and tongue to give Nicholas the oral workout he so deserved. With that lovely dick in my mouth, my husband’s cock deep inside me and Nicholas helping out by tweaking my swaying nipples, I finally couldn’t stand it any more and landed in an orgasmic heap.
That night, before falling asleep, I whispered to Michael that, oddly enough, I had never felt so close to him as when filled by another man’s cock. Ah, the mysteries of married life.
The next day the three of us decided to seal our friendship by bypassing the organized boat trip on the Hoover Dam and renting a jeep instead for a road trip out to the Grand Canyon. Listening to the Eagles on the radio and passing a lot of cactus, we left the Silver State and passed into Arizona. After four hours of a David Lynch film scenario, with random Dairy Queens and whitewashed chapels along the way, we finally reached the south rim of the Grand Canyon. After gazing at the overwhelming sight of this two-hundred-seventy-seven-mile-long wonder, we stopped for a taco and some coffee and bought some good luck beads at the local Indian reservation. The spellbinding view of this natural wonder had definitely been worth the drive, but there was more to come.
With Nicholas asleep in the back and my husband driving, I wanted to spice things up a bit. Reaching over to feel Michael’s crotch, I discovered it pleasantly hard. Gazing around at the quiet and majestic landscape of the Arizona desert, I slowly unzipped his pants and slid my hand in. As my fingers moved rhythmically up and down, I leaned back and closed my eyes. My breasts were starting to feel constricted by my tight T-shirt when I felt what I thought to be my husband’s hand slip under my bra and start playing with my nipple. But I soon realized that it wasn’t Michael after all, but Nicholas, who had awakened to the sight of my hand in my husband’s crotch and wanted to participate in a little road fun. After a few more minutes we decided to stop the car in an abandoned-looking lot. We all got into the back seat, and the guys laid me face down so that I could give my husband a massive blowjob while he got off by watching Nicholas pull my Bermuda shorts off, exposing my lacy panties. He started massaging my
ass with one hand, while his other hand reached between my legs and started playing with my dripping pussy. I opened my legs as wide as possible considering the constricted space, and started moaning almost immediately, thanks to those Aussie fingers, which quickly brought me to such an intense orgasm that I lost my concentration and almost missed out on swallowing my husband’s jism as he shot into my mouth.
The next morning, as we checked out of the hotel, I realized with surprise that we hadn’t really gambled that much, which is of course what most people come to do in Vegas. So on my way out I stopped at the roulette table and put all my remaining chips on my lucky number. I watched the croupier give the wheel a nice hard spin, thinking with a smile that no matter what the outcome, after a weekend like this I had already won.
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