Julie in Owl-Light: A Letter Not Mailed
You’d been in Florence for three days, shopping and sight-seeing, and this was your last night in the city. Your hotel was ‘La Rosetta’, an exquisite three-star pensione on Via Cavour, about five minutes’ walk from the centre of activity. My photographic assignment had also just finished, so I called and invited you to dinner. You agreed, and close to 8pm we met outside ‘La Casa Bella’, a small, family-run restaurant that overlooked the River Arno. I’d eaten here several times before and Valerio, the owner, had always made me welcome.
“Ciao, Stefano,” he said as we entered. “Come stai?”
“Bene, grazie,” I replied. “Molto bene.”
Then, glancing at you, he smiled and whispered to me, “Mmmm. La donna e bellisima, eh Stefano?”
“Si, Valerio. La signora e Julie.”
“Ah, bella nome, signora! Julie!”
We laughed at Valerio’s Tuscan enthusiasm as he showed us to our table.
Our meal was Italian at its finest; pasta, wine and exquisite dolci. And of course coffee as we watched lantern lights scribble smudges of yellow along the water. It was a relaxed time, with our animated conversation being punctuated by touches and smiles. And underlying the utterances was a tacit, hormonal tension. When we’d finished, Valerio kissed you on both cheeks and then opened the door.
“Thank you, Valerio,” you said as he handed you your woollen coat. There was a slight edge to the air, as if the city were warning that winter was soon to insinuate itself into bone and tissue. Rubbing my hands together, I suggested a taxi ride back to the hotel, but you wanted to walk; to be immersed in the sense of sensuality that susurrated down small streets which smelled of leather. So we walked, brushing against couples who chatted and avoiding touts who conned; across cobble-stones worn by age and shoes; along avenues crowded with Vespas; down alleys packed with cats and cars; around lovers oblivious to all but whispers. This was Florence; old as mystery; misted in memory. Bella citta.
Arriving at the hotel, you touched my arm and said, “Can you come in or do you have other plans?’
“I have other plans but they can’t be completed unless I do come in.”
Just then, a veil of rain fell, covering your hair with gossamer dew. In the owl-light, you were both shadow and substance, hope and heart-beat, pulse and passion. Fresh and fabulous, you scurried to the door and held it open. You held it open for me.
We waited only a minute for the elevator to arrive, and going up to your room, your radiant face and plum-red lips were breath-close. There was a humming-bird uncertainty in the air, but you simply smiled and invited with your eyes. We kissed; lightly at first, exploring each other’s lips, then came that rapturous moment when your tongue touched mine. I swam in your mouth as you engulfed me; your hand trailed through my hair, down my shirt and came to rest at the front of my trousers. Needless to say, I was erect, as were your nipples that pushed against my shirt. In an attempt to relieve the tension, you mumbled something about needing some more coffee, but my reply simply intensified the atmosphere. “Julie, you won’t be getting coffee. I’m going to fuck you.”
It was as if rock had struck rock and sparked. I’d never before said the word ‘fuck’ with such deliberate intention. It was an utterance that flowed from an overwhelming desire.
Your room was larger than most; two Modigliani prints dominated the white walls, and from the ceiling, downlights spotted the leather sofa and suffused the area with a soft ambiance. To the left was a door; slightly ajar, I could see a queen-sized bed. Placing your purse on the sofa, you said, “Have a guess why I chose this room?”
“You got it at half-price because it doubles as the lobby?”
A smile creased the corners of your mouth. “No, silly, there’s a bidet in the bathroom. It’s more stimulating than a shower nozzle”
We both laughed, and the moment was cake-warm and relaxed. Between us was no space; we were sealed in an envelope of affection. You then went to the min-bar, opened it and asked if I wanted a drink.
“Sure. I want to drink you. Julie, take your clothes off.”
There was a look of willing compliance in your eyes as you began unzipping the black dress that had been clinging to your curves all that evening. It dropped to the floor and it was then that I saw the focus of my desire; bare breasts, nipples brown and berry-hard, a kissable stomach, thighs that almost sighed against your black lace panties.
“Exquisite. Now… your panties… take them off too.”
You hesitated, deliberately. “Maybe we should wait, Stephen. This is our first time and…”
“You’re right, love. We should wait.”
About five seconds went by.
“Right, we’ve waited,” I said with a soft laugh. “Take your panties off.”
You smiled broadly and raised your gorgeous eyebrows. Two fingers then went to the lace and slowly pulled. Like a slowly revealed secret, it appeared; a pubic patch like a wildflower meadow – dark and dewy; a woman’s earth, fecund and fresh.
“Don’t you feel a little over-dressed?” you said, chuckling. Sublime sensitivity; you knew the perfect way to soften the texture of the moment.
“That’s not the only thing I’m feeling,” I replied as I dropped everything including my inhibitions.
“Good, because I’d like to make this a long evening.” Your hands then cupped your breasts and you pushed them up, your blue eyes never leaving mine as your fingers lingered around your nipples.
“Julie, let me do that.”
You nodded your agreement and offered your breasts. My mouth melted across the fullness of them, trailing a liquid tongue-line as I explored your skin. Your nipples almost buzzed as I sucked and swallowed; tasted and teased. And so erotic was the contrast between softness of flesh and hardness of peaks. Nibbling and nipping… kneading with my hands and knowing with my mouth. Such beautiful breasts… bliss on my lips.
“I see you’re enjoying this,” you said as my penis twitched and expanded against the down of your delta. “Is there anything I can do to help you even more?”
Giving your nipples one final kiss, I looked directly into your softening eyes and said, “I want to watch you masturbate… for me.”
There was a moment of silence. I wasn’t sure if I’d offended you. And then, like steam from trains in the far-away night, my concern vanished when you sank to the carpet, lithe as a cat, spread your legs, and purred, “Like this?”
It was a powerful moment. Two red-nailed fingers began brushing through your pubic hair, curling the silken strands and gently pulling. Then one silver-ringed finger slipped between your lips, spreading the soft flesh as it explored and probed. Another finger entered, found that filament and began rubbing. Your swollen clitoris was clearly visible as you pleasured your pinkness… pleasured it for me.
“Am I doing it the way you want, Stephen?”
“You are doing it perfectly, my love.”
“And this?” you added, slowly placing your cum-slick fingers in your mouth. “Do you like me doing this?”
It was more than I could resist. Dropping to my knees, I slid my hands beneath your buttocks and drew your velvet valley to my mouth. As an audible affirmation, you let a small sigh escape as my tongue found your blushing bud. It was the pearl inside the oyster, and I tasted salt and sex and sweet river. Also detectable was the scent of ‘Paris’. As a lover, you knew that sensory stimulation was vital. Your tang on my tongue was intoxicating, and you wrapped your thighs around my head and thrust your pubis into my mouth with increasing energy.
