End of morning. Sun blasts through office windows. Heat clings to skin. Still hazy from last night’s ‘dream’ – husband and Italian guide drugged me, took turns. Threesome I crave again. No fear. Just heat pooling between my thighs. I glance at my husband across the open space. He’s snapping photos of statues on his phone, smiling confidently. Permission? I think so.
Smile sly. I slip away. Corridors buzz with tourists – no, colleagues rushing. Big black sunglasses hide my eyes. Posture tall, chest out. No bra since lingerie fitting this morning, aborted with the young stockboy. Shirt fabric rasps nipples. They stiffen. Breasts heavy, swelling. Every step sends sparks. Men stare. I feel exposed.
The Atmosphere
Pause at a display case. Lingerie ads mock me. Flush hot. Need air. Spot a vendor’s cart – books, files stacked high. Lean forward, hands on edge. Eyes shut. Pretend hidden. Nipples throb against silk. Dream of strong hands kneading them. Waste, so perky for no one.
“What you looking for, bella signora?” Vendor’s voice jolts me. Short, pudgy guy grins at my cleavage. Shirt gapes – one button loose. Breeze teases skin. His eyes drill in. Pierces to my core. Wetness stirs. Stammer “nothing,” flee to empty breakroom. Sun warms me. Breasts ache now. Want to cup them. Imagine begging a stranger: “Hold my tits, please. Suck nipples. I’ll return the favor, gentleman.” Perverse grin twists my refined face.
Wander on. Intuition pulls me to Trastevere wing – quirky offices, galleries. Spot wooden Pinocchio on a ledge. Sign: Artisanal wooden toys. Childhood flashes. Enter workshop office. Chaos: puppets tangle on benches. Gepetto-like man sands wood. Gruff, graying, sunglasses on. Broad shoulders.
Cough softly. He stands, tall, rigid. French speaker. Charms me. I fantasize asking him to massage my sore tits. Reality snaps. Buy Pinocchio. Eye sculptures – lovers entwined, sensual curves.
“Pay by card?” Reveals: not blind. Explains glasses for focus. Mimics brother’s gestures. Invites touch sculptures blindfolded. Hands glide wood. Aroused. He brushes my ass. “Inspiration for next piece.”
Guides my hands on statues. Rounds like lovers. Then 69 figure. Wax on palms for feel. Whispers Italian. Neck kiss. Arms wrap me. “Your cleavage from above – perfect.”
Rip off glasses? Fake! Fury melts. Hands on his chest push, then knead. He unbuttons shirt. Fingers pinch nipples. I gasp, arch. “Just relieve ache,” I lie. Breasts swell.
The Explosion
“All statues? Me with tourists.” Places my hands on him. Married, I whisper. He smirks: “Next fuck with hubby, think of me.” Lips crash. Tongue invades. Grind on his bulge.
Lock clicks. Door sealed. Printer hums distant. Coffee scent mixes my perfume – musky arousal.
Spins me. Desk edge. Pants down. His cock – thick, mushroom head – teases slit. Door’s lock beeps secure. Slides in slow. Stretches me. Out, in. Pussy slurps greedy. Doggy now. Ass slapped. Balls slap wet. “Look at that bouncing ass, tits swinging. Half-shaved cunt grips me.”
Pulls out. Kneels. Nose buries in folds. Tongue laps clit. Fingers – index, middle – plunge deep. I buck. “Sculpt us like this!” Mouse clicks echo hall. Perfume heavy.
Hoists me. Desk cleared. Suck his cock – salty, veiny. He flips me. Legs wide. Pounds missionary. Coffee drip gurgles. Sweat-silk skin slaps.
Cum floods me. Hot jets. Collapse. Kiss neck. Adjust skirt, button shirt. Nipples still poke. Wipe gloss. Unlock door. Stride to meeting. Cool pro. Inside: dripping, obsessed. Husband smiles. Guide waits. Next time, both.
The Mask: Straighten hair. Glance mirror. Flushed cheeks. Smile poised. Back to conference room. Chair creaks. Files shuffle. No one knows pussy throbs, cum leaks. Ambitious exec again.