Supernatural

Chapter 11: AN ITALIAN IDYLL

Although it may at first seem irrelevant, to understand something of what may have triggered the events I'm about to tell you about I should give you a brief description of myself.

At the time I was twenty, 'a young woman just coming into full bloom', so to speak. When meeting people for the first time many, especially other women, would, and still do say things like - 'What remarkable colouring you have.', 'Brown eyes and red hair, how unusual.', 'Aren't you lucky to have such lovely olive skin, rather than the freckles red-heads usually have.' - stuff like that.

And it's true, I am lucky, very lucky to have the colouring I have, although my hair is actually a dark auburn, not true red. Anyway, I have this unusual combination of auburn hair, brown eyes and olive skin, which, if I bothered about it, which I don't, actually tans quite beautifully in Summer.

I'm told that the combination pops up from time to time on my mother's side of the family, but only in the girls, and that it's thought to go back to the time of Elizabeth the first. My great-grandmother, who had it too, originally came from Ireland, from a village somewhere on the West coast, and legend has it that during the scattering of the Spanish Armada several sailors were washed ashore there, and because they were catholic they were given refuge. They were young, once they'd recovered from their ordeal, fit, and as they were sailors, easily fitted into a fishing community. And as they were a bit different to the other lads some of the girls would undoubtedly have found them excitingly attractive. So the inevitable happened, one or two girls probably got pregnant, and being good catholics, married, and proceeded to have several more babies.

There must have been one such union between a classic Irish colleen, red hair, pale skin, etcetera, and a dark, swarthy Spaniard, because from time to time a girl pops up with the combination I've got.

Anyway that's the explanation in my family.

I said it's mostly women who make comments about my colouring, and that's because most men initially only see one thing, my tits. I suppose I've been lucky there too and I'll certainly never have to worry about considering breast enhancement, though sometimes the ogling gets a bit tiresome. Not that they're enormous, they are actually inside the upper range of standard fittings for bras. It's just that as they are high-set and very firm most clothes with any sort of neck-line show off rather a lot of them. And as the rest of my body is, well I suppose slender is the most appropriate word, that seems to exaggerate their size just that little bit more.

So that's me, not bad looking, a good figure, especially if you're a man who likes tits, and with a pretty unusual combination of hair, eyes and skin colouring.

Anyway, all that's really only relevant if you try to make some sort of sense of what happened to me.

So, I was twenty, just, I had done reasonably well at high school, well enough to scrape into medical school at university, which was what my parents had been hoping for, but maths and science had always been a struggle and long before the end of first year I knew I wasn't going to be able to cope. My exam results confirmed that and although my parents were very disappointed, I'd had enough time to think about options and was able to talk them round to agreeing to what I thought would be best for me.

A couple of other girls at university were in the same position as I was and after several years of not much more than intensive studying they had decided to take a year off, to travel. My grandmother, who had died a few years earlier, had left me a few thousand dollars, not much, but enough to pay for a return air fare, and if I managed things very carefully, to eat and move around for three or four months. So I decided to join them, the three of us were going to see what we could of Europe.

As I said, it took a bit of persuasion but my parents, with some misgivings, eventually agreed, and Dad even chipped-in a bit more money, 'for emergencies', he said.

So there we were, three young women off to see the world, well at least a fair bit of Europe.

Although as I've said, maths and science had been my weakness, languages were one of my strengths. I'd done particularly well in Italian and as the city has a large Italian community I was able to use it regularly so my conversational skills had continued to improve. Studying the language had also given me an interest in the country's history and culture and although I of course wanted to see other places too, I was planning to spend more of my trip in Italy.

The three of us stuck together most of the time, mainly for moral support, but also out of lingering concerns for our individual safety I suppose. But although the others were happy to come with me to Italy they weren't as interested as I was in visiting historical buildings or ferreting around in a variety of smaller towns. So while in Florence we agreed to split up, just for a few days, they would move on to Milan, where I would join them after exploring the less often visited areas in the hills to the north-west.

So, finally, to what happened to me.

It was nearly mid-day, I was in the hills between La Spezia and Parma, and because I was trying to reach a church in a fairly remote village that I'd heard contained some particularly fine frescos from the fifteenth century, I was temporarily stranded on a minor, and not very heavily trafficked road.

Because of my interest in the Italian culture I knew enough to dress relatively modestly when visiting churches or travelling around the countryside, but given how hot it gets there in Summer I had arrived at what I thought was a reasonable compromise. Most of the time I wore admittedly low-necked, loose fitting tops, but carried a light jacket that I could put on whenever necessary. And although I wore a skirt that fell below the knee, my favourite was a wrap-around, so any available breeze could get under the flap and keep my legs cool. Underneath those things I wore just pretty skimpy, lightweight undies and the combination had worked fine, keeping me comfortably cool on even the hottest days.

I happened to have been dropped off beside one of the thousands of roadside shrines you find scattered around the countryside and although not particularly large it did offer a little shade from the sun. And as there was a largish chunk of rock just beside it I decided it was as good a time as any to have the lunch I had brought with me. So, having slipped off my jacket and moved the skirt around so that what little breeze there was could get up under it, I began to eat.

Not a single vehicle went past me all the time I was eating, and as it was several hot and dusty kilometres back to a major road, I started to worry that I might actually be stranded there. But then I heard the sound of an approaching motor, and although I couldn't see it, it seemed to be heading the way I wanted to go. I knew I didn't have much time so I hastily jammed the rubbish in my small back-pack, grabbed my jacket and went out on to the road side so I could be seen.

It was a lorry, a small one with just an open flat-top behind the cabin, and although it gleamed as though it had just come out of the show-room, I could see from it's shape that it was actually old, very old. It looked like those vehicles you see at veteran car rallies, where each vehicle has been lovingly restored by someone. I briefly wondered what on earth a vehicle like that was doing on a road like this, then ignored that and just stuck my thumb out for a lift.

It stopped, and as I hurried over to it the driver swung the passenger door open. I stood there, smiling up into the shadowy cabin, and saw a young man, a darkly handsome young man, with the blackest, thickest, curly hair I'd ever seen.

I said hello, and asked if he was going anywhere near the village I was heading for.

For a moment or two he said nothing, just stared at me, not the way most men do, down at my tits, but at my face. His eyes were the most amazing colour, as black as his hair, but not opaque, so when I looked into them I felt I was actually looking down into pools of some inky liquid, and that gave me a very odd, somewhat disturbing feeling. But there was also a strange look in them, and also on his face, as though he was seeing something he knew to be impossible. We use the phrase, 'seeing a ghost', and that's exactly how I would have described the expression I saw on his face.

Then he seemed to mentally give himself a shake, and although his accent was thick, and his dialect had an odd formality about it, I found I could still understand him. He said he could take me where I wanted to go, so I thanked him as I climbed up into the cabin. As I did so he finally did what I'd initially expected him to do, he looked down, at my tits. And as I hadn't had time to put my jacket back on and pulling myself up into the cabin made the neck of my top gape open, he would have had a pretty good view of them.

But funnily enough it didn't worry me the way it often did. Maybe it was because he was such a good-looking guy, maybe it was something I had momentarily glimpsed in those all too liquid eyes. Whatever it was, I found that having him looking at me, rather than being predictably boring, gave me a distinctly warm feeling up between my legs.

The moment passed, I settled into the seat and we moved off up the road. Naturally enough we chatted, and although from time to time I had to ask him to repeat something I hadn't properly understood, and his conversation remained a bit stilted, and with that odd formality, we talked reasonably freely.

His name was Guiliano, Giani to his family and friends, and said he would be honoured if I would use that name. I told him mine, Jessica, more frequently just Jessie, and said I would feel likewise if he would use that. I complimented him on his lorry, said how immaculately he maintained it, and asked if he was taking it to, or bringing it from some sort of show. He didn't seem to understand my meaning, said it was used for every day things, that he liked to keep it clean, that his woman liked it that way.

I found that word odd, at least coming from a man who was obviously from the country, from outside the major, more modern cities. He wasn't wearing a ring, as all married Italian men do, and the word he used to describe the woman in his life implied a physical union. But I let it pass, and though I admit that the chance of finding such a sexually attractive young man without at least one girl-friend was unlikely, I did have a sense of disappointment.

I suppose we had been talking for about fifteen minutes or so, during which time I had explained the reason for my visit to the particular village, my interest in the older aspects of the culture of this part of the country. He said little as I talked about that and even after I had finished, remained silent for a little while. But then he spoke. 'Have you heard of St. Theresia?' He asked.

I said I hadn't and asked who she was. He paused for a moment before saying. 'There is a church, it contains something special, something you must see!'

He spoke with such passion that the feeling I'd had when I felt his eyes on me as I got up into the cabin, returned, only that time even more strongly. When I asked him what this thing was, he refused to answer me, saying just that I, and accentuating the 'I', had to see it. Then adding that as it was not too far off the road we were on, he should take me there.

My plans were flexible, I was undoubtedly intrigued by whatever had made him so vehement about seeing this thing, and I admit that the thought of spending a bit more time with him was attractive too. So I agreed he should take me.

He turned and for the first time since he'd stopped the lorry, he smiled. What can I say about that smile? I've heard women say they have gone weak at the knees when a certain man smiled at them, and I've always thought they must have actually been a bit weak in the head. But that's just how I felt, though it wasn't my knees that turned to jelly, it was my cunt. In fact it felt as though everything inside me from the waist down had simply liquefied, turning into a sort of warm, mushy soup. And although all that was hidden, the flush I felt spreading over my face wasn't, and nor was what had happened to my breasts and especially my nipples, they felt as though they were trying to poke their way clean through both my bra and the thin, cotton top.

I smiled weakly and then in case he could see my reaction reflected in my eyes I lowered them, but that was a mistake. The baggy, working men's, khaki shorts he was wearing had ridden up during the time he had been driving, leaving a long length of darkly furred, well muscled thigh showing. I wanted to reach across and touch one, trace the line of the ridge of muscle, feel its strength. And, even more disturbingly, found myself imagining what was still hidden beneath the shorts, the thick mass of pubic hair, and especially his cock and balls.

Although still relatively young I was no blushing virgin, I'd been having sex off and on for several years and by then I'd had half a dozen different guys in my bed, plus a couple of one-nighters I preferred not to remember. But I had never reacted that quickly or that strongly to any of them, and had certainly never experienced the kind of thoughts that I found rushing through my head.

But somehow I calmed myself down a bit and tried to cover my distraction by re-starting the somewhat formal conversation we had been having, asking Giani where he came from and what he did for a living. He seemed reluctant to talk about himself and his replies were somewhat monosyllabic, but it didn't matter, just exchanging even meaningless words passed a little more time, and I needed a bit more of that just to calm the turmoil inside me.

We turned off a little further along, and took a dusty, gravel road that began climbing higher into the hills, following that for perhaps a dozen kilometres before we arrived at the village. Apart from a couple of stray dogs the place seemed deserted, then I realised that at that time of day the families were either having their mid-day meal, or if they had finished it, taking their traditional snooze. Giani drove through the small, central square and around behind the church that filled one side of it.

As we drove around it I could tell it was obviously extremely old, and in need of a fair bit of maintenance, but other than that there didn't seem to be anything special about it. We stopped, and having grabbed my jacket I got down from the lorry and followed Giani to a small door at the side of the building. It was open and we went inside, and although still pleasantly warm, compared with the heat outside it felt as though we had walked into an air-conditioned building.

I moved into the centre aisle and looked around me, there were the usual ornately decorative statues and paintings, a stained glass window above the gaudily gilded altarpiece, the pulpit and behind it the confessional cubicles, and rows and rows of probably mostly unused pews. As far as I could see, apart from its obvious age, there was nothing particularly special or unusual about the church.

Giani hadn't said a word, just stood silently beside me as I looked around, then he took my hand and indicated we should go back towards the main entrance to the church. It was a perfectly normal thing to do, but it was the first physical touch between us and just the feel of his fingers closing around mine triggered exactly the same feelings I'd had in the lorry. My legs didn't seem to want to work properly and feeling like some incompetent fool I stumbled along beside him.

Ahead of us were the large double doors, closed of course, and off to one side a small chapel, with a heavily carved font, but Giani was taking me to the opposite side, where there was another, but even smaller chapel.

By comparison with the rest of the church, which was, to be kind, looking pretty dilapidated, that area, although so small there was only room for a single pew, was obviously well cared for. There were several candles burning, a couple of gilt vases with fresh flowers, and other touches that made it apparent that people came there regularly.

Then I saw the stained glass window, like everything else there it was only small, and although I was certainly no expert, it was clearly nowhere near as old as the things in the rest of the building. 'Move closer, look at her.' Giani whispered, giving me a little push towards the window.

I did as he suggested, and gasped, it was me, or at least a young woman who looked almost exactly like me.

She had the same dark auburn hair, the same olive complexion and although her eyes were looking downward, I could see they were the same, light brown colour as mine.

But apart from being an almost identical twin, what made the image really disconcerting was what was obviously about to happen to her. From the rags she was wearing, the rope tying her to a tall wooden pole, and the pile of faggots beneath her, I deduced she was about to burnt.

'St. Theresia.' Giani whispered emotionally, then added in an even lower, slightly hoarse voice. 'And my woman - and - Jessie.'

As he spoke my name he slipped his arms around me, pulling me back against himself, then burying his face in the curve of my neck. I felt his mouth kissing me, burning my flesh, felt his hands moving over my body, felt the smouldering heat inside me flicker, then the fire catching, felt it searing up through every part of me.

I pushed his hands down and tried to pull away, but instead found myself just turning around to face him, reaching around to grip his buttocks, pulling him even closer, lifting my mouth for him to kiss. And his kiss was just as hot as the fire blazing inside me, his tongue swirling around mine the way the flames were swirling around my pussy.

As the kiss went on, and on, I felt his body responding, felt him pulling me even more tightly against himself, felt the long hardness of his quickly rising cock pressing against my thigh.

I wanted him, no, needed, had to have him. But as we broke for a quick, breathless gasp of air, I heard myself say. 'Not here, in church!'

But he said. 'It is allowed. She wants it.' And then kissed me again.

Whether or not what he said made any sense. Whether or not we were in a supposedly sacred place. I just didn't care. The fire was blazing too strongly. My body needed his too desperately.

My fingers scrabbled with his shorts, perplexed for a moment, then realising there were buttons, not a zip, I literally tore them apart, and fumbled inside for what I had to have. I was thrilled to find he was wearing nothing underneath, and that his cock seemed to leap straight into my hand. It was magnificent, hot and hard, already powerfully erect, and it felt even bigger than I had dared to hope it might be.

He groaned and I felt it jerking higher as my fingers slid up along its length, then he called out my name when I brushed them lightly over the velvety smoothness of its bulging head.

At the same time he dropped his arms and I felt his hands reaching down for the hem of my skirt, bunching it, tugging it upwards, and then turning me around and moving me back until I could feel myself being pressed against the polished timber pew. Although refusing to let go of his cock I used my other hand to pull my skirt around so the slit was in front, then dragged my panties down as far as I could. Giani understood the problem and as I lifted one leg he reached down and helped me get that foot out, but neither of us was in any mood to worry about the other.

I shifted my legs apart and as he bent his knees I guided his cock up between my thighs, shivering with excitement as I felt the head brushing against my swollen clit and pussy-lips, then slipping it into the already sopping wet slit. He paused for the briefest of moments, then as he pushed forward, he whispered my name again. 'Jessie!'