Eye for Italianbybellefleure©
It's late. I'm pacing my hotel room, the repetitive padding of my small feet against the soft carpet the only sound, waiting for the tell-tale signs of sex from either of the neighbouring rooms. As usual I'm horny with anticipation, having learnt that corporate travel has its perks when it comes to satisfying the audio voyeur in me. But so far it's a no-show, which pretty much sums up the day. The tech meeting was nothing to write home about, and the Metro journey a drag. The red wine helps soothe my frustration. Maybe tomorrow I'll be luckier; both day and night.
Passing the mirror I stop to steal a glance. Suck in my tummy. Straighten my shoulders; observe the way my dark hair tumbles over them, flowing across the smooth whiteness of my chest, soft pink nipples atop large mocha areola peeking through my mane. I watch the rise and fall of my ample breasts with my breathing.
The air conditioning is barely on, as summer is on its way. The warmth and faint floral scent from the shower lingers and it feels liberating to be free of nearly all my clothes, but I shiver nonetheless, turning to face the mirror fully, left then right, critiquing. Not bad; not bad at all. The new panties look good. Brief, black, sexy lace that makes me feel a thousand times their price tag. An indulgence for sure, but worth it. Well, when in Rome...
Crossing the room to the full-height window I see the lazy end to a typical Italian day from my third floor vantage point. People heaving trash dumpsters into position, couples walking from restaurants, arm in arm, laughing and smiling. The city shutting down for the night, ready to do it all again tomorrow.
A light across from me catches my attention. The hotel is broadly v-shaped and from a floor below, yellow light spills into the evening barely thirty feet across from where I stand. Into the window breezes a woman in a striking red evening gown; thin straps, plunging neckline, material bunched tight around her middle, flowing to fine pleats. The light permeates the semi-transparent fabric as she swishes it left and right, letting it flutter around her silhouetted legs, gathering at her ankles above black high heels. Dark locks frame her European features and she shakes her hair, running a small hand through it.
She stands, watching the same scene below as I had, then starts to sway, as if to music. I'm mesmerised by her curves and the way she moves; subtly, sensuously, feeling the rhythm wash over her. Is she alone or dancing for someone? There's nobody in the courtyard below, and the offices opposite are dark. Maybe someone else is with her?
In answer to my unvoiced question, I catch sight of movement in the upper corner of the rectangle of light. Probably somewhere towards the centre of the room, a pair of shoes come to rest, shiny and black. Her roommate crosses one foot over the other. He must be sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, watching her.
I quickly fumble for the lamp beside me, plunging my room into darkness. If this situation is to develop into something interesting I want a front row seat, undetected. Some form of consolation after the dismal day. My breathing becomes shallow as I watch and wait, anticipating at least an embrace, hopefully more. Watching is as good as, if not better than, listening.
The woman in red flips the dress up sharply at the back and lets it float to her calves and ankles, teasing him. Her swaying becomes more extrovert and she places one palm against the window, then the other, shoulder-width apart and glides them downward, jutting her bottom towards him. She spins to face him, pressing her shoulders against the glass and points, rather theatrically, into the room. Perhaps she's miming to the song lyrics.
It feels naughty to watch, but my fluttering heart is captivated by the performance. Excitement mounts as I wonder what it must be like to put on an act like that for a significant other. If I could only move like that, maybe I'd even have a significant other eating out of the palm of my hand. Or, preferably, eating me out. I flush at the thought, briefly transporting my mind across to the other room, dancing sexily for the faceless stranger until he approaches, sinks to his knees, dives beneath the dress and slips his tongue inside me, lapping relentlessly at my encouragement.
The notion heightens the hunger within me. I love to touch myself. Do I dare to do so here? In full view? With just the semi-circular moon and ambient light from the city casting shadows inside, and no light behind me, I should be anonymous and virtually unseen. Perhaps I can get away with it, but it feels kind of wrong. Dirty, even. What if someone looks up and catches me with my fingers in my panties? I'd be mortified. But equally, they won't know me so maybe it's ok? After all I don't know the couple in the room beneath me and I'm becoming excited watching them; maybe someone else would be thrilled to catch a glimpse of me?
Thoughts of an audience to my lustful actions flash through my mind. It surprises me that I find it deeply erotic to consider being the stranger; the centre of attention. And I do so love touching, stroking, teasing; letting my mind roam free.
Throwing caution to the wind I run my hands down the sides of my body, imagining I'm teasing him. Perhaps teasing someone else too. Gliding my fingers over the surface of my thighs, I ignite nerve endings in their wake. The trail spreads up and across to my midriff, whirling in my tummy, radiating warmth further south. One hand gingerly moves across my body and brushes the fabric of my lace panties; I jump at the touch, backing off to slide my hands up my sides again.
In the window, the woman slowly turns once more to face the night. She grabs the hem of her dress and swishes it left and right, each time raising it a little up her shapely calves. Inch by inch the silhouette of her legs become flesh. She's wearing stockings; matching red, leading to silver clasps that stretch past a tight fitting triangle of shiny red material.
The gown rises further, slower now, and I find myself holding my breath as I see her suspenders are attached to a similarly coloured and shapely corset. It hugs her figure and I feel momentarily self conscious and jealous. If only I could get away with wearing such clothes. Dressing up makes me feel womanly -- really separates me from men -- and I long to be able to pull it off as well as the brazen, mystery lady before me. I struggle to recall the last time I wore stockings and suspenders. I should rectify that someday.
The dress swishes higher revealing the creamy upper surface of her breasts. They swell above the strapless corset and I gasp involuntarily as she completes the striptease and casts her dress into the air. It pirouettes and floats to the floor a few feet from her, becoming a pool of silky, formless fabric. She looks over her shoulder at the man sitting in the middle of the room. When she returns to face the window I see her smiling broadly. Radiant. Sultry. Feminine. Sexy. She has all the power and knows it.
She traces her hands up and down the sides of her body as I am doing, raises her knee a few inches and places one high heel on the bar running the perimeter of the room. She proceeds to unbuckle the clasps of her suspenders; first the right, then swaps feet on the railing to unsnap the left, finally reaching behind to undo the rear catches against her trim thighs. The thin strips of material loop and swing side-to-side as she sways again, picking up the beat.
Above in my room I marvel at her audacity. I have the relative anonymity of darkness as my hands travel my body and my skin tingles, but this vixen is stripping in full view of anybody below. What nerve! I wonder what's going through her mind as she sways lower, pushing her bottom out towards her guest before standing back up again, placing her hands apart on the glass and looking over her shoulder.
I can feel myself beginning to moisten. Such an erotic thrill to be party to the act below. My mind wanders into the room and I imagine what he must be doing. Is he just sitting still, taking in the sexy show or is he telling her what to do? I assume he is well dressed judging from his shoes. But is he clean shaven? Stubbly? Rugged? Geeky? It's impossible to tell. Is he able to restrain himself as he watches the beauty unfold before him or has he freed his cock from his trousers, stroking his thick shaft, telling the woman what he intends to do to her? I hear his voice in my head:
"Touch yourself. Feel your heart beat faster. I'm going to run my tongue over your pussy; taste you, flick your clitoris, and make you come."
Beneath my roving hands, my skin is electric. Sparks jump to my fingers with every gentle caress, and each jolt of energy arcs from the surface straight to my centre. Wetness flows. There's nothing I want more than to be her. I wonder what her name is. Does it matter? I think so. What would a dark Italian beauty be called? Francesca, maybe? Yes, it suits her. His voice invades the inside of my head again:
"I love watching you, Francesca. Your body turns me on. When my face is wet with your come and I finish with my tongue on your clit I'm going to slip my cock inside you and listen to your panting, crying out for me as I fuck you."
The name sticks. She is my Francesca.
I watch her dance in the figure-hugging corset for the man; rubbing the curves of her body sensually all the way to her hips where her hands stop. She thumbs the waistband of her panties. No! Is she really going to remove them? Teasing him for a few moments, gyrating and thrusting her bottom in his direction, she then begins to glide the underwear down her lithe legs to her knees. My eyes widen and my hand flies to my own pussy, as if to cover it in sympathetic modesty. I can feel a damp spot in my panties and my mouth goes dry, willing her to continue. The blood pulses past my inner ear in complete synchrony with the thumping of my heart.
Inevitably, Francesca's red thong drops the remaining distance to the floor and she steps out of it. I can see the hair of her bush, neatly trimmed, the light spilling from the room catching the wisps. She performs a tantalisingly slow turn towards her watcher and bends forward, pressing her naked rear against the glass, evidently showing off her cleavage. Her firm derriere deforms slightly and appears whiter where the glass touches. She then straightens, presses her back against the glass and slithers down to a crouch, briefly spreading her legs for him before standing.
It's so delightful to behold her brashness. I can't resist any longer and plunge a hand beneath my panties, exploring the folds I find among the soft hair. My mouth opens as I slide a finger into myself and gasp quietly at how wet I am. My digit is coated with my horny nectar and I trail it up the valley of the forest to my pink hood. Touching home, I circle gently yet insistently, feeling the nub move beneath its cover, revelling in the sensations it triggers throughout my midsection. Impulses fire from there, lighting the rest of my body. The hair on my neck stands on end as my circles increase in intensity and my clit peeks further from its hiding place, eager to be fingered directly.
It appears I'm not the only one touching myself. Francesca is now openly rubbing her crotch for her guest. Her head tips back against the glass, legs akimbo as her arm jiggles with the strokes to her centre. In my head, he's telling me -- her -- what to do.
"Finger yourself, Francesca. Your touches please me. Flick your clit. Show me how wet you are. Make me hard and I will fuck you."
I follow his instructions beneath my wet panties. My juices are flowing freely and I can smell the sweet musk of my arousal. My eyes close and the scene plays out in my head, as I perform for the man and do his bidding. He watches me fixedly, following my every move, encouraging me to go further each time until I'm sat on the floor, knees bent, legs splayed, one hand spreading my lips for him, the fingers of the other buried in my slit, bringing myself to orgasm for his bawdy stare.
Watching him watch me fuels my passion. I imagine him toying with his huge cock, stroking its length in reaction to my performance, all the while wanting him to walk to me, push me onto my back and take me deeply there on the thick carpet in front of the world; splitting and filling me completely with vigorous lunges until he erupts inside my distended pussy and I come hard around his shaft, our bodies a sweaty tangle of limbs, breathless on the floor in the afterglow.
The fantasy abates but my ministrations continue to elevate my arousal, and when I reopen my eyes, Francesca is cupping her bosoms. She has popped them from the top of the corset and is pulling and tweaking her nipples in front of the man. I reach up with my free hand and do the same. My nipples are hard and sensitive to my touch. Squeezing the flesh and rubbing the tip of each in turn causes my chest to flush. The air conditioning is fighting a losing battle against the heat generated from my body. I stare intently at Francesca and witness her lifting her tits to her mouth to lick the nipples. Such debauchery! She presses herself back against the glass, runs one hand through her hair then reaches to squeeze her breasts before plunging a hand down to her pussy. I watch the hourglass figure gyrating against the window and try to match her rhythm, fingering myself with wild abandon as every corner of my body begins to fold in on itself.
Just then the man steps into her space. He is rugged. Very Italian. Well dressed, an unshaven chiselled jaw, intense eyes and medium length dark hair. And a fat cock pointing straight up and out of his trousers. I take a deep breath as he turns her away from him, bends her forward slightly, crushing her face and breasts to the glass, and enters her from behind in one swift motion. Almost without breaking stride he begins to pump into her pussy. I watch the 'O's and 'Ah's form on her lips as his tool ravages her insides. And I imagine they're mine.
Two fingers of my hand snake their way into my drenched pussy and I thrust them in and out in time to the action below me. My palm crushes my clit against my body with each inward stroke and I swear I can feel his hot breath on my ear, whispering "Francesca, Francesca, Francesca" and telling me how hot I am and how much it turns him on to fuck me in front of anyone who cares to look up. I can almost sense his stubble scuffing my neck and manly scent invading my nostrils.
With my fingers working hard inside me and my orgasm thundering closer, I press my free hand against the glass for support and watch Francesca being fucked hard. Her face paints the picture of what is occurring inside her body and I match the action stroke for stroke. My gasps and moans into the room echo her own cries as the man mercilessly pistons into her, deforming her chest and face against the window with each powerful thrust, her arms splayed widely.
I watch Francesca's fingers scratch and claw at the glass. Her eyes close and her mouth opens wide, breath condensing rhythmically in hazy circles on the cool material as she comes. I'm right there with her. Explosions start in my abdomen, spreading wildfire through my body and I stiffen against the glass in my own room. My hand locks in my soaked pussy and I grind my clit hard up against myself. Spasms rapidly grip and release the fingers in my channel as a fresh wave of nectar flows around them to ooze from my slit and dribble into my panties. My tummy tightens and a brief moment of weightlessness envelops me as everything suddenly draws inward, rushing to a single point deep within my core before bursting its energy to every quadrant of my hungry body.
My breasts flush, nipples engorge, skin prickles, hair stands on end and toes dig into the carpet all at once as my brain struggles to process all the signals and make sense of everything. Deep, guttural groans escape my lips in time with my body's ripples of gratification. Though my posture is rigid, my insides are a swirling mass of jumbled satisfaction, hormones coursing my veins and delivering their delicious payload to every part that cries out for it. Through half-closed eyes I see Francesca struggling with the same internal battle, gripped in the throes of climax, a slave to her body's pulsing beat, her mouth gradually forming a wide smile as the endorphins rush her senses.
The man still pounds ruthlessly up into her pussy throughout our orgasms and as I begin to open my eyes fully I see him pressed right to her ear, speaking through clenched teeth. I imagine him hissing:
"You're so tight, Francesca. I love the way you grip my cock when you come. I'm going to shoot inside your spasming pussy right now. Take my come deep inside you. Take it all."
I watch his face contort as he floods her channel with his hot sperm, and sense another surge of wetness spilling from my sex at the conclusion of their carnal performance. I become fleetingly guilty of invading their shared moment, but experience a further intense rush -- both an honour and delight -- to have observed the raw passion and ferocious intensity of a torrid fuck, so boldly executed. Intimate flashes of the couple are forever burned in my mind; visions I'll revisit in future when alone with nothing but my probing fingers and imagination to guide me towards powerful release.
My breathing remains ragged and parts of my body continue to tingle deliciously as I watch them both drift, panting, from their sexual high. Francesca, still dressed in her bright red corset, stockings and high heels, begins to peel herself from the window, pushing him back a step. They part gingerly and she turns to embrace the man, his magnificent, glistening prick briefly swinging into view before being lost between their bodies as they embark on a passionate, lingering kiss, hands gripping, squeezing and stroking each other lovingly throughout.
I watch them consummate their act, allowing the fires inside me to gradually recede during their smouldering kiss. Sliding my fingers from my drenched pussy with a wet smack I lift them to my nose and inhale my horny secretions. I adore the smell of myself. Such a mouth-wateringly, heady mixture of sweetness and a heavier base note; the pheremone of raw desire. Perhaps I should wear the new underwear tomorrow at the next tech meeting so I can have an enduring reminder of tonight? Maybe someone else will notice my scent: that would be both thrilling and a little dirty. It excites me to consider it and I shiver.
Below me, the pair break the kiss and step from the window, hand in hand. Moments later the light goes out and I'm left staring through the glass with a sticky hand and a pronounced, warm glow inside me. A deep-seated contentment laps at my limbs, gently rippling outward from my quivering centre.
I'm pleased the day hasn't been a total washout after all, and nod to the empty window. Thank you Francesca. And good night.