I stayed there, kneeling in the darkness, feeling the remnants of him on my skin. The cool night air brushed against the wetness on my chest, making me shiver, but I didn’t wipe it away. Instead, I looked up at him, meeting his gaze with an intensity that spoke of everything I couldn’t put into words.
“For you,” I whispered, my voice low and filled with a fierce, quiet devotion. Without breaking eye contact, I bent forward, my lips grazing the sand where his essence had fallen. I licked it up, tasting the grit of the earth mixed with the salt of him, swallowing it down without hesitation.
It wasn’t just an act of submission; it was an offering, a moment of pure dedication. It was raw, unfiltered, a declaration that went beyond words, beyond anything we had shared before. The world around us faded, leaving only the connection between us, forged in the quiet darkness of the night.
As I sat back on my heels, I could see it in his eyes—the understanding, the recognition of what I had just done, of what it meant. I didn’t need to say anything more. The silence between us was filled with unspoken promises, with a shared understanding that we had crossed a line, one that we could never step back from. And in that moment, I knew I would do it all again, just to feel this close to him, to belong to him in every possible way.
Next day, I woke up before him, slipping out of bed quietly. I decided to make breakfast, something special. I threw on short shorts and a tank top, grabbed some euros, and headed to the local store.
Walking through the narrow streets, I felt eyes on me, lingering on my legs, my ass. I caught the crude comments— “Bella fica,” “Che culo”—but instead of anger, I felt a thrill. They were noticing me, wanting me. I smiled, feeling sexy, powerful.
At the store, I grabbed eggs, tomatoes, pecorino cheese, and fresh pane carasau. The cashier’s eyes lingered, but I didn’t care. I was buzzing with confidence, alive with the memory of last night.
Back at the Airbnb, I quickly made a frittata, the kitchen filling with its rich aroma. I placed the finished dish on a plate, added the bread, and carried the tray back to our room. He was still asleep, tangled in the sheets. I leaned over, kissed his forehead.
“Breakfast is ready,” I whispered, as his eyes slowly opened.
“Wait, you went to the market? By yourself?”
I grinned, leaning closer. “Yes, honey. And you guessed right—every man there was aroused.” I could see the flicker of jealousy in his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “But,” I whispered, sliding my hand down his body, “the only man whose arousal matters is right here.” I grabbed him, feeling him harden under my touch.
I got undressed and sat on my knees in front of him. I pressed his dick between my tits, feeling its heat, its pulse, as I squeezed my breasts around him. Despite my insecurities about their size, he responded with a deep, guttural groan that made my heart race. He thrust between them, slick and hot, until he exploded, his cum splattering across my chest. The sensation of it, warm and sticky on my skin, sent a shiver down my spine.
I was happy. We were laughing. We made love every day. And every night. Each time, I felt him deeper, reaching parts of me I didn’t know existed. Sometimes he was wild, like a beast; brutal, savage. And other times he was so tender, so very gentle moves. There were moments when I felt empty without him inside me, like a part of my body was missing. making love turned into something else in me. It was no longer just the heat, just my need to have an orgasm, to feel him inside me. It was no longer something that focused on my clit and his cock: It became a way of contact, a way of communication, a form of language, a code that only he and I could interpret. I could see how my body was getting changed, how I was being transformed: the way I was walking, the way I looked around, the muscles of my belly, the tone of my glutes, the way I would touch. I was becoming a woman.
We took long walks on the beach. I did most of the talking, spilling out my thoughts and worries. Told him about my tennis goals, the extra practice I was putting in, aiming to win the championship for second time in a row. Mentioned school too, how I needed to buckle down even more. I was holding his hand as walking in the sand, feeling that we are a couple, a real couple. And him, just nodding, his eyes on the horizon. Typical Rob. Not much of a talker, but he was a good listener. And steady as a rock. And sometimes, that’s all you need.
I shared my concerns about all those career options; exciting but also freaking me out a little. Physical therapy? Helping people recover? Or maybe working with athletes, pushing their limits?
“Guess I’ll figure it out,” I said with a shrug. “I’m a fighter, right? Like on the court.”
“Yes you are,” he said, his voice steady, his gaze decisive. “Yes you are. Lioness.”
Sometimes, on the balcony, I’d try to piece him together, stories I didn’t know. I asked about his childhood: he laughed, telling me it was a total madhouse: kids, uncles, nephews, grandpas, a nonna 112 years old, in and out all the time, ordering him Roberto this, Roberto that, constant shouting in Italian and laughter so loud the neighbors called the cops. He told me about the construction jobs during high school, the Marines instead of college—”Needed to prove something,” he’d say, a hint of pride in his voice. His love for building – “In a construction site you can recognize what a man is made of”. For boxing. And football. “Best sport ever, sorry kiddo.”
But the wild years? That’s where I got stuck. Alice once said, with that knowing smile, that he’d been a serious ladies’ man. And now, I couldn’t stop wondering: How many girls? What kind? Did he ever have threesomes? Foursomes? Was he into ‘big knockers’? OMG, is he still? And me, being flat? How did meeting Alice change everything? What magic filters and sexual tricks she used to have him under her spell, turning the wild boy to the devoted husband? I was dying to know! But I held back. I wouldn’t open that door. I wouldn’t bring Alice to the table. Not anymore.
From the very moment on the island, I decided I wouldn’t be just his lover – I would be everything. The embodiment of his desires, his darkest fantasies. I would be the good girl, the bad girl, the naught daughter, the whore, the virgin, the lecherous college girl, the slutty tennis player. And in return, he would become mine.
And I did.
I made him experience every fantasy, even the ones he didn’t know he had. Like the playful girl in a mini tennis skirt -that would be me- teasing her coach -that would be him- by bending over just a little too far, ‘accidentally’ lifting her skirt, glancing back at him with a mischievous smile and say something like, ‘Oops, did my skirt do that again? Oh Coach Roberto… what a big racket you have!”. Playing the virgin naughty daughter: ‘Daddy, I have an inch here, would you rub me please? Oh daddy, what is that big piston inside your pants?’ Masturbating in front of him. Holding his penis while peeing and stroking it until he would cum. Licking his balls for 10 minutes.
Evening, playing his female dog: undressing, riding his leg, hips bucking with wild need, grinding my clit harder, again and again. I was shameless, fucking myself on his leg, soaking him, marking him. “I’m your bitch in heat,” I whispered, breathless. My body tensed, shaking uncontrollably as the orgasm crashed through me. I cried out, claiming him with every last drop of pleasure.
One day, just after our morning bath, we went to that trattoria; was small, quiet, and we stood out. I could feel the weight of their stares, the whispers just beneath the surface. The age gap was a spotlight, and Rob felt it too—his grip tightened on the fork, jaw clenched. The men watched me, but no one dared to say anything. Not with Rob beside me. His presence spoke louder than their curiosity.
But I knew what he was thinking. The doubt. The worry that one day, the stares, the judgment, would get to us. To him. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to show him I was his. Completely.
I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear. “They’re imagining it, you know,” I whispered, the words deliberate. “You… fucking me, your little slut.” His body tensed. I felt his breath catch. My voice dropped, softer. “Rob… I’m ready. Ready for what we haven’t done yet.”
report It was what I had once turned away from. But now, I was offering it. I would make him forget the whispers, the stares, the age, the shitty judgements. Soon, they wouldn’t just be imagining. I would do it all.
And I did.
I stripped on the way back—my bra, panties, and dress falling to the ground, left behind in a trail as we moved through the empty street. By the time we reached the door, I was naked, trembling, shivering.
“Rob… do me… do me now, my love.”
I’d never called him that before. And I meant it—with every fiber of my being.
He closed the door behind me with a decisive move, his eyes locking onto mine. No words, just that gaze. In one fluid motion, he turned me, placing me on all fours on the bed.
His breath, warm against my skin. Fingers tracing a path over my ass, sending shivers down my spine. My body tensed, knowing what was coming, knowing I was about to give him the part of myself I had kept for so long. His finger pressed against me, sliding inside. My breath hitched, muscles tightening around him—tight, unfamiliar, a burn that made me gasp.
He pushed deeper. I moved back, desperate to meet him. To feel him take more of me. A second finger followed, stretching me wider than I imagined. My breath, ragged. Nights spent dreaming of this. Of his hands on me, opening me, claiming me where no one else had been allowed. The sensation sharp, painful, but laced with a need I had held back for so long.
He pulled his fingers out. I moaned at the emptiness. Then the thick tip of his cock pressed against me, inch by inch, pushing inside. I knew he was thick—after all those nights, all those different ways I had felt him. I knew every vein, every inch of him. But now, it felt even thicker. And it hurt. A sharp, real pain. My breath caught as I stretched impossibly wide. I clenched the sheets, knuckles white. The pressure built. I thought I might tear. But I pushed back, desperate to take him, to show him this was mine to give. My body burned, my back arched, and he pushed deeper, filling me.
Leave a Reply