Tourists
They were tourists; two women in sun hats, cameras slung around their necks, sensible shoes, and fanny packs, clutching brochures of the grounds and (we discovered later) a small 'welcome' post card not intended for them. They stepped into the alcove formed by the neatly trimmed hedges a few yards to the right of where Astare and I were sitting on the long low garden bench with our wine and assorted charcuterie tray as my husband and Astare's Greg finished setting things up for our afternoon picnic.
We were on private property and fully within our rights (granted by the owners) to be there and doing what we were doing - these two were unauthorized interlopers here, at least technically. Yet it is never our intention to shock or offend non-enthusiasts or impose our tastes on their 'decent' sensibilities. So, I did cringe inwardly a bit and fully expected that once what they were seeing registered, they would make whatever bumbling sort of alarmed excuses they could manage and back (or run) out of the alcove the way they came. They would have a story to tell their fellow tour group members over lunch, but nothing more would come of it.
But it seems to take somewhat longer than it rightly should for things to register with these two. They pause there just inside the alcove and their gazes sweep the scene, going from the two males, who have looked up at them from their task securing the umbrella, to where Astare and I sit, then back again, once, twice before the younger of the two, a slender mousy thing in glasses, turns to the other and says;
"Really, we should go." and backs away a step or two towards the exit as expected.
The other, a middle aged, slightly heavy, dishwater blonde, nods noncommittally, but then, rather than withdrawing, looks down at the brochure map of the grounds she's clutching, then back up at me and, "Ahm, so is this the way to the statuary section?" she asks.
"I don't think so." I answer, try to smile through my irritation at what I take as her obliviousness, until that is, I see her gaze swing back to the two males and,
"Oh." she says. Then, "So I guess we're a little lost."
At which point I recognize that, whatever else she may be thinking, things have certainly registered.
We were at a large villa in Italy where a group of fellow CFNM enthusiasts had decided to meet up for a four day get together. One of our number, Lydia, had purchased the place for a ridiculously low sum under an agreement with the Italian government that she and her husband would restore it and preserve its historically significant features. To defray the costs of restoration and upkeep, Lydia offered occasional guided tours of the villa and surrounding gardens to tourists.
Our group hailed from many locales and countries. Most of us had never met in person, but we shared a common interest and had come for the pleasure of pursuing it with other enthusiasts in these luxurious surroundings. Lydia had clearly marked off certain gated portions of the gardens and villa interior for our group's private use, posting 'employee only, do not enter' signs to bar doorways and certain garden paths and, further, had instructed the guides to avoid those areas on any tour until our departure.
Astare and I had come to know one another via the group's private messaging platform. We had spoken once on the phone when I saw her name on the list for attendees at the villa. She was excited to be attending as she had recently met and was, in her words, 'still breaking in' a new male whom she hoped to bring and share, provided he could get the time off to make the trip.
Things worked out and we had both arrived the evening before with our respective contributions to the long weekend's entertainment; my husband Mathew and her new find, Greg. Group activities were not scheduled to start until others arrived in a day or so, but Lydia and her staff accommodated the four of us with a lovey dinner on the veranda and encouraged us to make use of the grounds and other amenities as we waited for the other guests to trickle in over the next couple days.
Astare, Mathew, Greg and I got on wonderfully at dinner. Though there was nothing scheduled for the group next day, we all agreed that a foretaste of some of what the weekend ahead offered would be a pleasant way to spend the next afternoon over a picnic lunch in the gardens, just among ourselves.
We chose a small relatively secluded alcove behind a gated path with one of those aforementioned 'employees only' warning signs. Although we knew there would be tours that day, we had closed the gate securely and so were not expecting company. We were sipping wine and relaxing (well, Astare and I were at least) as we got better acquainted and enjoyed comparing and toying with our two males.
The males were, of course, both naked and erect and had been since we first arrived; quickly stripping down and presenting themselves, standing side by side in front of Astare and I as we sat together on the bench.
I always love that initial moment of exposure when a fresh new male presents himself for my consideration and appraisal. I like the transition to be abrupt, as few preliminaries and as little ceremony as possible between the man's position as a pleasant new acquaintance engaged in ordinary social interaction, and the naked male standing silent before me, presenting his erect penis and upturned balls in that blatant, exaggerated way for my inspection and, should I find what he offers sufficiently interesting, use.
In contrast to the abruptness of the transition, I like taking my time with a first viewing, letting the male feel the submission of his body to my judgement, provoking (in the best cases) those anxious, reflexive thrusts and twitches of the penis as I make him await my verdict.
Though not as broad shouldered as I like them, Greg's lean build, larger than average circumcised penis with its pretty, graceful upward arc, the large glans flaring nicely wider than the shaft, and his symmetrically hung, well- articulated balls were much to my taste. There is also a vicarious, proprietary pleasure in sharing Mathew with new women; seeing his excitement at being exposed to fresh eyes is both endearing and arousing.
Astare was clearly pleased by, and more than politely complimentary of my Mathew's presentation. The thickness of his cock is almost always a pleasant surprise for new users. Anticipating the pleasure of her attention since meeting her over dinner last evening, his penis was fully flushed and lively under her gaze, pre-come already seeping generously from the head.
"Ah, that's nice, I like them lively." Astare had purred, clearly pleased by the frantic spasm and flexing of Mathew's cock above her hand as she handled his balls. For my part I was equally pleased with Greg's response when, per my usual preference for first handling, I took his balls between his legs from behind as they presented their asses; the spasming in the root of his cock against the heel of my hand told me his penis was performing its own little jig. Both males exhibited that charming, competitive agitation at being compared and seeing one another displayed and handled. We agreed they made a nice pair.
Introductions over, we had set the males to finish setting things up for our afternoon together; unloading the small hand cart of coolers and picnic paraphernalia so helpfully put together for our use by the villa staff. They had poured us wine and set out the aforementioned charcuterie tray and then turned to the rest. The blanket was spread and pillows strewn to receive us and the two of them were working to position and secure the large sun-shade umbrella in its weighted stand when our visitors arrived.
"Oh." The dishwater blonde says in response to hearing this was not the way to the statuary section of the grounds, her eyes settling on Mathew and Greg once more. "So, I guess we're a little lost."
