Foreign Affairs

by Antonia Adams

  The woman moved smoothly, catlike, her long black hair swirling behind in the northern Italian breeze. Her low cut mini-dress did little to hide a beautifully sculptured body – tall and thin with oversized breasts that took my breath away.

  As she walked past me and up the concrete steps that led up to The Arena’s time-worn seating section her short red dress rose and I saw she wasn’t wearing panties. I almost fell off the steps where I stood, my trusty Nikon in hand. A voice called out behind me. I turned as a man came through the archway where the woman had entered. Two cameras dangling around his neck, the man called out, much to my surprise, in English. ‘Slow down,’ he said as he hurried to keep up.

  The woman slowed, looked back over her shoulder and smiled wickedly. She looked to be about five-ten. The man trailing her was about three inches shorter, a lot heavier and wore glasses. He looked around, noticed me and nodded. Looking back at the woman, he pointed up the steps to the seating area. He hurried past her and led the way up.

  As the woman ascended, she looked at me for the first time and flashed a warm smile. I took the smile as an invitation to follow those sleek legs and that nice round ass up the steps to where her photographer had set up.

  She stopped and turned and the breeze lifted her skirt again. I saw her neatly trimmed bush and felt a tug in my crotch.

  ‘Stand right there,’ her photographer said as he bent at the knees and took a picture.

  The woman raised her hands and put them behind her head and I could see up her dress clearly as I snapped a quick picture. The man turned to me, and I asked, ‘Is it OK, if I take a picture?’

  He looked back at the woman and she said, ‘Sure. It’s nice to meet another American here.’ Then, incredibly, she pulled the straps off her shoulders and bared those luscious breasts, her dress dropping to her waist.

  I focused on her breasts, on those small nipples and pink aureoles and took several pictures. I was mesmerized, staring at the perfectly matched pair. Heavy and wide, they seemed huge against her thin frame. I was breathing heavily.

  She giggled and sat on the stone arena seat and pulled her feet up next to her, her knees high. She posed for both of us. I scrambled to get her arse and bush and those incredible breasts in the picture. I made sure to also capture that gorgeous face – deep red lipstick on full, pouty lips, dark brown eyes. She threw her head back and, as if on cue, the breeze took her long hair.

  She brought her knees even higher and opened her feet slightly. I could see her pink slit. My crotch throbbed as I carefully focused and snapped another shot.

  The man turned suddenly and introduced himself as Lee and told me the woman was Carrie, his wife. Nodding at her, he said, ‘Not bad, huh?’

  ‘She’s gorgeous!’

  Carrie dropped her left knee, giving us a clear view of her pussy. We both took several shots. She laughed a deep, sexy laugh, then moved again, sitting cross-legged. A mischievous smile on her face, she reached down and lifted her dress to her waist to expose her pussy completely. She leaned back and turned her face to the bright sun.

  ‘Take your time,’ Lee said as he noticed me hurrying my shots. ‘She’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Her voice dropped an octave. ‘I may come, but I won’t go.’

  Lee told me they were from St Louis. I told them I was from New Orleans and Carrie said they went to Mardi Gras last year. She flashed her breasts all day on Bourbon Street.

  Her husband looked around and said, ‘OK. Let’s go for it.’

  Carrie stood and reached back and unzipped her dress. She climbed out of it and tossed it to her husband. Looking right into my camera lens, she posed for me – naked, except for her red high heels. I saw Lee move around to get us both in his camera. So that’s what he was up to, getting pictures of a strange man taking nude pictures of his wife. OK. Who was I to complain?

  I controlled my heavy breathing as best I could as Carrie moved slowly, raising her hands, then reaching down to cup her magnificent breasts, then reaching down to brush her bush, then turning and reaching around to cradle her fine ass as she bent over.

  I kept refocusing and shooting, the flash of my fill-in light bathing the beautiful naked woman as she posed in the ancient Roman amphitheater. Built in the first century AD, The Arena is the largest Roman arena, after The Coliseum in Rome. At least that’s what the tour guide told me before disappearing because it was siesta time.

  He told me how Christians-and-lions spectacles were held in the infield below, how the wide pit was filled with crocodiles so Christians could be thrown to them. Now The Arena was the site of spectacular nighttime operas and concerts.

  It smelled of old brick and dust. Towering above the tilted tile roofs of old Verona, it was an architectural spectacle – witnessing another spectacle, Carrie. I wondered, as Carrie sat again, if the Romans ever held orgies here.

  Carrie sat cross-legged, leaning back, her elbows up on the seat above. I snapped another photo. And slowly, she uncrossed her legs and opened them for me and her husband. Then she raised her knees to give us a better view of her pink slit. I could see it was wet.

  I love a hairy pussy and Carrie’s was particularly hairy. I especially like those soft, silky hairs around the base of the pussy, just above her ass-hole. Carrie’s looked so delicate. I had an erection that could slice steel. I moved in and took another picture, an even closer view of her breasts. I noticed small beads of perspiration on them and saw them rise with her breath.

  I don’t know why I was nervous. I guess I just didn’t want it to end. I must say, looking back at her husband, as he photographed his wife, I felt admiration for a man who would share such a beauty.

  Lee nodded to his wife and said, ‘OK. OK.’

  Carrie rolled to her side and lay down on her back on the seat, opening her legs and arms, spread-eagle. I stepped above her and shot more pictures. Carrie, really getting into it, began to move her shoulders and hips around. She rubbed her breasts, squeezed her nipples, then moved her hands down to her pussy.

  None of us spotted the cop until he spoke.

  Standing below us, a uniformed Carabinieri, he pointed a white-gloved hand and said, ‘No. No.’ Then he rattled off several hurried sentences in Italian.

  Carrie stood up and brushed off her ass, then moved slowly down to the cop, who was still chattering. She stepped up to him, leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. He stopped talking. She grabbed his crotch and started pulling him back to the first seating row. I had to shoot a picture. He was slack-jawed, staring at the naked woman pulling him by the crotch.

  He must have been six-three. He pulled off his hat, a Napoleon-looking hat, and wiped his brow with a white glove. He had slicked-back black hair. Carrie unbuttoned his belt and pants, unzipped his pants and reached in. The cop looked around as Lee and I took pictures.

  Carrie pulled out his swollen cock. Pointed skyward, it was ready. She kissed its tip as I took a photo, then licked it, then sank her mouth on it and started bobbing her head up and down.

  The cop moaned and closed his eyes. He fanned himself with his hat and started pumping his ass to Carrie’s sucking. I took more pictures and suddenly Lee said, ‘Stop. I gotta reload.’

  Carrie stopped moving. The cop looked around incredulously as Carrie’s husband started reloading his cameras. I snapped another picture and hurried to reload my camera too. Carrie pulled her mouth off the cop’s wet cock and started slowly stroking it with her hand.

  The cop moaned again, and, just as I finished reloading, reached down and pulled Carrie up. He grabbed her breasts and pressed his open mouth against hers. They French kissed each other, their tongues probing as he continued squeezing her breasts. Then he pushed her back slowly, on the seat and moved between her legs. Carrie lifted her ass slightly, reached down to her bag, and retrieved a condom.

  The cop still had a hold of her breasts as his cock slipped into her. And as we took more pictures, they fucke
d right there in The Arena, groaning and moaning, gyrating their pelvises, crying out in pleasure.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Carrie cried as the cop worked his cock in her.

  The cop called out in Italian, something about his mama. I photographed Carrie’s breasts moving back and forth with the humping.

  ‘Good, huh baby?’ Lee asked her as he took another picture.

  ‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Come on. Fuck me. Fuck me good!’ She reached around and grabbed the cop’s ass.

  They pumped away, grinding against one another. Carrie cried out again as the cop pounded her like a pile driver. Then the cop grunted as he came, his ass jerking in spasms. I moved in for a closer view. Finally, they both eased up and caught their breaths.

  Carrie’s husband started to reload his cameras again. I looked down and saw I had only one shot left. I took it of the two lovers, still pressed together, then hurriedly reloaded.

  When I finished reloading, I move back to Carrie, as the cop backed away and started pulling up his pants. Carrie lay there as I took a close up of her wet pussy, her legs still wide open.

  When I looked up at those big brown eyes, she smiled and said, ‘You just going to take pictures, or what?’

  Lee bumped into me and reached for my camera. I passed it to him and unzipped my jeans. Carrie was still breathing heavily, her gorgeous breasts moving up and down as she looked at me in expectation. I dropped my pants and climbed out of my jockeys. My cock was up like a flagpole and she smiled at it. She reached for another condom as I leaned forward.

  I went directly for her breasts and squeezed them, then kissed each nipple, rolling my tongue around each aureole. They tasted sweet and wet from perspiration. I sucked her nipples, then opened my mouth as wide as I could, filling it with tit. Carrie guided my cock to her wet pussy and I slipped inside.

  Her pussy was slick and hot and tight and grabbed my cock as we began to rock and fuck. I heard Lee clicking away; saw my fill-light flash as he took pictures with my camera too. Moving from breasts to breast I continued sucking as we fucked. Finally, I came up for air.

  Carrie’s face was flushed and her hair damp with sweat. I smelled semen and her sweet pussy juice. My God, she was knock-out stunning as she rocked back and forth to my fucking.

  Carrie was one great loving, sexy fuck. She seemed to tune everything else out but me as we screwed. Craning her neck up, she kissed my lips and tongued me. We frenched long and hard as I rode her until she cried and shuddered and I cried out and popped inside her.

  When I climbed off, Lee was already out of his pants. I eased off and picked up the cameras and shot more fuck shots. The Carabinieri was dressed and looking around as Lee fucked his wife and I took pictures.

  When Lee climbed off, I moved in for more close-ups of Carrie lying with her legs open. I focused on the juice oozing from her sopping pussy. She smiled weakly at me.

  The cop started chattering again, stepped forward and helped Carrie up. She kissed him on the cheek. Her legs were rubbery. The big cop deftly scooped her in his arms and carried her back to the arched entrance, to a well hidden bathroom. They went inside while Lee headed back for Carrie’s dress.

  Later, Carrie peeked out and asked Lee for her dress. Stepping out in a few minutes, she looked radiant. Lee took her hand and the cop led the way out. I followed, wondering if I should ask where they were staying.

  As they turned a corner ahead of me, I heard the Carabinieri start arguing with someone. Rounding the corner, I saw two more Carabinieri, each nearly as tall and good looking.

  Carrie pulled away from Lee, pushed her way in between the cops and kissed each of the newcomers on the mouth. The first Carabinieri took a step back. Lee focused his camera and I followed suit. Carrie wrapped her arms around the waists of the two new cops and they all turned toward the cameras. After the picture, Carrie pulled her hands away and pointed her back to one of the Carabinieri.

  It took a few seconds for him to realise she wanted him to unzip her dress. The man’s eyes lit up as he did. Carrie stepped out of her dress and tossed it again to her husband. And she posed naked with the cops.

  The cops chattered a lot until Carrie started grabbing their crotches. The men responded and sandwiched Carrie between them. There I took some of the best pictures of those luscious breasts as each cop sucked a nipple, their hands feeling up Carrie, rubbing her ass and fingering her pussy.

  It was there I took the best picture of the lot, a shot of Carrie’s rapturous face with a Carabinieri on each breast, both men looking up at her face as they sucked her nipples.

  It took a while for the new Carabinieri to climb out of their pants. They turned Carrie around and one slipped his cock into her pussy, doggie style, while she took the other in her mouth. Lee and I snapped away.

  The three rocked back and forth in unison. The two men came together. As soon as they finished, the first cop stepped up, moved Carrie to the stone wall and fucked her standing against the wall. It was a long, grinding fuck that went on and on and Carrie was wonderful in the noises she made, little cries and gasps, along with the sound of her ass slapping against the wall.

  When they were done, the Carabinieri kissed Carrie gently and dressed her.

  They waved and left Carrie still trying to catch her breath.

  Lee and I helped Carrie walk out to a taxi parked against the curb of the Piazza Bra.

  I had to ask, ‘Where are y’all staying?’

  Carrie leaned forward and gently kissed my lips. She smiled and said, ‘Good-bye.’

  She waved as the taxi pulled away to disappear in the heavy traffic of the Piazza.

  Turning back to The Arena, I passed through the gate and the statue of the three nymphs. I looked at each face, which seemed caught in rapture, and wondered if they indeed had an orgy as they posed.

  If so, they couldn’t have had the time we had under the warm Italian sun. Romeo and Juliet’s Verona will never be the same for me. It’s Carrie’s Verona now and those magnificent breasts and silky pussy.

  And I’ve got the pictures to prove it.

  From Bradford To Bollywood by Victoria Blisse

  Aisha had never been abroad, never been further than London. Her father owned a successful Indian restaurant in Bradford and she worked there. There was no other option open to her, she was a good girl and she did what her father commanded. Her life was boring and she often dreamed of marriage and escape although she realised the promises of her favourite Bollywood movies were empty ones.

  One especially busy Friday night Aisha saw a man who made her insides burn with desire. His jet black hair billowed around his brow. His brown eyes were large and promising. His lips were soft, juicy and begged to be kissed. She tried hard not to imagine what was underneath his smart suit but his broad shoulders and slim waist made her mouth water.

  ‘Good evening, sirs,’ she said as she handed menus to the object of her lust and his guest. ‘Welcome to The Palace, I am Aisha and I will be your waitress this evening. Would you like a drink?’

  The wiry, rat-like man replied with the name of the most expensive wine they sold. She bowed her head slightly in respect and went to get their order from the bar. The hot man barely seemed to acknowledge her presence. When she got back to their table his head was buried in the menu.

  ‘I really must try the Chicken Tikka Masala. It is supposed to be the most delicious British travesty. A curry but not as we know it.’

  The rat man laughed and ordered the same. Aisha smiled it was obvious who was in charge at this table. When the hot guy finally looked up his stare was heavy and intense.

  ‘A good choice. Would you like any accompaniments?’

  ‘Bring me your boss,’ he demanded, sternly.

  ‘My father, I mean … my boss? Why, sir, do I not please you?’

  ‘Please just have him come to the table immediately.’

  Aisha was scared witless but she scurried off and brought her father to the table. He cursed her in Urdu the whole length o
f the restaurant and she knew she would be the one closing up that night.

  ‘Sir, does this girl belong to you?’ Hot guy asked when they returned. Aisha dipped her head and looked at the floor so he would not be able to see her hot cheeks. Her mixed origins meant that her cheeks flushed at the merest thing, her lighter tanned skin did nothing to hide her shame and embarrassment.

  ‘She is my daughter, yes. If you are not happy with her service I shall find someone else to serve your table, sir.’

  ‘Oh, quite the contrary, I want to take your daughter to Mumbai.’

  ‘Mumbai, sir?’ My father sounded confused. I looked up, wondering what the man could possibly mean.

  ‘Your daughter is perfect for the lead role in my new movie, I am Kareem Patel if you did not know and I want your daughter to be my newest star.’

  ‘But I don’t know how to act,’ Aisha exclaimed, forgetting her manners in her shocked state. Her father scowled and then looked back to the director.

  ‘She is not incorrect. She has only ever waited tables. She has never been away from home, sir.’

  ‘I promise to look after her well and she will get a very good wage indeed, some of which I will ensure she sends back here to support her family. She has the perfect look for my heroine, her European curves and light skin tone are simply perfect.’

  Much to Aisha’s surprise her father gave his permission for her to go to India and her preparations passed in such a haze it was as if it was simply a cut from one scene to another.

  Mumbai was a strange place. It bustled. People on the streets shouted, on every corner a wallah tried to sell you something. The heat was heavy and oppressive, not even in the hottest British summer had she felt any heat so constant and stifling. She was not sure she was going to enjoy the Bollywood experience at all.

  It turned out that the hotel and studio had very good air conditioning so things weren’t as bad as she first feared. At least she understood most of the native language, her father had brought her up bilingually with her Bradford born and bred mother. She did miss home and her mum. She was particularly despairing the first morning she had to put on an elaborate and traditional sari. Aisha wore trousers and T-shirts usually; even her work uniform was a simple two-piece affair. A sari, she feared, was a twirl too far.