The Perfect Italian Wife

by Jennie Treverton

  ‘More?’ Melissa purred.

  Riley nodded. This time, as the tails bit, she gasped. ‘Do it again, Mistress!’ Raising her arm, Melissa obeyed. The tails sliced the air and splayed across Riley’s bum cheeks. Again Melissa flicked the fronds gently backwards and forwards.

  Riley rocked herself. ‘I’m almost there,’ she shrieked.

  ‘Shall we help her relieve her agony?’ Melissa didn’t wait for an answer.

  The guys were transfixed. Joy gulped at her champagne. Her cheeks were flushed. Riley was sobbing. Melissa handed her a dildo. Riley knelt on the floor, panting and writhing as she coaxed herself to orgasm in front of four people. As she watched the storm subside, Melissa’s hands were trembling.

  ‘How much can a man take?’ Marcus’s hoarse voice broke the spell.

  Joy came forward. ‘Shall we find out?’

  Melissa whirled around. ‘You’re very bold, Missy. D’you fancy a taste of the cat too?’ Her eyes glittered.

  Joy stood her ground. ‘Only if you release this pretty gentleman’s hands. I want him to chastise me.’

  This lifted role play beyond Melissa’s wildest dreams. ‘Release him.’ She nodded to Riley.

  Marcus took the cat o’nine from Melissa, who pulled forward a leather stool. Joy stretched across it. Marcus pulled up her skirt. There was a sharp intake of breath as he saw the outline of her bottom beneath her flimsy knickers. Joy took four strokes of the cat. She gasped after each one. As his excitement mounted, Marcus’s cock strained to escape his shorts. Melissa glanced round and saw Riley and Toby looking as aroused as the other two. Things happened quickly then. As Marcus paused with the cat held aloft, Joy twisted herself upright. She pulled off her panties and let them fall to the floor. She wriggled, leaning backwards, legs apart, hands gripping the sides of the stool, revealing her shaven pussy. She looked up at Marcus. He dropped the cat. And got to his knees, ankles still bound. Bending his head, he went down on Joy, moving like a man in a dream.

  ‘Faster,’ whispered Joy. And again. She buried her fingers in his hair, clinging to him. ‘More ...’ She arched her back and climaxed, stretching her lovely throat as her body vibrated with pleasure. Her scream shattered the silence.

  It was then Melissa knew she was on borrowed time. She picked up the cat o’nine tails, walked over to Toby and laid it beside him. She released his bonds. Then she stretched herself face down across him, so that her centre rested on his hard-on. Toby picked up the cat.

  ‘Punish me,’ begged Melissa.

  ‘You deserve it,’ he barked. ‘You’ve led the other wenches into disrepute. And for that you must be whipped till you come. But first ... first I’m going to pull down your frilly white knickers.’

  Melissa lost all sense of time. She forgot she had an audience. She heard the tails whistle through the air. She felt the delicious hot sting on her bare flesh. And she groaned. With each stroke she groaned louder. She shuddered each time, feeling Toby’s erection judder against her clitoris. The next explosion of pleasure and pain made her cry out. Toby flung down the cat and cradled her as spasms overwhelmed her. No one moved. Then he whispered in Melissa’s ear. ‘What next, Mistress?

  Back at the yacht, Melissa stripped and went straight to her shower. Dripping, she wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel. There was a tap on the door. Melissa let in her slightly dishevelled pirate friends.

  ‘We couldn’t just leave them like that,’ said Riley.

  ‘Was it good?’ Melissa asked.

  ‘Good enough,’ said Joy. ‘We were careful. But we wanted to get back to you. We had a little chat and we thought we should go for one more boundary push.’

  Melissa looked from one to the other.

  ‘On the bed,’ said Riley. ‘You know you want to.’

  Melissa’s mouth dried. ‘Oh, wow ...’ she said. But she moved across to the big divan, letting her towel fall to the floor. The other two removed their costumes. Melissa watched, her eyes widening at the sight of Riley’s high rounded breasts and boyish hips. Joy’s curves were lush and billowing by comparison. The women lay either side of Melissa.

  Riley had brought three velvet masks to bed. ‘While we wear these, we’re off limits,’ she said.

  Melissa put on her mask. She reached for Joy and began running her hands across her friend’s breasts. She bent and began licking the nipples. Joy lay back.

  Riley gently parted Joy’s legs. ‘I’ll stroke you very, very lightly while Melissa sucks you.’

  Joy’s breathing became more rapid. Soon she was telling them what she wanted them to do next. What she liked most ... faster, slower ... until her orgasm lifted her up and away. She opened her eyes and smiled up at them. ‘May I watch you two now? It’s something I’ve always fantasised about.’ She wriggled away and curled up at the foot of the bed.

  Melissa reached for some lube. ‘Lie back,’ she said.

  Riley obeyed. Melissa kissed her friend on the lips lightly at first, then passionately. Riley reached for Melissa’s pert breasts, cupping and squeezing them till Melissa broke free and took some of the gel, smoothing it between Riley’s thighs. With butterfly fingers she caressed her friend’s body, lulling her, soothing her, tantalising her, until Riley’s eyes glittered behind her mask. As her breathing became raucous, Melissa grabbed a dildo and placed it in her friend’s hand. Riley was arching her back. ‘Do it for me,’ she begged.

  Melissa heard Joy’s sharp intake of breath. She nudged the dildo inside Riley’s pussy lips, gently penetrating – pushing then pulling back. Her rhythm increased in confidence as she watched Riley’s face. She saw her timing was right. With every gasp, Riley got closer. Her face contorted as she shared her most intimate moment with her closest friends.

  When Joy joined them again, Melissa was at high doh. Even as Joy tentatively fingered her friend’s nipples, Melissa shuddered with pleasure. ‘I can do multiples,’ she confessed.

  Riley took charge. ‘If you play with your nipples and Joy strokes lube round your frills, I’ll tease your bottom.’

  Melissa swallowed hard. Then lay on her side. She began rolling her nipples between her fingers. ‘Nice and slow, Joy,’ she murmured. ‘Yes, just like that.’ She squeezed her thighs together as the dildo teased her from behind. Up and down and around it went, until Melissa was so aroused that she begged, ‘Push it in a little. Yes! Now, Joy. Fuck me faster.’

  Five minutes later, the three were sprawled on the soft white bedding. Melissa doubted this would ever be repeated. The last few hours had surpassed even her wildest dreams.

  After the others went to their cabins, there was something important left to do.

  ‘My angel?’

  ‘I’ve been a naughty girl,’ she whispered into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Tell.’

  ‘The three of us dressed up as pirate wenches tonight. Afterwards, we got into bed together.’

  There was a pause. Vicenzo said, ‘And?’

  ‘I ... I liked it.’

  He groaned into the phone. ‘How I wish I could have watched you.’

  She made a kissing sound. ‘But you shall, my darling. I kept the camera running.’

  ‘Melissa, my angel,’ he said. ‘You are the perfect Italian wife.’

  Those Good Times

  by Jennie Treverton

  In all my straight life I’d never had such an unexpected jolt to my snatch as I had on the day that Aia told me, gazing right into my eyes, that she’d thought of me while she wanked. It was while we were on our break, having a cigarette under the corrugated awning in the backyard, a space we shared with the seafood freezer and the dessert freezer and a bucket where chefs’ whites lay soaking in bleach. The smell of bleach fumes are what I remember, in my mouth and eyes as much as my nostrils, coating the back of my throat, making me blink, a thick wall of it. Muffled clinks and chatter coming from the restaurant. And Aia’s bad black eyes looking into mine. I always thought of her eyes as characteristically Eastern European, for no other reas
on than they were dark, and darkness made me think of mysticism, and the East, and everything that I imagined Aia to come from, everything opposite to me.

  The way she said the word “wank” was cute. The end of the word was clipped in the Essex style, not the kind of sub-Bond girl “vaank” you’d expect from a girl from Bulgaria. Her grasp of English was extraordinary. She’d lived here less than two years. And that was almost all I knew about her, except what I’d observed during work time. She ate slices of onion bread when the chef wasn’t looking. She took as many cigarette breaks as she could possibly get away with. She couldn’t cut a butter-curl to save her life, but she had a way with the customers and was good at convincing them to have dessert.

  ‘So, yeah,’ she said, ‘but you don’t mind, do you? You don’t mind that I told you.’

  I smiled, thinking. Aia having a wank. How did she do it to herself? I remembered reading somewhere that for many women’s whole lives, they use the same method for masturbating that they develop when they’re young. There is an astonishing variety of styles, the vulva being such a neat and versatile thing. Women lie on their backs, on their fronts. They watch themselves in the mirror. They rub themselves up against pillows, chair legs, handfuls of duvet. They raid the kitchen for vegetables, they raid the bathroom for bottles.

  What did Aia like to do?

  ‘Aia,’ I said, tapping my cigarette ash, ‘there’s so much I want to ask you, I don’t know where to begin.’

  She laughed quietly.

  ‘I’m sure you can find somewhere to begin,’ she said.

  ‘I honestly had no idea.’

  ‘Why would you?’

  ‘I didn’t even know you were gay.’

  ‘I’m not gay. I love men, God, I love men and their cocks.’ She laughed at how this sounded. ‘Don’t get me wrong.’

  ‘But don’t put you in a pigeonhole either,’ I offered.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Don’t shut yourself off to new experiences.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, looking up at me again. She was so much smaller than me – five foot nothing, if that. Her thick black fringe shone faintly green in the halogen floodlight. She had a ballpoint pen sticking diagonally into her ponytail. The look in her eyes went straight to my clit, and suddenly it was obvious. All those stupid adolescent clichés about good times and new experiences. The most stupid of them were the most true.

  ‘So, you want to begin where?’ she said.

  ‘Tell me what you thought about just before you came,’ I said, surprising myself.

  ‘Oh, that,’ she said, rolling her eyes and smiling broadly. ‘Honey, you should have seen what you were doing. You were lying on my bed, and your clothes were all over the floor. Your knickers were on the pillow next to you. You were playing with yourself and begging me, begging me to come over and touch you. So this is the picture in my head. You directing me between your legs and showing me your cunt which is all wet and big. You’re so excited and so desperate for me to touch you.’

  She paused and took a drag on her cigarette.

  ‘And then I crawled over the bed towards you. But I didn’t touch you between your legs. I crawled up your body instead and I put my boob into your mouth. And that drove you wild. You were biting me and sucking, and I wanted to feel that mouth on me for real, God, I wanted it so, so bad. So what I did was this. I kept that picture of you in my head while I wanked my cunt with one hand and with my other hand I brought my boob up to my mouth and you know what? I can just reach it with my tongue. And as soon as I did that I came. Thinking about you.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘It wasn’t much of a substitute, though. The very tip of my own tongue. It’s not like what you were doing to me.’

  I could feel the night air freezing the back of my throat. I closed my mouth.

  ‘So,’ she said, businesslike. ‘What else do you want to know?’

  I wanted to know why she’d decided to tell me this. Being a confessional type myself – can you tell? – I’m highly aware of other people’s weaknesses for self-revelation. And Aia didn’t give herself away lightly, I was sure of that, or else I’d have known a lot more about her than I did after God knows how many fag breaks on how many Saturday nights. She wasn’t drunk either, that much was obvious. Which meant, I supposed, that she was making a deliberate move. On me.

  She was very self-contained, very cool. Not looking at me now. No sideways glances as she blew her smoke into the night. Apparently it was my turn.

  I threw my cigarette end down and faced her. The halogen had lit up all the tiny fine wisps around her hairline. In all my straight life I’d never seen such a thing as Aia.

  The kitchen door swung open and slammed noisily into the wall.

  ‘Service, hussies,’ said the chef.

  And it was two full hours before I got to talk to her again. Ferrying platefuls, taking orders, I had time to plan a little. Here and there I glimpsed her as she carried a tray of coffees, pretended to laugh at something a customer said, picked up a dropped fork. She had a really beautiful arse. When she bent over, everybody looked. I marvelled that I’d never noticed before, this wave of silent attention she created when she moved. Accidentally I caught the eyes of one man who’d been looking at her. He looked guilty at first, then amused, slightly accusatory, obviously thinking I was jealous.

  Perhaps, under normal circumstances, I might have been jealous. I could recognise that pattern of thought as mine, on an ordinary day. But at that moment envy was the furthest thing from my mind. She was interesting to me. She never stopped moving.

  The next time I bumped into her was at the bar when we were both waiting for drinks orders.

  She smiled coolly and said, ‘Busy busy.’

  ‘I’ve got another question for you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, looking at her hard.

  She laughed and said, ‘Not here though, right?’

  ‘Best not.’

  Her wine bucket was ready and she had to go. When she brushed past me I just caught her humming to herself.

  From then on I was her stalker for the night. I was on her, and she knew it, while she swung her ponytail and glanced over her shoulder and stuck her arse out much further than was necessary when she leant across a table to wipe it down. It was the first time in my life I’d ever looked at another woman and thought – little slut – with approval. I gaped shamelessly at her tits and replayed in my mind the moment when she told me, ‘I wanted to feel that mouth on me for real, God, I wanted it so, so bad.’

  Little slut.

  My mind went over all possible options, all possible escape routes. There was no point trying to make a move until the end of service at ten o’clock. I had to wait. Even then we’d need to be very careful, although by that stage of the evening the front-of-house manager Elias was often drunk enough that he’d forget all about his staff, intent as he always was on telling a captive audience his life story, with flourishes, sighs and the occasional tear.

  At ten past ten I saw her disappearing into the passage that led to the toilets. I abandoned my half-cleared table and followed her.

  She must have paused there because I was suddenly right on top of her. Grabbing her hand, I said, ‘Quick.’

  She let me pull her into the ladies’. I locked the door behind us.

  The lavatories of this restaurant were meant to be a talking point. Both were small rooms housing a single toilet each, and both were decorated in an absurd rococo style with damson-red walls, erotic prints – homoerotic male chests in the ladies’, gagged and bound women in the gents’ – and swag velvet curtains around a floor-length mirror. These lavatories were staged to be scenes of illicit encounters. Elias liked to tell people how often he found the seats smeared with cocaine.

  There was something in me that resented this set-up. It almost made me feel as if having a screw in this environment was a conventional thing to do.

  T
hen I remembered that it wasn’t meant for us. It wasn’t our stage. We weren’t customers. We were service hussies.

  She was waiting, watching. I moved in and our mouths met. There was her smell, not a fragrance as such, not quite female and not quite male. It was the smell of her body, slightly salty and sweet and totally compelling. We kissed quietly and her tongue darted into my mouth, neat and precise. Just how I thought it would be.

  There were fingers trailing down the side of my face, down my neck, over my shoulder. I concentrated on keeping my lips soft, kissing her with all the skill and sensitivity I could muster. Somehow I felt that for another woman I had to do this as well as I possibly could. There was nowhere to hide, unlike with a man, when raw passion and enthusiasm can always cover up clumsiness. With Aia I had to get it right, and maybe I did, because she rewarded me with a cute little sound that came from the back of her throat into mine.

  She started to undo my shirt buttons and I did the same to her, spreading her shirt front open and covering her tits with my hands. They were surprisingly large on her small frame, weighing down the stretchy cups of her T-shirt bra. With a smile I left her face and moved downwards so that she could feel my mouth on her for real.

  She was already undoing her bra for me. I helped her take it off, along with her shirt, and then I applied myself to the job of pleasuring her tits. I began by drawing a big circle with my tongue, running wide round one nipple but not touching it. I went round again, and again, my circles getting gradually smaller but still keeping clear of the centre. She leant against the wall and pushed her ribcage forward. I used the very tip of my tongue to make a final few circles and then I landed on her nipple, a solid nubbin of flesh that seemed, from her reaction, to be extraordinarily sensitive, causing her to bite her lips together to stifle her moans.

  I sucked her quite hard, but not too hard, now and then breaking away to fret her with my tongue tip. I moved to her other breast. She plunged her fingers into my hair and cradled the back of my skull. I sank to my knees and found I was at the perfect height to come at her tits from underneath and graze them with my teeth and feel their velvety warm weight on my face. And I was at the perfect height to tuck my hand between her legs, where the heat and damp seeped through her black trousers.