My Three Days With Elena

I often met women on the trains while traveling in Europe, and this was the case with Elena. It had became something of a cliché that summer, sadly parting only to find someone new in my compartment on the next leg of my journey. I had just boarded in Nice, and I found her alone, looking out the window. Elena had dark brown hair and an olive complexion in a short red dress. When the train pulled out of the station, we still had the compartment to ourselves. I smiled, which led to a conversation and three days together in Italy.

Elena told me about her life on Long Island. The daughter of a wealthy businessman she was traveling in Europe on her own for the first time, traveling to Rome, but in no real rush to get there. She had just spent a couple of weeks along the French Riviera, and talked about the small towns in detail. She'd stayed in Nice for three days, and thought the city was romantic. There was a mysterious air about Elena, but it was clear she liked talking to a fellow American.

I feigned interest as Elena spoke, but, truthfully, my mind was on her long bare legs stretching from her small dress. I watched her body move against the thin fabric and imagined caressing her thighs and running my hand into the darkness between them. Elena must have noticed, because she stopped talking momentarily. When I looked up our eyes met, and we froze, staring at one another for a moment before Elena looked away and continued her monologue. I glanced out the window and considered my next move. Within moments I was watching her again. Entranced, I listened to her for the longest time, too long really. I'd wanted to move close to her immediately and had waited. Now, it all seemed awkward.

Finally, I rose and seated myself next to her. Elena looked at me, and for a moment our eyes were again glued. This time I slipped my hand to her knee. She reacted as if in slow motion, taking a deep breath, and watching my hand as I ran it over her thigh. She looked into my eyes, and I leaned to kissed her. With this, Elena rose to her feet and left the compartment.

With a sigh I, again, glanced outside, worried that Elena might return with some official to scold me. Minutes passed, which felt like hours, and then Elena entered without a word. She seated herself next to me and smiled cautiously. I kissed her softly, and she first responded in kind, then became more aggressive. As we pressed out mouths together and explored each other with our tongues, I slid my hand to her knee, ran it up her smooth thigh, and continued along her hip to find her bare!

"I took them off," she whispered between kisses.

My hand caressed the length of her and then slipped between her parting thighs. I probed her with my fingers and messaged her sex, my hand making smacking sounds between her legs. Her tongue filled my mouth. Elena opened my jeans with a free hand and slowly stroked me with her spit-wetted fingers until I was hard and throbbing. We made a lewd and lusty sight, hand-fucking one another with our mouths intertwined. We would have likely come then and there, had we not been disturbed by a portly boy who mistakenly entered the compartment. He rushed away in horror, and we began looking for some way to conceal ourselves. I pulled a large plastic rain tarp from my bag and used this as a cover. We again returned to our intimacy while the light outside faded. We only used our hands that evening, spending hours touching and caressing, inserting and fucking, holding and stroking, and getting little sleep between our groping, the rocking train, and the periodic interruptions of interloping passengers in and out the compartment. Disturbed we would lie still, our fingertips barely touching one another's sex with Elena's beautiful legs sprawled across the bench. Alone we would return to kissing and hand-fucking each other. I came twice in Elena's hands. Elena came at least that many times with my fingers inside her

Elena agreed to come with me to Florence. We arrived late the following day bleary-eyed and feeling soiled. The chaos and antiquity of the city overwhelmed us. Lost and unable to speak Italian, I found the city maddening, as we walked the crowded streets searching for a room. And Elena was a sight! Her red dress left little to the imagination with her long shapely legs strutting down one narrow street after another. The Italian men followed her like a bitch in heat. How they leered at her! Some made noises. Others approached her. It was all I could do to keep them at bay with scowls and an occasional threatening remark. Elena liked the attention. She would occasionally give them a glance, but she also held on to me, and that was enough to dissuade further advances.

By early evening I had found us a room on the fifth floor of an ancient building on a noisy street with a marvelous view of the Piazza del Duomo. The space opened onto the city through windows with heavy wooden shutters. There were no curtains, but the shutters could be closed for privacy. Elena slipped down the hall to shower first, and then I followed. When I returned to the room I found her rubbing oil over her naked body before the partially opened window. Startled, she draped herself with a towel. I stared at her for a moment, then switched off the light.

We were shrouded in near darkness until I pushed the shutters open to reveal the lights of the city and the setting sun. I leaned Elena against the open window, then stepped behind her and grabbed the towel. Her tan body glistened against the lights and the red sky. I ran my hands over the length of her, caressing her shoulders and breasts, her oiled hips and round ass, her thighs and finally her cunt. I kissed her neck and probed her with my hands. She wanted to turn to me, but I refused to let her move, pressing myself against her, and pressing her into the open window, exposing her. I rubbed myself against her, and talked to her in a sweet and nasty whisper as I smeared my hand between her legs, rubbing her wet clit.

Elena was pushed into the open window, while I rubbed my swollen dick between her slippery butt and legs. Intending to fuck her, I slid the length of it back and forth between her wet cunt lips. But Elena reached between her legs, grabbed my cock, and began to stroke me with her hand, just as she had the night before. She pumped me between her slippery fingers as she held me tight against her wet-slicked labia. The feeling was incredible! And what an obscene sight we presented with Elena leaning out of the window, her breasts swaying with each thrust, and her hands down between her legs pulling my dick and frantically rubbing her clit. I held her hips tight and lengthened my thrusts, smacking against her butt. With this she became wild, grinding and writhing, arching her back and sticking her breasts out the window, panting as she masturbated. Elena came with a gasping moan, pushing against my thrusts, and crying out. In a moment it was over, but she redoubled her efforts on my shaft and pumped me to an explosive orgasm, shooting semen down her thighs. Afterward, we fell to the floor and lay silently with one another. Later, we slept deeply below the open window.

We arose late the next morning but rushed to see the sights of the city. Elena's red dress glowed in the morning sunlight, strolling across the Piazza del Duomo. This was a different day. Elena became willing to try her rudimentary Italian, and our sightseeing improved immensely. After fortifying ourselves with espresso we were intent on completing tourist stops at the Duomo, Palazzo Vecchio, and the Uffizi Gallery. Of course, our plans were overly ambitious, and Elena's appearance continued to attract considerable attention. With her holding my arm, however, I decided to take the day as it came.

Elena discovered a trattoria beyond the reach of the tourist horde - a crowded and wonderful place where we were brought ravioli, saut‚ed zucchini with garlic, bread, and wine. Elena was the center of attention, chatting boldly in Italian with the locals. All the men watched her, and several made passes when they thought I wouldn't notice. Toward the end of the meal Elena dropped her hand into my lap, gave me a squeeze, and suggested we find a place.

How do you find a discreet place in crowded Florence? We strolled hand-in-hand along various streets before finding the Boboli Gardens. Inside we found a concealed spot behind a wall and some landscaping. Elena gave me a taunting smirk and said something probably obscene in Italian and then whispered in my ear,

"I know what you want."

She pressed herself against me, ripped open the buttons on my jeans, wetted her hand, and began stroking me to an immense erection. We kissed deeply as she rubbed herself against me, then pushed me back against the wall with her palm, and hand-jobbed me at arm's length. I could see Elena's excitement, and I thrust my cock forward lewdly into her milking fingers. She teased me again in Italian and then leaned close, whispering a mouthful of nasty little words I understood. Within moments I spurted all over her leg. In response, she impaled me with a deep French kiss and milked me until I couldn't stand it.

Elena's interest in public sex only increased after our moment in the garden. Walking through the city, she caressed my arm and shoulder but made every attempt to display herself to passersby. When I suggested she remove her panties, she looked at me with a sultry, little girl innocence, and then slid them off in an instant when no one was looking and put them in her bag.

The walk back across town was theater the likes of which I won't soon forget. Elena was lost in lust from the exposure. She walked slow and deliberate, exposed to the world beneath and concealed barely by the thin fabric of her red dress to passersby. Every so often when she thought no one was looking she would peel up her dress to exposed herself. At a dark corner I took her in my arms, slid my hand between her legs, and caressed her wet cunt. The hotter she got the more she loved teasing the Italian men. She became a slut child to them on the back streets with her pouty looks and occasional nasty words. At one point three young men began flirting with her as we walked, ignoring me. Elena teased them until one walked over, grabbed her, and kissed her. She stepped back and froze, watching him. She then took my arm and strutted away. The guy followed us for several blocks, however, calling to Elena in Italian. Finally, we lost him by turning a corner and ducking inside a small bar.

Inside, I ordered a bottle of wine at the counter, and Elena found a dark corner. We drank without a word until I slid my hand between Elena's thighs and began playing with her. Naked, hot, and sopping wet, she leaned back and parted her legs. I plunged my hand into her hole and played with her breasts.

"Do you think he'll find us?" she whispered.

I smiled, kissed her neck, and she began rubbing against me faster and then slipped her own hand to her cunt and rubbed furiously while I fingered her. She came with a long moan and sat in silence, holding me afterwards. Later, we drank, and Elena told me she had thought about the guy in the street when she came.

We sat silently for some time, before Elena told me the story of her time in Nice. It turned out that today was not the only occasion on which Elena had had sex in public. In fact, she'd ended a three-day affair in Nice with an Italian man just before we'd met on the train. They'd spent three days together on the French Riviera having sex in public places. She recalled it in detail, and I sat listening, speechless.

That evening Elena wanted to go out. We ate without saying much, and later she found a courtyard with lights strung overhead and live music. The night was warm, and the crowd was a mix of tourists and locals with single men watching from the side in small groups. In her red dress, Elena drew everyone's attention. I didn't feel much like dancing, so we sat and drank and watched the others.

Elena recognized him immediately as he crossed the courtyard and approached us. It was the guy from the street, the one who had kissed her that afternoon. He stood before us and asked Elena to dance. She stared at him, then rose and took his hand as he led her away. His name was Paulo, and he stayed the entire evening, dancing with Elena and drinking at our table. There was no question as to what he wanted, and Elena lapped it up, as I sat watching, drink in hand. After an hour I excused myself and returned to the pensione alone.

I wasn't paying attention to Elena's and Paulo's conversation when a visit to Fiesole came up. I recalled hearing them discuss it, but my attention was by then directed to the other couples dancing. When Elena returned to the pensione later that night she told me that she and Paulo had made a date with one another to go to Fiesole in the morning. But she also asked me if I was interested in going along. I should have known better, but I reluctantly agreed.

The following day we checked out of the pensione. The streets of Florence again seemed crowded and chaotic, and we waited a long time near the train station for the bus. I sat silently with our bags while Elena worried over Paulo, who showed just as the bus arrived.

The large bus had standing room only. The three of us entered the bus together but became separated among a couple dozen others. Standing like sardines, I could see Elena sandwiched with Paulo toward the rear of the bus. With so many strangers pressed against me it was all I could do to keep track of my bag and money belt. I was convinced that a guy with a three day-old beard was trying to pick pocket me, so I focused my attention on him for a while before glancing back toward Elena. When I did, my heart jumped through my throat. Paulo was feeling her up! I could just make out his hand up under her dress as she leaned against him.

I watched this with a perverse sense of arousal. My heart pounded. A warm sensation moved through my groin, and I began to get hard and wet. I looked around to see whether anyone else had noticed them or was aware of my own excitement. No on paid the slightest attention, however. The ride took only twenty minutes, but I watched Paulo moving his hand in and out of Elena's dress during the entire trip, and I burned with both anger and arousal.

Upon arriving in Fiesole, Paulo removed his hand and Elena composed herself as best she could. She was still adjusting her hem when I walked up outside the bus. Her legs were beautiful. Paulo looked the other way.

"We got stuck in the back," she explained, motioning.

I forced a smile.

"Right," I said after a pause and looking at Paulo.

Then I started walking up the hill toward town. Elena grabbed her bag and followed, and motioned for Paulo to join us. Elena took my arm as we walked.

"I saw you on the bus," I told her.

Elena looked at me and froze for an instant, then looked back to Paulo. She shrugged.

"I like him," she confided.

Paulo walked up to us. Elena took his arm, and the three of us continued walking together along the winding streets. Elena and Paulo flirting, as they chatted in Italian.

It could have been an awful morning, but it was just the end of my affair with Elena. We found a little white-washed bar. The three of us sat drinking coffees, while old men played cards and a priest watched an American television show dubbed in Italian. Elena held my hand, but at one point she leaned and kissed Paulo. I watched for a moment then slipped my hand from Elena's to touch her knee. I ran it along her thigh, then rose, lifted my bag, and left.

That night I laid alone in a small pensione in Fiesole and masturbated thinking of Elena's legs, her little red dress, and her having sex in public places with strangers like me.

(c) Robert Swain