Summer in Tuscany

In moments she was in the shower, washing off the film of sudden sweat. She was tempted to hide in the room today, but with cameras in her room, how was that hiding? She simply went about her day, the constant feeling of being watched, whether she was in the pool or the shower, a constant trickle of arousal. When it came time for the dinner party, she retired to her room and laid out all the clothes Mr. Morrison had given her. The under things, the shoes, the dress from the other night. And then she put them all on, taking some time to look at herself in the mirror in just the lingerie, her large breasts covered, but hardly hidden in the lace bra, the stockings and garters highlighting the beautiful curves her hips. She slid into the dress, stepped into the heels, and with her hair and makeup done, tottered out to the party, feeling her ass swaying against the dress, feeling her breasts sliding inside the lace, and feeling how, very, very aroused she would be by the end of the evening.

From his study, Jack had watched Rachel opening the boxes, first relieved that Isabella had, as instructed, placed them on Rachel's bed while she was at breakfast. He felt that familiar surge fuel his blood waiting for Rachel's reaction, that surge bringing his erection to a new level of stiffness after Rachel's exquisitely subtle performance at breakfast. At the moment she opened the last box, Jack undid his zipper and freed his cock, the timing to coincide with her unveiling of the vibrator, in his mind his surrogate penis for her, and he smiled thinking about what could be his parting gift for her at the end of the summer, remembering something he'd read about the technology now available to create dildos shaped and sized as replicas, her own souvenir of his cock. That nettle of doubt he had at moments like this, when he thought she might throw the box down on the floor in disgust and the game would be over, was shattered when she pushed her pajama bottoms off and panties to the floor, the sudden appearance of her taut ass like a slap to his cock, and he immediately started to thrust into his hand in synchronized humping, the tease of breakfast the foundation of his orgasm that quickly built and finished as she did, his loud groan signaling to her his approval, excitement and release, all part of their new ritual.

His instructions to his dinner guests that evening were straightforward: no mention of the previous poolside exhibition, and yes the conversation could be flirtatious but no mention of their collective sexual experiences. He reassured them that he was bringing her along, and she was playing along, and there would be time for that later. Yes, they were free to visually feast on Rachel's extraordinary figure, that he believed she would receive their open stares and their subtle glances as caresses on her young unblemished skin. He didn't explicitly state his expectation for what he believed would happen after dinner, but his guests knew him well enough that they could probably surmise.

Throughout the day Jack was too busy to catch more than glimpses of Rachel in the shower, then in the pool, just enough to keep his mind preoccupied with her, and his cock on alert. He fought the temptation to watch her dress for dinner, reluctantly stepping away from the monitors after watching her shower that evening, resisting the nudging his cock was giving his brain, anticipating, hoping that the first sight of her in the stockings and bra and garter would be when she stripped for him later that night. He did, however, give some thought to his own attire for the evening, a slim linen shirt and a pair of flat top lined pants, no socks under his Bruno Magli loafers. And no underwear. He would ensure that as often as possible throughout the evening Rachel would have the opportunity to witness his lust for her.

It was another perfect Tuscan evening, the sun beginning its descent, the hills green, teeming with olive trees and vineyards, picturesque, warm, when the French doors to the patio opened. His guests, cocktails in hand, stood in a small circle. Giancarlo saw her first. Jack saw his friends eyebrows raise and his eyes darken, and Jack turned, then the rest of his guests followed, and for what seemed like minutes, they were silent. Jack thought he heard the cicadas stop their steady, pulsating buzzing watching her approach the circle, their collective eyes admiring, undressing, lusting. He saw her cheeks flush, radiant, and then his eyes dropped to her breasts --he felt his tip brush against the linen as his cock began its ascent-- and then to the narrow waist and her hips, imagining the garter belt, and to her toned long legs and coltish ankles, her heels shortening her stride, making her hips sway seductively. Jack beamed, thought of how this entrance was the antithesis to her embarrassed scurry of just a few days ago, how much had changed since then, how tonight she exuded sexuality, confidence, her head held high, a small, almost sly grin, clearly enjoying the attention she was receiving, the short walk from the door to their group more like a Paris runway than a few steps by the pool.

By the time she arrived at their little circle, Jack breaking away to extend a welcome, his cock was erect, and felt like it was now leading the way toward Rachel. He extended a hand, greeting her European style with a kiss on each cheek, recognizing this new intimacy as new and thrilling, her small hand still in his, his cock through his pants brushing ever so slightly against her thigh, her perfume, the scent of her hair, the quick contact of her hips against his cheek -- was it the martini hitting him now -- he felt almost dizzy, overcome with exactly what he couldn't describe: Rachel.

Rachel was a young woman; she was used to glances and even stares. It was the lot of her gender, no matter how modestly she dressed, or modestly she acted. But the attention she received upon entering Mr. Morrison's party was not like anything she had experienced before. For one, it was absolute, every eye on her from the oldest man to the most matronly woman. For another it was hers alone, no other young women dividing the attention of the interested eye as there was at any bar or club or party she had attended. And lastly it lingered, their silent stares lasting until finally Mr. Morrison broke the spell with his introductions.

She noted his arousal as he approached her, and as lewd as it was, and inappropriate from such an old man, she felt a pleasure from it. A pleasure that she had caused such a reaction in another, simply by her presence, her looks, her following of his wishes in dress and behavior. She had a secret pleased smile as she spoke to the other guests, feeling not for the first time in her life, but in a more powerful sense than ever, the power of her sexuality over another. She was cordial, polite, and could not help but be a bit flirtatious. Whether it was in reaction to their own looks and comments, or the sensation that she carried within her tonight, she wasn't sure. But she surely enjoyed the gathering more than she ever would have some similar collection of graying adults at her father's house. The fact that she knew that at any glance, Mr. Morrison could perfectly envision what she had on underneath her dress, that was the thing that kept her humming all evening. She was too naive, too young to have any guess that the other guests knew a thing. She thought his interest in her so shameful she could not imagine him sharing that. But just the thought of his awareness, his interest, his eyes was enough for this evening.

Jack found he had trouble looking at his guests, a struggle to maintain eye contact throughout the evening, his eyes drifting constantly toward Rachel, and to him the setting sun and then the candlelight existed solely for the illumination of her. His arousal remained throughout dinner, mixed with a pride that surprised him, as if he had something to do with Rachel's beauty this evening, as if he had groomed this young woman, mentored her, taught her to look at once so seductive and innocent. Perhaps he did, he thought. Perhaps he could take credit for a sexual confidence that didn't exist when she first arrived. When seating his guests for dinner, Jack had avoided the temptation of putting Rachel next to him, and placed her one seat away around the large round table. He watched her flirt, laugh, observed how she was enjoying being the center of attention for the evening. Those moments when he would look in her direction waiting for her to make eye contact or catch him staring at her breasts, became the focus of the evening, the conversations themselves, the food, his guests, his staff serving and clearing plates, mere distractions. At one point he'd been staring at Rachel's cleavage so intently that Geoffrey to his left had to prod him with an elbow to get this attention.

He drank much less than he would during a typical dinner like this, limiting himself to that first martini and occasionally sipping a glass of the wine Giancarlo brought from his vineyard, drinking water instead to keep him hydrated for later. He did notice Rachel drinking the wine too, but he monitored her intake. He wanted her to feel relaxed, but not tipsy to the extent it would affect her pleasure. He teased himself throughout the evening, a casual brush or a squeeze of his crotch, the fuzzy friction of the linen so intense against his shaft when he stood up it brought a flutter to his knees. As if he were rehearsing his remarks for an important business meeting, he considered how to end the evening with Rachel. Something witty? Suggestive? Touch her? Kiss her to hint at what they both knew would happen next?

When he closed the heavy front door to end the evening he felt Rachel near him, that final click like a switch charging the air around him, like he was closing them into a small cell instead of an expansive villa. Whatever lines he'd rehearsed had been wiped clean, and he turned around to face her. She was close enough that it would have taken only a step for him to wrap his arms around her and crush her breasts against his chest and kiss her, yet she was far enough for him to look at her entire body. He felt his cock pointing to her. He smiled at her, connected with her eyes, and then, while he knew she was watching him, stripped her bare with his eyes, feeling her watch him as he took in her cleavage, her waist, stopping at where he knew the garter belt sat on her hips, the thong, and down the length of the stockings to her shoes, and then the return trip back into her eyes. He thought her saw her hips shift, a slight squirm. A kiss good night on each cheek suddenly felt wrong. He didn't want to talk, or chit-chat recapping the evening. He wanted to watch her undress right here in the foyer, and for a second wondered if it would happen right then. Maybe that was the next step in the game, he thought, but tonight it would be on camera. His attempt to sound nonchalant failed, and instead it came out as a hoarse whisper. "Good night Rachel."

Rachel always dressed well, but she had never dressed quite so sexily, put her body on display quite so boldly. Even more than it had seemed in the bathroom mirror, her evening with Mr. Morrison and the guests made clear how the combination of bra and dress so prominently displayed her breasts. Every pair of eyes seemed incapable of escaping their gravity, her host more than the rest. She felt immodest, well aware that she had chosen to dress herself this way, if with the help of Mr. Morrison's clothing choices. But she felt thrilled too, that they would find her so irresistible that even etiquette could not keep their eyes away. She sat and talked, in eager English and halting Italian, and drank the wine that Mr. Morrison sparingly provided for her. It seemed natural that he would choose for her, serve for her.

When the night wound down and the guests began to leave, Rachel felt their leaving like the stripping away of layers, until the last few departures felt like the baring of a body, naked and vulnerable. She could see that Mr. Morrison felt the same even by the way he held his shoulders and back closing the door. He lingered there, and Rachel watched him, where whole body taut like the world would explode when he turned around. Of course it did not, but the sensations did not wane. Instead he ran his eyes down her body and Rachel felt that, literally felt the touch of his gaze on her skin, underneath all the silk and lace. She moved then, standing there in front of him, like she would have moved as a finger traced down her neck and chest, her stomach, her mound. Her eyes closed halfway and she expected to feel him pounce on her, to thrust at her with the bulging cock that pushed so obviously forward in his pants. Her chin tipped upwards and her arms moved back in an unknowing gesture of submission and she waited.

But he did not touch her. She heard his voice, and the naked lust in it. Her eyes opened and met his for a brief instant before he walked away, heading almost hurriedly to his room. She stood there for a moment shell-shocked, her body still waiting for the inevitable crash of bodies. But then she understood.

It was hard, hard to reconcile herself to the way this would play out. She knew he wanted her, and there was little reason to think him a modest or restrained man. Yet he would not take her. Not yet. But there were other things he wanted from her. Other things she could do for him. A few seconds, or an eternity, later Rachel followed Mr. Morrison down the hall, making the turn into her room as he stepped into his office. She kept her eyes straight ahead though there was no longer any pretense of what was happening. The only difference was, Rachel did not lock her door, did not even close it, but left it ajar. She did not reflect on the fact that she wanted Mr. Morrison to come in, that she truly wished that the old man, her father's friend, would take her. She simply did, and so she left it open. She stepped into her room, and turned at the foot of the bed, facing where she thought the camera was. And then Rachel let go of the restraint she had held all evening, her arousal washing through her body and driving her arms into action. She stroked her whole body through the dress, stroking herself as she thought others had imagined doing. Soon her hands were on her breasts, squeezing them through the dress and pressing them together. Her mouth opened in a moan. It was too much for her. One hand pressed at her dress between her thighs, rubbing the silk against herself as she began to knead her own breast, all the while staring ahead straight at the imagined eye of her host.

Jack heard Rachel's heels clicking down the hall behind him, his office door open, picturing the sway of her hips, and imagined the slowness of her gait an auditory gift from her to him. For a second he thought she might take the extra steps and appear at his office, but he knew she understood the intent of this evening. He waited for the sound of her door closing but it never came. He smiled. Was that an invitation for him to enter and fuck her? There would be time for that. He could still hear the sound of her heels down the hallway as she appeared on the screen in front of him, which meant, he thought, that she could hear him if he were to moan, and knew he would be very loud for her tonight, not just at her climax.

He watched her stop at the foot of the bed and turn toward the camera and look directly at the lens, directly at him, as she grabbed her breasts and squeezed them together. He grunted his approval, and squeezed his cock through his pants, overcome by the primal look of sex in her eyes. Women had stripped for him before. Many women. Some he paid to strip for him, most he had not. Some were much better than others, and his assessments were based not on the professionalism -- some women treated it almost as a gymnastic performance, others as a dance routine that looked like it had been too well rehearsed, but instead on the underlying intensity. Was she feeling it between her legs, or not. The best strippers fed off their audience, and it wasn't about the ability to do an upside down split on a pole, it was about the ability of the woman to turn her audience on, yes, but herself on too. And already he could see Rachel was enjoying this, hers hands finally free, after hours of having her breasts admired by men and women alike, to do what she had been wanting to do all evening.

Rachel thought she could hear Mr. Morrison in the silence of the house, a muted grunt from down the hall. It had been impossible to miss how aroused he was even in his dress pants. She wondered if he had pulled his pants down, or his cock out. If he was stroking himself now as he watched on some sort of monitor. Rachel had never been in his office, never been to see how he watched her. But she was sure he could see her now, and that the sight of her groping her own breast was as arousing to him as it was to her.

And oh, was it arousing. Rachel found herself massaging her mound through her dress fiercely at the same time as her hand roamed her chest. She treated her breasts almost roughly, squeezing and groping them. She was imagining herself, her breasts, not as she saw them--something that got in the way and attracted unwanted comments and attention--but as she had come to realize other men saw them. As Mr. Morrison saw them. Squeezing them now, rubbing lightly over her nipple now, Rachel stared into the eye of the camera wondering if this was what Mr. Morrison would do with her breast if he could. She didn't really know, other than that men were obsessed with them. Would he stroke it, squeeze it? Or would he do like she did now, deftly untying her halter top behind her neck and letting it drop, hanging at her hips, and exposing her lace bra.

Rachel sat down on the edge of the bed and cupped her breasts in both hands. They were sensitive, as though all the attention to them had changed their very nature. Her nipples stiffened as she rubbed the lace against them. That only compelled her to rub harder, a bit faster, feeling the flush spread throughout her breasts. She spread her knees and her dress, already short, rode up until she exposed the tops of her stockings, the straps of her garters against her tan flesh. One hand pulled the crotch of the dress up further, exposing her panties to the camera, and to her hand. She stared forward as she rubbed that lace against her lips, feeling how it began to stick to her dampness. Rachel sprawled back on the bed, twisting to reach the box still resting there, and getting her hands on the vibrator Mr. Morrison had left for her. She had it humming, one handed, in seconds, and was sprawled there on the bed, legs spread, breasts pointing straight up in her lace bra. One hand pulled her panties to one side, the other applied the blissful toy. Rachel stared up at the ceiling as she arched and began to masturbate herself, knowing that Mr. Morrison's eyes were on her, on her center, watching as she massaged her clit to a fiery peak.

Jack slipped his loafers off, stood up and let his linen pants drop to the floor, his cock pointing out and up. He had intended to stay in his office during this performance, but when he turned the sound down from the microphones, with Rachel's door open he could hear first those little whimpers, then the buzzing of the vibrator. He dripped lotion on his cock, felt the energy there when he squeezed it between his fingers. When he saw Rachel lean back on the bed, her legs spread, the stockings still on, the now damp thong pulled to the side, her nipples hard and plainly visible through the sheer bra, the vibrator on her clit and her juice already coating her thighs, he stood up again. He'd been expecting a slow striptease, and perhaps that still might come, but her fervor preempted that performance, and that turned him on even more. He knew it couldn't be, but he thought he could smell her pussy from down the hall. She probably meant to continue looking at the camera, but her pussy appeared to demand such attention that she looked up at the ceiling, and Jack saw his chance. With his shirt still on, but unbuttoned, he felt himself being drawn down the hallway by his cock, as if it were some instrument seeking heat, and the heat now was between Rachel's legs just six steps away to the entrance to her bedroom.