An Unusual Salesman

Dago hated that job. But at times any job was better than nothing. Being a salesman was something he couldn't stand. They picked him up from home at 5 and took him to a different city every day. They foisted on him his briefcase full of catalogs and stationery samples and his nice list of names to visit. He spent his day door after door. Yes, it's true that he sold often, but how cold, and how much time he wasted looking for streets he didn't know.

His dream was to become a writer. He had been trying for a long time and had recently discovered that he had a special ability to write erotic stories. He had taken increasing pleasure in writing them and also in having them read. The women he had had them read by had found them very exciting. And he had reaped the benefits. Of course, another thing was finding a publisher willing to publish them.

At least today he was somewhere near Venice. The town was nice, not too big and the people were friendly. He had made two new customers, and two large orders. Let's say he had brought home the day. It was almost noon, one more visit and then for today he had earned a decent lunch. He would go to some trattoria, a nice first course, a second course, maybe fish and some good wine. Maybe sit near a window where he could watch some pretty girl go by. Maybe be served by some pretty waitress. Maybe spend the afternoon with him.

"Dago, stop dreaming!" he said to himself. The most urgent thing was to find this damn Via Mameli, then he would think about lunch and what he would do in the afternoon, since if he wanted today he could take it easy.

He hated asking for directions, but today he didn't feel like wasting time. He looked around to see who he could ask, and that's when he saw her running out of the fruit and vegetable shop and across the street.

Her dark coat was open and fluttered behind her, revealing what she was wearing underneath. She was wearing a light pleated skirt, from which two beautiful legs were sticking out. The half-run she was doing to get to the car made the skirt rise slightly, showing the edge of her stockings, an edge that only hold-ups or garters have. The tight sweater with the zip showed off her ample breasts.

Dago was petrified at the sight of that splendid creature. Standing on the sidewalk with his briefcase in his hand, his mouth slightly open, he followed her with his gaze. He seemed like one of the characters in his stories.

The woman seemed to be heading toward him across the gray pavement, her heels beating a steady rhythm on the asphalt. At the last moment she veered toward the driver's door, where a car was parked right next to him. In the narrow passage between the two cars, her skirt caught on the bumper. She stopped suddenly and, with natural ease, as if the street were empty, lifted the hem to free herself. The gesture revealed, without any doubt, her garter belt.

Their eyes met while she still had her skirt between her fingers. She didn't show the slightest embarrassment, only a light blush colored her cheeks, while her green eyes shone with a light that seemed to challenge him.

"Well, don't you have anything better to do than look at me?" His voice had a hint of amusement that contradicted the apparent harshness of his words.

Dago found himself smiling, a spontaneous smile that melted the tension of the moment. "I just wanted to ask for information..." he paused studiedly, savoring the moment, "but I don't think I have anything better to do right now than look at a beautiful woman."

She hadn't expected such a sincere answer. That mischievous smile, slightly crooked on his face, inspired an unexpected confidence in her. She suddenly realized that her skirt was still up, she composed herself, also closing her coat with a return to her natural shyness, and moving in front of him she asked: "Well, what was the information you needed?"

They stood there for a moment looking straight into each other's eyes. His job had taught him to react quickly to unexpected events, and she was a splendid unexpected event. "I have to go to Via Mameli, I just wanted to know how to get there from here."

She kept staring at him. There was something in his face, in his eyes that gave her a strange feeling. A pleasant feeling. "Where is your car?"

"In Milan!" was his immediate response.

They burst out laughing. "It's a bit inconvenient to walk from here to Via Mameli!"

Dago remained silent, waiting for directions. She quickly considered what to do. Curiosity got the better of her. "Since I should make up for how I treated you, if you want I'll drive you there."

"I don't know if I should trust a beautiful woman like her..."

"Listen, don't be silly, do you want a ride or not?"

"Ok ok, I was just joking, I'll gladly accept the ride, so I can warm up a bit."

She took the car keys out of her pocket and opened the door next to him. "Get in," she said simply. Dago got into the car, instinctively turning to the driver's side to watch her get in.

She took off her coat, throwing it on the back seat, and as she was about to get into the car her skirt rode up her leg again, revealing her garter belt once again.

"You might get thrown out of the car if you insist on peeking under my skirt!" she said with a mischievous smile. Dago blushed, looking straight ahead. Only she knew she had done it on purpose this time.

"Can I at least introduce myself," he said, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, "my name is Dago," and he turned back to her, offering her his hand.

"Paola... nice to meet you," she replied, squeezing his hand. The grip was firm, neither soft nor crushing. And his hand was warm. A jolt ran up her arm. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to have those hands touching her skin. Was she going crazy? She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror and started the car.

Out of the corner of her eye she could feel his persistent gaze, a presence that oscillated between annoyance and pleasure in her consciousness. No, more pleasure than annoyance, she corrected herself, while shivers ran across her skin like silent waves. It had been three months since the last time, since she had left Lorenzo, and she had never thought that desire could manifest itself with such urgency. She had always liked sex, of course, but it had never occupied her thoughts so forcefully.

Lorenzo had been a capable lover, he had made her happy -- or so she had thought. She had remained faithful to him, he had not. She had discovered him with other women several times, and that had marked the end. But in the long, lonely nights that followed, an insidious thought had begun to torment her: what if he had betrayed her because she had not been able to give him what he was looking for? From there the idea had been born, almost a challenge to herself: try with someone else. But it had to be a stranger, someone destined to vanish soon after. A plan easier said than done in a small town where everyone knew each other. And now fate, with its peculiar sense of humor, had brought her this man -- attractive, witty, in his mid-thirties.

"What do you have to go to do in Via Mameli?" he found himself asking, trying to direct his thoughts to safer ground.

"I'm a salesman," he replied, his voice sliding calmly through the cabin. "My company told me about a company to contact. I sell stationery..." He paused, leaning over the briefcase he held between his legs. "By the way, considering the trouble I'm giving you, I'd like to give you a gift, if you don't mind." He pulled out an object with an odd shape.

Paola looked at him perplexed. "But didn't you say you sold stationery?"

"Yes, I know," he laughed, his tone warm and genuine. "It's shaped like a pen, but it's a pen. Don't ask me who chose it for promotional material... it actually looks like a vibrator."

Her laughter joined his as she took the object in her hands. "That's actually the first thing I thought of." The contact with that ambiguous shape awakened dormant sensations, igniting sparks of desire she thought had been forgotten. She had been feeling this way for days, charged with an energy that demanded to be released, but masturbating seemed like an adolescent fallback, a surrogate for what she truly craved.

It wasn't inexperience that held her back--her past was full of encounters, relationships, the long chapter with Lorenzo. It was more the rust of habit, like a muscle that has forgotten its old grace. The desire, though, was crystal clear: Dago exuded a magnetism that went beyond his good looks. It was in the way his hands danced in the air as he spoke, in the measured cadence of his steps, in that quiet confidence that seemed to envelop him like an aura.

Her mind wandered among these thoughts as they approached Via Mameli. Perfect for her purposes: a fascinating stranger, destined to disappear like a comet -- no ties, no history to justify, only the possibility of rediscovering herself, of measuring her capacity for seduction against a new and unprejudiced gaze.

But they had already arrived at the address and he was saying goodbye, thanking her, getting out of the car. The words died in her throat as she watched him walk away, that walk of his that had something magnetic. She stood still with the car on, cursing herself for her hesitation, as she watched him reach the door. His finger pressed the intercom once, then a second time. He turned to her with a hand gesture that said "no one." After another fruitless attempt, she saw him walk back to the car. Paola lowered the window, her heart accelerating imperceptibly.

"Looks like I'm out of luck today," he said, leaning lightly against the door. "But maybe it's a sign--would you like to have lunch together? I can't stand the thought of a solitary meal in a strange city."

The proposal floated in the air like an unexpected promise. "Considering that I still owe you an apology... and that my afternoon is surprisingly free..." A calculated pause, a barely there smile. "I know just the place, if you trust my taste."

As she drove to the secluded restaurant outside of town--a discreet place where she was sure she wouldn't encounter any familiar faces--she found herself savoring the way Dago filled the space beside her with his presence, his deep voice weaving stories into the air. She found herself listening, really listening, letting the sound of his words envelop her like a silk blanket.

The restaurant was one of those places where discretion was a subtle art. Paola had displayed her most seductive smile -- the one that made her eyes shine and promised unspeakable secrets -- obtaining a table in the most remote corner of the room. A niche shrouded in complicit shadows, where the rest of the world seemed to dissolve beyond the boundary of a burgundy velvet curtain.

The wine had loosened their tongues, created that special intimacy that only impromptu lunches can provide. Dago leaned slightly across the table, his voice lowered in studied confidence: "I have something to confess to you," he began, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'm a writer. Or rather, I try to--I write erotic stories." He paused for a calculated moment, his eyes searching hers. "I'm working on a short story where the protagonist does exactly what you did today. With one difference: she does it deliberately, to seduce a man she desires."

Paola felt the heat rising to her face, a sensation that spread along her neck to her chest. "You don't think that I..." The reply died on her lips, betrayed by her body that knew a deeper, more elementary truth.

She encouraged him to talk about his work, fascinated not so much by the stories as by the way he told them, by his voice that seemed to caress each word. His hands gestured in the air, creating shapes that seemed to dance with his thoughts, and Paola found herself imagining those same hands on her skin.

"I have my notebook in my briefcase," he said, interrupting her train of thought. "I could read you something, if you're interested."

"I'm... curious," she replied, rising with measured grace. "I'll go to the bathroom for a second while you get it."

In the harshly lit bathroom, Paola found herself gazing at her reflection as she spoke softly to her body, like a pagan prayer. "Don't disappoint me," she whispered, taking off her thong with a deliberate gesture. His fingers slid slowly between the already moist folds of her sex, an exploratory touch that drew a trembling sigh from her. She knew, with that ancient wisdom that belongs only to the female body, that her scent--that intimate and wild aroma of desire--would speak to Dago in a language older than words. Her pheromones would be a silent but irresistible call, an invitation that no man could ignore.

Her fingers continued their slow, methodical dance, awakening dormant sensations, preparing her body for what was to come. She tucked the thong into her purse--a secret that made her feel bold and vulnerable at the same time, a silent promise of what might be. The cool water on her face did nothing to quench the fire that was simmering beneath her skin, nor to erase the smile of anticipation that curved her lips.

Dago's voice, as he began to read, was like dark honey dripping into the air. Paola had always considered erotic literature a male domain, something mechanical and predictable. But there was something in the way he wove words that went beyond mere physicality. Her breasts grew heavy, her nipples tense against the silk of her bra, while her sex throbbed with a desire that seemed to have a will of its own. She closed her eyes for a moment, and the words transformed into tactile sensations, ghosts of caresses that ran across her skin.

Her hand slid under the table as if guided by a will of its own, seeking the warmth between her thighs. The contact with her bare skin tore a shuddering breath from her. Only when she caught his gaze, a flash of awareness in his dark eyes, did she force herself to stop. It had been only a fragment of history, she told herself, but her body vibrated like a newly plucked violin string.

She complimented him in a voice she hoped was firm, talking about narrative style and literary potential, while more carnal scenarios formed in her mind. Over cooling cups of coffee, she weighed her options. The apartment was out of the question--too intimate, too complicated to explain. No, something more immediate, more instinctive was needed.

Courage, he said, was not in making the decision, but in accepting that you had already made it.

The drive back was charged with pent-up electricity. Paola let the flow of Dago's voice fill the cabin, while her eyes scanned the landscape with an almost feverish intensity. Her body vibrated with an anticipation that made it difficult for her to concentrate on driving, her mind already projected towards what she was looking for -- that little wood glimpsed on the way there, a promise of solitude.

There it was. The steering wheel turned almost by itself, the tires sliding silently on the path that wound through the trees. The vegetation closed behind them like a green curtain, creating a world apart, a private universe where ordinary rules lost meaning.

She pulled into a hidden clearing, her engine dying in a whisper. The sudden silence amplified the sound of their breathing. She turned to him, her heart pounding in her chest. "Read me something more..." she asked, her voice modulating that peculiar frequency that women discover in adolescence, a tone that begins innocently in requests to her father but matures into an instrument of conscious seduction. Her eyes widened in silent prayer, her lashes fluttering like moth wings, her words a thin veil draped over deeper, more primal desires.

Dago caught that note in her voice--vulnerability and boldness expertly mixed into a heady cocktail that clouded his senses. He opened the notebook with fingers that betrayed a slight impatience, carefully choosing a rehearsed tale, skipping the preliminaries to dive straight into the beating heart of the narrative. His deep voice began to fill the cabin with a tale of raw passion. "'She felt his tongue trace slow circles on her sensitive skin, each touch making her tremble...' Emma's body shuddered under his expert touches, her back arching for deeper contact..." Dago looked up from the paper, studying the way Paola's breathing became shorter. "'...her thighs opened wider, inviting him to explore more... her taste was like wild honey on his tongue...'" The words seemed to materialize in the thin air of the car, each sentence a carnal invitation. "'His tongue sank deeper, savoring every drop of her pleasure, as she writhed, fingers buried in her hair, begging him not to stop...'" Dago's eyes continually rose from the paper, capturing Paola's every quiver, his voice deliberately thickening on the more explicit passages, turning every word into a promise of pleasure.

Paola couldn't contain the restlessness that was creeping under her skin, every nerve in her body tense in electric anticipation. She took the gift pen, turning it into a magic wand of pleasure between her fingers. Her body moved with languid deliberation as she slowly lifted her skirt, an inch at a time, like a dancer revealing her secrets to music audible only to her. Her sex revealed itself like a night flower, its petals already glistening with forbidden dew.

Dago's voice faltered, the words thickening on his tongue like crystallized honey. His eyes were now magnetically drawn to the hypnotic sight before him, the words on the paper fading into the background. He tried to continue anyway, but his story was inextricably fused with the scene unfolding--her fingers delicately parting the petals of her secret flower, the bud of pleasure emerging turgid under expert touches, while the other hand freed a breast from its silken prison.

"Don't stop," she whispered, her voice now completely transformed into a hot breath of pure desire, noticing that he had practically stopped reading. Her words were a whispered command that brooked no disobedience.

Dago's words shattered like ice crystals in a glass of whiskey, his voice oscillating between raspy whispers and eloquent pauses as he watched the pen trace its path of pleasure. He was no longer reading--he was composing a new erotic tale in real time, interweaving sentences of passion with her moans, his voice moving in perfect sync with the movements of her body, speeding up in moments of frenzy, slowing down in pauses of sweet torture.

Paola leaned back against the backrest, thrusting her hips forward, her pussy completely exposed and shining with juices. The pen slid in and out of her opening with an increasingly intense rhythm, while his free hand tortured the turgid nipple, pulling and pinching it mercilessly. Dago couldn't take his eyes off the sight, his cock throbbing painfully in his pants as he watched the lips of her pussy open and close around the pen shiny with her juices.

The words suddenly lost all meaning. Dago moved toward her as if drawn by a primal force, his mouth finding her turgid nipple with instinctive precision. "Finally," Paola's thought materialized into a moan, as her hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, pressing him against her breast as if to fuse him with her flesh.

His fingers slid between her thighs with studied slowness. They found her swollen clit and began an expert dance, alternating pressure and caress as she continued to slide the pen inside her, the two rhythms blending into a symphony of pleasure.

Paola pushed him back, driven by an ancestral urge. In the stories he wrote, women knew how to give pleasure with their mouths -- and she wanted to live up to those fantasies. With feverish fingers, Paola opened his pants. Dago's cock emerged turgid, she grabbed it, looking at him. That flesh gave him unknown sensations, there was something magnetic in its shape, in the way it pulsed in front of his face, its smell. She caressed it first shyly, then with growing confidence, feeling her desire amplify with every touch. The porn videos she had watched on her lonely nights had shown her techniques, movements, but this was different -- ​​primal, visceral. The taste of his member on her tongue, the precum, awakened something wild inside her, an urgency she had never felt before. She wanted to devour him, a pleasure that no one else had ever given her, but she realized that in reality the more she sucked him, the more she pushed him deep into her mouth, the more pleasure she felt. All accentuated by the man's hand in her hair, on her head, accompanying her, sometimes forcing her.