The Perfect Italian Wife

by Jennie Treverton

  I recognised that dampness. It was something I had felt on myself many times. There was so much that was familiar in this foreign situation.

  Back arched, Aia was moving against the wall as if something had already entered her. She placed her hand on top of mine, demonstrating the stroke and the pressure she liked. I broke away from her tit and looked up, seeing her ribs and the underside of her breasts and the naked hollow of her underarm.

  ‘Hey, Aia,’ I said, hearing the strain in my voice as I rubbed as hard as I could.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘I haven’t asked you my other question yet.’

  ‘What’s the question?’ she replied, eyes closed, breathing heavily.

  ‘Will you show me what you did?’

  ‘What did I do? When?’

  ‘When you were thinking of me.’

  Her eyes opened momentarily, then closed again.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ she said.

  Then her face broke into a grin.

  I kept up the pressure on her crotch but soon I started to get impatient. It was beginning to look as though Aia was going for broke on my hand, and I hadn’t even got her fly undone yet. So I unzipped her and, just as I was beginning to pull down her trousers, she grabbed my wrists.

  ‘That’s quite enough,’ she said. ‘Into the corner with you.’

  There was nothing in me that wanted to resist so I let her push me into the corner of the cubicle and I stayed there, the mirror cold on the back of my shoulders, as she returned to the far corner, just out of reach.

  Her eyes darted down to my tits, spilling out of my bra cups that she’d pushed aside like curtains not long ago. Pursing her lips she smiled.

  ‘You are going to love this,’ she said.

  The supreme certainty of this announcement made me catch my breath and squeeze my legs together. She had the naughtiest imaginable smile, and threw me a burlesque wink as she inched her trousers down with a knowing slowness, tits and hips swaying. I was so turned on, my snatch was roaring, but I was transfixed by what I was seeing and didn’t think to touch myself.

  She sat on the toilet seat to take her trousers right off, leaving her black suede ankle boots on. Sitting very upright she looked at me with her brow slightly lowered. Hands resting on her knees, she opened her legs wide. The flimsiest strip of black nylon lace lay over her vulva.

  Oh, but she looked perfect, with a face full of determination and a soft sheen on her thighs, half her hair escaping from her ponytail. Her eyes darted between me and the mirror next to me. Her hands began to move, sweeping up her legs, one heading for her breast, the other for her pussy, slipping inside her knickers. I could see on her face the little jolt of pleasure when she touched her clit: a blink and a smile and an indrawn breath. I could picture how it must have felt. I could relate to that smile and the smooth action of her hands, one stroking her slit, one pinching and pulling her nut-brown nipple.

  And it struck me that this was exactly how Aia wanted it. She liked being watched, being chased by eyes. She wanted me to love her from a distance. Her ego was massive and magnificent. There was a slight shaking in her shoulders and legs as she leant back further, opening her body up more. I was getting tantalising glimpses of her labia, appearing and disappearing as her hand moved, and I fought the urge to launch myself over there and rip those annoying knickers off her.

  The door handle rattled as someone tried to get in. Aia jumped, frowned, shook her head in a dismissive way and resumed her wank. The handle rattled again and someone knocked on the door.

  Aia’s eyes met mine. I held my breath and listened.

  It might have been a customer, but the brisk and businesslike way those knuckles were rapping the wood suggested it could well have been Elias looking for his absent waitresses.

  For a moment I wondered if the game was up. Should we get our clothes back on quickly and try to pretend we’d been in there for some legitimate reason? Perhaps one of us could fake up a few tears, as if we’d been in the middle of some sudden emotional crisis? But if he didn’t buy it we’d be instantly sacked, and he’d probably even keep our tips, knowing Elias.

  Aia was nearly naked. Her clothes were all over the cubicle. Her hair was a mess. It would take ages for her to get ready. I wasn’t too bad – I still had my trousers on – but what about Aia?

  I heard a man clear his throat on the other side of the door, inches away from me.

  ‘Girls?’

  It was Elias.

  My hands were hurting. I realised that my fists were clenched and my fingernails were digging into my palms to force myself to stay quiet.

  Elias coughed again awkwardly.

  ‘Girls, you in there?’ he said again, from slightly further away.

  He was wavering in the corridor, obviously unsure whether the toilet was occupied by customers. Aia and I looked at each other and suddenly it was very hard not to burst out laughing.

  ‘Ah,’ said Elias. ‘Hm.’

  Aia gave me another wink then bent her neck, bringing her face down to her breast which she pushed upwards with her hand, the other hand moving again in her knickers. Her long, purplish tongue came out, as obscene as anything I’d ever seen in my life. She held my gaze as she licked herself, her tongue at full stretch, nudging at the very tip of her nipple, flicking from side to side to build sensation.

  I couldn’t hold back any longer. I dropped to my knees in front of her. I tore her knickers off and threw them aside. Wedging my hand down inside my trousers I leant in and took my first long, slow lick of her pussy.

  What I found there was Aia in concentrated form, slippery and beyond delicious. What amazed me was how alive, how responsive she was down there, her clit growing and growing under my mouth, her juices flowing down my chin. It was shocking to have such close contact with something so new, another woman’s clit, something I’d only ever seen in porn. The sheer sensory overload drove me wild. I had a finger between my own pussy lips, dabbing away madly as I licked and sucked and snogged her pussy with enthusiasm bordering on delirium and no finesse whatsoever. I don’t think she minded my clumsiness too much. It was the way she clasped my head with both hands and gripped my hair and rocked her snatch into my face that made me relax about it completely, so that I was only vaguely aware of the strange gasps and grunts I was making. I was only vaguely aware of the lack of oxygen and the crazy heat in my cheeks that were clamped between her wet inner thighs. I was in heaven itself. Whether Elias was still out there, listening through the door, I didn’t even consider. Even if he had crossed my mind I wouldn’t have cared a jot for my job, my dignity or my tips. Playing this soft, soft morsel with my tongue I felt as if there was something happening in this ludicrously decorated room that was very good, very secret, and really, really pervy.

  I found her hole and slid two fingers up inside, as easy as anything. My God, it was hot up there, and there was a definite, gradual tightening, ever so slight, ever so gentle, the kind of feeling I could really relate to, shrinking round my fingers as I drew them out and dipped them in. Her thighs relaxed and dropped a little, allowing me to look up the length of her. Her mouth was open and her lids so heavy I could barely make eye contact. I picked up the pace, thrusting a little harder, and her legs opened up more. She was pushing her weight downwards onto my hand. Screwing her more and more vigorously I had the idea that I should lighten up on her clit a little, so I pulled my head back and just laid my tongue lightly on her, allowing only the smallest movement, imagining that it was just the right counterpoint to give her.

  And then it happened, right in my face, with an abrupt escalation of noise and thrust, with a rattling of ceramic as she arched her back and pushed against the cistern with such force I thought she was going to knock the lid off. And then, as she came back down and her limbs relaxed, she did knock the lid off. It crashed onto the floor and broke into several large pieces and a shower of china splinters.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘That was a bit loud.’

&n
bsp; Biting her lip Aia looked around herself.

  I fingered my slit, feeling slightly mournful because I realised it was time to get dressed and start thinking up excuses. I had no doubt whatsoever that Elias would be at the door within seconds.

  Aia jumped to her feet, full of energy again.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘OK, OK. Action stations.’

  And instead of starting to get her clothes on she grabbed my trousers and pulled them to my ankles along with my soaking wet knickers.

  The door handle started to rattle.

  ‘Aia,’ I whispered.

  ‘OK, OK.’

  Standing up she whipped me round, pushed me down so I was sitting on the toilet seat, got carefully to her knees, swept some shards to one side, and pushed my legs open. Elias’s knuckles were rapping the door as she parted my lips with two fingers of one hand and plunged two fingers of the other up inside me, making me gasp and grip the edges of the toilet seat. I was half-panicking and it felt amazing, so urgent, so inappropriate, as she stroked my clit with the edge of her thumb and thrust into my pussy at the same time.

  ‘Hey, what’s going on in there?’ said Elias, sounding angry. ‘I’d say that’s enough of the good times, wouldn’t you? We’ve got to clear up before someone gets hurt.’

  I looked up and in the mirror I could see us both, surrounded by lank velvet curtains, plaster scrolls painted dull gold and glinting ceramic fragments. Naughty Aia had placed herself slightly to one side of me which allowed me to see everything, the gleam on her fingers, the shuddering of my legs, the glow of my reddened hole. Her tits leant over me. The certainty of coming was flitting round peripherally, just within reach, then just beyond.

  ‘Nearly,’ I groaned.

  ‘You in there, girls?’ said Elias, his voice coming from right up against the door. ‘Girls. I’m warning you. Those good times are going to cost you. I mean it.’

  Her hands were taking such good care of my snatch. To feel and see it so graphically was almost too much. She was panting and breathing heavily, willing me on. I was so, so close and she leant over and lapped at my nipple with her filthy purple tongue.

  I must have shut my eyes at that point because all I was aware of was this chain reaction bursting all down me. I must have been loud. I don’t remember. All I recall is opening my eyes to the sound of a thudding fist on the door.

  ‘I got customers here who need to piss,’ shouted Elias.

  After that it went quiet in the corridor while Aia and I tidied ourselves up, sorted our clothes and got dressed. We didn’t rush. Elias didn’t bother us any more. He must have retreated back into the restaurant. He’d be waiting for us at the bar, fiddling angrily with the stem of his wineglass, calculating whether he should fire us immediately or wait until the end of the night when we’d finished the mopping and emptied the bins.

  Before we unlocked the door we took a last look at each other’s flushed faces.

  The good times were going to cost us. The wink she threw me told me Aia didn’t care.

  Ticking Over

  by Carmel Lockyer

  I know you, I thought, looking at my passenger in the rearview mirror. I’ve seen you somewhere before.

  She glanced up and caught my eye and I knew that if I’d been a male driver, she’d have glared at me, telling me to back off. Women travelling alone are really nervous about taxi drivers these days, which is one reason I get so much work. Because I’m a woman, she just gave me a quick social smile and looked down at her briefcase again.

  I still knew that I knew her, from somewhere. A junior government minister? No, too well groomed. A TV weathergirl? No ... too old, but in a good way, in a crinkles-around-her-eyes, knowing-what-she-wants-and-how-to-get-it kind of way. Nope, it nagged and it niggled but I couldn’t work out how I recognised her.

  I pulled out into traffic, whistling tunelessly through my teeth in accepted London cab driver style. It was all an act, like her busy career woman pretence. I was actually knackered, completely cream-crackered, having spent half the night logged into Gong-Bangers, even eating my takeaway curry with the laptop balanced on my knees so as not to miss a second of the various shows going on. There was one woman with blue-black hair that snaked over her shoulders, down to her breasts, hiding her nipples, but in no way concealing the astonishing jet-black Brazilian that punctuated her mons. She swayed to a music I couldn’t hear and turned, revealing beautiful dimpled buttocks with her inky hair swinging and bouncing over her spine, before returning to face the camera and leaning forward, pale nipples sliding into view as she chatted online. In a corner of my screen the messages popped up. Her “name” was Sirene and watchers called Mojo, Adelaide and Ginny begged her to spread her legs, suck her fingers, wiggle her arse ... But I’m too shy to talk to women like Sirene, even via a webcam and chatroom.

  The thing is, I just knew I recognised this passenger from somewhere, even in my sleep-deprived state. It was really starting to annoy me, so I kept up the meaningless chit-chat that taxi drivers are supposed to provide, as I flicked my eyes over her, using the rearview mirror to refresh my memory.

  She bent her head over her documents, tucking her dark hair behind her ear with a ringless left hand and I remembered where I’d seen her. Or at least where I imagined I had, because I must have made a mistake. Surely I had ...

  A few weeks ago there had been a woman on Gong-Bangers – a little older than the average, a little less femme. She’d worn an oyster-coloured satin nightshirt, formal and severe in styling, but not thick enough to hide the wide, dark nipples that pressed against the fabric, nor the darker patch between her legs, barely glimpsed as the shirt moved in response to her shaking body. For she was nervous, despite her defiantly raised chin and the arms folded beneath her breasts. The tiny vibrations of her fear made the sheer cloth shimmy over her hips and thighs. I found myself leaning closer to the screen, willing her to speak.

  Instead she leant over too, and pressed a button out of sight of her webcam. Slow, smoky music came tinnily through my speakers. Billie Holiday crooning something about violets and furs.

  From her nervousness, and the unflirtatious style of her clothing, I wouldn’t have expected her to be much of a mover – but she was. Either she was a natural exhibitionist or a trained dancer, and I’d have put my money on her being both. She was no longer self-conscious, in fact it was almost as if she’d forgotten the camera was there and a couple of times she moved out of its range, causing me to hiss with disappointment. I could imagine women all over the world, howling at their computer screens as she slipped from view.

  She unbuttoned the nightshirt slowly, swaying and turning, singing along to the music with her eyes closed, twin fans of chocolate-brown lashes resting on peachy skin. When her eyes opened again, her pupils were large and dark and I moaned, willing her to slide the shirt from her shoulders to reveal the dark discs of her nipples, her navel, the triangle at her thighs. Instead she turned her back to the camera, tucking her hair behind her ear with the gesture I’d recognised when I saw it again, and then held her arms wide, shaking her hidden backside in my face like a threat ... or a promise.

  She snapped the nightshirt out around her like a flag, the whip-crack echoing through the speakers. My hands were locked around the arms of my computer chair, willing, insisting, begging her to take it off. Slowly, glancing over one shoulder and then the other, she eased the garment down her arms so her beautiful spine was displayed. Then she turned, shyness gone, to show the viewers her breasts. The merciless light – where was she? A kitchen, an operating theatre? – deprived her skin of shadows. Even so, she was glorious, right from the mother-of-pearl cleft between her breasts to her deeply indented navel.

  ‘More,’ I whispered to the screen, sure I could hear the rest of her audience whispering with me.

  The creamy fabric was caught together by a single button below her navel, barely hiding the dark patch further down. The cloth gathered in folds and creases under her breasts and pulled in
to taut bands over her well-muscled upper arms. I had never in my life wished so much to be able to reach into the computer and twitch and tug the garment away.

  And here she was again, in front of me, or rather, behind me, as untouchably framed in my rearview mirror as she’d been in the computer screen. If only I could remember the name she’d used on Gong-Bangers! But even if I did, what could I say to her? I was absolutely no good at talking to women – that’s why I paid the hefty membership for exclusive online access to natural, normal women who simply enjoyed showing their bodies to other women.

  My fare tutted at something on her laptop, and I realised I’d been driving on autopilot. I jumped back into the real world – checking the meter and both wing mirrors before glancing into the rearview again. I was sure it was her. What had she been calling herself?

  Then again, I didn’t have to remember her screen name – there were other ways I could indicate my knowledge to her.

  ‘Nice laptop,’ I said, nodding towards it.

  ‘Thank you.’ She didn’t look up.

  ‘I’m more of a flat-screen fan myself,’ I said. ‘Webcam, all that stuff, you know?’

  She shrugged, casting me a glance in the rearview mirror, her dark eyes as cold as iced coffee. And the chilly glance gave me her name, as clearly as if she’d said it aloud – Mocha!

  I grinned to myself as we pulled up to a red light. Mocha. And after the brief teasing moment when she’d stood with her oyster nightshirt and waited for her audience to beg and plead, she’d simply shrugged, just as she had a moment ago in the cab, and the cloth fell away to leave her naked.

  Her mouth and nipples were like overripe plums, dark and sweet, and her mound was generously covered in jet-black curls, each neat and glossy as if a top hairstylist had just set them in place.