Milan by night envelops me like a river of ink, while I wander around in my car with my personal demons as my only traveling companions.
Night is my element. Driving in the wee hours has a cathartic effect on my restless mind. The city transforms after dark--more honest, more raw, as if it were ripping off the mask it wears during the day. I drive slowly, letting chance chart my course. The clock on the dashboard says two. A rational voice whispers that there is work tomorrow, that I should be home, but I ignore it. I lose myself in the streets until a right turn catapults me into the pulsing belly of the night.
I find myself in the slow flow of night traffic, on one of the avenues where desire has a price. Memories of the "puttan tours" of twenty years ago surface involuntarily as I join the procession of cars. Here the viados reign -- bodies suspended between genders, perhaps by choice, more likely by necessity. One throws open his raincoat with a theatrical gesture, exhibiting the incongruity between the female body and the male member. A cocktail of envy, fear and disturbance pushes me to the accelerator. The South American chant "Twenty mouths, thirty love" accompanies me along the avenue like a hypnotic lullaby.
Desire awakens, sneaky and insistent. The idea of stopping, of giving myself a moment of mercenary pleasure, begins to take root. But none of them can fool me--the heavy makeup isn't enough to mask their masculinity. I turn again, pretending to head home, but I continue to move from one avenue to the other. Hope refuses to die, like a stubborn flame that refuses to go out, while the dick in my pants throbs with an urgency I can no longer ignore.
I'm standing in line, mesmerized by the nocturnal ritual of Milan that never sleeps, when a voice emerges from the darkness like a promise. "Will you walk me home?" She appears out of nowhere, leaning against my door with the ease of a predator. Her coat--an expensive piece, I note absentmindedly--is open just enough to reveal a body that seems designed for sin, wrapped in a dress that provokes rather than dresses. I stare at her, dazed, my mind wavering between desire and suspicion.
"Can you give me a ride home?" she repeats, and her voice has a peculiar quality--too refined for these nocturnal hunting avenues. I ask her destination, struggling to keep my tone neutral as my body already responds to her presence. "Old fairgrounds," she says, and something in the way she pronounces the words sounds like an invitation to a dangerous game. I know that area well--it's not the usual hunting ground of professional women, and it's this detail that sparks my curiosity even more.
She climbs with the studied precision of a dancer, movements that seem too measured for a woman of the streets. She smiles at me, running a hand through her hair in a gesture that has the naturalness of a well-rehearsed play. "I wouldn't want the police to stop you because of me," she says, and in her smile lies a secret that I can't decipher--a mix of provocation and amusement. "My name is Paola, and you?"
I can't take my eyes off her. She's disturbingly beautiful--not the artificial beauty typical of these avenues, but something more authentic and precisely for this reason more unsettling. "Dago," I reply, and my voice betrays an excitement that goes beyond mere carnal desire. Her perfume invades the cabin--Chanel, perhaps, definitely not the usual heavy sidewalk smell. It's a perfume that speaks of offices in the fashion district, aperitifs in Brera, not of late-night bargaining.
I move through the streets of a Milan that I know but that tonight seems different, as if the presence of this woman had altered the coordinates of my reality. The silence in the car thickens, electric. I would like to talk to her but every word seems inadequate. "Do you know the way?" she breaks the silence. "Yes, yes, calm down," I reply, and finally find the courage to explore. "Where did you come from? I didn't see you on the sidewalk."
"I was giving a blowjob to a customer behind the bushes..." The answer comes with disconcerting naturalness, and in my mind an image forms so vivid that it makes me grip the steering wheel: her, kneeling in the shadows, her luxury coat open to reveal her generous tits almost spilling out of her dress, while her perfect mouth works the cock of some old manager in search of forbidden emotions. My cock throbs violently in my pants, betraying an excitement that goes beyond rational control. The idea of that sophisticated mouth getting dirty in the dark drives me crazy.
But there is something in her tone--a subtle, almost imperceptible irony--that clashes with the crude words. Her voice is that of a woman accustomed to moving in environments far different from these nocturnal avenues. "Where are you from?" I try to maintain a semblance of normal conversation. "A small town near Padua," she answers, and there is indeed something of the Northeast in her accent, but filtered through years of refined education.
He leads me with precise directions: from Piazzale Lotto he makes me go around the old lido, skirt the side of the swimming pool on Via Diomede and then make me turn into one of those little streets full of villas and shaded areas. He shows me a parking lot, far from the streetlights. The perfect place for those who don't want to be seen, I think, and this knowledge excites me even more. His hand is still on the back of my neck, his fingers playing with my hair in a caress that is more command than comfort.
She turns off the engine, with a gesture that asserts control of the situation. The click of the key is like a signal--the boundary between before and after. She reclines my seat with a confident, precise movement. There is no hesitation in her gestures as she unbuttons my shirt--her fingers seem to know every button before they find it.
"How much..." I start to ask, but she silences me by pressing a finger to my lips. "Shh... let me do it." Her voice has a commanding note that brooks no reply, too authoritative for a street whore. My cock throbs in my pants, responding to that authority with an animal urgency. Her expert fingers undo my shirt quickly. She kisses my chest, and while her tongue traces incandescent paths over my skin, her hands have already opened my pants, pulled down my boxers, grabbed my sex. My cock responds like a trained animal to her touch -- hard, eager, ready for anything. I close my eyes, silently thanking whatever god of the Milanese nights sent me this unexpected gift.
I feel my cock disappearing into her hot mouth, and fuck, this isn't a professional's mechanical blowjob - there's something different, more personal in the way her tongue caresses me, explores me, owns me. My mind registers the absence of a condom first. Then how she sucks it, tastes it, licks it, without neglecting a millimeter of skin, without that rush to make him cum typical of someone who just wants to finish and go home.
She takes my hand and guides it between her thighs. "Just to reassure you that I'm a woman." She pulls me into her lace panties--another detail too refined for a street whore--and what I find makes my head spin: She's soaking wet, but not with the cheap lube the pros use. She's wet with real, primal desire.
As she continues to give me a blowjob with increasing intensity, she uses my hand to masturbate herself. I don't have to do anything - she controls every movement, using my fingers as a tool for her pleasure. The thought of this elegant woman using my body to masturbate herself while she sucks my cock brings me dangerously close to orgasm.
She pulls away for a moment, and with a studied movement lowers her cleavage and bra, freeing her generous breasts. They are perfect -- too perfect to be true, I think, but when I touch them I discover that they are natural, warm, alive. She takes my cock and squeezes it between her breasts, creating a tunnel of warm, silky flesh. "Do you like fucking my tits?" she whispers, and there is something in her voice -- a mix of innocence and depravity that drives me crazy.
As she squeezes it between her tits, my cock throbs as if it has a life of its own. I look down at her--her breasts are a breathtaking sight: generous but firm, with large, dark areolas that seem designed for sin, hard nipples that betray her arousal. They are the tits of an ancient goddess, a Renaissance Madonna, too perfect for a street whore. When she moves, they swing in a hypnotic, natural rhythm, revealing their authenticity in every movement. Her skin is smooth, immaculate, and the way she squeezes my cock in that channel of warm flesh makes me want to own her, to mark her, to dirty that perfection.
The contrast between her innate elegance and this dirty thing she's doing in a car parked in the dark drives me crazy. Every time the chapel emerges from that tunnel of perfect flesh, her half-open lips welcome it with an almost reverential kiss, as if she were officiating a profane rite.
"Look at me," she commands suddenly, and there's a light in her green eyes that I can't quite decipher--a mixture of lust and... amusement? "Look at me while I get my tits fucked by your cock." The dirty language in her polite mouth makes me tremble with excitement. It's not your usual slutty dirty talk--there's something more personal, like she's discovering the pleasure of being dirty right now, like every dirty word she utters is a little personal transgression.
Her tits are slick with my pre-orgasm cum, and the thought of it drives me even wilder. She notices, speeds up her movements, tightens those natural works of art around my throbbing cock. "You can't take it anymore, can you?" she whispers, her voice honey and poison at the same time. "You want to cum on the tits of a whore you meet on the street?"
There's something strange about the way she says "whore," as if she's playing a role that excites her as much as it excites me. It's as if every time she uses that word, a shiver runs through her body, making her instinctively squeeze her breasts around my cock with more force. But I don't have time to analyze this thought, because her tongue starts licking the glans every time it emerges, and the pleasure becomes unbearable.
