RIDE THE WAVES.
After the weirdo waiter sat me down at the table I picked (the hotel dining room was empty when I came down from my room), I put my big pink purse on the seat next to me, ordered cantaloupe, prosciutto and a cup of cappuccino for breakfast and checked my smart phone again--still no signal.
I picked a table facing the entrance of the dining room; I sat with my back to window. I'd be the first guest in his line of sight when he walks in here.
I readjusted the horn-rimmed glasses I finagled running around Palermo like a chicken with its head cut off yesterday. I found them in a costume shop; the lenses are just regular window glass. My auburn hair was tied up into an ordered chaos.
I reached into my purse and pulled out the hard cover book next to my pistol. (I found the.22 auto and a silencer in a brown paper package under my double bed.) I figured a man like the Incorruptible would be interested in intellectual chicks. It would pique his curiosity to happen upon a stacked woman reading an old book, especially one not wearing a bra. Everybody knows those feminist sluts don't wear bras.
I pulled up the collar and undid the third button down from the top of my white, cotton blouse. It contrasted with my simple black skirt and red four inch red stiletto pumps. And then I opened Man As Potency by Julius Evola and pretended to read its first page. (This is what the nerd at the used book sold me when I asked him for something brainy.)
I've come a long way since the Grand Duke of Corsica deflowered me on my eighteenth birthday.
I checked into the Hotel Avernus last night at nine. It was easy to find, the marina was right in front of it. The concierge was a very tall, thin older man with a black mustache and an arrogant demeanor. He obviously didn't approve of how I was dressed: green windbreaker, plaid shirt and jeans. And one suit case big enough to hold my purse and my disguise.
"Are you here for the Festival?" he asked in a slow deep slightly sarcastic voice. He reminded me of Christopher Lee, one of my old boyfriend's favorite actor. So handsome. Lee, not the old boyfriend, who was just a meal ticket.
"Wh--yeah, yes yes yes, I'm an anthropology student from Milan, I'm doing um research on the rural traditions of um country folk." His look of contempt gave me a stab of fear from the crazy thought that he knew the real story.
"How long will you be staying?"
"Tomorrow," I blurted out, flustered.
"Let me show you to your room Miss Benussi." We took a small lift to the second floor. The hotel was clean and classy. Instead of numbers the rooms had letters. I was put in room "P". My room is spacious, with a very comfortable bed, big enough for an easy three-way. I didn't see any other guests on the way to my room.
I was lost in my thoughts, looking inwards, the hard cover propped up in front of my melons, when an ironic voice cut through the static: "What do you think of Avola?"
Tanned, in a tan blazer and with matching slacks, the news-clips on my smart phone hadn't done justice to how masculine a man is my target. Short cropped blonde hair, chiselled features, steely blue eyes, broad chest and shoulders, in his early thirties, the Incorruptible stood at attention in front of my table, every inch of him beaming confidence and vigor. He looked Czech.
He'd taken the bait.
I tried to remember the Wiki entry I skimmed under before I boarded the Kharon.
"He's a faucet."
"A...faucet?"
"A bit."
He pursed his lips ironically: "Yes, a bit"
I closed the old book and put it on the table next to my out smarted phone.
I took at deep breath and asked:"Would you like to join with with me for breakfast?"
That smile again. He sat down across from me and waved his right hand over our table and said, "The Americans say 'Breakfast is the most important meal of the day'."
Looking at the Incorruptible directly I stated in a low voice, "Here's the cantaloupe." His steely eyes flickered with delight. Before he could respond the strange waiter appeared like a bolt from the blue carrying a serving tray.
The waiter put a white plate of cantaloupe balls with toothpicks stuck in them and three tightly rolled slices of prosciutto on it. He put the tiny steaming cup of cappuccino beside my plate, turned towards the Incorruptible, bowed slightly and inquired, "Will you have the usual this morning Signore Machiavelli?"
He made my pussy wet. The Incorruptible, not the waiter.
***
When, smiling slightly, I stepped out of the small court yard through the door way Machiavelli, the Incorruptible, had opened for me, my nipples got hard in the thrilling anticipation that I'm going to get naked soon, real soon.
I was in a large-ish room with a small red couch, a few simple chairs, one chair covered in lamb's wool, an old wooden desk with an old fashioned keyboard that wasn't plugged in to the Net. The wall opposite was three shelves of books. Through an open door on my right I saw a kitchen with a long, wooden dining table. To my left was a closed door with with a big brass knob. The bedroom?
His house was very clean.
I nonchalantly put my pink purse on the floor next to the lamb's wool chair and asked, "No TV?"
"The village doesn't allow them."
I sashayed to the book shelves and ran my right index fingertip down the spine of a red leather bound book called Casanova, Memoirs, Vol. 6.
"Have you read all these books?" I asked.
"I prefer the classics: Sun Tzu, Juvenal, Aretino, Casanova, Bierce, D'Annunzio, Parento, Dystropianist, the last one is obviously an acquired taste you would agree?"
"Obviously," I agreed. I didn't know any of those name, though the last one sounded like a weirdo.
When he'd asked me what I did for a living I told him the same lie I'd given the Hotel concierge. "Ah, you're here for the Festival."
After breakfast he invited me to his house to look at a few volumes about the mores of village for my research. I didn't know what eels had to do with anybody. I just nodded twice.
During our breakfast--he had eggs Florentine--his eyes kept lowering to my cleavage. My large Oreos were easy to see through the thin, white cotton of my blouse. He was not what the nuns in my private school called a sodomite. He was straighter than a measuring stick.
"I see you're a liberated woman," he said with that ironic expression that hardly ever left his face.
I didn't know that meant, so in response I just eyefucked him doggie-style instead.
When I asked him what he does for a living, he replied, "I bring dangerous criminals to justice."
"Sounds dangerous."
"Some people find danger exciting; do you?"
