Last year I had the dream summer job for a horticulture student. During the summer break from university classes, I was hired to give garden tours in the Italian countryside.
My grandparents are Italian, and I speak Italian like a native. This was a big reason I got the job. My work was to give tours of villa gardens in several private estates to tourists who arrived in groups with pre-arranged accommodations and itinerary.
With my appearance and language skill, I could pretend to be Italian and disguise the fact that I was an American. Sometimes, I would do this so that the American tour groups thought they were getting a true local experience. It was fun to pretend not to do my best to speak in broken English. I would introduce myself as Luca.
The tour groups were American or British, and most of the tourists were women "of a certain age." I guess more adventurous tourists went to livelier places. One of the guides told me that the garden tours were popular side trips for wives while their husbands remained in a city. In the middle of a two-week excursion, apparently the wives liked to get away for a few days without their hubbies.
The ladies stayed overnight in a lovely small hotel where I often dined in the evening, and sometimes I would visit with the tourists after my work day. I must say that even though I was in my early twenties and they were much older, some of them were very attractive. I began to play a little game of guessing how their tits or pussies looked and making my cock get stiff and leaky while giving the tours. I got pretty good at this game, and I sometimes noticed tourists' glances at the floppy bulge in my trousers.
The gardens had exotic varieties of flowers such irises and lilies that have distinct layered petals that can look like the open labia of a vagina. Should I? Well, after describing he qualities of these lovely blooms for a few weeks, I began to take chances.
In my pretend broken English, I explained to a group of about five women tourists that the iris has a wonderful variety of appearances, and that some even looked like, "How do you say? Their soft petals are like the vagina. Is that the right word?" I would stumble over my words, as if trying to think of what to say, "There is even the little inside parts like in the vagina, or what do you say in English, pussy?"
I would handle a blossom and use my fingers to separate the petals, as if I were handling a tourist's pussy, "See how much this is, how you say, anatomical?" I would flick the stigma in the center and say, "Ah, you see, even the little exciting part is here, the part that makes you feel the best."
I was careful to move on quickly to the next parts of the garden, as if nothing unusual had happened. But the ladies in the tour groups always nodded at first when I mentioned vagina or labia, but they got a little wide-eyed if I used the word pussy. And some of them seemed to get a little excited when I compared the stigma with their clitoris. But I just kept smiling as if I had no idea that I may have offended some of the tourists.
Soon, I learned to take it up a notch by explaining, "Yes, some flowers look so much like the delightful female sex parts, and the more developed the flower the more complicated it looks, just like the difference from a young woman to an older mature woman." If I was feeling bold, I would wink at that moment.
I loved letting these ladies enjoy a little vicarious flirting. Heck, my cock got a workout just waking in the garden and talking about pussies.
"Did you know," I would add, "that some flowers also have the male appearance?" I would mention a few plants that had a phallic appearance, especially the phallus impudicus, a type of mushroom that looked very much like a circumcised cock. We did not have any on display, but I would describe it, "This fungo, you say mushroom, is maybe five or six inches tall with a top that looks just like the end of the male that has been circonciso, or circumcised, I think you say." I would smile and add, "I think many American men are cut this way, but not so many in Europe, not me at least."
Depending on the mood of the group, I might or might say all this. If it seemed to be a fun group I might add, "So you see these flowers are the girls and boys of botany and are so much like us, like our own sex parts." Then I would add, "Sometimes the flowers are larger than a lady's vagina and sometimes smaller. The phallus mushroom is the average size a man's penis, but I hope you ladies are luckier than that." And wink again.
I would not say all this in every tour. Each time, I teased and was careful to be more and more explicit only if I felt a good vibe from the group. There were some men on the tours, and they seemed to enjoy my sex talk about the flowers.
It didn't take long that summer for more fun to bloom. Sometimes it was one of the tourists and sometimes it was a couple of them. Occasionally a little group would see me in the restaurant bar after dinner, and we would talk. If there was a gleam in their eye, I might invite them to my room by asking, "Tonight is so lovely. It could only be more beautiful if you would allow me to examine the flower in your garden."
By mid summer, I had racked up at least a dozen tourist pussies. Little did I know that a daytime garden tour listening to me talk about their pussies and the size of their husbands' dicks compared to mine was such a perfect recipe for fucking these wives. They were wound-up and they were ready to let me unwind them. These wonderful older women were so ready and so eager to be handled and fucked by a "real" Italian. And I fucked one after another of them.
If others were a bit offended by the garden tour, I was lucky that none of them complained.
Some wives in the tour groups were friends before their trips and knew one another quite well, and on a few occasions those groups led to more exciting times in their more spacious hotel rooms. One night at the bar, I was approached by an attractive sixty-something who invited me to join her friends in their room for a late-night drink. As I watched these well-cared for wives walk ahead of me down the hall, I carefully kept by fake Italian accent that seemed to delight them so much.
