




The Italian Villa

The Italian Villa

Antonio looked as handsome as ever; she expected nothing less. He greeted her, as always, with a single red rose, a kiss upon the hand and the words, "Sinorina, I cannot wait to fuck you," in a whispered tone, as he leaned close to her cheek to steal the first kiss of the visit. His words always made her shudder with excitement for his style was like the mood of a wild woman, always a surprise.

This spring Helena's drive to Lago di Garda was long. The Garda Sea was a jewel nestled between the valleys of the Northern Italian Alps. Snow capped mountains melted the glacier that streamed into the crystal blue waters below. Garda was a seasonal place, with hotel after hotel shutting their doors at the brink of winter, but Helena's destination did not need the warm weather or open hotels. She was going to the dreamy villa that possessed enough warmth to last through the cool months of the year and each time she drove to see Antonio, Helena remembered how strangely they had met.

Her journal was embroidered with loops of thread, bound in soft leather. She scribbled her heart's passions onto its pages. One day, Helena glanced into the distance when she heard the waitress drop a tray of desserts but was intrigued by a man across the room, charming, with eyes blue as the Mediterranean Sea. She smiled.

Within moments, he sat beside her and they fondled fingers in public view. Something about him was familiar. Time stopped as eternity entered the palm of her hand and just as forever seemed tangible, he stood up, kissed her forehead, said good-bye and walked away. Helena's cappuccino was cold, her mind dreamy and her journal gone.

For a month, Helena sobbed like a child whose pet had died. The journal was her soul, trapped in ink on hand-made paper, bound until its spine tattered. Her world changed when the mysterious stranger called claiming to have found her journal (Helena's contact information was written inside).

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He offered to drop it off, but he lived in Italy. Instead she dashed into her car and drove nine hours from Frankfurt to confront the thief. After explaining that he inadvertently took it along with the book that he placed on her table that lovely winter's day, Helena was unable to accuse him of anything deceitful. As life's little ironies would have it, Antonio and Helena clicked, eyes passionate from centuries past. His charm was spellbinding and they ended up making love in his Italian villa. That was two years ago.

This was to be a weekend for the two of them, in her home away from home, where the sea was a brilliant blue, clean and fresh; where the sky's misty haze hid the full view of the mountains across the sea and the air smelled of olive oil. Upon her arrival, Helena was surprised to see several unfamiliar cars parked behind the iron gates. Antonio never mentioned there would be other guests.

Once, Antonio had her crawl through the garden grounds as he hid naked and hard behind a statute. When she found him, he asked her to show him what she would do with Pygmalion's image, if it were real.

Upon licking the V between the statue's legs, Helena was startled to find that the statue was in fact a real woman, painted white to resemble Pygmalion's vision of perfection. The three enjoyed an explosive experience on the garden grounds for an entire afternoon, where later, he paid the stranger and cooked a delicious pasta meal for lunch. His strangeness intensified her curiosity. A slice of eroticism was always on his menu. Walking through the iron gateway, into the garden of his villa, was like walking into a prison of personal desire. Once inside, she could not escape the aroma of lust until she had a taste.

The kitchen overlooked the tranquil Garda Sea that was usually surrounded by crowds sailing, swimming and sun tanning in the summer, but this was the end of a chilly winter. A small crowd of people sat in the dinning room that still had accessibility to the glorious view. Antonio handed Helena a glass of red wine and lead her to the group of strangers in silence. Uncomfortable, Helena sat beside him on an antique chair and was introduced to everyone.

There were four couples, all Italian. The room was filled with small talk and an occasional secret look from one to another. Helena noticed immediately, but chose to ignore the gestures. She was, once again, unsure of his plans if there were any. Helena just wanted to be alone with him and tried to signal her desire for granting his "fuck me" wish.

He played with her hair, caressed her legs and occasionally kissed her lips in front of his dinner guests. Helena sensed unfamiliar excitement. Each time he stroked her knee, he pulled up her skirt a little higher, exposing her thighs to him. Though some of the guests noticed and watched, others seemed to ignore the obvious gestures. Helena sensed his actions were part of his evening scheme, but wondered if they were within the boundaries she had set in the past. He certainly was capable of exposing her but wondered if he would extend such a public display without her consent. Voyeurism and exhibitionism were never a consideration, until now.

The conversations were light and entertaining, the pasta, rich with sauce and the wine heavy. Helena lost track of how much she drank, perhaps three or four glasses over the two-hour dinner. She finally felt comfortable. Apparently one of the other guests, Giovanna, did as well. In her happy natured manner she flung her top off, unhooked her bra and invited the other four women to join her in the liberation. Helena, usually daring and open-minded, sat dazed, even under intoxication. The men laughed and egged the women on in their masculine, ego-minded way. Each time a bra came off, it was flung onto the chandelier above the table. Helena's was the only one missing.

The guests turned toward her and Helena faced peer pressure; she flushed with embarrassment. "Go on, Sinorina, show them how beautiful your breasts are," Antonio spoke in his eloquent Italian accent. "They are ripened to perfection. Expose yourself." "I can't," responded Helena with a shyness he had never encountered. The challenge made him hard. Antonio slowly raised her skirt, caressing her upper thigh and leaned to kiss her. In a whisper he spoke, "Helena, go on, let go and become the woman I know you are inside. You are a wild, desirable woman. Show it. Show them. Show me".

Stranded and unable to escape, Helena realized that Antonio was correct; she was wild and desirable. "Isn't this why I flee to his mercy every few months?" she thought. Her weekend excursions to Antonio's villa always lead to a reawakening of her sexuality. Usually they involved only him, and occasionally another woman, but this was more than Helena ever expected. Her desires heightened.

She sat, timid and uneasy, looking at the audience waiting for Helena to join in the curious pleasure. The women were beautiful, the men, handsome and the situation so erotic that without another thought, Helena's bra joined the others on the light above. "I'm proud of you, my Sinorina," Antonio whispered in her ear as his hand came upon her breast, showing his prize to the others.

Helena did not remember when she began to feel the sexual pleasure between her legs but as Antonio nibbled on her nipples, between his sips of wine, a tender climax filled her; then she realized someone's tongue was soothing her below. She noticed several of the couples were no longer at the dinner table and when she tilted her head, Helena saw a glimpse of naked bodies in the other room. When Antonio noticed, he asked, "Would you like to join them, my Sinorina? " Helena could only muster a nod between her soft, pleasurable moans.

The room was candlelit: who lit them, Helena did not know, but the glow made the bodies sparkle; beads of sweat turned into diamond studs. Antonio held her hand as they walked into the lust filled room, where bodies swayed in an awkward harmony. Helena felt knots in her stomach as she, for a moment, questioned her ability to act upon her nodded commitment. She knew there was really no commitment on her end - to be a part of this - but Antonio lead her blindly into a new world and exposed the many levels of eroticism. This was a boundary she never encountered.

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They sat on the sofa, making out like teenagers in the backseat of a car: heavy, passionate, yet with experienced frenzy. He never pressured her but offered options; she had the freedom to signal her desire to continue or stop. But before Helena could make her decision, another woman's hand melted the bashfulness she had been trying to wash away all evening. Fingertips dug into Helena's skin, powerful and lustful, slowly leading Helena's hand down to feel the other woman's wetness. Helena opened her eyes slightly to see who this woman was; her breasts were straight ahead, perfectly shaped - pear-like - with hard nipples begging for attention. Helena's consciousness liquefied when her lips touched Giovanna's olive skin, nipples a chocolate brown and familiar in a distant way.

It had been a months since Helena touched the velvet skin of a woman; Aphrodite seemed to emerge from her soul. She fumbled between thoughts of keeping her eyes open or closed; she wanted to savor the visuals in her mind but also wanted to confirm their reality. For a moment, Helena forgot Antonio and concentrated on the muse in front of her, silky as a spider's web; Helena was trapped in it.

Her consciousness opened secret doorways of passion. The most glorious sight was when both lips, Antonio's and Giovanna's, were engulfed in the salty sea of her breasts, licking her sweat as though the last drop of water. The sight translated into power, nurture and submissive lust, but they were submitting to her as she enjoyed them. Helena possessed a grain of dominance. She clinched her velvet walls and realized that a stranger thrust inside her. She could not remember when he entered but surrendered to his force. Helena's body entranced him as she lay on the sofa, her body nude, vulnerabilities exposed and legs open wide for anyone who wanted a part of her.

Helena wanted to see the bodies that played with hers, the men and women who tasted her flesh, decadent like Tiramisu, but kept her eyes closed and concentrated on the sensations that only multiple people could offer at one time. Helena's pleasure was beyond natural; she was the core of their desires and her decision to allow their play excited her. Without Helena's consent, another woman in the room would be "the one" - the one taking from the audience what she wanted and feeling the excruciating pleasure. Helena wanted that power: she wanted to be the one everyone in the room sought; she wanted to play goddess.

The moans in the room echoed in her eardrums; they were different, Italian, eloquent, like songs the Sirens in ancient mythology used to lure men into their provocative island. Helena soared to their music. Her body danced a song of forbidden delight: hips swayed in a rocking motion as a man plunged his hard cock within her and her torso guided the mouths along her breasts; her arms clenched to the edges of the cushions and her mind was dreamy with surrealism. Helena tried to fight the orgasm. She wanted to continue being the focus. She wanted more than she could comprehend, but her body heightened with delight, her pussy drenched from deep thrusts and her nipples hurt from too much stimulation.

Suddenly, Helena dug her fingertips into Antonio's skin as she cried out her song of ecstasy while convulsing to orgasm, with flickering movements from every extremity of her body.

"Oh, Sinorina," Antonio whispered, "You are not finished, my love." Before Helena could take a breath, Antonio exchanged places with the other man who had just climaxed with Helena and thrust his own hardness inside. She could bear no more and begged for a rest, but Antonio refused and continued with fierce passion. Helena's pussy was still wet, burning, and confused between wanting more and wanting it to end.

Having no choice, Giovanna sat above her face. Helena smelled her aroma and watched as the others began to join. She was overwhelmed with passion - some primitive desire for a lustful fuck - and dove her face into Giovanna and continued to surrender to the others. After all, it was a fair game: they got what they wanted, as did she. It was the perfect exchange of power, perfectly balanced, and amazingly accepted.

Dreamy with passion, she could not remember when Antonio climaxed and yet another entered her, but begged to be spared. Her body expelled every measure of energy it contained. They were brutal; they refused to let her go. Antonio arranged Helena's entrapment. She was the focus of the evening and the crowd obliged.

They were more delicate with Helena after her pleas to stop. The caresses became softer, more tender, like that of butterfly wings tickling her sensitive body. She was able to breathe. None of the men invaded her but rather shared in the delight of her sweetness and licked lightly enough to continue her stimulation. Her nipples were raw from teeth clamping onto to her while lost in passion, but Antonio demanded Helena be soothed, comforted, relaxed yet continually stimulated. She lay helpless to their actions, weak from orgasmic exhaustion and craving more. As long as they let her breathe and gain her composure - her lustful energy - she was content.

She made a mental note to write in next journal entry: "A pungent, musk scent filled the Italian villa, Cyprus trees standing tall in the hills, isolated - proud - like the sculptures on Easter Island; forgotten but always remembered". She never wanted to forget the adventures Antonio offered and decided to continue the evening with Antonio, in his Italian villa.
