Iggy's Summer Fling

Walking back to her Air BNB, Iggy hears the grumble of thunder overhead and decides to quicken her pace. In mere moments, the sky opens up, and the rain comes down in sheets. There is a second of shock as the spray of cold pelts their bodies, but then Iggy takes Donovan's hand, and they run laughing and splashing like children all the way back to her house.

They strip. Iggy sheds her damp Dolci linen sundress, while Donovan loses his wet tee-shirts and soaked through jeans. He runs a hand through his hair, then flicks away the dampness as he peers out of the kitchen window. While he is mesmerized by the downpour, she pours herself a glass of Red Hill.

"Did you know it was going to rain today?" He calls over his shoulder. Iggy shakes her head before taking a sip from her bourbon. The rain is the last thing on her mind right now. Instead, she eyes the contour of Donovan's bare shoulders, still wet and glistening with droplets.

He turns to her, and they stare at each other for a moment. Iggy knows that he yearns to explore her body, and maybe more. It's just a shame it took them this long to arrive here. For the past week, she's feigned interest in teaching him Italian, and he's picked up some things here and there, but all she's really done is watch his mouth and wonder what it can do for her.

Tomorrow, she flies back home, and though her trip has been lovely, she wants some story to tell when she gets back. What better yarn to spin than the conquest of an American? This isn't her first fling, but it is the first one outside of her country. But whether it be Sicilian men or not, Iggy knows the look in his eyes. The eagerness, the hunger. She's happy to discover it's not just native to her borders.

Iggy's eyes are unflinching as she watches him over the rim of her glass. Donovan's eyes soften before trailing down her midriff. Then, he catches sight of the small tuft of dark hair that rose up past the waistband of her panties.

"Mio Dios," he says, clearly taken by what he sees. His Italian sounds clunky, even in that deep soothing voice of his. But she's not about to correct him. No, Iggy leans back on the kitchen counter and welcomes his gaze.

Donovan saddles up to her and traces her small patch of hair with his finger. He looks as if he's trying to memorize it. "This is new."

"New to you?"

He nods. "Most women go for the-" He struggles for a moment, unable to find the right words in Italian. Then, in a snap, it comes to him. "Senza peli." Iggy nods. "Yeah, they think it makes them look younger or some bullshit. But you..." He trails off, letting a flirty little smile come over him before adding, "You seem to enjoy it."

Iggy can't help but smirk into her glass as Donovan reaches down past the elastic band of her panties and curls a finger around a thick bramble of her hair. "Most of the women I've been with shaved their legs, their pits, and their pussies almost militantly."

"What's wrong with a little hair?" She asks, peering down and watching Donovan's hand rummage around. His fingers are clumsy but in a cute, endearing way. Regardless, she's getting worked up just watching him appreciate her body.

"This," he says, twisting some of the hair between his fingers. "Is more than just a little bit." His finger drifts further down, and suddenly he's there, between the folds of her pussy. The breath catches in Iggy's chest as she feels him rub the knob of her clit, and dampen his fingertips with her brine. "It's a small foresta down here."

A moment later, he is down on his knees. He begins by kissing a tender trail from Iggy's navel, and slowly, he ventures down over the crotch of her panties. His mouth works through the fabric, kneading and licking until Iggy nearly spills her drink.

Iggy finishes her glass as Donovan hooks two fingers under her waistband. He slides her panties down her thighs in a silent whisper before confronting the wonderful strip of hair she keeps.

His eyes can barely contain this beauty, but to Iggy, He looks like a starved hound. Her thighs open in anticipation, and she leans back, gripping the counter and beckoning to him with her eyes.

"Mio Dio," Donovan says again, and Iggy wonders if he's exhausted his Italian lexicon. "I could stare at your pussy all day."

"That's good," she says. "But I hope you did not take it out just to look at it." She wants to say more, maybe to add something funny or clever, but all of a sudden Iggy is struck quiet by Donovan's tongue. He licks the length pussy until the soft edges of his tongue tease the taut button of her clit. Then, he opens his mouth and arching his tongue, making a show of it for her.

Outside, the rain batters the house as Iggy shudders and flexes her hips, pushing back against Donovan's mouth. She feels the tickle of his beard before rubbing her clit over his nose like a creamy Eskimo kiss. She reaches down and clasps a hand on his head before rocking into him as if trying to paint his face with her juices. She wonders if he can taste the rain.

"Fanculo," she calls before pursing her lips tight. A low moan works its way out of her, pulsing with the rhythm of Donovan's tongue. Her face becomes a mask of ecstasy as the sound of the rain falls away from her, and Iggy cums.

Her orgasm is like a flood, crushing through The walls of her self-control and a cry fills the room as the tension releases. Distantly, Iggy realizes that she is struggling to keep her balance, but Donovan's hands are there, caressing her and keeping her upright. Finally, when Iggy can no longer take it, her voice cuts off, as if someone had pulled the plug to her vocal box.

For a moment, Iggy's jaw comes unhinged, and she sits there, looking haunted by arousal. It isn't until after her orgasm subsides that Donovan's tongue finally shows any signs of slowing. At last, he stands.

"Now," he says, wiping his face to reveal a wicked grin. "My turn."

He pulls his boxers down, kicks them aside, then falls back into a kitchen chair. "Succhiami," he says in that deep, timbering voice she's grown to love. "Prendimi in goal."

His words shock her. That isn't the romance language she's taught him over the past month or so, and she thinks, "Maybe Donovan has learned some Italian on his own."

But despite wanting to please, Iggy hesitates. Donovan isn't overly big, but his cock intimidates her all the same. She's never done this before, not like how he wants, and she doesn't know if she can.

He's hairy too, though that isn't a shock to Iggy. She doesn't suffer the stigma of hairy bodies the way Americans do. Still, she wants to please him. Her lips part and Iggy kneads the soft head of his cock before venturing deeper. She struggles with the task, working him down her throat slowly with one hand on her thigh and the other braced on his.

Iggy works him down, gagging here and there and feeling her deep, viscous spit coat his cock. At last, her nose touches the wiry patch of hair he keeps, and she pauses for a moment before retreating.

"Yes," Iggy hears the husky praise in Donovan's voice. She pulls free with a pleased little laugh, catching trails of spit thinning between her mouth and his now glossy cock. "Cazzo. Good girl."

She kneads his balls between her lips as she strokes him, not the well-paced up and down of two lovers, but the frenzy of a fiery summer fling.

"Ho tanto bisogno di te, Ignazio." The sound of her full name through his lips tickles her. The fact that he pronounces it properly is one thing. The other is that no one calls her that anymore. She hasn't really heard it since she was young and innocent walking the streets of Vittoria.

Still young, but maybe not as innocent, Iggy reaches down between her thighs to tease herself. Their sex is so goddamn hot that it somehow devolves them both into sloppy needy cocks, cunts, and mouths. They are nothing more than things that fill and need to be filled.

"Dolce papa. Donovan!" The plea in her call is palpable, and the flicker in his eyes tells Iggy that he hears it. Donovan pulls her up onto her feet and guides her onto his lap until she's straddling him.

"Ho bisogno di te," he confesses as his cock slides all the way into her. Iggy lets out a powdered gasp, both as he fills her from wall to wall and at his words. Even though Donovan's Italian sounds cheesy through his American lips, they still claw at her back, groping her thighs and nip at her breast. His desperation summons arousal up to her surface to prickle her skin like goose flesh.

At first, Donovan's hands only guide her hips, letting her do all of the work. She rides him hard, making sure to pause at the depth of every downstroke to relish the feel of Donovan's cock stretching up into her. Iggy wraps her arms around him, his face pressed to her chest as she leans into their clammy-skinned embrace. He feels so fucking good right now. So. Fucking. Good.

He moans, and she and she can feel his tongue slippery between her tits, desperate for her nipples, Donovan's mouth is clumsy, lapping at her cleavage anxiously until, at last, his lips fall upon her nipples. Iggy rides him harder as he sucks her like a babe, and neither of them are quiet about it. Their rapture fills the room with the sound of their ecstasy, only rivaled by the greasy cacophony of their bodies colliding.

Iggy feels his hands clamping down on her thighs. No longer satisfied with guiding, Donovan begins to pump into her ravenously. "I need you-" But the rest of his confession dissolves as his hips buck! If not for his hands on her thighs, keeping her steady, Iggy thinks his force might topple her out of his lap.

She holds on tightly, feeling her orgasm rise like a tide inside of her. "Donovan!" his name slips from her lips, but it no longer sounds like a plea. Now his name is a torrid mantra spoken in her tight Italian accent. "Donovan, Donovan, Donooooovaaaan!"

The last one rises out of her in a high sheen, breaking as a brutish grunt burst from Donovan. Iggy feels him buck into her once, twice, then thrice as miraculously, they both climax at the same time. They gasp and claw at each other, as outside, a roar of thunder sounds so loud it shakes the entire house.

"Oh my God, Ignazio!"

She feels Donovan gush into her, his warmth making her smile wanly until her own climax plumes up inside of her. She feels it in her chest, pressing against her rib cage, and she calls out, not in a pretty soprano, but a choked cry that pricks her eyes and leaves her clenching around him.

Tomorrow, she'll remember this moment as the plane takes off. and as she heads back to Vittoria, those three words will stay with her.

So. Fucking. Good.