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Franco Tiratore

• Herausgeber: Franco Tiratore
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A wild and primordial rock landscape, of a disturbing and intriguing beauty. The encounter consumed inside the Neolithic dwellings carved into the rock. The feeling of impotence that pervades is sudden, tremendous but at the same time pleasant and comforting, immediately replaced by a sense of peace. An incredible story!

A man and a woman, a normal couple, an apparently serene married life suddenly upset by a revelation: she is not her!
Or rather, she is not only her, and manages to suck her husband into a vortex of conflicting feelings that will result in an unprecedented transgression.
An explicit narrative, a crude chronicle of events.

No one will ever be the same again!

Leseprobe

Franco Tiratore

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Table of contents

May 2016

I – The Approach

II - Caught!

III - Disappointed

IV - Suspicion

V - Stakeout

VI - At Home

VII – High Heels

VIII – The Story

IX – Confessed!

X – The Chronicle

XI – Provocation

XII – The Doubt

XIII – Pause

XIV – Her pic

XV – A Plan For The Future

XVI - Let's get ready

XVII – Coming Back

XVIII – She

XIX – Ready…

XX – Broken

XXI – The Invitation

XXII – Arrangements

XXIII – Let’s Dare To Dream!

XXIV – Action

XXV – Finally...!

XXVI – The Analysis

XXVII - Let's get to know each other better

XXVIII - In confidence

XXIX – Time Goes By

XXX – 30th April 2016

Notes

Credits

May 2016

I feel weird ... it's all weird around.

Not dark, but there's not even daylight. The atmosphere is muffled, I do not sense any shape or object, just nothingness.

Something's bothering me, an electronic sound, a double beep: I recognize it. It's the alarm clock of my old Casio ProTrek laid there on the nightstand, like every night, faithful life partner. I know it's 6:15. That sound will be repeated ten times at one second intervals, and lazily I start counting: two, three, four .... stop. I realize that I'm asleep, still, my eyes closed and my mind in a pleasant limbo.

I wait for it to finish, and in the meantime decide to stay in the bed. I figure out myself lying between the sheets, with the belly down and the head to the side, with the dark shadow of the beard on the face and a spiteful smile on the lips.

Silence is back, the ten seconds have passed. And so also my desire to get up. I fall asleep again.

Something's still disturbing me, and this time it is not the beep of the alarm clock, but the light that filters through my closed eyelids. I don't know what time it is but I know have to get up.

I am a night owl by nature, and I always try to postpone until the last second the moment to start the day.

I'm still prone, my eyes closed, turn on my back and stretch. I know I’ve had a pleasant dream, but can't remember it. My left foot wanders between the sheets, moving away from the rest of the body looking for a cooler area, touching a leg. I caress it with my instep going up the calf: it's fresh. I stop in the recess behind the knee and go back to sleep.

My eyes open with a start: whose is that leg? Cannot be my wife! I have not.

I stay motionless with my eyes fixed on the ceiling to focus on the place. Only then do I realize the delicate scent of incense in the air.

It's not my bedroom. It's not my house. And not even a familiar place.

I'm inside a white cloud that wraps around the bed. A white veil that rises upward tapering to end with a tip hooked to the ceiling.

On the front, the flaps of the veil open, allowing to catch a glimpse of blocks of tufa of a delicate sepia color. Around, beyond the veil, the suffused glow of candles placed at various heights. No, not candles, their flame does not tremble. They are lights. The effect is spectacular.

I'm still dazed: I must have had a good night!

I turn to my left, towards the unexpected guest. The woman sleeps on her side showing her back: she is naked. The deep recess in the center of her back makes an intriguing curve that gets lost under the sheet. The side is soft and the line that surrounds the waist is lithe and sinuous. The straight, coppery hair covers her face, with some locks falling back halfway down.

Now I remember! Her face comes back to me, and I let myself fall on the bed with a smile. My eyes close again.

Thats enough! I'm completely awake and decide to get up. I'm naked too, but this is not new to me. I do not use pajamas, at night, at least, I want to feel free, or close to.

I also get rid of the cloud of white veil that acts as a mosquito net and canopy on the bed and stop to contemplate the room. Indeed it is the size of a mini-apartment, and moreover it is extraordinary for its uniqueness. An accommodation carved into the rock, with stone pillars that support small vaults and crevices and niches cleverly used to host the various rooms and lit by small lights embedded in the walls, vaults and floors. On the left, the toilet corner with a chest of drawers and mirrors leads to the Jacuzzi built into the floor and surrounded by the edge on which incense and scented candles burn. A central column separates the sleeping area from the one in which a majestic white leather sofa towers under an arched recess, along with two armchairs of the same type. A plasma TV hangs from the opposite wall, with the home-theater system attached. The round table in the middle, with the glass top resting on a large white terracotta vase, is surrounded by four chairs the size of armchairs, while on the left side, still in a tufaceous anfratto, there is a small but complete kitchen. On the left, there is a Roman balcony with closed shutters, while on the other side is the entrance door.

I head towards the kitchen, rather appealing, determined to contribute to the perfuming ambiance with the aroma of morning coffee.

The moka is small and shiny, it reminds me of the one I used for many years during my studies at university. I find the coffee container, sniff it and appreciate its fragrance. I've never been a fan of the coffee at the bar, it comes off like something done quickly and without a soul. What I do will not be that great, but it has a human taste. Take the coffee maker, clean it from the remaining funds and fill it with water at the right level, find the coffee that never is in the same place, fill the filter and close the coffee machine, put it on the stove and turn on the gas, wait for the first drops of the precious liquid , the dense ones, take them out with a teaspoon and pour them into the cup with the sugar, stir quickly until you get the thick and clear cremino ... And the prize is an aroma that spreads in the ambiance, that makes you feel satisfied and happy with life. It is a ritual, it has a catarchical value, I use it to think, to organize the day.

While sipping from the cup resting on the kitchen floor, the night before comes back to my mind, the people I met, the reason why I’m here, that has something incredible, at least for me.

Through the mosquito net the shapes on the bed are confused, a large tangle of white fabric where a copper red spot protrudes from on a dark brown background, from which two lighter, thin and long shapes start.

I hear the tolling of the bells of a church, immediately followed by others in a pleasant crescendo. The clock on the canterano shows 7.00. I open the shutters and look out on the balcony breathing deeply: the view is to die for!

The blue and clear sky is the background to a wild and primordial rock landscape. The May air is crisp, fragrant, and I inhale it deeply as a light breeze refreshes my face, making my naked body shiver. Opposite, the canyon of the Gravina, deep and ominous, crosses the murgic plateau like a wound worn with dignity. The almost vertical karstic rock walls, the result of the millenary erosion of the Jesce torrent, are dotted with caves, reminiscent of ancient Neolithic houses and rock churches. Seems almost to be able to touch them, at least at the top, while from the dark and unreachable bottom the roar of flowing water reaches the ears in the background. The horizon is a clear demarcation between the blue sky, streaked with pink and indigo, and the gray rock dotted by the bushes and oregano, linden and other native grasses. The feeling of impotence that pervades me is sudden, tremendous but at the same time pleasant and consolatory: Nature can recover what the man has taken away from her! There is no doubt. A sense of peace surrounds me.

Below I see the roofs and the terraces of the other houses, also dug into the rock, climbing on the wall, interpenetrating one in the other, which distinguish the place and follow each other without continuity on the slope from east to west, degrading up to the Via Madonna delle Virtù, which winds along the river to Piazza San Pietro Caveoso, with its beautiful church overlooking the cliff. Next to the church, at the confluence with Via Bruno Buozzi, stands a ridge of hollow rock that dominates the Piazza, and inside the church of the Madonna de Idris and San Giovanni in Monterrone, with its ossuary. At the top of the rock there’s a large iron crucifix. The sacred outside, and the profane inside.

Despite the hour, the first groups of Japanese tourists are already at work, ready to climb and get lost in the maze of stairs and alleyways to explore every hidden corner with their cameras.

The chime of bells is replaced by the crackling engine of a red and white Ape Calessino that stops in front of a fountain to unload a couple of passengers. I don’t like that noise, breaks the magical atmosphere of the place, but despite everything is one of the most practical ways to access the location.

I still have the coffee cup in my hand, can smell the scent but the coffee is gone. I turn to the kitchen and the look goes once again to that bed. I think back to how my story began, and shake my head with a smile.

I pour some more coffee, and decide to try the Jacuzzi. But first I check the phone and turn on the audio system by tuning to a web radio lounge: Enya's music spreads quietly in the room.

The low shower of the water that fills the tub coming out of the regulators doesn’t cause reactions in the sleeping beauty. Pour the bath salts and immerse myself in the warm water without activating the whirlpool to make no noise. The feeling is pleasant and I close my eyes savoring the moment.

She is a woman, after all she’s only a woman, like many others. Not even beautiful. Cute nice, but not beautiful. I'm not handsome either. So I wonder what other qualities she has. I know the answer but do not want to admit it. Check the clock: it's 7.45.

I close my eyes and immerse myself in the water, basking and trying to get pushed up by the Buoyancy, an experiment I used to do as a child, reminiscent of the school days. The water at same level of my lips enters and leaves the ears making me feel a sense of peace and sensual pleasure. I feel that my member is becoming enlightened, and think: "The classic morning erection." But I know it's not like that. The fault is all of the situation I'm experiencing.

I’d never have imagined all this. Different stories, different adventures, some pleasant, some not, but never anything like that. Finding me here, in a cave or almost, makes me feel outside the world, or better, beyond the world. It is an unnatural sensation, not of omnipotence, nor even of impotence. It's not Stendhal's syndrome, it's something different. It is the feeling of being really part of the world and of life, because this seems to stand firm in time, immobile and unchanging, like the Sassi, like the houses dug in the tufa, like the rock churches and their fascinating prehistoric frescoes. A return to origins in a modern world. The primal instinct of the man who reappears, never dormant. Might this have been to push me so far with Alessandra?

Sensual, provocative, unsuspecting mother, wife and lover.

I try to compare her to the other women I met: they were also someone else's ladies. They too had a hidden soul that came out suddenly, exploding in a whirlwind of fiery passion. I'm definitely having an erection. Alessandra, however, has baffled me. Because of the way I met her. For the way it was proposed to me.

I feel the water bubbling suddenly, and the sound of the whirlpool system coming on. I open my eyes: she is there, standing before me, standing naked and with her arms entwined on her generous breasts, her legs slightly apart, her habitual pose. She’s not very tall, but from my position looks like a giant. She’s fully tanned skin, although it’s not yet summer, without traces of clothing. She’s not a girl but doesn’t need to put on an act to be fascinating and attractive.

Her body doesn’t show her age, rather it makes her even more desirable. The head up on the bust, the straight shoulders contrast with the curves of the narrow waist, and then widen like amphora on the hips. Her over forty springs cause me conflicting feelings: respect, excitement, shame, excitement. Hers is an innate sensuality, revealed only at certain times to certain people.

She looks at me defiantly, as if to say, "So?"

I follow her gaze and realize that my member comes out of the water almost in its entire length. I look at her, waiting for her decision. She doesn’t speak, climbs over the edge of the tub and plunges herself on the opposite side, on her elbows, and slowly stretches her legs between the sides making them adhere to mine. Still with her gaze fixed on me, she lower her torso into the water until her breasts are wet and then let it re-emerge, her skin shiny, her great dark dripping nipples become turgid.

Bends her knees and starts rubbing against me, first gently, then stronger and stronger with a sneer on her lips. She's waiting for something. I know that she’s sensitive to compliments, that she likes to be the center of attention, who completely loses her head when appreciation is given to her. Then her inhibitory brakes jump and its femininity loses its human character: she turns into a female animal in heat, which offers herself to the male, or better, to the males who want her, ready to mate without limits or rules.

Her legs are lifted up and moved inside mine, forcing me to give them space, and with the soles of her feet she holds my member, caressing it voluptuously along its entire length. The toes touch the glans first and then come down to the testicles, massaging them with a rotational motion, until with a sudden dosed stroke pushes the feet against them. I have a start, emit a muffled moan, but there’s no space to escape the shot back. There’s no pain indeed. I hear her laugh mingling with the splashing in the tub. That’s her way of inviting me and asking not to waste time, to take her, to make her go crazy, to make her feel like a woman, to dominate her.

I react immediately: grab her by the ankles and pull towards me, bringing her feet behind my back until I feel her pubis in contact with my glans. Taken by surprise, she slides her head under the water, her hands shaking in search of a hold. I don’t give her time to recover and penetrate her that way, while she gasps. I know I have to be careful, she has a retroverted uterus and the pain of pleasure could turn into a torment.

Holding her firmly by her generous hips, I push her back and forth on me, making penetrate my member more and more inside her vagina, lubricated by water mixed to her lymph. Suddenly I stop, to let her lift the head for a moment and bring out her nose and mouth to breath, but in the meantime grab her buttocks tightening and burying my fingers into her flesh, dilating them. Her anal orifice exposed to the desire of my penis, who, having emerged from her sex, immediately finds the new way. I pull her toward me with a tug, lifting her pelvis and keeping her body arched, and with a sharp up-thrust of the loins, I stake her.

Her head falls under the water again, hands stirring. I know I don’t have to give her a break: it's the last day!

Yell out! Only vowels, guttural sounds and disconnected words, but all aloud, with her mouth filled with water. It didn’t start like this, but that's where I took her, to the point of screaming her pleasure from the very first moment. It’s a source of pride for this primordial male. History repeats itself.

After the first impact the sounds turn to words, disjointed, broken phrases, all out of line, pronounced spitting out the water that at times swallows: "Help! .... I'm drowning! ... Can’t put too much sugar ... let me feel the ginger .... ". Her accent is not local, it’s a northern accent, Lombard, from Como exactly. One more woman who prefers the South, at least for men!

I am too absorbed, my senses obscured by the excitement of that violent intercourse, to notice the presence beside me. Rather than see it, I sense the figure moving cautiously behind, advancing along the edge of the tub, touching it with the hand: a man.

I am too busy with the heat of the embrace to think rationally: I’m a child of this earth, an animal that’s venting its primordial instinct in a primitive place, in a cave, which has a female in front of itself, which is "inside" a female and mating her, feeling her reacting and twisting in the spasms of pleasure that the torture is inflicting to her. It's a beastly feeling! Alessandra is a submissive female, and the feeling of drowning that sometimes is experiencing gives rise to an early orgasm. I keep on humping as if it were a question of survival, without taking care of the foreign presence. I'll think about it later, maybe.

Man's hand slowly reaches hers and squeezes it hard, almost angrily. Alessandra grabs it and buries her fingernails into his flesh, making a lever to let her mouth out of the water and breathe.

I feel her body shaken by the tremors, stronger and stronger. Then she starts shaking convulsively. Hers is a suffered orgasm, difficult to express due to the lack of air, but enjoyed beyond belief.

I look up and recognize him: it's her husband!

The man's face reminds me of their entire history, the most important moments, the most obscure and intriguing moments, the situations lived in the past days. The memory drives me crazy: I push myself rhythmically stronger against her body, more and more inside her, and I grab her big breasts by squeezing them with my fingers, then I cling to her turgid and erect nipples and explode inside her.

I know that she likes to hear the male who floods her, fully satisfies her sense of being possessed.

It’s not only her husband who owns her, but also the males around her, who put her at the center of their attention, who can appreciate the fucking bitch she is. And the spasmodic and continuous orgasm is her way of thanking them.

Especially if she’s fucked in front of Giacomo, her husband. Alessandra feels safe. I know it’s a contradiction, it’s strange that a wife feels safe if her husband is watching her while other males fuck her, but that's true for her.

My member is still hard, Alessandra starts to relax while I slowly move in and out of her orifice I don’t want to leave. But decide to give her a breather, and I withdraw, letting go of her nipples and legs. I know that she almost collapses after such an orgasm, but the water has had a beneficial effect on her by easing the sensation of unconsciousness.

Giacomo doesn’t speak, looks at me and smiles, satisfied, happy because his woman has been satisfied.

He's the same age as his wife, and she's the only woman he’s ever really had, or maybe I should say she's the only woman who owned him. This is not true for her.

His face is gentle and delicate, the tall slim figure wrapped in a white terry cloth bathrobe. Brown hair still wet for the shower made recently from which runs a trickle of water. I smell the scent of his newly spread aftershave.

He likes to see his wife possessed! No matter who and how, but the more is wild, the more she enjoys, and the more he enjoys. Mysteries of human nature ...!

I like these people, I admit. Not because they’re physically exceptional, although appreciable, nor for other obvious qualities. They are not rich, they don’t squander in vain. They are not socially engaged, do not volunteer in their country or in remote areas of the world. They’re not culturally evolved, as culture is understood in the common sense, yet they’re much more cultured than us. Perhaps I should say emancipated, but it’s questionable.

I like them, and not because I'm fucking the wife in front of her husband. I like them perhaps because I’ve been the protagonist of their history, the one who has finally brought to light their hidden ambitions, without frills, without subterfuge, without compromise.

I’m like them, a simple boy, a country boy, or better, a boy from the Murgia. I really do not like hypocrisies. I’m an open book, and I like to share experiences with those who are related to me. Alessandra and Giacomo, they are.

"You all right?" he asks me while I try to dominate my excitement not yet dormant and to resist the temptation to continue in the embrace letting her to change position and penetrate her from behind.

It’s late and we have so many things to do before the fateful moment.

"Yes, of course" I reply, "How could it be otherwise with a woman like Alessandra who wishes you a good morning in this way!".

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply without answering, rubbing Alessandra's arm with one hand while stroking his head with the other.

Alessandra is still panting, her eyes closed, her shoulders rising against the tub.

He leans over and kisses her softly, first on the lips, then on the cheek, going down on the wet neck and back behind the ear, stopping there and biting her lobe.

Alessandra moans, stretches, her eyes still closed, the tongue running along the outline of her glossy lips.

It’s their moment of intimacy.

I get out of the tub, invisible to their eyes, and look for the bathrobe: "Holy shit!" I whisper "I didn’t get it!". Typical and instinctive reaction, considering that mothers first, wives later, inculcate the habit of not dirtying the floor. That sucks! I’m so conditioned that the idea of going out naked and dripping annoys me, rather than considering it natural. We are in a troglodyte ambiance, where however those defined as "the shame of Italy" had running water in the house since Neolithic age. Yet I was so conditioned to fear reproaches for having drained water on the stone floor from my still-grown up member!

Next there’s a stool with folded towels: I take one and wrap it around my waist, like a skirt, turning the flap to fit and hold it, ancient Egyptian style: I always liked the effect it does, makes highlight the physical and hidden virtues. In my case then, having still an erection, virtue is not really so hidden.

I go to the bed, the sheet is on the ground, but on the mattress you can see the imprints of the three hosted bodies. It’s clear that this experience has really baffled me. All connections spring up late, almost as if there’s a refusal to accept the fact that I’m the origin of all this. Yet I don’t shy away from responsibility. I admit that this, however, is something anomalous, which certainly does not happen frequently.

I wipe my body and my hair, and throw the towel to the floor: I'll pick it up later. The sense of order has not left me, despite everything. My wife would have been pissed off anyway! My mother too.

I find my pants on a low coat rack discreetly positioned between the dressing table and the bed, as well as shirt and jacket. I‘ve got a similar one at home, it’s called Arcibaldo, and is a loyal ally to discreetly store not only clothing, but also what’s inside pockets, since it has a small spherical cap for objects that would otherwise come out and fall on the floor.

Before wearing them, however, I decide to go to the mirror: need to shave, and I do it. I’ve got a new razor, given to me as a gift for a promotion. It’s a five blade, practically has a brush instead of the rotating head. It looks like a miniature Folletto. I try it for the first time, after having soaked and soaped the face, and judge it in a contrasting manner: excellent for large surfaces, bad for underlining and sideburns.

The large head that houses the blades is excessive for areas with small radius of curvature. Risk of wounding me. Pay the utmost attention, but the result sucks, despite of the adversiting. I keep feeling spiked tips under my fingers even after repeated steps, naturally carefully. I decide that will return to the old beloved single blade, discreet, precise and without many frills. I know, I'm an old-fashioned guy. After all, I live in a troglodyte place.

I work this out, rinse thoroughly in the basin and apply my Puig Quorum to my face. It's a fragrance I don’t give up, if I can of course. Rather, I prefer nothing.

They are always there, with her who little by little recovers from the strong feelings, and he who supports her, fondling her, telling her how good she was, how sensual she was at the top of the action. It seems a consolatory action to me, but may not.

I have to convince my roommate downstairs to get back into the ranks, he’s not done it yet. We see that the situation intrigues him. Yet we’ve seen far worse!

I wear my Diadora briefs, the jeans model light denim trousers, the flap with its five iron buttons, I look in the mirror like a good narcissist always dissatisfied with the result, and then I turn to my guests.

The two lovebirds are cooing, he kneeling on the floor and leaning towards the tub, she with her legs protruding from the edge, her body covered by the air bubbles of the Jacuzzi, her head towards that of her husband, her lips glued to his, her tireless tongue that intertwines with Giacomo’s one.

I approach and hug them both, their heads in my hands, kissing the head of one and the other, with a feeling of omnipotence. I have to be completely gone crazy!

They pull their tongues off and look at me, bursting into laughter: I like the atmosphere, I feel at peace with the world.

Seeing Alessandra with her wet hair stuck to her body, which tilts her head, laughing and continues to have thrills of pleasure while her husband looks at her lovingly and caressing her is a feeling that is priceless.

I know that from tomorrow I will look for other people like them ... and I hope to find it!

I’d like some more coffee, and I prepare it for them too. She gets up and leaves the tub helped by her husband who gives her a bath towel in which she drapes, Roman matron style, with two flaps knotted on one shoulder while the other is uncovered, her legs asymmetrically naked, shiny and dripping. The vision is tremendously exciting. I think of the way I wrap the towels around my waist, fitting a flap within the upper edge, with no knots, like the kilt of the Roman libertus.

The coffee is ready, and I give it to them.

"Are we ready?" I ask, and soon after: "How was it?"

"Very nice!" she answers. "We've had some awesome days," he adds.

She sips her coffee and stretches her arm in front of me to place the cup on the shelf, then draws it upward and touches my cheek, barely touching my lips with her fingers. The contact with the fresh and moist skin is intoxicating, the scent of bath salts covers for a moment the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee.

Then she turns and goes towards the bed, wiggling: she knows I go crazy when I see that. She dries and gets ready for the long day to come.

I catch the languid look of her husband, in complete veneration of that woman who brought him to full realization as a man, then he follows her to hands her clothes, obliging and silent as ever.

The magic moment has gone: I leave them to their family intimacy and keep on sipping my coffee. I like to sip it, it’s always part of the ritual which I often give up but that I miss so much in my travels abroad.