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Subject: {ASSM} Italian Vacation (MFm)
Date: Fri,  6 Jul 2001 23:10:02 -0400
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This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting
adults.  If you are under eighteen years of age you must stop reading
now.  Stop, I said.  Stop!

Now that I am addressing an audience consisting of only mature,
responsible persons over eighteen years of age:

This story and all its characters are a work of adult fantasy.  They
live in a world where sex is free of disease and unwanted pregnancies,
and, when convenient, free of the deeper emotional complications that
accompany it.  The characters happily invite you into their world
while you read the story but ask also that you please remember to
return to your own world when you are finished.

This story's copyright, like its sex, is fantasy.  You may use,
modify, or distribute it as you choose so long as any use,
modification, or distribution is for the strictly personal purpose of
(1) pleasuring yourself or others; (2) light recreational reading; or
(3) testing to see if your boss really reads those continuous
improvement initiatives you keep sending him (or her).

Did the story turn you on?  Did it stink?  The author appreciates any
feedback you may have to share about this story.  Send e-mail to



By: Walt9899

My husband and I had finally found ten days when the kids could stay
at their grandparents' and we could take the trip I'd always dreamed
of: Italy.  I am several generations removed from my
great-grandparents who immigrated to the United States, and even
though their Italian heritage remains in my thick black hair and olive
skin, I'd never been to Italy, didn't understand a word of Italian. 
Still, Fellini movies always make me horny and I think Chianti goes
well with just about anything, so I must carry the old country in my
bones.  There's something exhilarating about returning to a long-ago
homeland.  And even though I wasn't technically returning, being in
Italy made me aware in a way I'd never been before of how much my own
ancient history was here.  What do I love so much about the place? 
Italians, it has always seemed to me, manage to retain an
uncomplicated zeal for life even in today's fast-paced world.  Life
itself is sensuous and passionate, and they live with a happier energy
that makes the more northern Europeans seem so dour and bland in

Whatever the case, in the two days we'd been here, I had felt alive,
free, in love with the world--and especially my husband--in a way I
hadn't felt in too long.  Now don't get me wrong: I love my husband
more every day, and even through three kids and juggling careers,
we've managed to stay happily in love with each other.  We're both a
little softer and rounder than when we met fifteen years ago at the
tender age of twenty-three, but he's still sexy in a lovely familiar
way, and I can tell by the way he looks at me and touches me when I
walk past him that he feels the same way about me.  But the fact of
the matter is, everydayness does get in between people.  We have our
fights and our days when we seem to snap more than talk, and there are
times when both of us go too long without sex, or when what each of us
wants out of sex doesn't jive with what the other wants.  But
happiness isn't a snapshot moment.  It's a sum of all your feelings
and experiences.  And the undeniable truth is that neither one of us
would trade what we have for anything else.

That might sound like the conclusions of a woman grown complacent, but
if you thought that you'd misunderstand me.  I am a very happy woman
despite those rough times, and one of the reasons for that is because
the rough times never stay rough for too long.  My husband--I guess
you'll be curious about our names by now: he's David and I'm
Christine--David and I always find our rhythm again and then it's just
like the early days of falling in love all over again, and sex is no
exception--we can wake the neighbors when we really hit high gear. 
Falling in love all over again is so much fun I hope we'll never stop
doing it.

All of which brings me back to Italy and how young and alive it made
me feel, and how the hunger that had overwhelmed us when we arrived
had been complete.  We'd stuffed ourselves on incredible Italian food
and drank berry-ripe red wine with every meal, and had done it like
rabbits every chance we'd gotten.  Our hotel was nothing luxurious but
it had an old-world charm that transcended luxury.  It was just off
the town square, an old stucco building with arches everywhere and
wrought iron accenting the balconies and red tile shingles on the
roof.  The main feature in our room was a queen-sized bed--also
wrought iron with a nice firm mattress and crisp cotton sheets every
evening.  A large outward-opening window was right beside the bed, and
at night we slept with the sounds of the town below coming in like the
wind through the gossamer curtain that blocked sight but not light.  I
should say that we slept when we had exhausted ourselves from
everything we'd done during the day--all the sightseeing and good food
and drink, and the incredible happy generosity of the Italian people
who didn't care that neither of us spoke a word of their language. 
David was on me like a cat whenever we hit the bed, kissing my face
and lips and neck and taking my clothes off in a most excitingly
urgent way, and thrusting himself into me with the kind of force that
made my breath come in gasps.  Afterwards we'd lie together until the
night air had cooled the sweat between us, and then he'd rub my back
or massage my feet, and begin a slow, practiced exploration of my body
with his hands and tongue that inevitably led to his head between my
legs and me chanting my orgasm out across the red-tiled rooftop.

Ordinarily I'm as American as the blond-haired blue-eyed girl next
door, and sex goes best if I'm feeling good about myself, which means,
usually, that I feel clean and relaxed.  David and I almost always had
our best sex after I'd had a shower or a bath.  But if you don't mind
the pun when in Rome, I found myself letting David do things to me I'd
never have let him do at home.  One afternoon we had come back very
sweaty after a long exploration of the ruins outside town, and I
didn't stop him when he kissed the sweat off my neck and had to peel
my clothes off.  He licked thirstily at the sweat in between my
breasts and bathed my nipples with his tongue.  I squealed and
squirmed when he fished some ice out of the ice bucket and ran it over
my body, drawing goosebumps from my flesh.  When the ice was all
melted between his palms and my skin, I even found myself letting him
spread my legs and press his tongue against my damp underwear.  The
fabric flattened his tongue against my lips and his tongue pressed the
fabric into me, until the dampness of my arousal joined the dampness
of my sweat.  He fingered the crotch aside and buried that finger in
me while he sucked at my clitoris and I nearly passed out in the heat
when I came.

I felt free in a lustful way, and I was reveling in my husband's
appetite for me.  He has always loved to run his hands over me.  He
says he loves the sheer curviness, and he often will curl his fingers
lightly over some contour he loves: the slope of my shoulder, the
curve of my hips, the swell of my breast, the mound of my knee, the
fullness of my bottom.  He'll linger there for a moment, molding his
hand to my shape before moving on, letting his hands roam over all the
other forms he finds pleasing.  Sometimes his explorations are sexual,
more often they are not: a man taking comfort in the simple
familiarity of his life's partner.

But there was another component to it, as well.  Every man we met, or
even passed on the street made me aware of my body.  Every woman knows
what it feels like to be looked at by a man and most of the time, at
least in America, I don't enjoy it.  I'm no raving feminist, but the
way men stare when they're looking so obviously at your *parts*, is
objectifying and demeaning.  But there is a way that some men look at
me that I love, and it's because it's not

Italian men didn't look at me in that speculative way.  They looked at
me with an unrepentant approval for the female body, and for my body
in particular.  Not *parts* of my body, you understand, but the whole
form of it.  Their eyes expressed an appreciation for the physical
entirety of me.  The difference between being stared at because of
your tits or ass, and being stared at because of your entire body, is
like night and day--at least for me.  Their looks weren't aggressive
and possessive.  Instead, they were genuine and even grateful, like
their entire day had been brightened merely by the sight of me.  I
think Italian men must just have a way of making women feel that way,
because I have no uncommon beauty.  I'm average height with long,
thick black hair and a naturally olive skin--probably my two traits
most revealing of my ancestry.  I'm not heavy but neither am I lithe,
and nearing forty has softened and rounded me.  My bottom and my
breasts hang a little less firmly than they once did, and my hips have
definitely widened with childbirth.  David says that the process has
completed my body, that now I am a woman instead of a girl, and that
he's always dreamed of loving a woman, not a girl.  He means it, too. 
It's little appreciations like that that keep me falling in love with
him over and over again.  But the attention I got from the men we met
reminded me that I am still an attractive, desirable woman, and that
whatever softening has taken place has added grace.  Maybe for the
first time, I actually believed that what David said was true, and I
began to feel, as silly as it might be to say it, like a work of art
that has finally been completed.

All of this, I guess, sets the stage for what I'm writing to tell you
about, about the boy on the rooftop and how I let him watch me while
David and I made love.  About how I performed for him.  Because that's
not the kind of thing that ever could have happened back home, for a
whole host of reasons.  But we weren't back home, we were an entire
ocean away, and I had spent days browning and soaking under the good
Italian sun and being exalted by David and by every Italian man we
met.  That's the only explanation I have for the freedom I felt.

This particular incident with the boy started one morning after David
had brought be fruit and coffee in bed before he began kissing my neck
and pressing his erection against my thigh.  The window was open.  It
was another beautiful day.  He pulled my underwear over my thighs and
around my knees and off my ankles and moved on top of me, and I opened
my thighs under his weight.  Then the head of his cock was pressing
against my vulva and I wiggled a little to get the angle right and he
pressed himself into me slowly, a half-inch at a time before pulling
back and pressing in a little bit more, lubricating me a little more
each step of the way.  Then he was fully inside and I locked my ankles
around the small of his back and he began to thrust into me in
earnest.  Although I rarely come during intercourse, I often get
transported to another place from the feeling of David's weight on top
of me, the flexing of his muscles and the sound of his breathing as he
moves, and the mixture of passion and thankfulness in his eyes.  These
things are sometimes more sexy to me than what's actually happening
down there in between our legs, although even when I'm not focusing in
the intercourse per-se, the gaining and losing of him inside me, and
the way my body opens and closes around him, is a wonderful backbeat
for all the rest of it.  Today, though, I was acutely aware of the
length of him sliding into me, and I grunted with glee every time I
felt the wiry flatness of his pubic bone mashing against mine.  I'm
not a quiet lover when I really get into it, and that day I'm sure was
no exception.

At some point during our lovemaking, I turned my head toward the
window.  Even though the light taffeta sheer was still over the
window, the breeze was blowing it about, and something in our motion
had opened it a little more, so that I could see outside, and as I was
taking in the beautifulness of everything outside and what David was
doing to me here in our room, I became aware of a boy, maybe fifteen,
on the roof about fifty feet from our room.  There was a ladder and a
paintbrush nearby, which makes me assume he was up there to work, but
by the time I became aware of him he wasn't working any more.  He was
watching me.  Now, I don't believe he could actually see that much of
what was going on, because the curtain was still mostly closed, but he
could definitely hear the sounds I was making, and he could definitely
see that David's body was on top of mine, and he could definitely see
the way I was being pushed forward on the bed every time David speared
himself into me.  And we were really going at it now.  David, despite
whatever slowness with which he had initially entered me, was now
riding furiously on top of me, and I was urging him on with my locked
ankles and wide-open pussy.

The boy, what can I say? Was beautiful.  He was shirtless and in
shorts, and the sun had baked him like a brownie and I wanted to eat
him.  He had the slightly awkward build of an adolescent boy who had
not yet grown into his frame, and even though he was slender, you
could tell by his chest and shoulders that he would soon grow into a
fine strong man.  His hair was short black and wavy, and his eyes were
almost as dark as his hair.  I had time to contemplate his eyes
because he was staring right at me, and even when he saw me looking at
him, he did not look away.  He was squatting near the ladder, watching
me.  He smiled at me for one brief second.

I wondered what he was seeing.  Was he seeing an American tourist
making love with her husband on their vacation?  Or was he seeing
someone more familiar, an Italian woman who had perhaps taken an
American lover to her bed?  I found myself wanting that he should
wonder, that he should watch me and think I was beautiful.  And I
could see in his gorgeous black eyes an adolescent lust--he was
watching a man and a woman making love, after all--but also something
deeper, an already-present gratitude for what he saw of me.  Italians
obviously learn at a young age how to properly appreciate a woman.

I looked at the boy and urged David on, and he fucked me so hard he
drove my hips far down into the mattress.  When he came he glued
himself to me, his entire body gone rigid, rock hard, clutching me to
him, burying his cock as deeply as he could inside me as he spilled
himself within.  Several jolts, aftershocks, ran through him as he
gave a second and third portion to me, and when he was empty his body
began to relax, beginning at his hips and slowly unwinding out towards
his toes and fingers.  He laid his body on top of me and buried his
head in the crook of my neck.  I had lost track of the boy when David
began to come.  I had closed my eyes and celebrated with him by
holding him as tightly as he held me.  Now that it was over I stole a
glance the boy's way.  He had gone back to what he had come to do,
setting out cans and drop cloths.  He descended the ladder to get more
supplies, but before he did he turned and smiled my way.

It wasn't until later, while we were enjoying a loaf of crusty bread
and hard cheese and a half-bottle of {white wine} for lunch, that
David said to me, "Do you like the boy?"

"What boy?" I asked him, looking around.

"The boy that works on the roof outside our room," said David, looking
at me.

I nearly choked on my bread.  "Ah," I said, looking down at my wine,
looking over David's head, "Ah," I said, feeling myself flush, trying
to find a word besides "Ah," and not being able to come up with

"He likes watching you," said David, levelly, without mirth, yet there
was something playing about the sides of his mouth.

I took a big breath and finally said, "I, ah, I didn't know he was
there until, well, until things were a little beyond my control." 
Beyond my control?  What had I meant by that?

David took a sip of wine.  "I saw you looking at him this morning."

I took a sip of my own wine.  "I didn't know you had seen him."

"I saw him," said David.  "I saw him yesterday morning, too."

"Yesterday morning?" I asked, shocked.

"I wasn't sure if you saw him yesterday or not."

"Yesterday?" I said again.  "You mean, when you were... down there?"

"I didn't know if you saw him then or not."

"I most certainly did *not*!" I said, mortified, shocked.  I felt
myself blushing intensely.  "Did he," I asked my husband, "Did he
watch the whole thing?"

"Pretty much."

"Even when I..." I asked, too embarrassed to finish the thought.

"He looked especially interested when you came," said David, grinning

Well.  I can tell you one thing: I finished my glass of wine in a
hurry.  My mind was spinning with thoughts and feelings, and I needed
something to drink to get things settled down.  A kid, some Italian
boy, had watched me having sex with my husband.  He'd watched him fuck
me, and he'd even watched me have an orgasm during oral sex.  And my
husband knew!  He knew the kid was watching!  Normally, I'd have
wondered which one of them was the bigger pervert, and that thought
did rattle around somewhere in the back of my mind.  But something
else had gotten there first.  Maybe it was the way I had grown
accustomed to being watched by the Italian men.  Something about
looking, about watching, was in the air already.  I had grown used to
being looked at.  It was a way of life, it seemed, for these men.  Who
should be surprised that a boy who was turning into a man would watch,
as well?  And the fact that my husband had known the kid was watching,
had tacitly accepted his audience, did that make any difference? 
Maybe it would have, except for the fact that I myself had done the
same thing that very morning.  Had I not seen the kid watching us? 
Hadn't I liked the way he watched?  What was happening here?  Instead
of being shocked, outraged, mortified, I found myself extremely turned

Neither one of us mentioned the kid again until that evening, when
David crawled into bed and spooned himself against me.

"What will you do if he's there again tomorrow?" he asked.

"You mean the boy?" I said, although I knew he meant the boy.

"The boy," he said.

"Maybe we'll just be sleeping," I teased him.

"We could close the curtains if you're uncomfortable," suggested

"It's too beautiful here to do a thing like that," I told him.  The
curtains, in fact, were wide open right now, and lying on my side I
could see the lights of the city square over the roofline of our

David moved against me.  I felt his erection growing against my
backside.  "You want him to watch?" he asked me.

"It's his country," I said.

He licked and bit the back of my neck.  "You're like a goddess to
him," he said.

"Only to him?" I asked.  His nips had made chill bumps on my spine.

"To all of us," he said.  His hands slid up to my breasts, and his
fingers grazed across my already-hard nipples.

I pressed myself back into him and his hands slid down to the
waistband of my panties, which he summarily stripped down my legs.  I
turned over for him, and he kissed the soft flesh just below my
breasts, and then he kissed my abdomen, and then my belly button, and
down and down until I felt his tongue lightly between my legs.  My
moistened lips parted easily for him, and he ran his tongue up and
down the length of me.  He sucked my labia in between his lips,
pulling them apart one by one.  Then in an instant he plunged his
tongue into me, and I moaned at the sudden intrusion of his flesh into
my pussy.  I bucked up against him.  His tongue was hard and hot and
it danced inside me.  I wanted more of him.  I wanted his tongue to be
six inches long, to taste what he might find deeper inside.  I was
captivated and frustrated all at the same time.  I said, "Oh, no,"
when his tongue left me, but in a moment I said, "Oh, yes," as he
moved his slickened face up my slickened cunt and began French-kissing
my clitoris.  He replaced where his tongue had been with his fingers,
and as they got more deeply inside me, I found myself wishing it was
morning, and that I could look over and see the Italian boy.  I
imagined watching him watching me as David tended to my pleasure.  I
wondered if he was somewhere out with his friends right now,
describing me to them or if maybe he was at home in his own bed,
caught up in his own private fantasies.  I hoped that if he was, he
was thinking about me, about what I must look like right now as my
body crashed like ocean waves and dissolved into orgasm.

A minute later David moved up my body.  His penis slid along my ankle
and up my leg until it was positioned at where I was still very open
from his fingers.  But I rolled him off of me and said, "Not tonight,

"What?" he said, genuinely puzzled.  I never refused him after he'd
gone down on me.

"Save it for morning," I told him.  "I'll make it worth the wait."

He thumped his erection against my hip.  "But what am I supposed to do
with this?" he asked plaintively.  Poor dear.  Why do hard-ons always
make them so helpless?

I gave my husband's dick an affectionate squeeze.  "Think of it as
your dream stick."

"Oh, boy," he said, but he let me have my way.  When he fell asleep
his penis was still hard against my thigh.

The next morning, I was awake early, opening the curtains a bit wider
before lying back down under just the sheet, trying to look asleep
should anyone be watching.  David was still asleep, his penis as hard
as when he had gone to sleep, and I guess he had taken my dream stick
quip seriously.  I wondered what kinky dreams must have haunted his
sleep last night.  I never had put my clothes back on from the night
before, and I was luxuriously naked beneath the sheet.  Soon, maybe
even earlier than the day before, the ladder appeared and with it my
lovely Italian boy.  A light breeze blew over the roof, warmed by its
red tiles.  I saw the boy looking in my direction, and he was visibly
disappointed that we were still apparently asleep.  I didn't make him
wait too long, though.  I stirred, as if I was just waking up, and as
I did so the sheet fell away from my breasts.  Was it his gaze or the
morning sunlight that began to warm them?  I stretched some more, so
that one leg, my hip and thigh and knee and calf, was revealed.  I was
still like that for a few minutes, watching him through half-closed
eyes.  He had stepped a few steps closer on the roof, and I could see
the sinewy shape of his legs, the knots of muscles bunched around the
knee.  A soccer player.  I was sure he was gifted, fluid and lethal on
the pitch.

I was ready for David to wake up.  I reached one hand behind me and
began stroking him along the side of his leg, from his knee to his
hip, and back again, scratching him lightly with my fingernails.  At
the same time I brought one of my knees forward and up into the air,
my leg bent, foot flat on the mattress, and the rest of the sheet fell
away from me.  Now the boy could see all of me, my thighs parted
slightly at my juncture.  The boy had stopped when I showed signs of
real waking life, but that was OK, he was close enough for what I had
in mind for this morning.  The last two mornings had been David's
show.  Now it was my turn.

It didn't take David long to rouse, and of course he woke roused and
aroused.  I snuggled against him and he ran his hands lazily along my
body as he work up.

"Our friend is back today," I told him.

"He likes you," said David, his face muffled against my back.

"I like to be liked," I said.

He ran his hand down to my hip, along the flank of my thigh, to my
knee, and then turned inside and traced his fingers down the soft
inside skin.  His cock was still hard against my ass.  His fingers
rested softly on my mons, and I saw the Italian boy's eyebrows arch. 
I was wet already from my coy flirtation with our new friend, and when
David's fingers began pressing against me, they slipped inside easily.
 "Ohh," I said, feeling my legs part more, responding to the way he
was moving his fingers inside me and then drawing them out to diddle
my clitoris.  "Ahh," I said, when he added another finger, so that
there were three busy at work, stretching me delightfully open. 
"Ooh," I said, when I noticed for the first time the bulge in the
Italian boy's shorts, and the first motion of his hand stroking along
the outside of them.

David said, "He's thinking about fucking you," as he rolled my
clitoris between two of his fingertips.

"Uhh," I said.

"Are you thinking about fucking him?" he asked.  More rapid rolling of
my clitoris.

"I'm thinking about fucking everyone," I moaned, and suddenly David's
other had was between my legs from behind.  "Ahh," I said, and spread
my legs as wide as I could as he dipped those fingers into my cunt
while his other hand rocked my clitoris.

The Italian boy had moved the waistband of his shorts and I could see
the brown tip of his cock glistening with clear fluid in the morning
sunlight.  David pulled his fingers out of my cunt and back, smearing
some of my excitement between the cheeks of my butt.  Then he rammed
his fingers back inside me and did it again, and again, until I was
very lubricated back there.

He pressed my clitoris and flicked it with his fingertips, and with
the other hand he began to press a finger against my slickened rear
opening.  I felt myself opening around him and he slid inside.  "If
you did that," he said, and moved his other hand from my clitoris down
and put two fingers back inside my pussy, "it might be like this." 
David and I haven't practiced anal sex very much.  I often like his
fingers inside me there when I'm turned on, and occasionally when I'm
in a certain kind of turned on mood, I'll let him fuck me there.  But
the idea of accommodating two cocks at one time, of being filled up as
much as I imagined that would fill me up, had never even crossed my
mind.  When David said that about fucking the two of them, even though
I knew it would never in actuality happen, the image of David and the
Italian boy sharing me in that way, along with the driving insistence
of David's fingers imitating the sensation, and the sight of the
Italian boy now easily stroking his proudly exposed penis, was more
than I could stand.  My entire body clamped down: my teeth, my fists,
my toes, my cunt, and my asshole--all contracted into tight knots of
muscle as I exploded inside my gut, a roiling, ragged wave of force
that snapped my eyelids open and escaped through my throat in a
primitive raging howl.

As the various pieces of me fell back out of the sky and into my body
and I became aware of myself again, and commensurately with David's
prick once again bumping insistently against my hip, I realized that
what was supposed to have been my show had gotten away from me. 
Outside, the Italian boy was still looking, his cock still hard, but
he had stopped touching himself after my orgasm.  But I wasn't letting
him out of this morning without his pleasure, and I had denied my
husband long enough, as well.

Staring at our young friend, locking him into place with my eyes, I
sat up in the bed and tapped David's hips.  "Come," I commanded him. 
"On your knees."

He looked questioningly at me and began to rise, and I guided him like
I wanted him.  When I was done, he was kneeling on the bed, straddling
my legs, his cock bouncing lewdly under my chin.  I took him between
my hands and pulled at the skin.  He took a deep breath.  I ran my
fingertips along the length of him, swirling one finger around the
crown, scratching lightly at his balls with the other hand.  I looked
at the boy on the roof, who seemed frozen in place.  I curled my fist
around David's cock and smiled at the boy as I pumped him a few brief
times.  The Italian boy still didn't move.  I cocked my head
expectantly at him and pumped my fist again along David's penis. 
Finally our voyeur must have gotten it, because his hand again
descended towards his shorts.  I blew him a kiss and looked up at my

"You want him to fantasize about me," I told him, "I'm going to give
him something to fantasize about."  I sat up straight.  Now my breasts
were around his cock.  I rubbed the head all over the soft flesh,
bumping the head across my stiff nipples.

"I'm sure he's got plenty to fantasize about already," said David, and
then quickly added, "Not that I'm complaining."

"I want him to have the whole package," I said, and moved my breasts
around his shaft, which he answered by beginning to rock his hips so
he was sliding his length up and down the valley of my cleavage.  "I
want him to know I do everything, and I do it well," I said, and
brought him out of my breasts and to my mouth.

I have never been what men would call a blowjob queen, and I'd often
rather please my man between my legs than with my mouth, but I also
know that for a man, sometimes nothing beats a good old-fashioned
blowjob.  David was a wonderful husband who was attentive to my every
need, I was happy to occasionally satisfy him this way.  And when I'm
really feeling in the mood to do it, I do it with gusto.  Something of
the primitive side of me that my orgasm had exposed must have still
been in play, because today I was certainly in the mood to do it.  I
licked him wetly from base to crown, until my saliva made him sparkle
in the sunlight.  Then I lowered my head and sucked first one of his
balls into my mouth and then the other, all the while sliding my hand
up and down his shaft.

I was enjoying what I was doing so much--not to mention the sounds and
motions I was getting out of David--that I almost forgot about our
guest on the roof.  When I cut my eyes to him, he had definitely
gotten back with the game plan, and his fist was as tight around his
own cock as mine was around David's.  I stopped long enough to lick my
lips at him--I don't know why--and then gobbled David's balls again
before moving my lips slowly back up towards his tip.  When I got
there I opened up and engulfed him, and David made noises that had I
not known any better I would have thought he was having a heart
attack.  There was no fooling around now.  I bobbed my head up and
down, taking him as deeply into my mouth as I dared before rising back
up until he was nearly out of my mouth.  Then a quick swipe of the
tongue around his wide-tipped crown and back down again, David's hips
bucking against me.  Every now and again I sealed my lips around his
shaft and sucked him exactly the way I would suck a thick milkshake
through a straw.  My mouth and cheeks collapsed around him and he
gasped and shook at the suction.  After a moment of that I went back
to my up-and-down action and he exhaled in sobs.

After only a few minutes of this my mouth began to fill with the
increased taste of David's precome; he was on the brink of orgasm.  I
popped him back out of my mouth and in between my breasts, and I
squeezed them around him.  David was so close he was beyond control
and he thrust wildly for a few seconds, barking out, "Ah! Ah! Ah!"
before I felt his semen welling out of him, shooting into the crook of
my neck and coating warm and thick across the tops of my breasts.

Apparently my show had carried both male participants over the top,
because when I looked back out the window, the Italian youth's jaw was
hanging slightly slack and he was toying only lightly with the length
of his young cock.  I hadn't seen him come, but I knew the look of a
man just spent, even in Italian.  He stroked himself for another
moment and then raised his pants so that he was once again decent,
although I could still see a bulge underneath the fabric.  He watched
as David disengaged from me in sticky, strandy mess, and then placed
his fingers against his lips and went back to do whatever work he was

That night the weather turned.  A cold front came through and it
rained most of the night.  We had to close our window against the damp
chill.  The next morning the sun had returned, but when I placed my
hand against the window glass I knew it was a crisp morning outside. 
I wondered if our new young friend would be at work on such a chilly
morning.  I hoped so.  It was our last day here and I wanted to give
him one more fantasy before we said goodbye.

I dozed for a while and when I woke up again he was there, this time
standing only a few yards from the window, staring down at me. 
Instead of his usual shorts he wore jeans, the jeans of a brash
Italian teenager, and every bulge and muscle he had rippled the denim.
 I was under the covers so he could only see my face, and when I
opened my eyes I knew he had been staring only at my face, memorizing
what he saw there.  He looked sweet, angelic, innocent, studying me
like that.  The brash spark in his eye, the cocky belief in his own
invincibility that led him to so brazenly participate in our
lovemaking, was nowhere to be seen.  Just a beautiful, placid,
wonderment.  What would our mornings be like without him?  I smiled at
him and he smiled back, and then I turned to David and woke him up so
we could be together for this boy one more time.

I crawled on top of David, straddling him and teasing his nipples with
my fingernails.  I ground my hips against him and momentarily he began
to stir beneath me, his resolute penis coming to attention.  My sweet,
eager David.  He'd performed so much in the past five days it might
take him weeks to recover.  But here he was, game again at my urging. 
I reached between my legs and guided him inside me, sitting back
slowly onto him until I felt the hair of his balls tickling my skin. 
I moved back and forth a few measures, until I slid easily along his
length, and then I sat up, the covers dropping from my shoulders.  I
placed my hands behind me, on David's knees, and showed myself to the
boy on the roof.  I let him gaze at my wildly tangled hair, my soft
face, the completes womanness of my body.  I arched my back a little
so that my breasts would be raised for him, and he drank in their full
roundness, the deep rose of my aerolas, and the deeper, almost
chocolate, targets of my nipples.  Down to my slightly rounded tummy,
my childbearing hips, and finally to the dark thatch of pubic hair
that disguised David's penis inside me.  The boy looked at me
imploringly and I lifted up a few inches, slowly, so that he could see
my cunt opened wide around my husband's cock, my lips clinging
hungrily to him as I rose.  I lifted up until only the tip of David's
penis was captured inside my pussy.  David, sensing that this is how I
wanted things, made no move to thrust himself upwards, even though I
could tell by the quivering in his thighs that he wanted to.  After a
moment I let myself down as slowly as I had lifted myself up.  The boy
watched in wide-eyed fascination as David disappeared once again
inside me.  I saw his eyes flicker to my stomach, as if he was trying
to imagine how far inside me he must be.

I rose and fell a few more times, enough to mark the change in David's
breathing, enough to smile at the boy's erection straining against his
jeans.  Tight pants might be great for showing off your stuff, but I
imagined he was a little uncomfortable right at the moment.  I
summoned him closer to the window with my finger.  He advanced a few
steps and I summoned him closer still.  Now he was only a few feet
from us.  He could see everything in minute detail, and I could see
that up close he was even more beautiful than he had been at a
distance.  His features were angular but the bones underneath were
strong.  His lips were contoured and soft--not so soft as a girl's
lips might be, but enough to mediate the angular hardness of the rest
of his face.  Those lips and his eyelashes, which were long and full,
were just enough to hint at something soft and treasurable sleeping
beneath that macho surface.

I moved up and down on David's cock a few more times, feeling the
motion radiating out through my breasts, feeling waves ripple across
the soft flesh.  I smiled at the boy and began to move up and down
some more, and I looked down at David, who was gazing up at me with
the same reverence as our friend.  As I began my more regular motion,
the boy unbuttoned his jeans and unwrapped them from around his waist.
 Now he was bare to the tops of his thighs, and I had my first full
view of his slender penis and his sparsely-haired balls.  Not a boy
but not yet a man.  Striking in the smooth way before the hirsute
masculinity of full maturity set in.  His penis arced up toward his
navel like a rainbow.

I couldn't get the full range of motion I wanted sitting up like that,
so I let go of David's knees and came forward, and my face was near
enough the window that my breath fogged the glass.  David put his
hands on my waist and urged me faster.  I obliged him, feeling his
sweet familiar self inside me while drinking my eye's fill of the
brand-new boy outside.  I heard myself beginning to grunt as I slapped
down on David with more force.  Outside the window, the boy was
stroking himself, matching his tempo to ours.  God, I loved sex with
my husband.  Sex just like this: fast, hard, giving our energies to
each other.  Even if I didn't come during intercourse, there was
nothing more connecting than the way we fit together, all of him
snugged as far inside me as we could manage.  The motion of his cock
sliding against my vaginal walls and bottoming out down near my cervix
sent tiny love messages racing through every synapse of my body.  And
now, in addition to loving my husband, I was showing this boy what it
was like for a woman and a man to love each other, what sex could be
like when you fucked with your heart and soul as well as your body.  I
was both lover and teacher for this one last day, and the combination
drove me faster and harder.  The boy had stepped closer and was now
just outside the window his cock a few inches from my face.  His hand
worked its length furiously.  I leaned forward until my face was
touching the glass, and David, making up for my reduced movement,
began lifting his own hips off the bed, embedding himself into me. 
The boy lowered his cock until it was touching the glass and I kissed
the glass where the head rested.  When I did that, David stiffened
beneath me, his hips lifted to meet mine, and his cock pulsed as he
began to come.  I licked the window along the length of the boy's cock
and as I did that the boy too came, shooting his spunky load all over
the glass where my face was.  Ah, the exuberance of youth.  He coated
the window four or five full shots before his ejaculation even began
to decrease.  When it was done he touched his cockhead one last time
to the glass and I kissed it for him.

David wilted beneath me.  The boy, after standing still until his
penis began to soften, pulled his pants back up.  He left and I
thought he was gone, but he returned moments later with a bucket of
water and a rag, which he used to begin cleaning his semen off the
window glass.  David turned his body beneath me, turning me over with

"I love you," he said, and before I could protest, buried his head
between my legs.  He did all the things he knows I love.  All the
things with his tongue and his fingers and his lips and his heart, and
the boy lovingly washed our windows and stared down at me in the same
reverent manner he'd been staring at me when I first woke that
morning.  He was watching my body as I moved with David's attentions,
but he was also watching my face, still studying it as if he were
afraid he would forget it.  David had played me just right again, and
I looked into the boy's eyes as I felt my orgasm coming on.  When the
orgasm washed over me--not gut-ripping like the day before, but a
slow, sweet, sunrise orgasm--I closed my eyes inside the aria of my
own body.

When I came around again the boy was gone.  Even his ladder was
nowhere in sight.  Gone just like that, and we'd probably never see
him again.  That's just as well.  I'd taken our time with him as far
as I wanted it to go, and I relished my last sight of him committing
my face to his memory.  I realized that mine might be a face he would
never forget.  I wondered, as I thought about that, how he would
remember me years later.  Would I always be a fantasy to him?  Would I
become something he turned into a perfection against which he judged
all other women?  I hoped selfishly for a moment that no other woman
would ever live up to his memory of me, but then again I hoped he
would find someone who would.  I suspected he would break many hearts
along the way.

July 3, 2001

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