Last night I dined with my new Italian lady-friend, Maria. It was a wonderful evening and yet vastly different from anything I'd imagined beforehand.
I arrived with a bouquet of red carnations. Until my friend opened her door I had considered the flowers a thing of beauty. Once I beheld Maria, however, the flowers seemed lacklustre and lacking in charm or appeal.
I am not good at describing women's clothing. The best I can manage is to say that she wore a very low-cut dress with an under-blouse so thin and gauzy as to be almost transparent. The fabric was caught in a brooch just below her full breasts and flowed down from there to almost reach the floor. Her hair was swept up into an elegant chignon and her ear-rings were like two pearls still resting in a half-shell. Her face was a cosmetic triumph and the overall effect was of Camelot or some noble courtyard in ancient Rome.
We clasped hands and touched cheeks while saying "Ciao". Maria ushered me into her living room, her high-heeled sandals clicking on the tiled entry floor as we moved. The living room was not at all what I had expected. I had envisaged a riot of cushioning and marble and colour, but almost all the furnishings were surprisingly tranquil and functional; almost minimalistic. The sole exceptions were a huge free-standing vase filled with ferns, lilies and gladioli, and a delightfully baroque mirror above the fireplace. The only light came from two elegant lamps. This was the salon of a clever woman. The overwhelming impression was calmingly beige and comfortable - thus does a woman ensure her visitor's eyes have no temptation to wander around the room; thus does she become the focal point and gain one's undivided attention.
I was offered an aperitif. I accepted even though I am no great drinker. I was offered a cigarette but declined as I am no great smoker either and, in any case, I could not detect any lingering odour of nicotine in the air. Maria asked me about my day and I explained that I had been delivering a management training course in the city. As if to relieve me of exhaustion, she offered me a footstool and suggested I just sit and relax while she attended to our meal. When I offered to accompany her - intending to chat, maybe even help while she worked - Maria was almost indignant.
"Of course not. No. You will sit here and rest and dinner will soon be ready."
Only after she had left the room did I become aware of music playing softly in the background. It was something I recognised but could not name. It was an eighteenth century mandolin concerto and - given that this woman and I had developed an instant rapport upon meeting - it did not surprise me that I was listening to the same baroque music I sometimes play at home. The music matched perfectly the delicate scent that Maria wore and which lingered faintly after she had gone.
Dinner was in the adjoining dining room. It was a large room lit by a lamp on the sideboard and there was a beautiful oval mahogany dining table in the centre. Several chairs had been placed along a wall and the table was set for just the two of us. It was a table that could be extended by inserting leaves in the centre, but tonight it was to be a small, candle-lit table for two. Once I was seated, Maria took a bottle from an ice-bucket and handed me some wine to open. It seemed crass to request PepsiMax in such a sophisticated setting! I used the corkscrew and opened our first bottle of white wine.
Minute detail is not required here. I can tell you that the ensuing meal was delicious. We began with lightly-battered, pan-fried whiting with salad and a few croutons. After that, we each had a small scoop of lime sorbet to refresh the palate before the next course - crumbed cotelette of veal with perfectly steamed vegetables and lemon wedges. Maria is a magnificent cook but, though she ate with great gusto, I could not help noticing how much larger were the portions she served to me. And it was apparent that she thoroughly enjoyed watching me eat all this delicious food. Eating can be sensuous enough. Having someone so obviously enjoy watching you eat - seeing them smilingly bless your every mouthful - is even more pleasing to the senses.
I would have refused dessert if it had been offered; but it was not offered - it simply arrived. Maria took the dinner dishes away and reappeared a few minutes later with pears that had been poached in some wine or liqueur - Cointreau perhaps - and, though she toyed with her own dessert, she again relished watching me eat mine.
I may be giving the impression that Maria and I did very little talking. This is far from the case. We chattered throughout the meal - mostly in Italian - and learned much more about each other as each course went by. It would be fair to say that Maria did more of the talking because I was quite heavily occupied with eating and - as she talked - I noticed that she has an endearing habit of speaking English when she she particularly wants to make a point. It's as if she is stressing something's importance by articulating it in my own native tongue. So seamless is the transition that one hardly notices unless, like me, you earn a living from detecting nuances and trying to interpret them.
I have also neglected to mention the atmosphere in that dining room. As we ate our meal, the air seemed to me to become sexually charged. Each glance from Maria's large and heavy-lidded eyes seemed to be an assessment or a caress or an invitation for my mind and body to draw closer to her. There was nothing overt. There were no double entendres, but there was an electricity both around and between us.
Once the dessert dishes had been cleared, Maria suggested we take coffee on the patio. This proved to be a pleasant paved area off the dining room; very secluded from view and with a great many lush plants in large terra-cotta urns. There were two chairs set close together with just a low table between them. It was warm, almost humid outside and Maria suggested I might like to loosen my tie and remove my jacket. I did so with relief and wished I could also loosen my belt a notch. If the plan was to fatten me up, it was already working!
When Maria returned with coffee, two glasses and a bottle of port, I was way past making any protest. As we sat side-by-side gazing into the night, I began to express my thanks for the meal and my compliments on the cooking, but Maria forestalled me with an upraised palm. She did not want gratitude and I realised it might finally be time for compliments of a different kind. I told her how much I was enjoying her company; I told her how lovely her dress was, how graceful; and I told her she was a very attractive and desirable woman.
Obviously something important was about to be said, because Maria switched to English once more.
"I think you are a very nice man - an attractive man. And I think that you think maybe we should go to bed together."
Again, a raised hand when I went to speak.
"I also think it would be nice maybe for us to go to bed" she continued, "but I think we will not do that now - maybe never. I will soon be an old woman."
Again her hand denied me speech.
"You are perhaps lonely and you need a young woman to look after you and be your lover. I am not that woman but I would like to be nice to you."
Somehow, by a glance or a gesture, I was encouraged to rise from my chair and stand before Maria. She caressed my crotch, then undid my belt and the zipper at my fly. I could hardly breathe as she lowered first my trousers and then my briefs. She fondled my balls, placing her nose and lips against them and inhaling deeply. She did the same to my cock, moving her hand along it slowly and crooning in Italian that it was "so big" and "so hard" and "so beautiful". These were welcome compliments. I grew even harder.
I cannot think of a term for this, but Maria managed to bring me to the brink by just breathing on my dick and caressing my balls. At no time was I actually in her mouth. At no time did her hand tug or jerk at me. Her breath was warm and moist, her hands were warm and soft, and my cock was ready to burst. I looked down, expecting to see a miasma or a mist like the one dry ice creates. But there were no special effects, just a warm smiling woman who exuded sex and who was sighing and exhaling me into orgasm. Maria felt my balls contract and, with exquisite timing, she grabbed a napkin and caught the torrent of cum as it jetted out of my dick.
So there you have it. No fucking. Not really a blow-job. Not even a hand-job. And yet we were both satisfied. Maria inhaled the scent of the wet napkin in her hand and - by some trick of the light - she seemed a mere girl; a courtesan who had just pleasured her well-fed Emperor.
I am certain we will talk of Maria again.
[Chiaroscuro: the effect of light and shade]
I arrived with a bouquet of red carnations. Until my friend opened her door I had considered the flowers a thing of beauty. Once I beheld Maria, however, the flowers seemed lacklustre and lacking in charm or appeal.
I am not good at describing women's clothing. The best I can manage is to say that she wore a very low-cut dress with an under-blouse so thin and gauzy as to be almost transparent. The fabric was caught in a brooch just below her full breasts and flowed down from there to almost reach the floor. Her hair was swept up into an elegant chignon and her ear-rings were like two pearls still resting in a half-shell. Her face was a cosmetic triumph and the overall effect was of Camelot or some noble courtyard in ancient Rome.
We clasped hands and touched cheeks while saying "Ciao". Maria ushered me into her living room, her high-heeled sandals clicking on the tiled entry floor as we moved. The living room was not at all what I had expected. I had envisaged a riot of cushioning and marble and colour, but almost all the furnishings were surprisingly tranquil and functional; almost minimalistic. The sole exceptions were a huge free-standing vase filled with ferns, lilies and gladioli, and a delightfully baroque mirror above the fireplace. The only light came from two elegant lamps. This was the salon of a clever woman. The overwhelming impression was calmingly beige and comfortable - thus does a woman ensure her visitor's eyes have no temptation to wander around the room; thus does she become the focal point and gain one's undivided attention.
I was offered an aperitif. I accepted even though I am no great drinker. I was offered a cigarette but declined as I am no great smoker either and, in any case, I could not detect any lingering odour of nicotine in the air. Maria asked me about my day and I explained that I had been delivering a management training course in the city. As if to relieve me of exhaustion, she offered me a footstool and suggested I just sit and relax while she attended to our meal. When I offered to accompany her - intending to chat, maybe even help while she worked - Maria was almost indignant.
"Of course not. No. You will sit here and rest and dinner will soon be ready."
Only after she had left the room did I become aware of music playing softly in the background. It was something I recognised but could not name. It was an eighteenth century mandolin concerto and - given that this woman and I had developed an instant rapport upon meeting - it did not surprise me that I was listening to the same baroque music I sometimes play at home. The music matched perfectly the delicate scent that Maria wore and which lingered faintly after she had gone.
Dinner was in the adjoining dining room. It was a large room lit by a lamp on the sideboard and there was a beautiful oval mahogany dining table in the centre. Several chairs had been placed along a wall and the table was set for just the two of us. It was a table that could be extended by inserting leaves in the centre, but tonight it was to be a small, candle-lit table for two. Once I was seated, Maria took a bottle from an ice-bucket and handed me some wine to open. It seemed crass to request PepsiMax in such a sophisticated setting! I used the corkscrew and opened our first bottle of white wine.
Minute detail is not required here. I can tell you that the ensuing meal was delicious. We began with lightly-battered, pan-fried whiting with salad and a few croutons. After that, we each had a small scoop of lime sorbet to refresh the palate before the next course - crumbed cotelette of veal with perfectly steamed vegetables and lemon wedges. Maria is a magnificent cook but, though she ate with great gusto, I could not help noticing how much larger were the portions she served to me. And it was apparent that she thoroughly enjoyed watching me eat all this delicious food. Eating can be sensuous enough. Having someone so obviously enjoy watching you eat - seeing them smilingly bless your every mouthful - is even more pleasing to the senses.
I would have refused dessert if it had been offered; but it was not offered - it simply arrived. Maria took the dinner dishes away and reappeared a few minutes later with pears that had been poached in some wine or liqueur - Cointreau perhaps - and, though she toyed with her own dessert, she again relished watching me eat mine.
I may be giving the impression that Maria and I did very little talking. This is far from the case. We chattered throughout the meal - mostly in Italian - and learned much more about each other as each course went by. It would be fair to say that Maria did more of the talking because I was quite heavily occupied with eating and - as she talked - I noticed that she has an endearing habit of speaking English when she she particularly wants to make a point. It's as if she is stressing something's importance by articulating it in my own native tongue. So seamless is the transition that one hardly notices unless, like me, you earn a living from detecting nuances and trying to interpret them.
I have also neglected to mention the atmosphere in that dining room. As we ate our meal, the air seemed to me to become sexually charged. Each glance from Maria's large and heavy-lidded eyes seemed to be an assessment or a caress or an invitation for my mind and body to draw closer to her. There was nothing overt. There were no double entendres, but there was an electricity both around and between us.
Once the dessert dishes had been cleared, Maria suggested we take coffee on the patio. This proved to be a pleasant paved area off the dining room; very secluded from view and with a great many lush plants in large terra-cotta urns. There were two chairs set close together with just a low table between them. It was warm, almost humid outside and Maria suggested I might like to loosen my tie and remove my jacket. I did so with relief and wished I could also loosen my belt a notch. If the plan was to fatten me up, it was already working!
When Maria returned with coffee, two glasses and a bottle of port, I was way past making any protest. As we sat side-by-side gazing into the night, I began to express my thanks for the meal and my compliments on the cooking, but Maria forestalled me with an upraised palm. She did not want gratitude and I realised it might finally be time for compliments of a different kind. I told her how much I was enjoying her company; I told her how lovely her dress was, how graceful; and I told her she was a very attractive and desirable woman.
Obviously something important was about to be said, because Maria switched to English once more.
"I think you are a very nice man - an attractive man. And I think that you think maybe we should go to bed together."
Again, a raised hand when I went to speak.
"I also think it would be nice maybe for us to go to bed" she continued, "but I think we will not do that now - maybe never. I will soon be an old woman."
Again her hand denied me speech.
"You are perhaps lonely and you need a young woman to look after you and be your lover. I am not that woman but I would like to be nice to you."
Somehow, by a glance or a gesture, I was encouraged to rise from my chair and stand before Maria. She caressed my crotch, then undid my belt and the zipper at my fly. I could hardly breathe as she lowered first my trousers and then my briefs. She fondled my balls, placing her nose and lips against them and inhaling deeply. She did the same to my cock, moving her hand along it slowly and crooning in Italian that it was "so big" and "so hard" and "so beautiful". These were welcome compliments. I grew even harder.
I cannot think of a term for this, but Maria managed to bring me to the brink by just breathing on my dick and caressing my balls. At no time was I actually in her mouth. At no time did her hand tug or jerk at me. Her breath was warm and moist, her hands were warm and soft, and my cock was ready to burst. I looked down, expecting to see a miasma or a mist like the one dry ice creates. But there were no special effects, just a warm smiling woman who exuded sex and who was sighing and exhaling me into orgasm. Maria felt my balls contract and, with exquisite timing, she grabbed a napkin and caught the torrent of cum as it jetted out of my dick.
So there you have it. No fucking. Not really a blow-job. Not even a hand-job. And yet we were both satisfied. Maria inhaled the scent of the wet napkin in her hand and - by some trick of the light - she seemed a mere girl; a courtesan who had just pleasured her well-fed Emperor.
I am certain we will talk of Maria again.
[Chiaroscuro: the effect of light and shade]