The weather was miserably hot and sticky in the ancient city of Verona. I was there to attend the opera CARMEN at the city's Roman arena, along with twenty thousand or so other people.
I am no fan of opera but, as usual, I was under the influence of the woman beside me (my sister) who wanted to see one, so there I was, sweating bullets and being elbowed by people of several nationalities, none of who's cultural up bringing included standing in line. Oddly enough I didn't really mind because of the lady against whose back I was jammed. She was a stranger but not so much as she had been a half hour before, when I had found myself standing behind her in a semi-line, waiting to use a uni-sex toilet in a crowded bar.
I had noticed how lovely she was as we stood in line. She was tall and lithe and I could see the ends of her bobbed strawberry blond hair sticking out from beneath her round school girl type straw hat. The hat emphasized the sweetness of her face; the high cheek bones; the soft pout of her lips; the sensual roundness of her chin. Her eyes were gray-green and so big a man could lose his mind in them. Her skin was silky clear and, despite the sweaty heat, it made me think of rich smooth French vanilla ice cream.
She was wearing a midi-length yellow sleeveless summer dress with little flowers on it. It buttoned up the front from hem to high enough to cover her breasts, but not so high as to keep from giving a tall fellow like me teasing glimpses of her perspiration shiny cleavage. She was not wearing a bra. I could tell both by glimpse and by the pointed shape of her nipples poking up the little flowers on the bodice her dress. The lady was having trouble standing still. Between the her need for what we were both standing in line for, and the heat, she was dancing from foot to foot and flapping the skirt of her dress in a kind of bellows motion to try to bring some air beneath it. She noticed me watching her flap and dance and smiled, a bit embarrassed.
"I'm still like a little girl," she said, with a crisp British accent. "I hate wearing clothes in the summer, and I hate waiting for the rest room."
"Does that mean you usually go naked in the summer?" I asked. I hadn't really meant to say anything so forward, but I was under the spell of the delicious glimpses of her breasts and those eyes.
She lifted an eyebrow at me and I thought I had offended her, but after a moment she smiled and said, "Actually yes. When it is warm enough I shed my clothes. Not in public though."
Her smile turned to a wicked grin.
"Ah," I said. "What a disappointment."
At that point we moved forward a little and she stepped into the tiny ante-room of the toilet, where the sink was, and let the door close between us.
When the current user left the toilet the British lady stepped in, and pulled the door closed. I stepped into the tiny ante-room and let its door close behind me so that I stood almost against the toilet door in relative quiet.
And then it happened. . . .
Through the toilet door I heard the hiss of the golden stream rushing out of her, and the splash of it falling into the toilet. It sounded like she was pouring it from a pitcher on the second floor into a rain barrel on the ground, and the sound of it made my heart skip. In my mind I could see her. Rather than sit her naked bottom on a seat that had been occupied by un-numbered thousands, she had simply hiked up her dress and straddled the commode. The picture of her—skirt held bunched above her waist, knees a little bent, legs bowed open, quadriceps slightly strained and so showing their delicious curves through the smooth flesh of her thighs; the strawberry blond delta of pubic curls; the lightly fuzzed lips of her womanhood parted to show the coral color of the inner lips; the pink pearl nubbin of her clitoris; and from the center of that delectable flower the salty/bitter stream spurting forth to break into golden droplets just before it splashed into the water of the toilet.
She squeezed off the stream for a moment, but then let a shorter burst of the mind torturing liquid spew out. It stopped again for the length of a heart beat then resumed for two more tiny, finishing dribbles before the clattery spinning noise of toilet paper sheets being pulled from the roll reached me. That sound set off another picture in my mind -- A wad of tissue held in her long graceful fingers as she carefully daubed the last few drops of that heady liquor from between her legs.
I wondered if she had simply pulled her panties down or stepped out of them completely. No-- She had to have stepped out of them. Just pulling them down she might have accidentally wet them so she must have stepped out of them -- unless she wasn't wearing any. That would fit too. She wasn't wearing a bra, and she said she hated to wear clothes in the summer.
That sound and those mental images had made my manhood stiffen like a steel post. Even my jockey shorts could not restrain it. It made a very noticeable lump in the front of my pants.
I was thinking that my condition was going to make my own toilet visit difficult when the lady opened the door and stepped out -- right into my arms. Her forehead was just high enough for me to have kissed.
"Oh. Hello again," she said, embarrassed at meeting me at such close quarters. It was then that she felt my rampant member poke her in the tummy. She jumped back, but bumped into the door of the toilet and rebounded into my arms.
"I'm sorry," I said, turning bright glowing red, and trying to step back myself.
"Quite all right," she mumbled, looking anywhere but into my eyes. She ended up staring at my zipper, and that was when she realized that my situation was because I had heard her pee.
"Oh my God," she said and lifted a slim hand to her mouth.
I was suddenly able to read her mind. She had her own mental images of me, my ear pressed to the door, my fingers pressed to my zipper. "No! It wasn't like you think! I didn't mean to listen. I couldn't help it! I'm sorry."
Now she smiled and laughed a little. "Well, I did have to pee rather badly."
I blinked at her, and then returned her smile. "No doubt about it," I said.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said and slipped around me and out the door, leaving me with my mouth hanging open.
And now I was jammed against her back by the crowd shoving toward the entry way.
A particularly forceful shove from behind me made me reach to check my wallet at the same time I bumped hard against her back.
"I say, steady on," she said and glanced over her shoulder. Our eyes met and her stern expression changed to a charmingly crooked smile. "Oh. You again," she said.
"I didn't know you Brits really did say 'Steady on'. I thought that was just a David Niven movie line."
"Perhaps I should have simply elbowed you and said, 'Watch it buddy!'" Her imitation American accent wasn't bad.
"Who's your friend?" My sister asked.
I had forgotten she was with me. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name," I said to the top of the school girl hat.
"Nor I yours," she said glancing back again.
"Since we are on such intimate terms maybe we should be introduced. I'm Geoff, and this is my sister Darlene."
"How do you do. I would shake hands, but my arms seem to be pinned to my sides. I'm Samantha."
"Are you alone?" Darlene asked.
"Why no, I'm with my friends Geoff and Darlene," she said.
