romance
happy couples
sexual healing sexual therapy
exhibitionist/voyeur
scent/sense of smell
Italy
girl on girl
supernatural/mystical
cfnm
*****
If you happen to know twin sisters from Palo Alto named April and Julia, you're about to learn more about their conception than they themselves know. Their mother and I never shared this tale because, well, because who wants to visualize their parents having sex? Especially magical, mystical, marathon sex. And the twins wouldn't believe it anyway, at least until we showed them our proof.
The story begins on a warm spring morning in an Italian forest—the Foresta Umbra, five hours east of Rome, close by the Adriatic. My wife Eliza and I are staying at a boutique inn, having joined a trip for couples run by a swank touring company. They've booked the entire property for a week and filled all twelve suites. Eliza and I are not only celebrating our fifteenth anniversary, but attempting to sharpen our sexual appetites, which have gradually dulled through the years. The first few days, alas, have proved more tense than erotic, despite the glowing sunsets, the terraced gardens, the superb wines, and a truly luxurious suite with a fireplace, hot tub, and private balcony. While other couples seem to be going at it like rabbits, routinely excusing themselves from swims and walks to go make whoopee, Eliza and I have felt awkward and pressured. We've enjoyed some oral sex, but our attempts at intercourse have mostly produced the mishaps you'd expect from a couple of 14-year-old virgins. We're badly out of practice, and on this trip the stakes seem high.
I awaken early one day mid-week and help myself to an exquisite chocolate croissant and doppio in the lobby. Eliza, feeling the jet lag more than I, has been sleeping late every morning, and I decide to take a solo walk through the nearby woods. We've meandered these trails before, but now I venture further, and after being lost in my own thoughts for some time, I discover I'm also lost in the woods. I backtrack and check out a few branch trails, looking for a landmark or sign, but no luck. Because I began the walk by heading roughly east, I turn my back to the sun and walk westerly. When the trail I'm on peters out I belatedly realize that I may have overshot the resort. The woods are pleasant and safe—this is no wilderness—but I haven't a clue where I am, so I'm happy to hear voices "in vicino." I walk cross-country for about 50 yards—no, in Italy it's 50 meters—and emerge into a large clearing where some dozen people have gathered.
A woman roughly my age notices me immediately, walks toward me, and greets me warmly. "Buongiorno, Signore! Piacere. You've arrived at the perfect time—folks are gathering to enjoy the morning sun on the fountain." Sure enough, in the center of the clearing stands an apparently ancient fountain, roughly hewn of stone. It's bulky, say four meters long and three wide, but has only a small basin to catch water; it looks like an ancient mausoleum with a small baptismal font tacked on. Despite its chunkiness it has a certain beauty, with its pale rocks taking on the subtle orange radiance of the early sun. "Very few tourists ever find this spot," says the woman. "It's a closely held local secret, and none of the nearby trails lead all the way here. But now that you're here I'm happy to show you all about it. I don't believe in accidents— this was meant to be!"
"Piacere. Io sono Nicolo," I manage to dredge up from my Babbel lessons. (At home I'm just "Nick," but I'm a sucker for that Italian assonance.) I notice the woman's traditional garb, a kind of peasant dress, and her abundant brown hair, hanging loose halfway down her torso. On her head is a handmade crown of twigs whose pink spring blossoms are just beginning to open. There's something unsettling about her eyes that I can't quite articulate—they are hazel but remarkably deep—but mainly I'm relieved to be un-lost again.
"My name is Giulietta," the woman says, "though I'm no Capulet. And don't worry about getting back to the resort." (Here as everywhere the American tourist is easy to spot.) "I'll show you the way later and you'll be back before lunch." Her English is slightly accented, but not in a stereotypical Italian register; to my untrained ear it has a Celtic lilt.
"The key thing to understand is that the fountain is not really about water—you can see that its basin is dry at the moment. Rather, you are standing in an open-air temple dedicated to scent, to our sense of smell. More specifically, this place and its stone monument consecrate and concentrate sexual scents, the aromas of virility, attraction, arousal, and procreation. The temple is at once a multiplier of sexual energy and a kind of free exchange of sexual scents. It's a place where pheromones run wild, but its power was discovered centuries before such chemical substances were identified. Archeologists date the stone structure to the pre-Roman era, though the Romans likely added the plumbing."
"Simply breathing the air here," she continues, "can heighten your sexual desire, and touching the stone with your skin or your clothing both contributes to the communal repository of sexual energy and sends it flowing back into you. It's like a sex bank that pays a lot of interest and never charges fees! Watch the woman who is approaching the fountain."
A woman dressed in muted, earthy colors stops at the fountain. She is carrying something draped across her left arm; when she spreads it out across the stones I can see that it's a green dress (un vestito verde). She then removes her shoes and places them neatly at the base of the fountain. She proceeds to remove her clothing, carefully turning each item inside out before placing it directly on one of the stones. Soon a light sweater (un maglione), some leggings, a skirt (una gonna), a blouse, a bra, and a pair of panties (mutandine)—all carefully turned inside out—adorn the monument next to il vestito. The woman performs this ritual calmly, deliberately, un-self-consciously. In the moment her disrobing surprises me only mildly. It feels natural, customary, healthy, and liberating. This deeply calm and open sense, this comfortable and comforting placidity, continues unabated throughout my visit.
The woman circles the monument a few times, brushing her hands across the stones; though they are irregularly shaped, they have been polished smooth by weather and, it appears, by human touch. A few slender stones jut out several inches from the monument's side, and the woman caresses these lovingly. Giulietta draws me closer and introduces me. The naked woman is her friend Claudia, who explains that she reverses her clothing to enhance the transfer of scents and energy between the stone and her clothes. Claudia and Giulietta chat for a minute or two in Italian that zips by far too fast for me to understand much, but I do suss out that Claudia is returning the dress to Giulietta. One other thing they've discussed becomes clear when Giulietta lifts Claudia's panties from the rock and holds them up to my nose. "Inhale deeply," she says. "What do you smell?" Though I'm standing in the sun of an Italian spring, my mind flashes to street vendors in snowy Manhattan. A moment later the words arrive—chestnuts, roasted chestnuts.
"Well done! Now can you take a knee and help Claudia into her panties?" Yes, I surely can. I hold Claudia's panties close to the ground so she can step into them. She steadies herself with one hand on my shoulder as I slide the black panties up her pale legs and breathe in the chestnut aroma of her sex. I stand, Giulietta helps Claudia with her bra, and before long she is fully dressed again.
"Ciao, Nicolo," she says. "You really must experience the monument for yourself. Its stones are exceedingly hard, and you will be too." She winks at me and kisses Giulietta goodbye, once on each cheek and once on the lips, and walks serenely across the clearing and into the woods.
"Of course she's right," says Giulietta. "Why come to church if you're not going to pray? We'll come back to the fountain, but let's begin by tuning up your sense of smell with some quick training, a bit of mindfulness practice focused on scent. OK?" Whatever she suggests feels right. I don't feel drugged or hypnotized—just trusting, compliant, surprised at nothing.
"We'll practice at the edge of the clearing—wouldn't want to hog the fountain, would we?—but in order to smell the trees and blossoms and wafting pheromones you'll have to ditch your clothes. It's not that they smell bad—no such thing in my opinion—just a bit overpowering. So off they go! Give them a good rinse in the basin." The fountain is now running, spilling a gentle stream into the basin and draining somehow underground. Who turned it on? Must have been those Romans. Following Claudia's example, I place my shoes at the base and then undress, pausing when I'm down to my boxers. "Those too," Giulietta says, as if reading my mind, "and don't worry about things getting wet. They'll dry in no time." I pull off the boxers and feel my cock stiffening, but any concern about having a public erection quickly fades. I rinse my garments one at a time and spread them on the warm, sunny rocks. Half as a joke, I turn the boxers inside out.
As Giulietta leads me toward the clearing's edge, I notice a man and woman making love, standing up, about twenty yards—I mean meters—to our left. After a quick glance I tactfully turn my head away. "It's fine to watch," says Giulietta. "In fact they like it, and they put on quite a show."
Indeed they do! He's built like an Olympic decathlete, and she boasts the flexibility of a Cirque du Soleil trapeze artist. He's rooted firmly to the ground, but she never touches it, standing instead on his feet, or bracing herself on his bent knees (both facing him and facing away), or held pulsing rhythmically in mid-air by his blacksmith arms. She does not actually turn a cartwheel with his cock buried inside her, but odds are 7-4 she could. A small audience gathers and watches them in respectful silence, broken only by one whispered "Brava!"
Their performance is symphonic in length as well as complexity, and Giulietta and I move along before its climax to begin my olfactory training. We turn to face into a gentle breeze at the edge of the forest. "Tell me what you smell," Giulietta says.
"It smells like trees," I respond, realizing a moment later that I sound like Faulkner's idiot Benjy.
Giulietta ignores my cluelessness and simply asks, "What kind of trees? Take your time, but trust your hunches—you absolutely nailed Claudia's chestnut scent!"
"Oak?" I guess, perhaps because it's so common where I live in California.
Maybe
I smell it.
