The weather was miserably hot and sticky in the ancient city of Verona. I was there to attend the opera CARMEN at the city's Roman arena, along with twenty thousand or so other people.
I am no fan of opera but, as usual, I was under the influence of the woman beside me (my sister) who wanted to see one, so there I was, sweating bullets and being elbowed by people of several nationalities, none of who's cultural up bringing included standing in line. Oddly enough I didn't really mind because of the lady against whose back I was jammed. She was a stranger but not so much as she had been a half hour before, when I had found myself standing behind her in a semi-line, waiting to use a uni-sex toilet in a crowded bar.
I had noticed how lovely she was as we stood in line. She was tall and lithe and I could see the ends of her bobbed strawberry blond hair sticking out from beneath her round school girl type straw hat. The hat emphasized the sweetness of her face; the high cheek bones; the soft pout of her lips; the sensual roundness of her chin. Her eyes were gray-green and so big a man could lose his mind in them. Her skin was silky clear and, despite the sweaty heat, it made me think of rich smooth French vanilla ice cream.
She was wearing a midi-length yellow sleeveless summer dress with little flowers on it. It buttoned up the front from hem to high enough to cover her breasts, but not so high as to keep from giving a tall fellow like me teasing glimpses of her perspiration shiny cleavage. She was not wearing a bra. I could tell both by glimpse and by the pointed shape of her nipples poking up the little flowers on the bodice her dress. The lady was having trouble standing still. Between the her need for what we were both standing in line for, and the heat, she was dancing from foot to foot and flapping the skirt of her dress in a kind of bellows motion to try to bring some air beneath it. She noticed me watching her flap and dance and smiled, a bit embarrassed.
"I'm still like a little girl," she said, with a crisp British accent. "I hate wearing clothes in the summer, and I hate waiting for the rest room."
"Does that mean you usually go naked in the summer?" I asked. I hadn't really meant to say anything so forward, but I was under the spell of the delicious glimpses of her breasts and those eyes.
She lifted an eyebrow at me and I thought I had offended her, but after a moment she smiled and said, "Actually yes. When it is warm enough I shed my clothes. Not in public though."
Her smile turned to a wicked grin.
"Ah," I said. "What a disappointment."
At that point we moved forward a little and she stepped into the tiny ante-room of the toilet, where the sink was, and let the door close between us.
When the current user left the toilet the British lady stepped in, and pulled the door closed. I stepped into the tiny ante-room and let its door close behind me so that I stood almost against the toilet door in relative quiet.
And then it happened. . . .
Through the toilet door I heard the hiss of the golden stream rushing out of her, and the splash of it falling into the toilet. It sounded like she was pouring it from a pitcher on the second floor into a rain barrel on the ground, and the sound of it made my heart skip. In my mind I could see her. Rather than sit her naked bottom on a seat that had been occupied by un-numbered thousands, she had simply hiked up her dress and straddled the commode. The picture of her—skirt held bunched above her waist, knees a little bent, legs bowed open, quadriceps slightly strained and so showing their delicious curves through the smooth flesh of her thighs; the strawberry blond delta of pubic curls; the lightly fuzzed lips of her womanhood parted to show the coral color of the inner lips; the pink pearl nubbin of her clitoris; and from the center of that delectable flower the salty/bitter stream spurting forth to break into golden droplets just before it splashed into the water of the toilet.
She squeezed off the stream for a moment, but then let a shorter burst of the mind torturing liquid spew out. It stopped again for the length of a heart beat then resumed for two more tiny, finishing dribbles before the clattery spinning noise of toilet paper sheets being pulled from the roll reached me. That sound set off another picture in my mind -- A wad of tissue held in her long graceful fingers as she carefully daubed the last few drops of that heady liquor from between her legs.
I wondered if she had simply pulled her panties down or stepped out of them completely. No-- She had to have stepped out of them. Just pulling them down she might have accidentally wet them so she must have stepped out of them -- unless she wasn't wearing any. That would fit too. She wasn't wearing a bra, and she said she hated to wear clothes in the summer.
That sound and those mental images had made my manhood stiffen like a steel post. Even my jockey shorts could not restrain it. It made a very noticeable lump in the front of my pants.
I was thinking that my condition was going to make my own toilet visit difficult when the lady opened the door and stepped out -- right into my arms. Her forehead was just high enough for me to have kissed.
"Oh. Hello again," she said, embarrassed at meeting me at such close quarters. It was then that she felt my rampant member poke her in the tummy. She jumped back, but bumped into the door of the toilet and rebounded into my arms.
"I'm sorry," I said, turning bright glowing red, and trying to step back myself.
"Quite all right," she mumbled, looking anywhere but into my eyes. She ended up staring at my zipper, and that was when she realized that my situation was because I had heard her pee.
"Oh my God," she said and lifted a slim hand to her mouth.
I was suddenly able to read her mind. She had her own mental images of me, my ear pressed to the door, my fingers pressed to my zipper. "No! It wasn't like you think! I didn't mean to listen. I couldn't help it! I'm sorry."
Now she smiled and laughed a little. "Well, I did have to pee rather badly."
I blinked at her, and then returned her smile. "No doubt about it," I said.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said and slipped around me and out the door, leaving me with my mouth hanging open.
And now I was jammed against her back by the crowd shoving toward the entry way.
A particularly forceful shove from behind me made me reach to check my wallet at the same time I bumped hard against her back.
"I say, steady on," she said and glanced over her shoulder. Our eyes met and her stern expression changed to a charmingly crooked smile. "Oh. You again," she said.
"I didn't know you Brits really did say 'Steady on'. I thought that was just a David Niven movie line."
"Perhaps I should have simply elbowed you and said, 'Watch it buddy!'" Her imitation American accent wasn't bad.
"Who's your friend?" My sister asked.
I had forgotten she was with me. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name," I said to the top of the school girl hat.
"Nor I yours," she said glancing back again.
"Since we are on such intimate terms maybe we should be introduced. I'm Geoff, and this is my sister Darlene."
"How do you do. I would shake hands, but my arms seem to be pinned to my sides. I'm Samantha."
"Are you alone?" Darlene asked.
"Why no, I'm with my friends Geoff and Darlene," she said.
I laughed. "Samantha and I met in the line for the john back in the bar."
"Oh," Darlene said.
"An enlightening experience," Samantha said and turned back to face the front.
We all lost interest in the small talk about then because the mob surged forward with the opening of the gates. I lost interest, less because of the crush than because I was crushed against Samantha's back. The humid heat of her body transferred from her to me like an indrawn breath and my testes tingled as though touched with a gentle electric shock. My cock began to rise, and there was no way to hide it, what with it jabbing the small of her back like the barrel of a .44.
I was trying to think of something clever to keep Samantha from screaming rape or masher or something when she half turned her head and smiled a sweet Madonna smile. "Crowds are so difficult aren't they?" she said.
"I'm sorry," I began. "It's just that I can't get rid of a certain mental image, and your perfume is killing me."
"I should have thought I smelled like perspiration," she said.
"If this is the stink of sweat I am glad I didn't meet you when you were all fresh and perfumed. I would have died on the spot."
"Oh. How gallant," she said. "You American's aren't nearly so crass as television would lead one to believe."
That was almost too much for me. When she said "Gallant" my out of control mind ticked over with memory of an erection being called "the Gallant Response."
We were funneled through a door and started up some steps of a tunnel which lead into the arena. The steps were much higher than ordinary steps; almost twice as tall in fact, and that brought the luscious swell of Samantha's hips higher--just high enough for my still turgid member to go from poking the small of her back to poking into the cleft of her bottom; low in that cleft.
Now I truly expected her to scream. We were, after all, almost locked in the most intimate of connections. Only angle and the material of my Jockey shorts, my light summer trousers, and the thin yellow cloth of her dress kept us from joining. But she did not scream or try to get away; instead she moved her feet a little to the sides, there by opening her thighs and widening the cleft where my cock rested. And, as if that were not more of a dream come true than I could ever have hoped for, she then squeezed that delicious nether cleavage tight upon my intrusion for a moment, then released it.
I could not help but moan and lift my right hand to cradle the wonderful roundness of her right bottom cheek. My fingers slid into the cleft beside my cock and I felt that firm globe tremble a little as I squeezed it.
"What was that?" Darlene said, pulling at my other hand. "Was that you?"
"I'm squished," was all I could manage to say.
We moved up the steps again. I dropped my grip on Samantha and held back against the crowd a little, trying to get some distance between Samantha and myself, for I just knew this was all going to come crashing down around my ears with screams for police and me being carted away to the local Bastille.
I could already hear the judge saying "The charge is assault with a friendly weapon. . . ."
The separation indeed took my still stiff member from between those shapely, muscular buttocks, but it brought my nose nearer to them. So near that her perfume (and I don't mean the kind that comes in a bottle) clouded around me. It almost made me moan again. The mixed aromas of salty/bitter perspiration and the warm sea smell of natural feminine lubricant were so strong I could taste it on my tongue.
And suddenly another irresistible image flickered through my errant mind. An image of Samantha with her skirt held above her waist, her legs apart, knees a little bent so that her quadriceps were flexed and showing through that silken flesh, but this time I knelt between those spread thighs. I held those delicate, strawberry blond fringed outer lips apart with my fingers and ran the point of my tongue between those coral inner lips; from the tight cinnamon brown flower of her anus, up into the opening of her womb then up and over and around the hard pearl nubbin of her clit. The salty sweet taste of her was like costly, dangerous liqueur that could addict and poison a man so that he could not continue to live without tasting it again and again.
"Will you come on?" Darlene said, pulling at my hand.
We're holding up traffic! What is the matter with you any way?"
"The heat, I guess," I mumbled, my voice shaky with the dregs of my image.
Samantha had gained three steps and was almost at the opening into the arena. Afternoon light flooded through that opening, and through the yellow cloth of Samantha's dress, silhouetting her body; the long legs, the round firm bottom. I would have sworn I could see the cleft that divided right from left between her legs, but that may have been a trick of the light and of my fevered mind.
And then I saw the cop. . . .
He was standing at the side of the opening and Samantha nodded at something he said.
Oh God, here it comes, I thought with the echo of clanging steel doors in my head.
The crowd divided at the door some going right some going left. Samantha, after nodding at the cop went right. Darlene and I stepped up to the arch and sure enough the cop's hand came up to grab my arm as I started to the right.
"Non Signori, alla sinistra per favore. La destra ha troppo gente gia."
My Italian isn't so good so it took me a moment to understand that he wasn't busting me, he was telling me to go to the left because the right was too crowded.
Relief swept over me for a second, but then regret bubbled up to drown it. Samantha was going the other way! I glanced back over my shoulder to see the back of her lovely yellow dress and pert little schoolgirl hat being swallowed by the pushing pulsing mob, anxious to find a place to sit in the ancient arena.
Darlene and I fought our way through the crowd and found places to sit. The ancient tiers of stone benches were hard beyond belief and I complained to Darlene about it.
"Well what did you expect dummy," she said. "They've been here more than a thousand years. If they weren't hard they would have worn away a long time ago."
"Yeah, and then my poor abused ass wouldn't be forced to park on them."
"Just shut up will ya? We'll get cushions when the guy comes around. Try to enjoy the show. . . ."
"Yeah, yeah," I said, thinking about the beautiful lost Samantha.
"And if you can't enjoy it at least shut up so that I can. P. . . .lease! Be a good big brother, huh?" she pleaded.
I glanced over at her and saw that she had that damned cute little pouty face on that I couldn't say no too when we were kids and knew I still couldn't.
"OK, OK. Enjoy your damned Opera."
"Oh thank you!" she said and gave me a quick hug, then turned to dig in the straw bag she had brought with her. "Here, hold this," she said and stuck a pair of opera glasses in my hand.
I put them up to my eyes and began scanning the arena for a flash of yellow dress, schoolgirl hat, and strawberry blond hair.
It was going to take a long time to comb through twenty thousand people looking for one person in particular, but what else did I have to do? It was still almost two hours until the beginning of the opera, and I had memory of Samantha to keep my hopes up.
"Can you see anything?" Darlene asked.
"Folks. Lots and lots of folks."
"Let me see."
"In a little bit," I said and didn't stop scanning the area I thought Samantha had gone.
"Hey, they're my opera glasses!"
"Did you bring two pair?"
"No silly. Why would I do that?"
"Well I might like to see the stage too."
"You don't like opera, remember?"
"Oh yeah," I said still scanning.
"So, gimme," she said and tried to get the little binoculars away from me. I wasn't having any of that though since I had just caught a flash of yellow that might have been the flash I was seeking.
"I'll let you have 'em when the show starts. Where is the guy with the cushions? You seen him?"
"You can rent opera glasses too," she said, a little peeved at me."
"Really? So rent some then."
"But I have some. These!" She snatched the glasses out of my hand.
"Rent yourself some," she said and stuck the glasses against her eyes. "Oh look! There's that English girl that was ahead of us outside!"
"What? Where?" I tried to snatch the glasses back, but Darlene pulled away.
"Get your own," she said. "What is the matter with you anyway?"
"Crazy with the heat," I snapped looking around for a guy to rent binoculars from. There was one a dozen yards down from us and I popped to my feet and started waving and hollering like I was on fire to get his attention.
When I got the glasses (cheap plastic ones not nearly as good as Darlene's) I said, "Where is she Darlene?"
"What do you mean who? Samantha. The English girl."
"Oh. She's over there." She waved vaguely toward the other side of the stadium.
"Gee thanks," I started scanning again and, by plain damn luck my first sweep caught a flash of yellow. I backed up and scanned the same strip more slowly. Sure enough, it wasn't just my fevered imagination. There she was, sitting like a vision amid the mob, and she was looking through rented opera glasses right at me. I knew she was looking at me because when she saw my glasses pointed at her she lowered hers and waved. She was smiling the same wicked smile she had favored me with when she came out of the john.
Opera at the Verona Arena has a tradition that maybe all out door opera performances have, I don't know, but when the orchestra begins its final tune up before the overture everybody gets out candles and lights them up. There are even vendors in the arena who sell candles, some just a little bigger than birthday candles, and some bigger, like dinner table candles. Darlene bought a couple of the little ones and when the orchestra stopped making noise and started making music we lit them up.
I had been looking every few minutes just to make sure that Samantha was still there and hadn't moved, or evaporated. It was getting harder and harder to see though, since dusk was thickening toward night. Now I lifted my plastic binoculars again and saw that Samantha had bought a couple of candles too, but not the little ones. She had both of them blazing away now and I noticed that she had lifted the hem of her dress up and laid it upon her knees. Still very prim, but now from the knees down her legs were exposed. That made my mind tick over like a Swiss watch. She was a couple of rows higher than we were so that my eye level was about at her knees and my fevered imagination went romping across that distance to peek between those shapely knees. . . .
But of course that wasn't going to happen. I gave myself hell for even thinking about it, because the thought was torture, so I shoved the thought out of my mind and tried to concentrate on the music.
The dusk had thickened to true darkness by the time the arena lights faded at the end of the overture. The crowd disappeared in the dark except for the little candles still burning here and there. Most of the little ones like Darlene had bought were burned out, but those bigger ones were still flickering.
Stage lights came up and the attention of almost everyone in the stadium went there. Mine did not. I put my plastic binoculars to my eyes and looked toward Samantha. . . and almost dropped them. Samantha had pulled her dress hem half way up her thighs and parted her knees about a foot. The light from her still burning candles illuminated what would have been a dark tunnel beneath her dress and between her thighs. The light color of her dress and the silky reflective paleness of her flesh made it so that I could see her feminine cleft through its light fuzz of pubic curls.
I lifted my glasses a little and could barely see her face in the left over light of the candles. Beneath her round little hat I could see her opera glasses aimed at me, and beneath them I could see her smiling lips.
I lowered my glasses and willed them to be better than they were. It looked as though the pubic curls along the inside edge of her pussy lips were darker than those more toward the top of her mons. Damp maybe? I thought and cursed those cheap binoculars.
Without even thinking about it I reached out and grabbed Darlene's glasses right away from her eyes.