Author's Note: Recently my wife shared a fantasy of hers involving a seductive meeting with a supposed stranger in Italy. Both of us decided to write our own version; this is mine. Hers is posted in the "Erotic Couplings" section under the title "Meeting in Rome." Mine is playful and sexual; hers is heartfelt and romantic. Hopefully one will appeal to you, if not both. Enjoy!
I sat in the lounge, swirling my gin & tonic, absently tapping a finger to the piped music. Nothing about this trip had lined up as it should have: a week in Florence, now on my second day in Rome, with nothing to show for it. My backers would not be pleased, but I was not concerned with their disapproval. I'm too much of a professional to place anything above my own standards.
I drained the glass and placed it on the table. My mind considered alternate solutions to my current situation. While I was annoyed that weeks of planning and subsequent arrangements had not panned out, in my work one must accept chaos as a matter of course and find ways to function within it. The unknown is not to be feared. It must be managed.
Like magic my empty glass was replaced with a charged one, and I crushed the lime as I looked about the lounge at my fellow lizards. An elderly couple at the table across from mine; a married couple in the corner booth. Two suits--blue and charcoal, both pricey--sitting at the bar, talking rather loudly but without animation. This pegged them as my countrymen, Nature's rudest and most despised creatures, true banes of the civilized world.
It would be truly ironic if I were not proud of my country, and that was indeed not the case. However, I do appreciate why Europeans are not impressed with the average Yank. These two were comparatively refined from the average tourist: fit, well-dressed, surely international businessmen with an eye for cultural awareness and possessing enough understanding thereof to not step too badly on their cranks.
But I would be shocked if either of them spoke more than one language besides English, and even by the way they sat at the bar, their body language screamed cocksureness and dominance, also clear giveaways of their heritage.
They do not offend me, however, nor am I embarrassed by the American inflection to my Italian. I could polish it out like I did with Russian, but, like most Western Europeans, I have found that Italians appreciate an American who has taken the time to achieve fluency in their language. The Germans do, too. For whatever reason the French get annoyed. So, I just tell them it was the easiest to learn, and not worth the effort to master. That gets them riled up.
My eyes returned to the g&t as my mind wandered back to the issue at hand. It would eventually resolve itself, but that would defeat the entire purpose of my contract. I was here to speed things along. I am a catalyst, but I cannot influence something that isn't there. Hence, my problem. I frowned as a foreign rhythm interrupted my thoughts.
The deep clicking of her heels approaching through the far hotel lobby carried through the dusky room long before she came into view. I was already facing the door, so it was a small matter to shift my eyes when she entered, gracefully walking toward the bar. At a glance, she was not Italian; Oriental, or partially at least, with long hair and a slim figure. Mid-20's, attractively dressed in a knee-length skirt of shimmering black and blue silk and a simple but elegant black blouse, sleeveless with a flattering deep-vee.
My eyes followed appreciatively for two steps longer than usual. I don't need to stare to capture a body in my mind's eye. Moreover, after a certain point it becomes disrespectful. Up to that point, however, I choose to interpret my attention as a compliment to her effort and natural beauty, which this one certainly deserved.
The couples remained oblivious to her entrance, but the businessmen did not. The one facing the door nudged his pal and thrust his chin over the other's shoulder. He turned and both watched her all the way to the table she picked, which happened to be behind mine. I had long since stopped looking at her directly, but my peripheral vision and hearing were tuned to her movements as she pulled out the chair behind mine. She moved gently but surely.
The waiter brought her a menu and she thanked him in a smoky mezzo voice. Now I was intrigued: she walked with a full armswing--very un-American--but her careful diction carried a hint of the South. I dropped my work problem in favor of this amusing conundrum of a hybrid Asian with a central Texan accent who moved like a Continental.
Not surprisingly, I wasn't the only one to do so. Apparently the businessmen figured the table was close enough to make it acceptable to hail her from across the lounge. Gauche.
"The house red is quite good," the one in the blue suit called out.
After a moment, she replied, "I'm afraid I don't drink wine."
"Well, that's alright," he said, a smile in his voice, also Texan, but metropolitan. "What's your poison? Can I buy you a drink?"
Another pause, then, "Thank you. I enjoy anything with an amaretto base."
Blue laughed. "Well, this is the country that invented it. I guess that's a good choice." He loudly called over the garçon (his word) and ordered an amaretto sour for the 'little lady.' "Just put her on my tab."
She closed the menu and Charcoal spoke up. "It's nice to run into another American here,"--like that was some kind of miracle in Italy's capitol--"Where are you from?"
"Austin! Unbelievable!" Blue cut in. "I'm from Dallas, and this man here tells me he's from Houston! Why, we're all practically neighbors compared to where we are now, and we Americans should really stick together over here."
She didn't reply as the waiter arrived with her drink. She thanked him again, and was answered with a "Prego."
"To the Lonestar State, God's own country." Blue raised his glass and after a moment Charcoal followed suit. Apparently she joined them in the toast, but did so slowly enough to keep the ice from clinking in her glass. The pair took this as a sign of progress and asked to join her table. Between them and me, we heard different things in her response: they heard her voiced agreement while I heard the pause preceding it.
The conversation which followed varied between Blue telling a story about himself, Blue asking her simple questions which segued into more of his anecdotes, and Charcoal interspersing one-liners and clever responses that mocked his counterpart, which Blue never quite caught.
She politely followed their seemingly pointless meandering, chuckling occasionally but never giving any indication that she was actively returning their attention. This didn't appear to matter to either of them, as they spent more time trying to one-up each other rather than focusing on her and trying to make a real connection. However, their voices slowly grew in volume, a subconscious attempt to capture her interest. Also, two more amaretto sours made their way to the table as well, though with no discernible effect.
Drinking slowly, my own glass had long since been replaced with another, but when this one emptied I caught the waiter and asked in Italian for a White Russian. As he approached, I cocked my head slightly over my shoulder so that she would hear my "Thank you."
One-one thousand, two-one thousand--there it was: the expected sound of silk rustling on leather.
"Wait...didn't you order that in Italian?" she asked, this time over her shoulder.
I finished sipping, playing off for a moment that I didn't already know she was talking to me. Then I turned and looked into her darkly-lined hazel eyes.
A hint of a smile tugged at her mouth. "But you just 'thanked' him."
I replied with an equally little smile. "I guess being this close to so many Texans has wrecked my international concentration."
Her eyes lidded and her mouth twitched, but before she could respond, Blue piped up. "Hey, buddy, you're American, too? Why don't you join us?" From the tone in his voice, he considered me to be non-threatening, and by inviting me over, he was implying that he was in charge. Wrong and wrong.
"No, thank you; there are already too many people sitting at that table." I was still looking back at her.
She caught my inflection immediately. "May I come over there and make 'two' at your table, then?" she asked. Oh, I do like the sharp ones.
"Of course. I believe this is a free country."
Even if I was only a convenient escape from these two fools (though I had reason to suspect otherwise), I was more than happy to provide that service for her. The way her eyebrow arched when she asked was reward enough, though the look on Blue's face was nice, too.
She turned back and fetched her drink. Standing, she thanked the stunned pair for the drinks while I reached across the back of my chair to slide hers under the table. I stood as she pivoted and we walked around opposite sides of my table to the other chair, which I held out for her.
Returning to my seat, I noticed the Suits were shooting daggers at me, and I couldn't resist. Feigning confusion, I looked at their hands and held up my own, wiggling the third finger. "Hey, guys, what happened to your wedding bands?" I glanced knowingly at their faces, pausing at the strange smile coming from Charcoal, then dismissed them as I took my seat, finally allowing myself the pleasure of looking directly at her.
Japanese, but at least one, probably two generations removed, with a lightly freckled face, slim shoulders, and perky B-cup breasts which surely didn't need a bra but enjoyed the flattering support of one anyways. I had snuck a glance at her back as she sat; the tight fit of her blouse hinted at very fine definition of shoulder and spine. The aforementioned hazel eyes were returning my assessing gaze. I found myself deeply curious to know what color her nipples were.
She was trying not to smile too overtly at my dismissal. I fixed her with a similar knowing look. "I could ask you the same thing. Why is he not here?" I opened.
She held up her ringless hand, making a show of inspecting it. "What do you mean?"
I shook my head. "I don't need a ring to see. When you walked in, you glanced around, then looked down in mild frustration. You look lovely, and though you do not need to make the effort to do so, tonight you did, but not for their benefit," I thumbed over my shoulder, then at myself, "Or for mine. So you are here on your first night in Rome, alone. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
She looked at me suspiciously for a few seconds, then laughed and shook her head. "You are good. Yes, my husband is late. I was hoping to surprise him by showing up here two days ahead of schedule, but apparently he still has business to finish up in Zurich."
"More's the fool," I said, tipping my glass to her with a grin. "So you married a fat, old banker with loads of cash who treats you to international trips and showers you with praise and all the other wonderful things debutantes hope for in a lovingly arranged marriage...am I in the ballpark?"
Her nose scrunched up at me. "No, you are not! He's a pilot applying at some of the private firms in Switzerland to fly their Learjets. But, yes, he does shower me with gifts and...other things," she said with another raised eyebrow.
I pride myself on self-control, but my heart raced slightly at her dirty innuendo so early in the conversation. "I see. And while he's out dodging clouds, what are you doing besides receiving these wonderful showers?" I can play that game, too, sweetheart.
"I was a soccer player, though no longer professionally. I had a career-ending knee injury, so instead I manage his career."
"How wonderful for both of you to have found someone who shares the same joys and interests."
"Thank you. It keeps life interesting." She looked at me intently over her drink.
"I'm sure. Tell me: though I appreciate the athleticism of the sport, do you find it at all constricting that you cannot use your hands?"
She looked down and delicately folded her napkin. "Oh, you can use your hands...but you get penalized for it and must pay the consequences."
"What does that entail?"
"Your opponent gets a free shot."
"And you can't defend yourself?"
She looked up briefly and smiled, then back at her cloth napkin, now standing like a pyramid, the open side facing me. "Nope."
"Sounds like there is a lot of trust involved."
She looked up at me innocently. "In soccer?"
I paused dramatically as my cock hardened a little more, then agreed with a smile. "Yes, in soccer."
She smirked, then asked what I did for a living.
I took a drink and carefully composed my answer. "I assess functional security."
She sat up straighter. "Really? What does that mean?"
"The things that are supposed to be secure, I prove are not. The hidden vaults, I find. The things I'm not supposed to touch, I touch. The places that shouldn't be entered, I enter. I prove that whatever someone believes is safely theirs, is, in fact, not."
Her eyes widened as she leaned forward. "So you're a thief?"
"When did I say anything about stealing? Very literally, I go in and touch the object, leaving my mark on it so the rightful owner knows I was there," I winked at her, "If he knows where to look." I could not help but notice her breasts rising and falling as she breathed.
Though the outright smile was gone from my face, I spoke frankly, my voice carrying an inviting awareness. "You seem to be getting a little warm," I said, pointing to the flush on her chest.
She looked down for a moment, then back up at me. "It's just the alcohol. I get that from my grandmother."
I nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, that is fairly common in some areas of Japan."
Her eyes narrowed again as she smiled incredulously. "How did you know my grandmother was Japanese?"
"Obviously your eyes, but more specifically your eyebrows." She reached up and delicately fingered her brow as I continued. "They're big and hideously bushy, like a samurai's."
Her jaw dropped, then she stuck her tongue out at me. "Jerk!" Her hand reached across and lightly slapped my wrist, lingering a moment before withdrawing, causing more disruption below.
"Kidding...your face is angular, not round, so you aren't Han Chinese or Korean, and your skin is creamy white, so you aren't Manchurian, Inuit, or Southeast Asian. Taiwanese was a possibility, but you are too thin."
She gave me a long look. "You figured all that out just by looking at me? How?"
I shrugged nonchalantly. "I just told you: I pay attention. Details make up the whole." I leaned forward, lowering my voice and looking over her closely. She slowly leaned in as well. "Your waist and shapely calves tell me you are still a runner, if not a competitor; your hair, initially black but now I see to be ultra-dark brown, is quite gorgeous and rightfully a source of pride," I paused and licked my lips. "Your eyes turn greener by the minute from what I assume is growing arousal; from here I can tell by your cleavage that your breasts are angled slightly outward; your erect posture does a wonderful job of accenting your beautiful backside as you walk. You take pride in your athleticism and I'm sure you enjoy being so at every opportunity. While you may be a flower, you are far from delicate."
Gently I reached up and tucked a strand of her hair behind an ear. "It isn't difficult. Obviously you saw something that made you come sit behind me and immediately jump over to my table at the first opportunity, and don't tell me it was just to get away from your free drink tickets sitting at the bar."
Her eyes slowly wandered down my torso, then back up at my eyes. She shrugged eloquently and said, "You looked interesting."
I shook my head. "Not good enough. Interesting how?"
Her brow furrowed cutely, then she continued. "You looked...relaxed. No--comfortable. Like you knew exactly what you were doing. So few men look like that anymore. I thought it was because you were Italian, or German, I guess, with your sexy blue eyes."
I nodded, understanding what she was saying. "Are you disappointed to find out otherwise?" I asked, knowing the answer already.
She shifted her weight in the chair before leaning forward on her elbows with her hands on mine and her plunging cleavage pointed up at me. "Not yet..." she answered seductively.
Alright, maybe I didn't already know the answer to my question. Hers was far more interesting than the 'no' I was expecting.
Taking my cue from hundreds of screenwriters over the years who borrowed from each other the most-used line in film, I told her in a voice without room for denial, "Let's get out of here."
I stood and offered my hand. She considered it, then looked up at me with a smile and placed her fingers in my grasp. I helped her to her feet, taking one last look around the lounge. Blue saw her hand in mine and pointedly turned around; Charcoal seemed to be a good sport, though, smiling and tilting his mug in a mock-salute. I placed her arm in mine as we exited the lounge.
The maitre d' smiled as we passed, offering me congratulations.
"This one may ruin me," I answered in his tongue.
"For your sake, I hope so!" he called after us.
Standing at the elevator, she asked, "What did you tell him?"
"That I had a lovely dinner and wished him a good evening."
She looked over her shoulder at him, then back at me. "And he just wished you the same?"
I looked down at her and smiled ingenuously. "Yes, of course."
Her eyes sparkled. "I see."
The ancient elevator ground to a halt and the door gradually opened. We stepped in and I pressed the button for my floor, then settled against the railing. She leaned back against my shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around her waist.
The thought of making a pass at her in the enclosed space flitted through my mind, but I dismissed it as unworthy of this beautiful creature. Instead I leaned in and deeply inhaled the rich, fruity smell of her hair, exhaling slowly on the back of her neck. She shivered, and I flexed my semi-hard cock against the back of her leg.
I continued gently nuzzling her nape as we creaked higher in the building. Eventually the grinding brake sounded and the door reluctantly opened. My hand slid down and cupped her butt cheek, and I rubbed it for a moment before gently pushing her off of my side and took her arm once more in mine.
I could hear her breathing as we strolled down the narrow hallway to the last room, and my arm 'accidentally' brushed the side of her breast as I reached for the key in my pocket. The door opened, and she went inside without a word.
I followed, shutting the door behind me and locking it. She stopped in the foyer, looking around at the quaint but elegant hotel decor you will never find in our homeland. I decided against turning on the lights; the shades were drawn and the city light would be more than enough when our eyes adjusted.
I came up behind her and closed my hands around her waist.
"Remember what I told you?" I murmured in her ear. "What I should not touch, I touch; where I should not enter, I enter..." I moved around to her other ear. "And I will leave my mark for your husband to find, should he know where to look."
She sighed, then turned in my arms, draping hers over my shoulders as she looked up at me. "And if you use your hands, I will punish you," she said, looking up at my with her fiery green eyes.
I leaned down as if to kiss her, halting just short of contact. I could feel her panting on my lips. "I was counting on it," I replied, then closed the distance as I brought a hand up and swatted her derriere.
She moaned into my mouth and passionately returned the kiss as I massaged her firm, perfect ass. I felt for the small zipper, locating it and quickly running it down. The silky material pooled around her feet, and I was treated with the smooth, soft skin of a woman who prefers thongs. I approved.