Amore by Lucy Artell
I was eighteen when I went to Italy with my parents. It wasn’t altogether a dreamlike trip for the three of us. We ended up getting on each other’s nerves. They were still in the “we can tell you whatever we want” mode and I was in the “no you cannot” mode. In the end, we spent a lot of time apart, sightseeing on our own.
I met a raven-haired Italian waitress at the cafe near our hotel. All I knew how to say in Italian was “La Fenicci,” which was the name of the hotel, “grazzi” (thank you), “prego” (please), and San Marco (San Marco, the square in Venice). The only English word the waitress knew was “Levi’s,” which she pronounced, “Leveees.”
But she smiled at me in a very seductive way, and somehow we made do with our lack of verbal skills. Made do on the bed in my hotel room, her black dress on the dresser, my “Leveees” and T-shirt in a heap on the floor. We sat in the bed, stripped completely, her legs over mine, entwined like human pretzels. She moaned when I kissed her neck, my favorite part of a woman. She let me kiss her neck for what seemed like hours, lingering on the pulse point, spending much time at the base of it, that sultry spot between her collar bones. She had long, dark, straight hair, and she tilted her head way back to let me get at her neck, and her hair tickled my fingers, which were holding onto her back.
I loved her smell. She wore a musky perfume, but she also smelled like the cafe in which she worked. Her skin had the flavor of the coffee that she served, and a bit of the spices that they put in the pasta sauce, and some of the wine, as well. She tasted dark and rich, but I didn’t get down to her pussy until I spent a good, long time drinking all of the scent and flavor from the skin of her neck, and arms, and belly.
When she lay back on my bed, her hair spread around her head like a blanket, and I would start at the tips of it, running my fingers through it. Then I would work my way to kissing her eyebrows, which were thick and dark and entirely too sexy for anyone to have been born with. Her eyes were the brown of the coffee she served, and she’d close them so that I could kiss her eyelids. She had a strong nose, which I traced over and over again with my fingers, and she had a slight cleft in her chin which I believed would make her a movie star if she came to America with me.
By the time I made my way down to her breasts, she’d be breathing hard, but it wouldn’t make me work any faster. I spent time on her nipples, because they deserved my time. I kissed and licked them, held them between my lips and sucked them to make them stand out. They were browner than mine, like milk chocolate, and small, but her breasts were also small, so they suited her.
I worked my way down her ribs, not missing one, to her belly. She had a little belly, a small swell of a belly, even though she was a thin girl. I liked to cup it in my hands, to kiss all around it, and this made her smile. She wasn’t self-conscious of her body the way American girls sometimes are. She seemed pleased with the amount of lust and energy I bestowed on each part of her. But each part of her deserved it. Every inch of her was divine.
Her pussy was covered in a thick, mat of silky dark hair that I liked to lick. I pretended to be a cat, giving my cat friend a bath. I lapped at her fur with the flat of my tongue, parting her lips at the same time and tickling her between them. She responded delightfully, grabbing at me, pushing me down, demanding (I could understand the tone if not the words) that I satisfy her.
I would do nothing less. I would make her come slowly, specifically treating her to the many ways my tongue could bring her pleasure. I taunted her with nips to her pussy lips between caressing circles of my tongue. I took her bursting clit between my lips and sucked it gently, flicking my tongue between my lips to tap on it, rap on it, until she could take no more and she exploded with orgasm and more come than any other woman I’d been with. She ejaculated in my mouth, and her taste was as pleasing as the perfume of her skin. It was my desire, my duty, to make her come as many times as I could.
We pleasured each other in many positions, turning topsy-turvy on my bed, head-to-tail, bucking against each other like animals. We stole into the square late at night and made love against the base of one of the ancient statues, kissing and fondling in the moonlight.
And, when it was time to part, when, sad though it was, we had to say goodbye in the only way we could, I made love to her a final time, memorizing the lines of her lovely neck. Remembering her taste for eternity. I promised to come back and she promised to visit… at least, I think we did. Grazzi, prego, and San Marco don’t get you very far in long goodbyes.
But I did give her my Leveee’s, and that seemed to make her happy.