It was somewhere after midnight when I noticed a guy standing across the way from my balcony watching me. I’d have been living in Rome for a couple months, Trastevere specifically, and being on the second floor, I was used to people looking up into my flat at night as they passed by. But this guy wasn’t passing by; he was just standing there, smoking a cigarette and watching me. I wish I could say I was doing something interesting, but I was just finishing up some articles and drinking wine.
When it became clear that he wasn’t going anywhere, I called out to him. “Can I help you with something?” Like every waiter had said to me since I arrived in Rome, alone, he too said, “Ciao, bella. Why bella alone?” I knew a lengthy explanation was pointless, as we didn’t speak the same language. Instead, for reasons I still don’t know, I slipped on my sandals and went downstairs to him.
Not many words needed
He was tall, with dark wavy hair and dark eyes. His skin was that perfect golden-olive shade, thanks to being Italian and the early summer sun. He was clean-shaven and couldn’t have been more than 28 or 29. He motioned to ask if I wanted a cigarette, but I declined. When I started to second guess why I had wandered outside, he pushed my hair out of my face, tucked it behind my ear, and called me bella again. He looked at me intensely, in a way I had never been looked at before, and I could feel myself getting wet with excitement. I’d never felt so thrilled, yet so nervous at the same time. “Guiseppe” he said, as he placed his hand on his chest. In turn, I told him my name. Those were the last words we exchanged.
He put his hand on the back of my neck and pulled my mouth to his. At first, he kissed me softly and sensually, but then it became aggressive in that animalistic sort of way. Or, as I like to call it, “the way you want to be kissed.” When he paused to look at me, as if to ask if his aggression was OK, I smiled; I wanted him to know I wanted more. He pushed me against the wall of the narrow passageway and held my hands over my head, as he bit my lower lip. His mouth made his way down my neck toward my breasts, gently biting at my nipples through my dress. Then he stepped one foot between mine and spread my legs with a push of his knee. While still holding both my hands over my head with one hand, he slipped his fingers inside me. I wasn’t wearing underwear, nor was a wearing a bra. It was just a flimsy summer dress that I wore when I didn’t have plans to go out.
I wasn’t wearing undwear
When he realized I wasn’t wearing underwear, he smiled and he thrust two fingers into me as he began to stroke my clitoris with his thumb. My body reacted with a gush of wetness that was on par with the Trevi Fountain; I could feel myself dripping down the inside my thigh. He only stopped to kiss me long enough to smile again and lick his fingers.
I tried to pull my hands out of his grip. I wanted to unzip his jeans, drop to my knees, and take his cock right then and there in my mouth; feel it deep against the back of my throat, but he wouldn’t let me. It seemed he was too focused on making me come. When I tried to thank him, starting to blurt out a “grazie,” he covered my mouth, while his other hand went back to stimulating my G-spot with two fingers and his thumb teasing my clitoris.
We must have been out there for at least 20 minutes and no one had walked by. I desperately wanted to just turn around and have him fuck me right there from behind against the wall. But instead, I took his hand and brought him up into my apartment. Still, there were no words exchanged as our clothes came off. He laid me back on the bed and immediately went down on me, swirling his tongue around and around against my clitoris. He reached up, took my hands, and put them on his head, signaling that he wanted me to pull his mouth deeper into me. So I did. He put his hands on my ass and pulled me even closer, it was as though he couldn’t get his face deep enough into my pussy. My breathing was so heavy, as he teased me and brought me to the brink of orgasm and stopped. He did it again and again, as I moaned and gasped, feeling my racing heart and rush of excitement in every inch of my body. Then he stopped.
Open Air Sex
He took my hand and brought me to the balcony, the one that I had seen him from about 40 minutes earlier. He bent me over the railing, spreading my legs far apart, as he licked my pussy from behind. When he stood back up, he breathed deep into my ear as he finally fucked me, pushing on my lower back so it would arch as far as possible. He pulled my hair and bit at my shoulders, while his right hand reached around and rubbed my clit, and he pulled himself deeper inside me.
Everything was so amazing, so exactly as I would have told someone to seduce and fuck me, that it was hard to believe it was real, which made it all that more exciting. I was someone else for the night; I was someone who fucked gorgeous Italian strangers whom I made eye contact with outside my balcony window.
When he knew that I came, something that was obvious with the gush of wetness, my loud moan, and full-body trembles, the type of body response that only comes with one of those rare orgasms, he then let himself come. He rested the side of his face on my damp back as he caught his breath. Then he pulled himself out of me, turned me around, and kissed me. It was an intense kiss, but wasn’t as aggressive as it was before we both came.
I’m never leaving Rome
Before he got dressed, he looked around for my clothes first and handed them to me. I would have thanked him, but since we’d been wordless, I smiled instead and he smiled back. When he got dressed, he wrote his number on the notebook next to my bed. I walked him to the door and he kissed me again. I watched him walk away from my balcony. When he was out of sight, I threw myself on my bed and said out loud to myself, “Holy fuck. I’m never leaving Rome.”
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