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It’s Sunday morning. If you could see me now you’d notice the smile on my face. The cause is obvious. He brought me breakfast in bed – of course that was after he’d used his tongue and his lips to bring me to two screaming orgasms that curled my toes and made every hair on my body stand on end and shout – ‘hallelujah!’

Not being the kind of girl who takes and doesn’t give, I gave him the benefit of every orgasm denying technique I’d ever learnt. Keeping him on the verge until there was smoke coming out of his ears and his eyes bulged redly. Then I turned around, got on my hands and knees, wriggling my bottom at him.

He was like a raging bull; slapping and snorting as he drove into me.
I clung to the quilt with one hand, shuddering at every stroke, using the other hand to massage my clitoris.
I’ve said before that giving a blow-job almost always makes me cum, well, by the time I let him enter me I’d had one orgasm and was well on my way to another.

Forty-seven savage strokes and he exploded with a howl of triumph, sending me over the edge at the same time. That’s why I am smiling.

It’s only been a few days, but I certainly miss the heat of Italy. Outside the skies are leadened, it’s not cold, but there’s a breeze that raises the goose-pimples.


….follow on from….. A happy return….

“I’ve put you in your old room,” Vitalia said, after the lengthy hug and the introduction to her beautifully dressed bambini, who I assumed had been dolled up for my benefit. Her mother, still a lovely woman, slender, stately, and elegant to her finger nails, gave me a huge embrace, as if I was a long-lost child, finally come home.

Shooing her children out to play, Vitalia took my hand and led me up curved staircase to bedroom level, and while I unpacked, she talked; mostly about her life, her marriage, her husband and her children, in the reverse order.
She was happy, she said. Her husband was kind and loving, and her children were blessings, who she loved more than life itself. They were trying for another one, she said finally, with that slight inflection in her voice that asked the question, ‘and what about you? Have your ovaries dried up?’


It’s a warm Italian evening, I’ve showered and washed my hair and I’m standing on my balcony, watching the yellow sun sink into a reddening western sky. The cicadas are chirping noisily in the shrubs in the garden below. It suddenly strikes me as funny that at eighteen I’d stood on that same balcony, looking at the same sun sinking into the same sea, perhaps wondering about the direction of my life. But it was more likely that I was just enjoying the view. Eighteen-year-olds are not usually given to thoughts about how their lives have descended into the strange. For one they haven’t yet lived, and secondly their brains are full of empty space, waiting to be filled with pictures, regrets, doubts, love and all the dust that travel and time collect.

Back then I’d been an innocent – ripe with virginity, glossy with hope, all my illusions in tact, no idea that within a couple of months I’d have fallen madly in love, and had my heart-broken in the worst way.
Back then I wouldn’t have recognised the person I’ve become. I wouldn’t have thought it possible that little-ole-me would develop a soft addiction to sex with strangers.