Summer in Tuscany

Authors note: This is the first chapter in a story about a young woman who spends the summer before her semester abroad in Florence at the villa of her father's friend. The primary theme of this chapter focuses on exhibitionism and voyeurism. Later chapters will delve into bondage, group sex and much more. It was co-written with the author Distractionary, and the story is told through alternating points of view.

*

When Rachel Martin stepped off the plane in Tuscany, she felt she was in not just a different country, but a different world. The sunlight was so vivid, making everything, the sky, the water, the buildings, the grass, a color she had never seen before. It was frankly just as amazing as she had imagined, despite her friends telling her for months the trip could never live up to her expectations.

She hadn't stopped smiling for days, as she settled into her room at Jack Morrison's villa, as she toured the countryside, as she sipped espresso and wine in the nearby town. She hadn't stopped thanking her host for putting her up, either. A few months ago the idea of being able to afford to travel abroad, never mind get her parent's permission, had seemed implausible. Yet somehow it had all worked out. And here she was.

In the weeks before she had left, fantasies had taken root in her mind. Ones she'd pushed away, pretended she wasn't thinking about. But there was something in the Italian air, the sunlight, the looks in the eyes of the people that had unleashed them. At home she'd been a typical girl, she supposed, always wary of her parents' eyes watching over her shoulders. Here no one was watching, no one would tell her how she should behave. And no one, she couldn't help thinking over and over, would know a thing when she got back home about what she'd done in Italy.

She found herself lazing in bed on these Mediterranean mornings, stroking herself to a fevered state. Once, or twice, she played a little game from back in high school, using her own stockings to tie her thighs together. It wasn't much, but there was something about the way she couldn't move, the way her legs felt grinding against each other, that brought her to such an orgasm. It wasn't long before she had convinced herself to talk to some of the Italian boys in town, and not much longer than that before she agreed to bring one home with her. It was everything that she'd imagined; torrid love, accented moans, the rough stubble on his foreign face. He crept away before light, and Rachel lay content and smiling as the sun rose.

When Jack, sitting at his breakfast table, read the email on his phone from his old friend in the states asking if his daughter could spend a few weeks before the start of her semester abroad in Florence at Jack's villa, a sprawling 16th century estate north of Siena surrounded by olive tree groves and vineyards that he had purchased and renovated before such things were the subjects of popular books, he was annoyed. Jack, a near-extinct beast, a lifelong bachelor, enjoyed a certain kind of life that would be inhibited by the presence of a young American woman, and he imagined an unattractive, overweight, pimpled girl constantly texting and asking silly questions. Jack had no intention of being a babysitter. His friend assured him that his daughter Rachel was intelligent, athletic, well-mannered, and, Jack, wondering how much his old friend knew about his personal life, was surprised at how much emphasis his friend placed on his daughter's beauty.

Before replying to his friend, he went to his office and quickly found Rachel's Facebook page -- why was he not surprised her photo albums were not privacy protected. He clicked through the album and smiled. That stirring, which he knew was not like the nanosecond it took him to get an erection in his teens, was coming around. Rachel's father's comment about his daughter was not mere paternal boasting. Jack took his time flipping through the albums, studying each picture. Rachel had long auburn hair, a pert nose, the obligatory perfect American teeth, blue eyes, he guessed around 5'7" tall, long lean legs, and from the side view, lovely round buttocks. But it was her breasts he stared at. Magnificent. Large and pert on her slender frame. He studied the albums and saw the progression. When you are a watcher like Jack, an admitted voyeur, you notice details in photographs and images. You can see the story.

In her earlier pictures, from the album dates she was probably around 16, she was obviously self-conscious about her growing breasts, covering them in baggy sweatshirts and sweaters. The most recent album, taken while at a beach, showed Rachel completely comfortable, perhaps--yes, definitely--flaunting her maturing body. He noticed the progression of her bikinis, their shrinking size. He focused on several pictures in the same white small bikini, the damp triangles barely covering her glorious tits. Jack's robe had fallen open, and he reached for the small tube of lotion he always kept nearby, and stroked his impressive erection until he ejaculated, imaging spraying her breasts.

The thought of having this lovely nymph around for the summer had kept his impressive cock tingling for the rest of the day. The surveillance equipment he was having installed that week for security purposes would need to be modified to include new cameras in the guest bedroom and bathroom. No, he thought, better to have it in every room. He replied to his friend, "Of course. I would love to have Rachel stay. I'm looking forward to it. When will she arrive?"

And so now, this morning, was it five days since she arrived? his cock stirred again as he saw Rachel enter the kitchen. "You really seem to be enjoying yourself here, aren't you Rachel." He grinned.

Rachel was caught halfway through a yawn when Jack spoke. She tried to stifle it, but failed, so stood for a moment in the kitchen door, hand over her mouth, squinting. When she was done she smiled apologetically. If there was a tone in his words, she missed it. Frankly, she hardly thought about her host, and as long as she was discreet, didn't think he would notice a thing she did.

"Oh, I'm having a great time, Mr. Morrison," she responded politely. He had told her to always help herself, so she went right to gathering up a breakfast. Somehow even that seemed more exotic, more amazing in the golden sun here. Rachel was dressed in a mid-thigh silk robe, which Jack might have been aware covered a pair of boxers and a tank top. She was unaware of his gaze as she gathered up an espresso cup and operated his machine, her back to him, leaving him to admire her quickly darkening thighs, the spill of her auburn curls down her back. "I hope I'm not being an inconvenience at all. I try to stay out of the way."

"You've been no trouble at all," he said, his eyes fixated on the arc of her buttocks underneath the silk robe. The view of her walking into the kitchen, her large firm tits barely concealed by the thin tank top and robe, made him reach inside his own robe pocket to check for his lotion. He'd already jacked off once that morning to the video taken from the camera in her bedroom. She'd been playing with her pussy the night before, and he watched the replay while teasing himself, trying to hold back as long as he could. At one point, he thought it must have been on accident, he thought he saw look directly into the camera. Could she have known it was there?

"What exactly did you do last night Rachel?" With her back still to him, he reached between his legs and squeezed his cock.

Rachel was looking the other way when he asked his question, and so she hoped he did not notice the look that first flashed over her face. It was a bit of panic and guilt, knowing indeed what she'd spent the night doing. She quickly brushed it away; there was no way he had any idea what she'd been up to her in own bedroom. It was a simple, innocent question, the kind any host would be expected to ask. With an innocent smile, she turned around, espresso in hand.

"Oh I just went into town for a bit. I'm trying to explore all the different restaurants and bars here. Is that what you'd call them, bars?" It sounded a bit sleazy when she put it that way. But at least Mr. Morrison didn't know anything about the Italian boy she'd spent the night flirting with. Or the way she'd thought about him all night in her bed, playing with herself. She'd tied her thighs together with a stocking and imagined that it was the dark eyed boy that had done it, imagined him holding her down on the bed with those strong arms. He'd let her feel his muscles at the bar last night, laughing as she praised how strong he was. That much she could get through in her halting Italian. "It's just lovely how vibrant the town is at night. It seems back home everything closes up at night. Here people were having so much fun."

"Sure you can call them bars. We do have a lot to offer. Are you making friends with any of the locals? I'm sure a beautiful young woman with a figure like yours is getting plenty of attention, yes?" Up to this point, he had been nothing but the innocent, harmless, gracious host. He'd intentionally never let his eyes linger on her body, never stood too near, had not so much as physically touched her once since she arrived. But he'd been getting reports from his friends about Rachel's activities.

It seems that she had indeed been very friendly with a number of young men in town, and had many admirers already of the older men as well. The sweet girl she presented herself as to him and probably to her parents was not as innocent as she looked. Now things would change.

"Yes, I looked for you last night, but it appeared you must have been tied up somewhere," he said, his tone flat and emotionless. As she sat down across from him at the small cafe table in the corner of the kitchen, he made sure she saw him glance down at her cleavage. With the bright morning light streaming through the windows, the thin tank top and sheer silk robe seemed to accentuate the voluptuousness of her tits, and he could see the outline of her nipples. "But it's easy to get wrapped up in having a good time here isn't it Rachel?"

That was a curious choice of wording, Rachel thought to herself. She didn't give any reaction to it, she didn't believe so anyway, as she sat down at Mr. Morrison's breakfast table, her breakfast table for the stay. She buttered her toast, all too aware of the way his eyes dipped down to her chest, hardly bothering to hide the fact. Tied up, wrapped up. She was sure it was just an unfortunate choice of phrases to use, but it had the unfortunate effect of reminding Rachel of the feel of her bound legs, her thighs rubbing against each other within the bonds of her stocking. The memory aroused her, the arousal stiffened her nipples, her stiff nipples drew Mr. Morrison's eyes, and--most distressingly--his bald gaze increased her arousal. Vague feelings of embarrassment floated through her mind as she shifted on the stool, wishing he wouldn't look, or wishing it wouldn't seem so pleasing to her when he did.

She couldn't think of a way to respond to his comments about her figure that wasn't going to make things even more awkward, so Rachel ignored them. Brushing some auburn locks away from her face, she took a bite of toast, giving herself some time to put together an answer. "You're right, it is easy to kind of lose track of everything," Rachel offered, though even that watered down answer seemed to drip with meaning. She cleared her throat, swallowing some more toast hurriedly. "I can get back home earlier if you'd like. I don't want to disrupt your evenings," she offered, unsure if that was the message behind all this. She wasn't exactly pleased at the idea--the whole idea of the trip was to get away from the watching eyes of her parents. She had no interest in replacing them with this fellow. But it seemed the only polite response, and Rachel had been raised to be very polite.

Yes, the watcher sees. The watcher notices when nipples swell, even the slightest increase in size. The watcher notices body language, a shift in the hips, the impact the smallest leg movement under a table might have on the upper body. The watcher notices the most subtle change in breathing, like the way Rachel's increase in heart rate was affecting hers now. This discussion of her body, the hint that he might know what she's been up to at night, made her uncomfortable, but, he knew, that discomfort, that unsettled feeling, was arousing her too.

"Oh, no, no" Jack said with a warm smile. "Mia bella...just the opposite. I feel like I've been an inattentive host. I haven't seen enough of you." He waited half a beat for the entendre to strike. "I'd like to see more of you Rachel." A flick of his eyes to her chest. "And perhaps have you meet some of my friends. I'm sure they'd love to meet such an intelligent, beautiful young American woman. In fact, tonight I'm having a few friends over for a small cocktail party by the pool. It should be a beautiful Tuscan evening, and I'd like for you to be there. I've even taken the liberty of buying you a dress for the occasion. I hope you don't think I'm too forward, but I had the housekeeper Isabella get your measurements from the clothes in your closet. The new dress is hanging there now." In his mind he was already picturing the way the very short black cocktail dress, just a size too small, and a few inches too short, would show off her beautiful body. Being a good girl he knew she couldn't refuse to wear a gift her host had purchased for her.

Jack had something else in mind too. Every afternoon Rachel would sunbathe by the pool. The cameras by the pool showed him that she typically sunbathed topless for at least a brief while, and had once even sunbathed completely nude. He thought about her freckled skin and the way her breasts looked as she rubbed her lotion on them. Tonight, as a treat for his guests, he wanted to present them with a gift: an uninhibited view of Rachel's perfect tits.

His plan was simple. Late in the afternoon, he would have Isabella serve Rachel the same lemonade she did every afternoon, but this one would have a little something extra in it, a little something to make Rachel's afternoon nap last longer than usual, just another hour or two longer. His guests would have arrived by then, and would be able to openly admired Rachel's nude or at least topless body.

"How does that sound Rachel? Will you able to join us? You would be an honored guest," he raised his small espresso cup to hers as if to clink cups, "I can't wait to see how you look in that dress." He watched the deep chasm of her cleavage form as she reflexively raised her cup toward his.

Rachel's eyes narrowed slightly, trying to discern whether the innuendos she was catching in his speech were intentional. But Rachel, for all her bluster and excitement about her trip was naive to the world. This distinguished older man, she hardly could imagine him as having a sexual thought in his head. And certainly had no reason to think he had seen anything he shouldn't have. Rachel passed it off as a side effect of her aroused body. She was hearing things, imagining them where they weren't. Somehow the trip, the country, was putting her in quite a state. She needed to find some way to sate herself, and not walk around in a semi-sexual stupor.

If his words, his gaze, hadn't been enough, a worldly woman certainly would have understood what was underway when Jack told her about the dress he had for her, measured secretly to fit her body. But Rachel was not a worldly woman, she was indeed the natural prey of men like Jack. Easily swayed, and blinded by compliments, and too polite and insecure in her place in the world to give voice to her quiet concerns. "Sure, that would be lovely. Thank you, Mr. Morrison." It was a bit strange to let a man dress her like that, but Rachel quietly submitted to that gentle pressure, this thumb coming lightly to rest on top of her.

She finished her breakfast and stood up, unconsciously aware now of his gaze, and moving with the sensual grace of the watched woman. She slid from the stool and padded across the kitchen. "Thank you again. I'll see you this evening!" she told him before skittering back to her room. Once there she immediately went to the foreign dress in her closet, laying it out and gazing at it. But that was something for later, and Rachel soon forgot it, going about her normal routine.

She showered, enjoying the luxurious bathroom with Italian marble, and Italian sun streaming in through the high windows. She tried on the dress, frowning at the poor fit, but not feeling it appropriate to say anything. Instead she slipped on her bikini and robe and spent the rest of the morning laying on her bed reading and writing letters to friends back home. She felt quite a special creature indeed writing to them from Europe, like some character from a book.

Later, after lunch she moved her activity outside, next to the sparkling pool. For a while she sat staring at it and simply being, thinking about last night, thinking about the men at the bar, thinking about the strange things Mr. Morrison had said to her. Then Rachel prepared herself for some tanning, spreading her skin with the expensive lotion she had bought in the town, loving the smell and feel of it on her skin. She would go home a bronze goddess, she thought to herself smiling. Glancing around, she made sure no one was looking before she removed her top, laying back and letting the sun kiss her ever-darkening breasts. Feeling like a true European, she didn't even flinch when the housekeeper approached her, handing her a delicious lemonade before scurrying back into the house. Rachel could feel the nipples crinkling at the hot touch of the sun's rays, and she closed her eyes and thought some more, her arousal seeping through her body as sleep came too, the two mixing and leaving her to sleep fevered dreams of Italian skin and Italian sunlight.

He chose his guest list carefully. If all went according to plan there would be other nights like this, but for this first time with this young woman, this lovely creature with the most impressive breasts he'd ever seen, he selected three friends. Giancarlo owned a neighboring vineyard and was Jack's tennis double's partner. He was in his early fifties with jet black wavy hair, a strong nose and chin, and a trim, fit body from years of hands on involvement in his business, from tennis, and from skiing in the Dolomites every year. He and Jack had shared many things over the years, the way close friends do, including more than a handful of women.

Geoffrey was a Brit expat, a former soldier who in his second career made millions as a stockbroker and now lived full-time in his villa a few miles away. He had short-cropped hair, a hard but handsome look with thick arms and an athletic grace. Monique summered in Tuscany. Jack met her at a fashion show in Milan 10 years ago as she was winding up her career on the catwalk, and she had made a successful transition into the business side of the fashion industry. Her sexual appetite was well known in certain circles, and she was equally enthusiastic about both sexes. Unlike some models, Monique was also stunning without any makeup. Her dress this particular evening, a casual but somehow sophisticated sundress that made her look almost girlish, accentuated her own impressive breasts.

Jack had told them all he had a surprise for them in the form of a very special guest. He met them all in the foyer, and ensured cocktails had been poured for them in the kitchen. At five minutes to seven he had checked to ensure Rachel was still sleeping near the pool. He'd been genuinely concerned about her burning her fair skin, and at one point late in the afternoon asked Isabella to cover her with a thin sheet to protect her from the sun. His prize. Now she lie sleeping on her back, the sheet - tented at her tits - still covering her from neck to toe, as if a work of art to be revealed. And that was exactly what Jack planned to do.