A Fling in Florence

My name is Laura. I am a sophomore in college and I have never had sex. Yes, I know it might be surprising, but it’s the true. I had the same boyfriend during all four years of high school. He was the head receiver for the football team, popular, and had decent grades. We started dating at the beginning of freshman year because we both had English together.

It was not a great relationship but I did not realize how bad it was until I was not with him anymore. I changed my personality for him, cutting myself off from friends and family. He pressured me into sex often, but even to this day, I am proud of myself for standing up to him when it came to his demands. We did everything else in the sexual acts department, but we did not have sexual intercourse. That should have been the first sign; my gut telling me not to fuck him. But I stuck with him until the summer before college, when I found out he cheated on me. Guess he found someone else to give him what I was not willing to give up.

I am now in my second year of college. I am about 5’6″ with brown hair that falls in loose curls around my breasts, which are a good C cup. My eyes are a bright blue, a shade that people have always found a bit peculiar. I have curves and a firm ass, but I am strong and muscular from working out regularly all my life.

I have decided to study abroad for a semester in Florence, Italy. I felt I had been so closed off all my life that this was something I needed to do in order to find myself. High school had been horrible and this was my time to do some soul searching. I know very little Italian, but it has always been something I wanted to study.

I am living with a very nice Italian woman who cooks and cleans for me. Her name is Gioia, which means joy in Italian She is very patient and she helps me with my Italian, which is very limited. I also help her with her English. I attend the University here, studying art and Italian contemporary history. Most days, I walk along the Arn River and either draw the beauty of the city before me or read.

On this particular day, I decide to the go the Piazza di Michelangelo, or Michelangelo’s Square. It is on the top of a hill overlooking a breathtaking view of the city. It is a warm day for March and I let the sun’s rays bronze the pale skin on my face and arms. I climb what seems like one thousand stairs to the peak and I gasp at the sight before me. I can see for what seems like miles: the red brick roof tops, the Cathedral in the center, the train station, and my University. Awe-struck, I sit down on the natural stairs carved into the side of the hill and immediately take out my sketch pad.

I work the pencil until my hand cramps, admiring the scene that has come alive on the page. When I look up, I realize there is a man staring at me a few feet away from me. He is not looking at me in a creepy way, but more of an intrigued way. When he catches my eye he smiles and gives me a slight nod.

Now I must tell you, a lot of the men here are aggressive. They come up to me and try to grab my hand or sweet talk their way into my pants. Therefore, I pay no attention to this stranger. I just look back down at my sketch pad and add some shading along the water. When I look up a few minutes later, the man is gone. I let out a sigh of relief. I relax only too soon because a finger taps my shoulder and I see the man is standing behind me with a single rose.

I am shocked but he must not have seen the mixed expression of surprise and fear cross my face because he sits down next to me and extends the blossoming rose toward me. “No thank you.” I respond, a little bit too loudly, in Italian.

He just smiles at me and says something in Italian, only thirty percent of which I understand. I sit here smiling, the words swirling around in my brain.

“I…I… don’t speak Italian very well.” I let the words escape my lips, feeling ashamed that I cannot speak his native language.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a compassionate look, and surprisingly, in English. He places the flower down next to me and gets up to leave. I am confused as to why he is leaving, only to realize I was not exactly thrilled about his presence. He pushes off the step and begins to descend the stairs. It is then that I realize how handsome and young he is.

He stands six feet tall with thick dark brown hair curling around his sharp chin. His shoulders are broad and the defined muscles of his back strain against his long sleeved black shirt. He is wearing red jeans with black work boots and a scarf around his neck, which might seem strange but this is typical for an Italian male. He turns, giving me a warm smile with his perfect white teeth. His deep green eyes shine with the sunlight. I give a little smirk as I become flushed and I turn my face down to my landscape drawing. I grab my bag quickly and leave as butterflies flit around in the pit of my stomach.

The next day, I find myself smiling. “Why are you so happy, Laura?” Gioia asks as she prepares breakfast.

“It is a nice day today,” I remark, looking out the window. Gioia chuckles and places an espresso with half of a grapefruit and a croissant in front of me. I eat quickly and head out the door, ten minutes behind schedule. I stride briskly down the street, passing the open market selling everything from pets to wigs. I am so preoccupied with getting to class, that I turn a corner too sharply and find myself flat on the ground with a man standing over me. His face is blurred but when I come to, I realize who is hovering above me.

His green eyes are a piercing jade color in the morning sunlight and his mane looks soft as silk. I am mesmerized by the sight of my secret admirer, and then immediately the pangs of embarrassment flood my body. He reaches out to me and helps me up from the ground. I shiver from his touch on my wrist. He begins bombarding me with questions, but I have no idea what he is saying. “I’m…I’m…umm no, sorry. I don’t…uh… understand.” I am shaking and my face is beet red. He seems to realize I am confused and he takes a deep breath and a step back. When he speaks, fire burns in my belly.

“I am sorry. Are you okay?” His voice is warm and deep and the English words melt from his mouth like smooth caramel.

“Yes, I am fine, grazie.” I lower my head and try to leave but he calls to me.

“Wait! Please, can I buy you a coffee?” I turn to look at him. He has a weak smile and pleading eyes. I agree before I realize what I have said.

We enter the coffee shop and I order a café’ latte, or coffee with steamed milk. He pays the waiter and we sit down at a small table to wait for our coffees. When we have settled in, the man speaks first.

“I am sorry, I have not introduced myself. My name is Marcello. I believe we met yesterday at the Piazza Michelangelo?”

“Um…yes, we did. Grazie…for the flower.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Oh! My name is Laura.”

“Nice to meet you, Laura.” Marcello extends his hand to me and we shake awkwardly. Luckily, the waiter brings our coffee over and we drink in silence for a minute. I can see Marcello watching me out of the corner of my eye, but he seems to just be enjoying my company. “Laura, why are you so…nervosa?”

The way he says my name is like a flowing river: La-Ow-Ura. I realize my hands are still shaking and I probably do seem nervous to him. I try to smile and place my cup back down on the saucer. When I try to speak, it is a jumble of English and Italian word vomit. But Marcello gives me a comforting look and says, “Non ti preoccupare, Laura.”

“What does that mean?” I ask shyly, feeling stupid for not knowing what seems like a simple phrase.

“It means ‘Don’t worry’.” I blush at this and I think he notices, but he says nothing. I pick up my coffee and sip it slowly. He sweeps a hair from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. I should be more wary of this seductive man, but I feel comfortable and safe around him. We begin to talk to each other and stay at the coffee shop for hours. I learn he is twenty five, originally from Sicily, and is in Florence to study art history. We converse in both English and Italian, helping each other with mistakes and vocabulary. I completely forget about school and we end up eating lunch together at a sandwich shop down the street.

Hours later, Marcello brings me back to Gioia’s apartment on his Vespa and we say good bye in the typical Italian fashion: a kiss on either cheek. As he speeds away, I feel empty. His phone number burns through my hand as I reflect on what just happened to me.

* * *

Marcello and I have been seeing each other for almost a month now. He has taken me to dinners at small restaurants, to theatre productions in the city, and for long walks to explore Florence. We have watched the sun rise and set in Piazza di Michelangelo together, each day a new and exciting moment for us both. My Italian is improving greatly, although I am still nowhere near fluent.

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Tonight is a warm night in early April and we are walking through the Ponte Vecchio. The Ponte Vecchio is a bridge crossing the Arn River. It was built in the 13th century and contains whimsical jewelry shops and views of the river. We walk down along the water and stop to sit on a bench and admire the lights of the city. I tuck myself next to Marcello and he wraps his arm around me. I breathe in his scent, a mixture of red wine, cologne, and mint. Marcello plays with my hair, brushing my cheek with his warm finger tips. His touch never fails to give me goose bumps.

I sit up and face him. He smiles and pulls my face toward him. When our lips touch, electricity passes through my body and shoots straight down between my thighs. He pulls me onto his lap, my ass on his right leg and my legs draped over his left leg. His left hand rests on my thigh while his right arm is wrapped around my back. My arms curl around his neck and our tongues taste each other. I can feel his member growing against my leg and it excites me.

I must tell you that Marcello and I have not done anything more than passionately kiss these last few weeks. He knows about my relationship before and what happened, and what did not. Part of me is telling me to go for it, give myself to this man who I cannot get enough of. Part of me is afraid to open myself up to him sexually, afraid that this will end up like my high school relationship; me abused and alone. Marcello has not pressured me into anything, which is why my heart trusts him but my mind is still leery of this delicious man before me.

Tonight is different. When these electric shocks pass through me, I jump off Marcello’s lap and grab his hand. I tell him that we need to go to his apartment, right now. “Il tuo apartamento. Adesso!” I command and he jumps to his feet. We walk the few blocks to his apartment, climb the four flights of stairs to his front door, and crash into the small apartment.

I push him down on the couch. I sit on his lap, facing him and grinding his engorged dick. His hands grab my ass and he gives me a little spank. Marcello paws at my clothing. I help him tug off my shirt, revealing my black lace bra. He has never seen my breasts before but I can tell he is pleased. We lock lips and he fondles me through my bra. I pull away and slither down between his legs. I feel like some crazed vixen, a nympho that has been deprived for too long. Marcello’s eyes are full of lust but he reaches up and tilts my chin up to face him. “Sei sicura?” he asks. I give him a confused look and he clarifies. “Are you sure?” I raise my eyebrows and nod with a devilish smile.

I unfasten the button on his pants and pull the zipper down. Marcello raises his hips and I pull off his pants and boxers with one swift motion. Once he is free, he leans his head back and moans. I stare at his cock, admiring all nine inches of his thick, throbbing member. He is smoothly shaven and his balls are full. I hunger to taste him.

I drag my fingers up and down his thighs, causing goose bumps to rise on his skin. I slowly, painfully slowly, work my fingers up to his balls and shaft. I wrap my whole hand around his cock and grip it forcefully. I place my mouth at his thighs. I lick his thighs and suck his balls, leaving a trail of saliva coating his aching ball sack. I release my hand and lick up the underside of his dick, getting it wet and ready for my waiting mouth. I see Marcello’s body tense and release as the pleasure spreads through his body.

I lick the tip and blow on it, causing Marcello’s cock to quiver. I take the head in my mouth and centimeter by centimeter, I pull as much of him into my throat as I can until I am gagging. I release him and begin licking a bit harder over the tip, the thick sides, and his aching balls. I do not leave one inch of his dick untouched. I use one hand to play with his balls and the other hand to work his shaft. I run my closed hand up and down his shaft and my mouth follows, creating a tunnel of warmth and wetness. I drag my teeth lightly over the puckered head and Marcello lets out a load grunt when I do this. “Oh my god Laura, you’re so good. Yes, keep going. Please don’t stop!”

While sucking his cock, I remove my hands to unclasp my bra. With his dick slowly leaving my mouth, it falls with a light slapping noise against my breasts. Marcello looks down in excitement as his glistening member slides between my aching tits. I spit on them and start fucking him with my huge twins. Marcello grips the couch cushion with both hands and moans my name with his beautiful Italian accent. “Oh Laura, fuck me with your beautiful breasts. Oh God, yes!”

Marcello’s breathing begins to quicken and his hands move up my arms. I know he is getting close, so I take him in my mouth and suck hard, fondling him with my hands to double the pleasure. Marcello runs his fingers up my shoulders and grabs my hair. I start to moan, the vibrations rising deep from within me. “Laura, I’m coming! Oh god, please don’t stop!” He thrusts forward and blows his load into my throat. It is so sweet and delicious that I swallow everything. Marcello’s fingers release my hair and his body goes limp. I lick my lips and return to his side on the couch. He turns and kisses me on the forehead. “Grazie mille, tesoro.” I smile at the use of his term ‘tesoro’, meaning ‘dear’ in Italian. We lay there until we sleep. I awake in the morning, feeling happier than I have felt in years.

* * *

“Salute!” Marcello raises his wine glass and smiles at me.

“Cheers!” I respond playfully, in English. We tap our glasses together and take a sip.

Marcello and I are out to dinner at a small pizzeria on top of the hill of the Piazza di Michelangelo. It has been almost a week since I blew Marcello and I am craving him. After that night, something changed within me. The way he responded to my touch, the way he treated me with such care, the way he excited me makes me want more of him.

We talk through dinner, a lot of which revolves around me leaving at the end of May. He tries to hide it, but I can see he is upset. I have learned that he starts speaking in Italian, very fast, when he does not want to talk about something. He is doing it right now. I take his hand in mine and kiss it softly. He lowers his head for a moment and then looks up. His eyes are wet, but no tears have fallen. I rest my cheek on his warm hand and he smiles at me.

We finish dinner and take a stroll around the city. It is warm tonight and I am wearing a low cut, short sleeve sweater that displays my breasts. We hold hands but do not talk; we simply take in each other’s company and the night air. We turn onto Marcello’s street and ascend the stairs to his apartment. He unlocks the door and we enter into the darkness. Marcello turns on the light and we go into the kitchen, finding an open bottle of wine and two glasses. We sit on the couch and sip the red drink, listening to soft Italian jazz music on the stereo.

Marcello tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and I lean in to kiss him. His lips are soft and taste of red wine. I melt into him as I lean on his chest and we press our bodies closer together, his hands cupping my face. In this moment, I know it is right. I pull back from Marcello and ask, “Marcello, how do you say ‘I want’ in Italian?”

Marcello responds with, “Io voglio.”

I pretend that I am thinking and then ask, “How do you say ‘have sex’ in Italian?”

Marcello seems confused but responds slowly. “Fare il sesso.”

I look him straight in the eyes and he understands. “Sei sicura?” he asks again.

I nod and smile, giving him a passionate, open mouthed kiss. In one swift motion, he picks me up off the couch, cradling me in his arms like a child. My arms are around his neck and he walks me into his bedroom. There is a full size bed in the middle of the room, adorned with a navy blue duvet. He lays me down gently and pulls away. I try to jump onto him and rip his pants off, but he pushes me away. He leans down and whispers in my ear, “Io voglio.”

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I lie back down on the bed and let Marcello have his way. He kneels down on the floor and removes my black pumps. He kisses the bottom of one foot, then the other. His hands are warm and his kisses gentle. He slowly flicks his way up my legs and runs his hands over my calves, knees, and thighs. When he reaches my waist, he does not take off my skirt. Instead, he cradles my head and kisses my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, ears, and chin. He makes love to my throat with his mouth. His hands gently lift my back and tug a bit on the hem of my sweater. I raise my arms but he moves slow, careful not to miss planting a kiss anywhere on my body. Starting at my naval, he licks up my ribs and between my breasts, breathing heavily on my erect nipples.

He finally pulls off the sweater. His fingers find the clasp of my bra and he unhooks it. My breasts tumble out and he stares in awe at them. I take his hands and place them on me, showing him that I want him to touch me. He squeezes my bosom and pinches my nipples, sending pulsating waves down to my pussy. He takes a breast in his mouth and sucks, lapping at my nipple with his tongue. He repeats with the other tit and then finds his way to my skirt. I lift my hips and allow him to remove it. He covers my mound in kisses over my lace panties, causing my pussy to become wet and hot with desire. He takes hold of the sides of my underwear and pulls them down my legs. The lace tickles me and I shiver as my smooth pussy becomes exposed to Marcello.

Marcello stands above me, grinning from ear to ear. I can see myself in his eyes and I know he is burning with desire for me. I spread my legs apart and his eyes dart toward my opening, which is glistening with my juices. He kneels down on the floor and I scoot my hips toward him. He moves his face toward my pussy and I expose myself to him. He opens me, softly licking up and down my slit, lashing my lips with his tongue. He finds my clit and makes small circles around it. His mouth is so amazing and the pleasure builds so fast and strong. I make myself relax, enjoying every bit of what he is giving me. He fucks me with his tongue. He licks, sucks, and twirls around inside of me until I am calling out all kinds of things, both in English and Italian, as my orgasm rocks my body. I have never experienced an orgasm like this before, and I am in a state of bliss with Marcello between my legs.

My body calms after half a minute and Marcello stands up. His face is shining with signs of my orgasm and his cock is standing at full attention. He reaches over to the nightstand and takes out a condom. I watch him roll it on his thick cock, causing the fire inside me to blaze up again. I make a motion for him to come to me with my hand. He lifts my back and maneuvers my body up higher onto the bed. He lies to the right of me, half beside me and half on top of me. I can taste myself on his lips when he kisses me, a musky taste that I enjoy. I grip his ass forcefully. I can feel his hardness resting outside my waiting pussy. He raises my left hip to him and I curl my leg around his waist. We are so close and I want him so bad. I have never wanted anything with such force before in my life. I claw at his behind and with one slow push, he is inside me.
I have masturbated before. I have had things inside of me, but nothing compares to the feeling of Marcello. His dick fills me up and I moan as I bite down on Marcello’s lips. He moves slowly and I feel every thrust, every moment his pubic mound rubs my clit, and grip of his hand on my ass. I feel completely open and at ease with this Italian stallion.

I roll over so I am on top of Marcello and sit up on his lap. I bounce my ass up and down on his cock, taking him as deep inside me as I can. I grind my hips in circles, stimulating my pulsating clit and giving Marcello a show as I fondle my hair and breasts. He reaches up and massages my tits with his massive hands. “Oh Laura, I’ve wanted you so bad since I first met you. You’re just so fucking sexy! Yes baby, ride my hard cock!”

I start bouncing up and down, going faster and faster to pleasure him and I start touching myself. As soon as my fingers find my button, I can feel the sensations building. Marcello closes his eyes and throws his head back; his breathing sounds as if he is running a marathon and his grunts are animalistic. His hands close hard over my breasts and he releases himself as I climax, my vagina tightening around his cock. The pleasure knocks the wind from my lungs and I am paralyzed for several seconds before I collapse on his chest, not wanting him to pull out of me. We lay like that for a few minutes, letting our breathing return to normal as the sweat drips from our hot bodies.

We shower together, something I had never been open enough to do until now. After we are clean, we curl up in bed together. I sleep soundly and wake up happy to be lying next to Marcello.

* * *

Why does leaving have to be so difficult? It is my last morning here and I am crying my eyes out as I pack my belongings. Marcello told me he would bring me to the airport, although part of me cannot bare to see him crying. Gioia and I have breakfast together one last time. She tries not to cry but the water works start before the food is on the table. I promise to write and visit and tell her, in my best Italian, how much I appreciate and will miss her.

The doorbell rings, signaling Marcello’s arrival to take me to the airport. I descend the stairs and when I get to the bottom, I can see Marcello has been crying. We do not speak on the walk to the airport, just hold hands as if it is the last thing we can do. At the terminal entrance, Marcello smokes a cigarette. He only smokes when he is stressed, so I cannot hold this against him. I leave him outside and go to the counter to check my bags. I give the woman my passport and boarding pass. She gives me a strange look and starts spitting Italian at me faster than I can comprehend. I look around frantically for Marcello. When he sees me, he stubs out his cigarette and comes in.

The woman and Marcello argue for a minute and then Marcello turns to me. He has a strange expression on his face, something between horror and happiness. “What did she say?!” I ask frantically.

Marcello’s voice is so low it is barely audible. “You missed your flight.”

I am in a state of shock. “What…what do you mean?”

“Look,” he says flatly as he hands me the ticket. “Your flight was yesterday.”

I stare at the ticket, suddenly heavy as lead in my hands. I look up and try to read Marcello’s facial expression but it is blank. I thank the woman and sit down with my bags. Marcello sits next to me and puts his arm around my shoulder.

At this moment, I do not want to leave. Being here, in these final moments with Marcello, I realize how much I care about him and how much I would be giving up by leaving. “I don’t want to leave.” I say quietly. Marcello strokes me hair and I feel tears well up inside me.

“I don’t want you to leave either, bella mia. But things don’t always work out the way we would like.”

“Marcello,” I murmur into his chest. “I think I love you.”

I look up and Marcello catches me eye. He is beaming and pulls me closer to him. He plants an enormous kiss on my forehead. “I think I love you too, tesoro.”

At that moment, I do not need anything else. I have Marcello and I have his trust and love, something that I have not had from a man in years. We stand up and prepare to leave the terminal. He takes my bag from me and I stroll over to the trash barrel, carelessly throwing away my boarding pass. When I turn back, Marcello looks blissfully happy and I know this is where I am meant to be.

Updated: April 16, 2018 — 3:19 AM

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