0 comments/ 30636 views/ 3 favorites Florence By: kmail You would think that a trip to Florence Italy for business would be the best of both worlds. A storied city full of some of the greatest art and architecture of the Western world, a myriad of options for dining, all while being paid to a job that should be easy. Notice the should, it hasn't been. Ever had one of those days when everything that can go wrong does and yet somehow you still think you might be making progress? Well, that's been my life for the last 3 weeks. My two week trip has turned into 3, with a fourth week to soon start, continued problems at work. A city dominated by tourism yet still beautiful, taxi rides that remind me of a NASCAR pileup. Italy wasn't what I thought it would be. And then the call came and my trip completely changed. A friend was in town on vacation and wanted to meet for dinner. A friend who had been much more than a friend, someone I still dreamed about and who drifted into my thoughts on occasion. A myriad of thoughts drifted through my head about the possibility of dinner turning into drinks turning into another in a long list of memorable evenings with this beautiful woman. She would be in town just a few days and already I felt a stirring deep inside of me, a long, a... lusting. How could she have such an effect on me at the very thought of her? Work called so I returned to the grind with her cellphone number in my pocket and memories of the feel of her, the taster of her, the sound of her. At times it was hard to concentrate, at times a whiff of a similar perfume would drive me to distraction. Every woman I saw became a pale comparison to the woman in my head, and only a day more away. Of course that's when the phone call came, more problems at the shop, coworkers flying in to help out. I had to stay and work most of the night, I might get a break for dinner if I was lucky. My dreams dashed I still couldn't keep my thoughts of her from intruding at stray moments. We spoke on the phone that night and I was forgiven, I wouldn't be able to see her, I would see her when I got back, maybe in the Fall? It doesn't get much more frustrating than that. On the day I was supposed to meet her the guys from work made me stop working for a bit and we retired to the local restaurant for some much needed food. It was a local place, people from the shop might meet there after dinner, you rarely saw a tourist within a half mile of the place. The food was good, my coworkers had shed new light on the problem, perhaps another late night would solve the problems and I could move on to the next job. We ordered our dinner and a bottle of the house red. That's one thing I can say for Italy, the wine is incredible and even the cheapest wine seemed to eclipse an American bottle of similar price. Our first plate came, some sausage, parma ham, pecorino and parmesan cheese whose bite matched and complimented the saltiness of the meat. My mouth watered at the thought of the rich pesto I had ordered and further scraps of bread soaked in olive oil and basalmic vinegar. If I couldn't taste her I would drown in other flavors. See how the thoughts of her still intruded? My coworkers had selected a table at the back of the restaurant and I was left facing the wall with a mirror exposing the room behind me. The restaurant had different terraces within the rooms within the building so you could often catch a glimpse through the doors into other rooms at odd angles. The mirrors reflection left me distracted even more as people moved in out of my view. At one moment I though I saw a familiar face amongst a cascade of dark hair, but there's no way it could have been her. Now even my eyes were betraying me, making me see that which couldn't be, but I was still intrigued so I made an excuse of going to bathroom and headed through the door in which I had seen a vision. I walked towards the bathroom but I couldn't see any one with the hair that had caught my gaze. I guess I really was imagining things. The bathroom was one of those peculiarities of Europe. A co-ed anti-room with sinks and then individual tiny rooms with toilettes. I went in and relieved myself and just as I flushed I heard another one of the doors squeak on it's hinges. For some reason I hesitated to open the door, I guess to give the person some privacy as they washed their hands. After I heard the water shut off and towels pulled I opened my door and walked out to the sinks and began washing my hands. It was only after I turned to grab I towel that I noticed that I wasn't alone in the room. I turned and met a familiar gaze. It was her! "I... uh..." I stumbled. "I thought that was you." She said as she passed me a paper towel. "uh..." "You always have been a smooth talker." She smiled at me, which made it even harder to get a word out. Being a man of action, and apparently having my tongue tied in knots I had did what I would have wanted to do in any case. I reached out and took her hand and pulled her closer. My face came very close to her and our breath mixed a little as I paused before kissing her lightly. I grabbed her other hand and pulled her insistently closer as our lips moved against each other. I nibbled slowly down the curve of her cheek and breathed lightly in her ear as I hugged her close. "Sara, you can't even-" "Shh... just kiss." I moved my mouth lower so that my breath fell on her neck hot and warm, her skin tickled by the gently sweep of my lips as I moved to her earlobe. My mouth opened and I nipped gently at the curve of her neck and I felt her body yield into me. My hands caressed her back and slowly confirmed the familiar lines of her body. It had been three years since I had touched her, but they still knew the way. I spun her around somewhat roughly and pushed her towards the bathroom I had just left. She walked towards it swaying her hips gently and looked at me for a second as she pushed the door open. It was at that moment when I saw the burning in her eyes that I knew that she wanted me just as much as I wanted her. I moved into the cramped room behind her and somehow managed to close and lock the door without looking away from her. She turned to face me and pushed me gently up against the door with one hand while the other moved down to find a part of me with which she was quite familiar. She smiled as she moved in to kiss me patiently and found me hard for her already. She breathed into my ear, "You've missed me haven't you." "Yes." "You want me, don't you." "Yes." Our lips met again and our tongues tangled passionately. My skin buzzed wherever it touched her bare skin. I liked her being aggressive, I liked her feeling of need. She certainly could feel my need in the way I responded to her touches and caresses. After a lingering kiss I again pushed her away, this time she was against the wall. I pulled her left leg up so that wrapped around my right and ran my hand up the line of her leg pushing back her skirt. My hand thrilled at the feel of her bare skin while my lips moved against her. She threw back her head and I again moved my lips to her neck, kissing, nibbling, biting a little. She moaned and wrapped herself even tighter around me, pulling my crotch against hers while my right hand caressed her upper thigh. I felt the bottom of her panties at my fingertips and move along the curve feeling her incredible ass in my hand. My cock leaped a little at the thought of all the wonderful dirty things I had done to that ass. I couldn't remember how many times I had her there but it was something that we both craved when we had been together. She nuzzled in against my neck and whispered, "I've missed your touch." I pushed her back against the wall and began to move lower until I was on my knees with her left leg still lifted in the air. I moved in closer, my breath trailing it's way along her thigh. She moved her leg so it rested on my shoulder and I was drawn even closer to her beautiful pussy. With one hand she lifted her skirt and I could see her panties a scant few inches in front of me. I moved my mouth in closes and with a firm tongue licked the length of her from bottom to top over the fabric. She moaned and the hand that had been holding the skirt moved down to the top of the my head to force my face against her. I kept my tongue stiff and let her grind her clit against it, using my face to rub all over it. The scent of her was driving me insane, I needed to taste her. I reached up and pulled her panties aside and pushed my tongue inside of her, she was soaked already and I was reward by the taste and the feel of her, my memory didn't do justice. I licked up higher spreading her folds open as I sought out her clit. It was as beautiful as ever nestled among it's hood, pulsing a little as I flattened my tongue against it. Moving in circles her hand became a little more desperate on the back of my head. It wasn't going to take her long to come. I moved my hand so that a finger rested at her entrance and I slowly rubbed it in a circle as my tongue continued to work on her clit. I slowly pushed my right index finger deep inside of her and curled it back so that it rubbed the little pad that was one the front wall of her vagina. I slowly caressed it as I licked in a wide circle around her clit and then down to where my finger had entered her, then back up again to the top of her pussy. She hunched herself against my tongue and I continued to move my finger inside of her and my tongue against her. Her moans would have been evident to anyone coming into the bathroom at that point, but she was too far gone to let something like that bother her. After a scant minute I felt her tighten and then she came on my tongue and finger inside of her, holding me tight against her. It took her some time to come down from the quick powerful orgasm and when she finally relaxed I fell back on my heels with a satisfied grin. "It's your turn." She lifted me up and kissed me the pushed me back a little. She stared right into my eyes as she slowly dropped to her knees in front of me. Her hands worked at the zipper and reached into to free my cock from my underwear. It popped out and she reached out with her tongue her eyes not leaving mine the whole time. She slowly licked the underside teasing with the barest of touches. My cock jumped and finally she took all of me in one swallow, pulling off just as quickly with a wet smack. She tightened her lips and moved in again, this time sliding down me with great suction causing an involuntary moan to come from deep inside of me. She quickly found her rhythm driving me crazy but not bringing me over the edge. I suspected that she had something more in store although I would have been happy for her to have kept me on the edge like this all night. My hands caressed her head, guiding a little and rubbing gently so that she knew how much I was enjoying her incredible mouth. She grabbed my ass and pulled me deep inside of her mouth urging me to fuck her face a little and I was happy to oblige, my hips moving, my hands keeping her mouth aligned so I could move easily, my breath ragged at this point. Finally I had to pull her off of me, I wanted something more too. As soon as my cock left her mouth she stood up and turned around. Bent slightly at the knee she leaned forward against the wall and reached back to lift up her skirt so that it was above her waist. I couldn't wait any longer so I pushed her panties aside again and pushed my cock right up against her pussy. I slowly slid the head up and down her slit, rubbing her clit at one end and teasing her pussy at the other. Once I was wet enough and I could hear the frustration in her breathing I lined myself up with her entrance and slowly pushed inside of her. We both gasped at the sensation and her hand reached back to ensure that I moved into her slowly. "I want to feel every inch of you slide into me. I want it all, but slowly." I panted slowly, it was so hard to resist just going right to lustful fucking, but I knew I would be rewarded even if I took my time, so I went slowly. When I was finally deep inside of her she turned her head a little and kissed me deeply as she ground her ass back against me. I moved a little bit so that she would begin to feel me moving in and out. I was insistent, I need to move inside of her. Finally she relented and let me move back and forth, each stroke pulling out further and still pushing in deeper. My thighs slapped rhythmically against hers and I imagine that the whole restaurant might hear us by then. Fuck it, I don't care, I'm inside of her and that's all that matters. Reaching down the little bump of her clit came under my fingertips and I slowly rubbed just above the hood. She moaned and I could feel the smile throughout her whole body as she felt just how deep I was filling her. We moved against each other, rotating our hips one way or the other, hitting every angle inside of her. Finally I felt her tighten a little as she began to concentrate on coming for me. "I want you to come on it. Will you come on my cock Sara?" All I heard were her moans. "Do you want to come on it Sara?" "Yes." "Will you come for me Sara? "Yes, oh god yes." My fingers moved on her clit. My cock stroked in and out of her. I slowly bit down on her shoulder as we both reached a crescendo of movements and moans and then she came on my cock. I could feel her get wetter, I could feel her tighten around me, I could feel her body release against me in waves. This time she needed to relax a little although she kept me hard in her hand as her breath slowly calmed down. She leaned back against one wall while I leaned back against the other. Finally her gaze turned from contempt to smouldering lust. "You know what I want next don't you?" "Yes." "Do you want me there?" "I want you there." "You're going to take my ass right here in this restaurant aren't you?" "Yes." "You'd better." Then she turned around assuming her position against the wall again and I moved up behind her. I wet my cock in her pussy and then moved it up to her eager little ass. I rubbed my cock around her cheeks and up and down her crack but I could tell that it was not what she wanted. I moved it so that it was centered right on her little star and I felt her tense then relax, pushing her ass back towards me. With a little resistance the head pushed her slowly open. I pulled back a little then I spat in my hand and rubbed it onto the head of my cock to provide some more lubrication then began to press it inside of her again. This time she opened a little more readily and the head of my cock popped inside the little ring of her ass. I let it rest there for a little bit letting her get used to feeling of me inside her. "My boyfriend doesn't ever fuck my ass like this. I practically have to beg him." "I'm not your boyfriend." And with that I pushed harder so that my cock slipped in an inch more. "Oh god, keep pushing it in. Come on give it to me." I pushed harder and soon my cock was deep inside of her and my hips were pressed against the lovely curve of her ass. I moved back a little and then pushed the last little bit in pulling her hips back against me with my hands, desperate for her to take all of me. After resting for a second she began to insistently move her hips back and forth. She wanted to feel me moving inside of her and I was happy to oblige. We quickly got into a rhythm that had our nerves singing and our breaths ragged and throaty. My hips slammed up against her eagerly thrusting ass and somehow her skirt managed to not interfere with the view I had as my cock moved in and out of her. If that image didn't provide footage for the next three years I didn't know what would. Our rhythm began to get as ragged as our breath and before long I saw her move her hand down to her clit. I knew she was getting close and I also knew that if she came it would bring me over the edge to. She remained motionless except for her fingers and urged me on with little moans. After a couple of minutes of movement she declared somewhat tiredly, "I'm going to come again, keep moving inside of me as I come. Come with me. Come with me." And then her orgasm was washing over her for the third time, this time bringing me along. I came deep inside her ass as she gripped me tightly, flooding her with my come, her ass quivering as her clit throbbed against her fingers. "Don't move, oh, oh, oh, don't move." I obliged and felt her ass squeeze the last bit of come out of me. Any movement would have destroyed me at that point as my cock had become supersensitive after that huge orgasm. A minute later my softening cock slowly pulled out of her ass and we continued to breath raggedly. "Damn. That was even better than that first time on the elevator." She said referring to the first time we had sex. "It was up there, I don't think I'll ever forget either day." "No you won't." She knew how often my thoughts turned to her. Florence There is no travel guide in existence that can do justice to the city of Florence, Italy. The Arno River calmly flows past the incredible old buildings and homes, allowing magnificent structures like the Ponte Vecchio bridge to sprout up. Narrow streets are bustling with residents, tourists, and incessant traffic. But it's the history of Florence that grabs you soon after arriving. Where else on Earth can you walk into a single basilica, like Santa Croce, and find the tombs of Michelangelo, Galileo, Machiavelli and Marconi? Where else can you walk into a museum and find the original David...ALL of him? My family was on a vacation in Italy--the home of our ancestors--and the couple of days we spent in Sorrento before coming to Florence had allowed my twenty four year old brother and me to become, well, 'very close'. I was two years older than Matt and was just a little jealous of his new girlfriend back home. So I gave him reason to forget her. The sex we had in Sorrento was good, but not great, because I sensed a little uncertainty on Matt's part regarding the whole brother/sister thing. Oh, sure. He came quickly and intensely. But I was anxious to have him fully accept our relationship and give in to his true early-twenties male desires. There was another factor, though, that I might have been suppressing in my own mind. My wanting to have sex with Matt was only partly due to my jealousy of his girlfriend. For almost a year I had actually questioned my own sexual preferences. Women were becoming more and more attractive to me. I found myself wanting to be around them and, on occasion, have a relationship with them. So far, all my experiences with women had been as a result of my friendship with a girl my own age who was bisexual. She took me to some parties where sex was encouraged and accepted. I ended up with both men and women. I liked them both. So I was confused. I wanted answers. What better place to start than Florence? I mean, if you couldn't get horny in Florence you should check your pulse. The fashion; the sculptures; the artwork--all around you were beautiful things depicting people either half naked or all the way there. And the restaurants or sidewalk cafes were especially good for watching real, live people in their summer outfits. It was going to take all of my energy to keep Matt to myself and away from the many Italian babes floating around the hotel lobby or in the tour groups we sometimes encountered. Although my family was seeing the country without the help of a tour, it was impossible to visit anything without running into at least one group. Such was the case when Matt and I were roaming the streets one afternoon on our own. I drug him into a spectacular stone church that was typical of most that we had seen: huge, dark, old, and oozing tradition. Thick pillars rose among the pews to a ceiling that seemed to be in the heavens. Glorious stain glass windows shined in a multitude of colors. And this wasn't even a cathedral...just a neighborhood church tucked among the high-rises. The quietness inside these churches always struck me. No matter how many people may have been crammed inside, they respected the holiness of the place and acted accordingly. Most of the time, anyway. We were joined on this occasion by a group of perhaps twenty or twenty five people. As we all mingled about the sprawling interior, I soon realized that Matt wasn't with me. A quick search led me to him--standing in a corner with a gorgeous, dark haired woman in her late twenties, or early thirties. The closer I got, the prettier she looked. I could feel my defenses kicking in. But when I was finally next to them, my jealousy gave way to total appreciation of her beauty. Her hair was short, but stylish. Her mouth was enticing, with a gentle curve to the lips that begged you to kiss them. Her flimsy shirt highlighted the full, firm breasts underneath. Her short skirt showed off perfectly shaped legs. "I think you speak perfect English," Matt said to her when I got within earshot. "Thanks. I spent four years at an American college." After she spoke, both Matt and the woman looked over at me. She was maybe an inch or so taller than me, only adding to my insecurity. "Hi," I said. "This is Jennifer, my sister," Matt said. "Hi. I'm Tessa." I smiled. "I love that name." I thought she may have blushed, but her terrific tan and the darkness of the corner made it hard to tell. I could only imagine how badly Matt probably wanted me to leave them alone. "I was just telling your brother how bored I'm getting walking in and out of old churches," she said. "I mean, I can do this back in Venice. Besides, you could put fifty copies of this church inside St. Mark's." Matt and I laughed. "So, why are you doing it?" I had to ask. Tessa sighed and frowned. She nodded towards a group in the opposite corner. "My aunt and grandma brought me. I guess I'm kind of babysitting them. Once they get inside these churches..." She stopped to roll her eyes. "They spend an hour praying, lighting candles, and talking to the priest. E 'terribile." I had a pretty good idea what she meant, even without knowing the language. "You know what I think they should do more often on tours?" I asked them. They said 'What?' in unison. "They should show you the parts of the church nobody ever sees. Like where the priests hang out. And the basements. Don't you ever wonder what's in the basement of these places?" I said. Tessa's eyes lit up. "That is SO strange. I saw a door right before Matt came over and I was sure it led downstairs. I was debating whether or not to try it." "Show me. I'll do it," Matt said confidently. I think all three of us were thrilled at the opportunity to break the boring routine, and I knew anything that kept Tessa in our midst satisfied Matt. A few steps away, around a corner, Tessa pointed to the door in question. Matt turned the knob slowly. When the door pulled open and we saw the steps leading down, you could have heard a pin drop. "Let's go," Matt said. There was light shining up from around the bend in the steps halfway down. Still, Matt stepped carefully, followed by Tessa and me. I pulled the door shut behind me, mostly out of habit. Immediately, I thought it might not have been the smartest move I ever made, but it was too late. Matt turned the corner first, and I heard him say 'Cool' before I made the turn. Before us was a large room with tables along two walls. They were stacked with boxes and candles and Christmas decorations...and who knows what else in the dim light. The third wall, to our left, was bare except for a single painting of a biblical scene. Ahead was a hallway. Naturally, Matt took off in that direction. We had no choice but to follow him. The sounds of our shoes echoed in the large space. We could see a stairway leading up at the end of the hallway. That eased my mind a little bit, in case the door I closed wouldn't re-open. But several closed doors lined the hallway we were in and I felt somewhat like a character in a horror film. The audience was saying, 'No. Don't open it!' "This is awesome," Tessa said quietly. She looked back at me, which forced me to take my eyes off the incredible ass swaying back and forth under her short, tight skirt. "Yea. This is what I was talking about," I told her. Matt reached for the handle on the first door we came to. My heart pounded as he pushed it open. Total darkness, thank God. He hunted for a light switch and eventually found it about the time I was going to suggest they only used candles. The room was surprisingly large, but instantly made me think we had stepped into a time warp. There were relics of some type and furniture that appeared to be straight from the eighteenth century. A more modern table held dusty books...maybe bibles...and white robes neatly folded in a row. It wouldn't have surprised me in the least to be told we were the first humans in there in a hundred years...except for the electrician. "Wow. This is neat," Matt said. "Wonder where they keep the wine." "Stop it, Matt. That's sacrilegious...or something," I said. I could see Tessa smiling at us. She was moving over to the robes. I watched her run her fingers over the material of the robe that appeared to be the least dusty. Then she lifted it from the table, and to my surprise, began to unfold it. Matt and I looked on in silence as Tessa allowed the robe to open. She had to hold it up slightly to keep the bottom off the floor. It was at least at tall as she was, with a hood in the back. From what I could tell, there was a button near the top and another about half way down. A cloth belt was attached around the waist. The collar was square and stiff, a little like the old Nehru jackets I remembered seeing pictures of from the sixties or seventies. "Neat," Tessa said. "Wonder when it was worn last?" "I'm thinking not recently," Matt answered. "Are you going to try it on?" Tessa look at him. "You read my mind." "Nobody will know but us," he said. Tessa turned the robe around, seemed to think about it for a second, then placed it on the table. I'm not sure what Matt had in mind when he asked her if she was going to try it on, but I doubt that he expected her to strip. Tessa began unbuttoning her blouse. A few seconds later, Tessa was taking off her blouse, exposing her lovely, braless breasts to us. I was too engrossed in the woman's bare chest to bother looking over at Matt. But I assumed he loved every minute of this. The next thing we knew, Tessa was unzipping her skirt and pulling it off. Standing now in just a pair of bikini panties, she looked better than any piece of art we had seen in Florence. She looked at us and grinned. Then she reached for the robe, opened it completely, and slid it on. She didn't button it, but pulled the belt around her waist and tied it loosely. Tessa finished by pulling the hood over her head. Words could not describe the stunning beauty and pure sexiness of the woman in front of us. Her dark features contrasted magnificently with the white robe, and the opening in the front was just enough to allow her ample cleavage to show. "What do you think?" Tessa said, turning around one time as if to model for us. "Oh...my...God," Matt said. Tessa and I both giggled at his unhidden excitement. I assumed he was growing hard underneath his shorts, just as the dampness inside my panties was increasing. My nipples ached as they pressed against the material of my sundress. "I bet you've never wanted to fuck a priest before," I said to Matt. "A goddess, yes." Tessa was playing with the front of the robe, pulling it open so that it hung across her breasts at about the nipples. The look of pleasure on her face convinced me she loved the teasing game she was playing. "Have you ever had sex with a so-called goddess, Jennifer?" I had to look twice to make sure Tessa was really talking to me. My mouth hung open for a second, then I said, "Well, I...uh...it wasn't really...I mean it was at a party...and..." "So you have," she said. I was completely unable to go on. Matt knew nothing about my experiences and I didn't necessarily feel this was the time or place to go into the details. Plus, I had to comprehend the fact this gorgeous woman might be coming on to me. "If you can't fuck a priest, how about making love to a woman in a priest's robe?" Tessa said, sliding one hand inside the robe and onto her breast. My shock could only be surpassed by the disappointment I figured Matt was feeling. "I'm not sure this is what I had in mind when I said I wondered what was in the basement of these churches," I said. Tessa sat on the edge of the table, untied the robe to open it, and leaned back. Her nearly naked body was being offered to me and I found myself desperately wanting it. I walked up to her and she parted her legs enough for me to get closer. I touched her breasts and squeezed them lightly. I wasn't the most practiced lesbian on Earth, so I hoped she wouldn't be disappointed. The instant erection of her nipples was a good sign, I believed. I leaned down and kissed her breasts several times before putting a nipple in my mouth and beginning to suck on it. I heard Tessa moan her approval as I licked harder and bit lightly with my teeth. After nearly a minute of this, Tessa said, "Lick me, Jennifer. Lick my pussy and clit. Please." I had her panties off as fast as I could, anxious to taste the woman's juices and make her cum. That was when I first noticed Matt rubbing his cock through his shorts. Somehow during this whole thing we were going to have to satisfy him, too. But my first job was to get my head between Tessa's legs, which I did. She had very short, neatly shaven hair above her clit, but was otherwise bare. I couldn't only try to imagine the little bikini she wore on the beaches. Then I concentrated on licking her. Tessa spread her legs farther apart, giving me clear access to every inch of her beautiful, wet pussy. The first time I drove my tongue deep inside her and tasted her sweet juice, it was probably a toss-up who was happier—me or Tessa. "Yes, Jennifer. Just like that! Eat me, please." I licked and sucked for quite a while before moving up to her clit. When her ass came off the table at the same time my tongue touched her swollen nub, I knew she wanted more. I put my lips around her and nibbled on her clit, making Tessa moan even louder. While I had her clit in my mouth, my sundress was pushed up to my waist. The sudden flow of cool air on my ass signaled to me that Matt had been patient long enough. But when Tessa realized he was taking out his fully erect cock and moving behind me, she nearly lost it. "Jennifer! Is he going to...?" "Tessa. It's OK," I interrupted to assure her. I peered over her naked body as Tessa watched Matt pull down my panties and prepare to fuck me from behind. I never lost contact with her clit and her body continued to react. Meanwhile, Matt was spreading my legs and putting the head of his cock at the entrance to my cunt. Swiftly and firmly, he drove his cock into me. I gasped and Tessa said quietly, "Jesus." Laughing to myself at the irony of her exclamation, I ate my new friend while being fucked by my brother's incredible cock. I had been cold in the dark, damp basement, but the sudden turn of events took care of that. The harder Matt fucked me and the harder I tried to make Tessa cum, the warmer it got in the room. "Do you guys...I mean is this...," Tessa began to say. I lifted my head from her pussy and said, "We'll explain later. Just worry about cumming." With her hand on the back of my head, I resumed my attack on Tessa's clit. Soon, I could tell she was close. "Oh, God. God! Yes!" she cried out. I pushed harder with my mouth and tongue. I frantically licked her clit and pussy. She urged me on even more loudly. "I'm...almost...there. Yes! Now!" My lips closed in on her clit one last time and Tessa's orgasm began. Her body shook under my face, causing the entire table to rattle. She clung to the edge and I held her by the ass. Matt apparently liked what he saw because his tempo increased dramatically the longer Tessa came. Her little yelps of pleasure made me lick even more fervently. I thought her orgasms would never end with each new gnawing of her clit bringing on more climaxes. But finally she began to relax and she pulled my head up to her stomach. I moved farther up to her breasts and sucked on them while preparing to cum myself, thanks to Matt. Once Tessa began playing with my tits, I couldn't hold back. I cried out and started to cum, begging her to squeeze my nipples harder. Matt was pulling back on my waist, slamming his cock into me so hard I could feel his balls hit my ass. The 'smack' of our bodies hitting each other reverberated in the room. Matt's now-familiar grunts preceded the unloading of his cum deep inside my cunt. His throbbing cock pounded me less frequently as he poured shot after shot into me, until he drove forward one last time and stayed there. "Incredibile!" Tessa said. I probably agreed, not having any clue what she said. "Fucking awesome," Tessa added. THAT I understood. "You know an awful lot of English," I said, lightly licking her breast. "Bad English, my friends tell me," she said. Matt had pulled out of me and was starting to dress. "But you are very good at other things," he said. "Amen," I said as I stood up. It took another ten minutes to dress, reorganize the room to attempt to make it look like nothing had happened, and, most importantly, cover our new Italian friend and lover with kisses and hugs. "You'll remember Florence?" Tessa asked. "Oh yeah," I assured her. Florence * With lots of thanks to my dear editor Dawnj! The story is rather long, and the naughty bits are only from page 7 onwards... Those who do not like that sort of thing, be forewarned! :) * I. Skeleton in the Closet It was a rather hazy day in mid November. It was too mild for the time of year, but most trees were leafless, and the few that were not sported their full autumn colours. It was good to be outside, even here in the old, small churchyard beside the newly-dug grave. The neighbours had been fantastic; they'd taken a lot of things off her mind as had the undertaker. Now, though, everything was over. Florence felt empty - her mother, Carrie Kingscote-Johnson, had passed away a fortnight ago, and she'd been buried it felt as if she suddenly had more time on her hands than she could fill. The parson had taken his leave with a few comforting words - if he only knew - and Florence had said goodbye to one or two old friends of her mother's and her few remaining relatives, all three of them in their late seventies or older. Her younger aunt had asked her about a rumour, but as Florence obviously didn't know, she'd waved it away as unimportant. Two people from her work had found the time to attend the ceremony as well, and she was talking to them for a moment. Joan worked at the front desk of the office, and young Fred was one of the trainee lawyers. Florence knew them only superficially, but they were really quite nice to her, and she enjoyed their conversation. Florence Kingscote was five foot six with chestnut hair and a nice face. Unfriendly voices would call her well-preserved, but they were usually feminine ones; the average male would think of her as rather pretty, notwithstanding her forty-seven years. She was an only child. Her father had died when she was only seven, so she grew up with just her mother, in an old, rambling house in a small Suffolk village that had been extensively renovated; it had all mod cons. She had a couple of boyfriends; they were invariably sent packing by her mother, who never found any of them good enough for her daughter. They were not handsome enough, not good enough, they didn't have the right job - and when she'd grown old enough to disregard her mother's opinion openly, her mother had begun to get more and more poorly. Florence, who certainly had some grave reservations about her mother's complaints, had been called upon to care for her, and the more her mother gave in to her ills the more often that strident voice called out to Florrie - a name she hated with a vengeance - to bring her a drink, and then to take it away again and get her something else, as she knew, didn't she, that it didn't agree with her, and how could she be so callous to forget? And while she was at it, could she please prop her up against the cushions a little higher? Then, when she'd just returned to the kitchen her mother would call on her to draw the shutters, or open them a little, as the light was too harsh, or too dim... Whatever she did, it was never okay and never enough. It had been too hot in the house, and positively stifling in her mother's rooms. It had been a positively stifling life for her, for all that - she couldn't bring herself to mourn her mother's passing. The money that was left proved not enough to live on for the two of them; her mother had spent the better part of it by the time Florence had finished her education, and so her work had been a necessary but very welcome break in the monotony of her life at home. Without it she'd certainly gone out of her mind; it had taken a lot out of her anyway. When Joan and Fred had said goodbye and gone their various ways Florence stayed behind for a little time. She went into the church and sat down in one of the pews, and stared at the rood screen, a medieval wooden structure with beautiful, slightly crudely executed paintings of a couple of saints, and statues of St Peter, Mary and the crucifix on top. She wasn't particularly religious, but she loved their little church with its timeless atmosphere of peace and quiet. It had been a true refuge for her when her mother had been in one of her more demanding moods; her church duties had always been accepted as useful and necessary. She would be meeting their family lawyer, who had sent someone over to value the contents of the house the week before, at nine thirty the next morning. Her mother had not made a will, so her estate would devolve to her - for what it was worth. She knew there were a handful of valuable paintings, the beginning of her father's intended art collection. She'd want to keep a few, but she didn't like the others. There was no money to speak of; Florence had always taken care of their financial well-being. She hoped that there would be enough money to meet the inheritance tax once the paintings were sold... The old house was lovely, with a nice garden - not too large, just manageable, really. Oh well, she could always take a mortgage if the worst came to the worst. She hoped it would not come to that, though. When she felt herself get cold, she got up and left the church. She looked for a moment at the spot in the churchyard where her mother was buried. She shook her head and then she walked home. The house in its mellow red brick and still fairly new thatch looked wonderful in the low sun of late afternoon. And re-decorating the place to her own taste was a great prospect indeed. She was looking forward to clearing out her mother's rooms. She had suffered in those rooms long enough, and now her mother had been buried it was time to go and see to it. It had seemed not done to start on it earlier. She went inside and had a light meal first; then she went upstairs into her mother's sitting room. Papers were less confronting than clothes, she hoped. She looked around the room, that seemed stuffy, cluttered with too heavy furniture and with a few very ugly paintings on the walls. Almost hidden away behind a few bunches of artificial flowers was a pipeclay figure of St Anthony. Someone must have spoken to her about it, for she seemed to recollect it was 15th century; it was a bit grimy but it looked friendly and pleasant. Something to keep, obviously. Then there were two vases that she didn't dislike too much, and she picked them up and carried them into the kitchen, to be washed in the morning; they were grey with dust. There were no other objects she would like to keep. Back in the room she looked around to decide where to start. The contents of the bookcase? She needed boxes for those books. The knickknacks and gewgaws? She could either get a binliner and chuck them in or invite one of the local charities over to come and see if they wanted any of them, which seemed the better idea... She sat down at her mother's desk and methodically went through its contents. It was a little strange to be sitting there, going through her papers. They had always been strictly private. Her mother had kept the key to her desk in her purse, which felt like a clear sign of utter distrust to her. She might just be a little too cynical, but she didn't think so. The top half contained letters, all of them obviously boring and unimportant; Florence dropped every single one of them into the wastepaper basket after having read the first few lines. Fortunately there weren't too many of them. There was the address book that she had used to send word of her mother's passing to the people that might want to know. She put it on the side to keep it for further reference. The little drawers were filled with paper clips, staples, thumb tacks and the like. Most of them were quite rusty, and she threw them immediately. There was a box of elastic bands in one of the pigeon holes. The rest of the top half contained small, brightly coloured china figurines and pretty-pretty artifacts - rather nauseating, Florence thought. She collected the lot in a shoebox. Then she went through the three big drawers. The top one contained her mother's knitting, and sewing material; the electric sewing machine had been abandoned over a decade ago and taken to the loft. Florence hated that kind of work; she wondered if a charity would be happy with it. She could always ask. The middle drawer was empty but for a couple of magazines. They were quite old, and Florence consigned them to the pile that was to be recycled. The bottom drawer held a mixed assortment of rulers, scales, a sponge that had been used for wetting lots of stamps in a dim past, an old fountain pen, an ink bottle that was almost empty... She decided to throw the lot; there was nothing in there she could use. Then she stopped short and opened the middle drawer again. It appeared to be a lot larger than the bottom one. She opened the bottom one again; it really seemed not as deep. She got up and knelt down. Then she pulled the drawer completely out of the desk. There was a second compartment at the back which contained a small pile of neatly folded underwear and a book with a lock. Florence briefly looked at the underthings. They were quite sexy, and so old that the elastic had gone brittle; when she pulled, she could hear it break. They must have belonged to a different time of life. She had done all the washing for as long as she could remember, and her mother's underthings had always been quite conservative. More stuff to be thrown. The book was locked. Florence supposed it was a diary, and she got up and had a look in her mother's purse, but there was no key to fit it. It was a rather sturdy copy; she briefly wondered how to open it, and then decided she would use a hacksaw. She put it off until the next morning after her meeting with the lawyer. It had been a long and somewhat depressing day and she felt she'd had enough, so she put on her coat and walked up the road to the green, and took the footpath across to the George, where she had a simple meal and a pint of cider. Brett Dawson, who'd bought the house across the road from hers five years ago, and whom she vaguely knew, came over to greet her, and he sat down at her table and talked for a while. He seemed to be ok, she thought. As soon as she'd finished her meal, though, she took her leave. She went home. She had another glass of wine and read a chapter of the thriller she'd started some time ago. She enjoyed it, for one thing, because the writer wrote in detail about the music the 'tec played on his car radio; she had a couple of the CDs that were mentioned. It contained a nice lovescene - detailed enough to make her feel very hungry. She put down the book, and went straight to bed, where she opened her legs to touch herself. She lay moaning at the ceiling while wishing she weren't so old... The meeting with Mrs Chaigne, her lawyer, proved to be the first surprise of the day. Apparently there had been more money than Florence knew. Her father had left her a substantial sum that her mother had not been able to get at. The lawyer was surprised Florence didn't know; she thought she had been informed upon reaching maturity. They always sent a letter by registered post in such cases. It was almost impossible now to find out what had gone wrong... Florence had her own ideas on the matter; she expected that the local postman, who had been a contemporary of her mother's, had asked her to sign; she wouldn't wonder if her mother had simply destroyed the letter. The amount would be quite enough to cover the death duties, the lawyer said. "So I can simply keep the house," Florence said with a sigh of relief. "You can, with money to spare," Mrs Chaigne said. Then they went into a discussion of the other assets; the official valuer had not recognised the pictures as valuable, and Florence hadn't put him wise. It did make the difference in death duties; it meant that she had better wait before putting the works on the market, though. Oh well, being able to keep the house without any trouble was what counted! It was arranged that Mrs Chaigne would deal with Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs. Florence went home in a happy state of mind; she had been rather worried about the financial outcome, and this unexpected windfall was a great boost of morale. She went back to her mother's sitting room to finish the work she'd started the day before. On the desk was the diary she'd found - she'd forgotten about it. There really didn't seem to be a key anywhere... She took it to the garage where her late father's tools were still kept in a cupboard, well arranged but getting a little rusty, too. There was a small hacksaw that felt sharp enough, and she carefully cut through the metal of the clasp. It was a diary indeed. It was filled in her mother's small but clear handwriting; the first entry was the date of her parents' engagement, some eighteen months before her arrival, and the final one dated back to her fourth birthday. Too much text to read just now, she thought. She took the diary back into the house and put it on a side table in the living room to be perused that evening. She spent the greater part of the morning sorting out her mother's clothes, separating the good ones and the ones that were too worn to be of any use. While she was at it she took down the pictures. she lined them up against the wall and put one small oil painting that she'd always enjoyed looking at aside. It was a landscape in autumn colours, a little sombre but for the light over the trees. Then she found the telephone number of the Heart foundation and arranged a visit of one of their volunteers to discuss what they could use of her mother's belongings. They would come the next morning. Jewellery. Yes. Her mother had always worn bangles and a necklace, and quite often a brooch of sorts; she had kept her jewellery in a small cupboard that must have started life as a receptacle for music scores, Florence thought. She'd never looked at its contents, and she'd probably have been scolded if she'd tried. The collection of items inside was surprising. THere was one part that contained quite beautiful necklaces and pendants that seemed to be old and rather exotic. There was a necklace with three strings of big amber beads on red wool, and another one of irregular pieces of coral... She'd never seen them worn. She put on the big amber one and looked at herself in the mirror. Wow, she thought. How incredible to keep that locked away in here... There were other pieces that she did know; none of those were to her liking at all. she returned the lot to the cupboard and carried it into her own bedroom, where she lay everything out on the floor. Then she went back to her mother's room, put the small oil under her arm and took it downstairs. After lunch she went into the living room. There were a number of things there that were not to her liking, and she carried everything she did not want into the hall, furniture, vases, more knickknacks. The bookcase had been her father's, and she thought he had a nice little library that she would be happy to keep. The bookcase in her mothers room contained nothing of note, she thought. Mere junk; perhap not even good enough for a charity shop... The big painting she really liked had been relegated to the scullery wall; she went there, took it down and carried it into the living room, where she gave it pride of place on the wall opposite the door. Then she took down all the sentimental engravings and floral watercolours her mother used to like. The wallpaper was a little discoloured where they used to hang; she decided some of the money left after taxes would be used to have the place redecorated. If only half possible she would have different curtains, too. She pondered for a moment where to the painting she salvaged from her mother's bedroom should go. She put it up over the mantlepiece. Then she rearranged the furniture she wanted to keep. It took quite some shoving back and forth, but after about thirty minutes the room was a lot more to her liking. Finally she could take her music and books downstairs and put them in the living room, where they belonged. Her mother had always complained whenever she tried to change anything in there - even if only putting a book in the bookcase. She happily spent the rest of the afternoon carting her stuff into the living room and turning it into a place she really, really liked, removing all traces of her mother's taste and supplanting them with her own. When it was time for dinner she felt quite satisfied with the day's work; she'd succeeded in making the room feel like hers and hers alone! She had another meal at the George, and went back early. She made herself a large cup of tea and settled down in the living room to read the diary. She started reading in the hope that she would get some information about her father and, perhaps, learn something about her mother that might ameliorate her ideas about her a little. She was soon undeceived. The diary was mainly about her mother's love life, which apparently involved a second man, whose name was never mentioned; he was only referred to as "R." Her father, James Kingscote, figured as "J." It appeared that she even had had a tryst with this second man on her very wedding day. Florence read the unedifying diary with a growing sense of anger and frustration. It was rather a lot of same, she thought - but it just wasn't done! Not that she'd have put it below her mother. At some moment R was away for a time - out of the country? - and her father figured a little more often. Not that it served to endear her mother to her; entries like "sex with J - seemed very happy - idiot" rather managed to achieve the opposite. There was a jubilant entry about R's return. Her birth got a mention. She was not very enthusiastically received, to put it mildly... She stopped for a moment to pour herself a drink. Then she went on reading. The diary kept on in the same vein; and she skipped to the date of her father's death. She read the entry - and then she stopped and reread it, open-mouthed. She felt so dazed by what she'd just read that she downed her drink in one gulp and almost choked. She read it for a third time. "had sex with R - very satisfying - went shopping and returned to find J suspended from staircase. suicide note - has made over money to F - stipulated it will go to charity on her death no matter her age - bastard! learnt florrie not his, he says - says I mustn't let on - always too fond of the brat. cut him down - arranged with H. to have things covered up - had to pay in kind. damn the child - will make her pay." Florence poured herself another drink. Cheers, she thought. My goodness - some news. H? she looked through the pages of the diary. Oh yes, the GP. Then she remembered the remark aunt Martha had made. So that was what she'd meant? She looked up her number and made a call. When her aunt answered the phone Florence told her she'd found her mother's diary. "I was afraid you might," her aunt said. "I don't know what's in it, but it might be shocking." "I'll read one entry to you," Florence said. When she'd done so it stayed silent at the other end of the line for a considerable time. "That's even worse than I expected," her aunt said. "We were bamboozled, obviously - I always thought he'd died in a motorcycle accident..." "Yes," Florence said. "I was told the same. Did you know about this R? Who was he? What did he do? It appears my father -" she checked herself - "mother's husband was better off, and so a better catch..." "Flo, I hope you will understand that James - who really was a very nice man; I had an eye on him for a long time - er, that James was really and truly a loving father to you, no matter the biology behind it. I would try and keep thinking of him as your father if you can. We, the sisters, knew about Robert. He was a no-gooder. He was flashy, careless with money, handsome, and absolutely untrustworthy. He left the village a year after your father died, and he perished in a pub brawl in the Argentine in 1995 or thereabouts. James found out about him quite soon after you were born, but he stayed because he didn't think Carrie would be a good mother to you at all - and he was right, wasn't he? Poor James... Apparently finding out you were not even his did it for him. But it's typical of him to make sure you were provided for - financially at least." Florence "Were you badly in love with him?" Florence asked. Her aunt heaved a deep sigh. "I was," she said. "Never met anyone remotely as nice since..." She remained silent for a long time again. "Life's been lonesome," she said eventually. "I hope you can make something of yours still, now you're free to follow your heart... I'll try and come to visit you soon, Flo!" They said their goodbyes and rang off. Florence sat looking at the diary in her hand as if she'd never seen it before. Then she put it down on the table. To her dismay she felt some big tears trickle down her cheeks. Forty-seven... Most of her years spent caring for a mother who didn't care one jot for her, with no chance of meeting anyone nice. Follow your heart - but she didn't even know where her heart would direct her, if anywhere. The years to come a waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind? She didn't know. She didn't know what to do to turn life into something worth living. Her mother's life couldn't have been too much of a good thing... She took her drink, got up out of her chair and walked into the hall. She gave the place a very critical look-over. It really was a good house. It didn't breathe the atmosphere of her mother's joyless existence. She had often complained about the size of the house, and the way the rooms were laid out, but Florence didn't see anything amiss there. On the contrary. Where her hands had been stayed by a feeling of loyalty, that was fully gone now. She would eradicate any signs that were left of her mother's presence from the house, her house, and she would turn it into a place where she could feel entirely contented, if not happy. It had been one of her heart's desires - she'd pursue that dream with a vengeance. She poured a third drink and went upstairs, glass in hand, and went into the rooms her mother had occupied. She subjected them to a deep scrutiny. Everything that might have been her father's would be saved at first. When aunt Martha came she would ask her to help her out there, and she could have her pick, if there was anything she wanted. She didn't want any possessions of her mother's to remain about the place, that much was clear... She restrained an urge to take one of the ugliest knickknacks and throw it on the tiles in the hall. Maybe it could brighten someone else's life. There really was nothing left she wanted to retain in either room, nor did there seem to be any unpleasant surprises left, unless there were anything hidden behind the cupboards or wardrobe, which seemed rather unlikely. She went back downstairs and finished her drink listening to a Mozart piano sonata. Then she went to bed. She lay thinking about the diary for a long time. To her surprise she almost envied her mother the sexlife she'd had. She'd effectively stolen whatever chances she could have had from her. Damn her! She realised that she would love to lie here with a man she really loved - like aunt Martha had loved James... She put two fingers inside and tried to imagine it was her boyfriend, and not her own hand, and she brought herself to a thundering orgasm. Then she went downstairs and had a drink at the kitchen table. She surveyed her existence, but stopped before it would end in a good cry. She returned to bed, and she was almost asleep before she hit the pillow. The Heart Foundation arrived fairly early the next morning. Florence showed them into the rooms she wanted to be dismantled, and the quality of the goods apparently was better than the volunteers had expected; they said they'd gladly take care of the full contents. Florence lent them a hand to get everything downstairs and into the van; she left the bigger pieces of furniture to the men. It took them the better part of the morning; it was almost twelve o'clock before the rooms were empty. When everything had been stowed she wished them success and went back into the house. The empty rooms were a satisfying sight. Nothing unpleasant anymore, no reminder of those awful years... She would move the computer out of the living room and turn one of these rooms into a study. When she knew the amount of money left after the duties on the house had been paid she would make a plan to refurbish the place to her own tastes. A nice prospect indeed! Maybe there would be enough to buy a new dinner service as well... She went into the kitchen for an early lunch, but her preparations were interrupted by the doorbell. To her surprise she found aunt Martha on the doorstep, smiling at her. Her small red Nissan was parked in the drive, and she had an envelope in her hand. "You know," she said, "I remembered that you don't have any pictures or anything of my sweet James... So I took you copies of what I have. If you want to, I can show you Robert, too, by the way." Florence helped her aunt with her coat. "I don't think so," she said. "I don't think I'm ready for that... But I'd love to see the pictures of of my father. You were right. I did quite some thinking about it; he, at least, was a father to me. Poor man. Do I look like Robert?" "No, you don't. Not in the least. " They went into the kitchen together, and Florence offered her aunt a bite to eat, but she declined, insisting that Florence have her lunch anyway. They sat pleasantly talking while Florence had a piece of vegetable pie with some salad. After lunch Florence took her aunt to the room where she'd put the things that she thought might have been her father's. Martha had a good look through them. She removed a couple of items that, she said, had most probably been Carrie's rather than James's. Then she selected a few items to keep. There was a watercolour that she specifically liked. "You don't mind if I take this, do you?" she said. "Not at all," Florence said. "Just take whatever you want." Martha nodded. She had tears in her eyes. "Gladly," she said. "It's nice to know James handled these." Then she shook her head. "I wish things would have been different," she said. "I could see you were unhappy, and there was nothing I could do about it... Carrie had always been difficult and self-centered, and when she got married she became even more so. When we, as sisters, found she apparently didn't like you around too much we offered to take you off her hands... I would have been very happy to raise you, Flo." She shrugged her shoulders. "Oh well," she said. "All that's past now. What are you going to do? Will you move?" "No," Florence said. "I seem to have quite enough money to keep the house, and I love the place. I'll remove all traces of mother, though. You see, father left me quite a lot. I just found out; mother must have kept it from me." "She was probably afraid you'd leave. It seems just like her... I really cannot find it in me to like her, sister or no sister. I've tried hard enough. By the way, did you finish that diary?" "Not yet. I don't know if I should... It isn't very edifying. I'd rather spend my time on doing the house up my way. "Fair enough. Will you destroy it?" "Er... No, I don't think so. I'll just put it in a drawer so I can finish it if I should change my mind. Would you want to read it?" "No, thank you. It'd be bad for my blood pressure... Even the little you read to me gave me palpitations." It was clear it wasn't meant as a figure of speech, and she changed the subject. "Would you mind having a look with me at mother's jewellery? It's a very strange collection." "Not at all. James once bought her a Berber necklace - really beautiful, and quite precious, but she disliked it. I expect she refused to wear it... Did she still have it?" "Is that the one with the amber beads? It's still there, yes." Aunt Martha could tell her a lot about the various items that had been brought into the household by James; they were the ones that Florence liked, and that her mother obviously had not wanted to wear. When they had sorted them out they went into the living room for a cup of tea, and aunt Martha left again at four. She kissed Florence on the cheek and drove off. Florence stood in the drive, waving and watching until the car disappeared round a bend in the road. Then she shook her head and went in. II. Chance meeting Notwithstanding all the red tape involved it didn't take Mrs Chaigne too long to make up a full inventory of all assets left her client. The contents of the house were valued in accordance with the estimate made by the the official valuer, and the lawyer made up all the documents necessary to round off the business. Florence was pleasurably surprised by the amount of money her father had left her. Mrs Chaigne had retrieved a copy ot the letter that originally been sent in the matter, and Florence now had access to the account the money was in. She felt it was better not to touch any of it until she knew how much she had to pay the taxman, but she was quite certain there must be quite enough to carry out her plans concerning the house. As soon as the death duties had been paid life became very busy. She had her regular work to do, and she really did a good job on the house. She had a couple of painters in to redecorate the rooms, starting with those her mother used to occupy. Within a couple of days even her mother wouldn't have recognised her former sitting room - it had been turned into a small sanctuary for her outside contacts with her computer and a fast printer, and she'd made a small rack on the wall with hooks for the simpler necklaces; she'd bought a chest of drawers with a lot of low drawers in which she laid out the larger and more expensive ones. As she hadn't know anything about ethnographical jewellery she'd done quite some reading about it, and it had really triggered her interest. She was very careful with money; she didn't know what she wanted to to with the lot that was left,but she certainly was not going to spend it all on art. Not yet. She'd bought a couple of items herself, small ones as the price was a little prohibitive, and she sometimes wore one of the less costly items to work. Her colleagues reactions varied, but she didn't care. She liked them and that was what counted. She often wondered how life would have been if James hadn't committed suicide. She had had one of his pictures framed; it was in an inauspicious place on the living room wall. It took her some time to realise that the reason of her interest in James Kingscote lay partly in the fact that he'd really been interested in her - her mother had thought of her as cheap staff, it seemed. All in all she apparently should not have been there, it seemed. It was a very unnerving thought. Apart from refurbishing the house she'd taken cat. Tuttle was a furry, lazy animal that spent most of her day sleeping on a chair in the living room, but when Florence came home she would acknowledge her and come over to brush against her ankles, purring loudly and expecting to be stroked or tickled. It was nice to have her around, and Florence had wanted a cat for a long time. Her mother's aversion to cats - or any other pets, for that matter - had stopped her from taking one earlier. Being more or less alone in the world was hard at times. Aunt Martha was a dear; her two other aunts were getting so vague and forgetful it was difficult to exchange the time of day, let alone hold a conversation. They'd all of them remained single all their lives. Florence wondered whether an inclination for spinsterhood was congenital - she'd certainly not inherited her mother's way of doing things. Aunt Martha, at least, had been very much in love - so much so that it had rendered her incapable of forming another attachment. Florence had been attracted to boys. But she didn't think any of her few childhood loves had been deep. Certainly not like aunt Martha's - not by a long chalk. Women... she didn't dislike them but she certainly did not feel attracted to them as lovers, either. She smiled at herself. Lovers... Big chance of her meeting one here, was there? She often thought of aunt Martha's words, now you're free to follow your heart. Perhaps there was something wrong with her heart? She didn't think so, but you never knew. She wasn't going to be like Mary Turner and snare the first man she met. The main problem was that you didn't meet any men around here, apart from those that you already knew, and those weren't to her liking... She finally decided to go and try if a dating site would at least be fun. She visited a couple of them and eventually started reading some of the profiles on a site for educated people. There seemed to be a lot of chaff about; a lot of them were much too short, in most other profiles there was something not quite to her taste. She read them with raised eyebrows. There were only four that might just be alright, really. She reread all four of them again and shook her head. No. None of them felt really right; and chances were that the men who wrote them were not even completely sincere. She closed her laptop and went into the kitchen to get herself a drink. Dating... She didn't miss it, really, so why bother? If it were her lot to meet someone, ok - and if not? She felt dazed enough anyway. Still, something kept nagging at the back of her mind, and it raised its head when she listened to some particular songs, or came across a passage of a novel... It was the hour after love, for example. She didn't know and she wondered what it was like. It always took a little time to regain her composure after such moments. She had her social contacts at work, and now and then in the pub. She had worked in the same firm for a long time, and she knew everybody fairly well. She had two good friends there, Joan, who was of her own age, and Mr Bartlett, who was about ten years her senior. He was a very unostentatious homosexual - and he was really nice, Florence thought. He loved art, and books, and he always commented favourably on the jewellery Florence wore; he obviously knew a lot about it, and sometimes gave her rather helpful information. She once had a necklace on approval, and as she wasn't quite certain she took it to office and showed it to him. He studied it carefully and then showed her what there was about it to show it was fake - which saved her a lot of money and annoyance. To thank him she'd invited him over for dinner with his friend. It turned out to be a strange dinner party; Jim, the friend, was about fifteen years his junior, and where Mr Bartlett looked if anything a little Victorian, Jim was all dressed in leather, wearing a couple of piercings and a very conspicuous tattoo across his knuckles. He liked loud music and clearly belonged to a different sphere altogether. Florence had taken to going to the George on pub quiz nights, in a team that consisted of people living in or near her street. Brett Dawson was on it; he was an expert on sports - very practical on the team indeed - and so were Janet and Bill, the people next door. They were an elderly couple who proved to be quite friendly but who had kept themselves to themselves when her mother was still alive. Florence had not been long in finding out that Carrie had not been too popular, to put it mildly. It didn't really come as a surprise... When the team had just been formed, Brett had made a pass at her. She'd felt flattered, and they had gone to a concert together; but although she really liked him she did not feel romantically inclined towards him, and the concert didn't change things at all. Brett had taken it in good spirits, and their pleasant contacts weren't affected. The team was mildly successful; they often came in third, once second, but it was great fun, and that was what counted. She usually had a cider or two, or a G&T when it was really cold. There was a quiz about once every three weeks; she seldom went to the pub on other nights. She was busy enough at home, doing the garden or getting her lovely house shipshape, not to feel the need to see people to talk with. She spent the first Christmas after her mother died at aunt Martha's, and the first New Year's Eve with Joan at her own place, and everything was cosy and pleasant. Now, though, the second holiday season was not very far away. Aunt Martha would spend the days in France with an old friend of hers, to return on the 29th, and Joan had been invited by her son for a week on the Isle of Wight. Florence had bought herself a small Christmas tree and a couple of candles, and she'd ordered a turkey for Christmas, when suddenly the idea of being at home all Christmas and into the new year made her feel extremely lonely. The Christmas tree sat in a corner of the living room like a strange, intrusive kind of lamp, and she'd lost her taste for turkey altogether. She briefly considered buying a last minute holiday to the sun, but that, too, seemed rather stale. December 22, and the radio playing nothing but schmaltz, schmaltz on every TV station... She couldn't stomach the idea of watching "The Sound of Music" again, and having to go trough the next cinematographic edition of "A Christmas Carol" felt positively obnoxious. She shuddered, took her coat, locked the door and went to the George. She was only just in time to have a meal still, and the pub was packed. She ordered breaded haddock - her favourite meal had already been crossed out - and a G&T and looked around for a place to sit. In a corner there was a small table occupied by a solitary gentleman who sat sipping a drink and writing something into a notebook. His glasses were lying on the table. He had dark blonde hair and he wore a dark sweater over a greenish shirt. There was an empty chair left, and she walked over and asked if it was free. The man put down his pen and smiled. "Please do sit down," he said as he put on his glasses. Florence smiled back at him and sat down. The man made a little bow, and said, "Andrew Nowell." Florence nodded. "Florence Kingscote," she said. "Pleased to meet you." "Pleased to meet you," Andrew said. "Do you live here?" Florence nodded. "Yes," she said. "I live close by. I don't think I've seen you before?" "No. I live in Glasgow; work there. I'll be visiting Cambridge from the 28th to the 30th. I came down here to escape the festive season. Much better where no one knows you." He smiled a little. "It's a beautiful village, this," he said. "They had a room free, so I'm here until the 28th, and I'll come back for New Year's Eve. Suffolk's new to me, so there's enough to do and keep me occupied - Ipswich, and Bury St Edmunds... They say Felixstowe and Lowestoft aren't worth while, though." Florence gave him a wry smile. "I think they're rather dismal - unless you love slot machines... I wish you could escape Christmas and the lot," she said. "But I guess you can't. No fun to be had up north?" Andrew explained that Glasgow was alright, but that there were too many ghosts there to like Christmas on his own. "I keep seeing people under the circumstances," he said, "and rerunning scraps of conversation in my mind, and so I've come here to avoid self pity - and moodiness, hopefully." "You look cheerful enough," Florence said. "I usually am, I expect... But not at Christmas. It's your typical family affair; and I have no family to speak of. My one surviving relative is completely demented." He considered it for a moment. "He's a liability, really - I take care of his wellbeing." "No brothers and sisters?" "None. My sister died ten years years ago, together with my wife and son. Oh well - no topic for now. What is this pub like?" Florence told him. She gradually became animated, but she was cut short when her dinner was announced. She got up and went to the bar. Andrew looked at her as she walked. Wow - she was beautiful! She had a nicely curved bottom, and good bearings. He wondered briefly if she had had ballet lessons in her youth. Florence Florence collected her food and took it over to the table. She was as nicely rounded in front, Andrew thought. When Florence sat down again, he nodded at her. "Have a nice meal," he said. "Care for another drink?" "Yes, please," she said. "A Chardonnay." She tucked into her meal with some enthusiasm. It was nicer to have someone to talk to - and his being a stranger made it easier. He returned with a large red wine and a small whisky, and put the wine on the table in front of her. Then he sat down, beamed at her and leant back. Florence enjoyed her food. When she had finished half of it she asked, "Have you eaten yet?" Andrew nodded. "Yes," he said. "It was rather nice. How's your fish?" "Good," Florence said. "I like eating here every once in a while." Andrew sat looking at her while she finished her meal. He liked what he saw very much - lovely face, beautiful eyes, and a voice he loved listening to - and he enjoyed her company. One evening taken care of! When Florence had finished, the barmaid collected her plate. Florence sat back and picked up her glass. "Thank you," she said. "Nice!" She slowly took a long sip. "So you'll be here for some ten days or so?" Andrew nodded. "I'll be motoring back on New Year's Day," he said, "when the danger's over." This was accompanied by a broad grin, but Florene noticed his eyes didn't smile. He really means it, she thought. "You could take part in the quiz on the 27th," she said. "One of the members of our team will be away so there's really a place for you." "I'd love to," he said. "Not that I expect to be much good..." "Oh well, you never know. The more the merrier, after all." "Well, if I can help out, I'll be here. I'd love to see you again!" "Good - then that's arranged. What do you intend to do while you're here?" "I think I'll go and see places - visit the odd church and museum, maybe go to Leicester for the day - that sort of thing. Is there anywhere I shouldn't miss?" "Christchurch Mansion in Ipswich?" Florence said, a little doubtfully. "I just like the country, really, and the seaside is great when you are at a quiet beach somewhere. But I don't know if that's what you want?" "I do, rather," he said. "I'll try and find out some more. Are you a great traveller?" Florence shook her head. She briefly told him a little about her history, and he nodded. "Life's weird," he said. "And people are very weird at times. It gives you something to think or write about, or to put into art, but you keep thinking it might be so much different... That's why I'm here." "Do you write?" "I make some feeble attempts at poetry and prose, and the occasional song, but none too often. Just to while away the time." "So that was what you were doing just now." He nodded. "I prefer human contacts, though," he said, and this time he really smiled. "No way I could write now." "And what do you do for a living?" Andrew sighed. "I do some teaching," he said, "and I try to write pop songs of the singer-songwriter type. Some of them have actually been recorded. I'm busy on one of them now - called "Surf's Up." He shook his head. "I don't mind teaching, but now and then I wish I could do something different with the things I can do." Florence nodded. "Yes," she said. "I know." She slowly sipped her wine and thought of all the things that had happened since her mother's death. "I'm reasonably happy in my work," she said, "but something is missing. I'm not sure what it is, though." She thought about it but as usual she couldn't quite decide what it was. "Difficult," she said, and downed the last draught of wine. "I'd better go home - it'll be early hours again tomorrow." "Ok," Andrew said. "Thank you for talking to me! Er, you are serious about allowing me on the team on the 27th? I'm really looking forward to it!" "Yes, please," Florence said. "See you then!" She smiled at Andrew, and he nodded, and beamed back at her. He apparently had enjoyed her presence, she thought. Hmmm. Andrew looked at her as she put on her coat and went out into the darkness. When he was certain she would not look back he let his face fall. Five more days before he'd see her again... He could hardly wait. If only he could speak to her again... He guessed she'd be about his age. She was beautiful and sexy, with something undefinable about her that he couldn't place. Something wrong? No, definitely not. He wondered what she'd be like in bed. Either a lump of ice or the extreme opposite, he thought. He would really love to find out. But still... There was a cloudless sky overhead, and as the village didn't have too many street lights, the stars were all clearly visible. Florence thought it had been a good idea to go out that evening; it had stopped her from worrying and feeling alone. It would be nice to see Andrew again; there was something quite likeable about his eyes and the set of his mouth, he had a pleasant voice and he was really handsome. The path across the green was a little wet in places, but she'd walked it so often that she knew exactly where to sidestep the puddles. Halfway the green she stopped and looked around. There was a light in the window of the village shop, and at the back the sign of the George was brightly lit. The houses on the green showed dim lights behind draw curtains. She knew who lived in each of them, and she liked a good many of their inhabitants. It was a nice place to live. Even so, life was a little lonely sometimes. She envied Janet and Bill, who she usually walked back with on quiz night, as they strolled across the green arm in arm or with Bill's arm around Janet's waist, sometimes whispering something private... It would be nice if she had someone to whisper to as well. She shook her head and continued on her way. She had one of the nicest houses in all the village, she thought. It had been on an early postcard that was printed in a book about the area, and it was a very comfortable place. But there, too, it might be nice to have a companion, a friend - a lover? Her former boyfriends had never reached that status, as she'd been too blue and too timid for any of that, not to mention too afraid of her mother's stinging tongue. She sighed. There were no eligible bachelors in the neighbourhood. She wondered where this train of thought had come from and realised that the evening's conversation might have something to do with it. Andrew really was very likeable. She made a face. He lived in Glasgow, of all places. Moreover, she didn't know anything about him apart from the very little he'd told her... He might be terrible in real life. She arrived on her doorstep and went in. It was rather late, and she went straight to bed. III. Christmas Florence had decided not to go to the pub before quiz night - but on Christmas Eve she felt unaccountably restless. She'd lit a fire on coming home, but she didn't fell in the mood to sit and watch the flames, and the food she was cooking smelled dull. She wrinkled her nose. It was dull. She ate her unattractive meal without joy. There would be Midnight Mass - actually it would start at eleven o'clock - where she could sit and celebrate the birth of the Child... Her own birth had been little cause for celebration; her mother had been less than thrilled. She felt quite moody, and she didn't know if she'd be able to stomach the happy faces of the other people. She packed her dinner things into the dishwasher and made herself a cup of tea which she took into the living room. She looked over her music. What could she play in this mood? She unenthusiastically took a CD and opened it. Then she closed the box again and put the thing back into its slot. She didn't feel like listening; she wanted a face to talk to. She hoped Andrew hadn't gone anywhere far so he'd still be on the road, and she put on her coat and left for the George. The day had been cold and grey, with an abundance of cloud that had sometimes felt damp, sometimes turned into a thin drizzle. Now the clouds were breaking, and there were bits of night sky with a quarter moon and the stars. It was getting colder still; temperatures must have dropped well below freezing point. Florence put her hands deep in her pockets. It wasn't far, and she stopped again to watch the nocturnal aspect of her village. She really, really enjoyed the view. It was peaceful and very beautiful. The lights in the George looked friendly and welcoming; there were some strings of coloured lights by way of decorations, and the publican had put a couple of candles on the surface of the bar. The pub was not very crowded; most people apparently spent Christmas Eve in the safety of their own homes. If only Andrew were in... It would make a difference. He was. He stood at the bar, talking to Mary, the barmaid, ordering a drink. When Florence said hello, he turned around and his face lit up. He treated her to a bright smile and he took both her hands. "Good to see you," he said. "You know Florence?" Mary asked. She had been off duty two days earlier. "Yes, we've met," Andrew said. "What will you have?" "Another Chardonnay, please," she said. "Where are you sitting?" "Same corner," Andrew said. Florence went over to the little table and hung her coat over the chair back. Andrew paid, and picked up the drinks. "Glad to see you," he said as he put the drinks on the table. "Life's dull without you. I'd brought a book to read, but I much prefer your company. So what brings you here?" "Feeling restless, I suppose. Until two years ago I spent every Christmas with my mother, caring for her, mothering her in a way - she was very demanding - and when she died I thought it would be nice to celebrate Christmas in my own way. But this year the few people I really like are not available, and so I'm all alone - and there's little to celebrate that way." "I know how that feels. Do you miss her a lot?" "No!" Florence said vehemently. "I'm sorry to say so, but I really disliked her." Andrew looked at her questioningly. "I might as well tell you," Florence said. "I don't want all the world to know, not here. But it will be nice to unburden myself. No-one else knows, except for my aunt." She had a sip of her drink and embarked on her story. Andrew listened attentively. When she'd finished he nodded. "What an awful way to grow up," he said. "And she took almost all your life... It's horrible and a little strange. I can't make out that mother of yours." "She must have hated me because I was in the way, and because I'd inherited James's money... Robert seems to have been the be-all and end-all for her." Andrew looked at her a little dubiously. "Still," he said, "it somehow seems a little inexplicable." "Why?" "Well - I don't know, really. I'll have to give it some thought. Did you find anything strange in that diary?" "It's all of it strange." "Yes, of course - but that's not what I mean." Florence shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe you could read it yourself. But it's not a nice read." Andrew nodded. "I think I'd like to do so. Maybe it will explain things after all." "Ok. I'll bring it next time, right?" "Good," Andrew said. "Will there be night mass?" "I think so. Would you like to go? We could go together." "Mmm, yes - that would be great! Shall we?" He smiled at her, and she got a warm feeling somehow. It seemed that he was trying to look through her - no, into her... He seemed truly interested. His eyes were beautiful. "Yes please," she said. Andrew got up and walked to the bar to ask Jem Bulwer, the publican, if it would be a problem if he went to church that night. "We're going ourselves," Jem said. "We can walk back together." "Right-oh. Then I'll come, too." "That's alright. So - another drink?" They spent the time before eleven o'clock talking about their respective hobbies. Florence animatedly told him all about necklaces, and Andrew chimed in with Egyptian art he'd seen - he knew a little about it, though not half as much as Florence. He told her a little about his love for music, and the various styles that he liked best. It was a field Florence liked to hear about. They had quite some loves in common, it seemed. The bell for the last round was rung at ten. Jem wanted to close at ten thirty so he could get ready for mass; the pub was nearly empty by that time anyway. They left together at twenty to eleven; it gave them ample time to get there and not be confined to a seat at the very back. The vicar greeted them at the door. He bade Andrew a special welcome, as he didn't know him, and the atmosphere in church with the Christmas decorations and the village choir carolling was warm and welcoming. Florence sat down next to Andrew. He looked sideways at her and smiled, and she smiled back, feeling suddenly a little shy. She kept looking at him at times during mass. She liked the way he looked; he was nice and friendly and handsome, and there was something reassuring about him. She'd bring the diary along as soon as possible - even though she didn't quite see what could be the matter. There were a few grey hairs at his temples, and she wondered how old he was - not too different from her own age, she thought. He often looked her way, too, and when their eyes met, she smiled, a little bashfully. She once felt herself blush. She couldn't quite place the look in his eyes. Longing? Desire? He obviously enjoyed her presence. Mass was over far too soon to her liking. Everyone slowly trooped out of the church, and Andrew, who was returning with the Bulwers, took his leave from her. "Thank you very much, Florence," he said. "I really enjoyed this with you!" "So did I," she said. "Goodnight, Andrew. See you soon!" She walked away from them, into the frosty night, towards her house. When she came at the corner she looked back. Andrew looked her way, too, and waved. When she came home she first put the diary into her coat pocket. If he wanted to read it, that was alright. It had been a lovely evening... It really had. She went to bed feeling drowsy and happy, and though she lay down wanting to rerun the evening in her mind, she was asleep within seconds. Halfway Christmas morning there was a telephone call. Florence answered the phone to be greeted by her aunt's voice. She wished her a happy Christmas, and then went on to ask her how she'd been. Florence told her a little about her visits to the pub, and her encounter with Andrew, the night mass, and his remarks about her story. "What is it he has in mind?" aunt Martha said. "I don't know, really." "Okay... So what is he like?" "He's quite nice... He has a nice voice and face. He teaches and writes songs." "Age? Married? Children?" "Oh, aunt Martha - how should I know? He said something about his sister, wife and daughter having died on the same day..." "And you never asked?" "Er, no. No, I didn't." "Don't you want to know? Or are you so busy with your own plight that you can't be bothered?" Florence remained silent for a while. Then she said, a little taken aback, "I don't know, really. It never occurred to me to ask. I should have... He must think I'm awfully unfeeling." "Maybe you could be a little more vocal about your interest in him... Flo, Flo, do grow up, sweetie! He does seem to like you?" "I think so. I'll ask him about it when I see him again... Maybe I do think too much about my own problems. How's your Christmas time?" Aunt Martha told her all about it in great detail, happily chatting away for over half an hour; then she rang off. Florence shook her head - she always got slightly deaf from those too long sessions by phone - and sat down to take stock of her thoughts. Did she like Andrew? Yes she did - but did she feel for him, too? Did she now? She thought back to her time in church. She hadn't heard a lot of the service - but she did remember how comfortable and pleasant his presence so close beside her had been, and how he'd smiled at her, and how she'd blushed, unaccountably... He'd be going home, all the way to Glasgow, in about a week. She would miss him. The George without him seemed a very different place. And aunt Martha was right, of course. If she really liked him she ought to show an interest in him, too - so far she'd just enjoyed his obvious interest in her. And she did want to know; it was just that apparently the whole shocking situation was still rankling so much it drove everything else from her mind. She decided to go and see if he was in that evening, and ask him, and bring the diary, too. Somehow it must have been a good idea, for she felt a lot less stressed once she'd made the decision. She spent the rest of the day reading - she'd bought "Bring Up the Bodies" and she delved into Thomas Cromwell's history with fervour. She had a light dinner with a glass of port at seven, and then she put on her coat and went out. It was cold. Really cold. She tried to disappear into her coat and shawl, and she put her gloved hand deep into her coat pockets. The day had been grey, and there were no stars; the path across the green was hardly visible in the light of the few street lamps the village boasted. But it was no matter; she knew the path well, and the lights of the George showed the way anyhow. She went in. There were a few patrons sitting at the bar, and there was a couple she knew at one of tables. Andrew wasn't there. She walked to the bar and greeted Jem, who stood putting away a bunch of glasses. "Hello, Florence," he said. "What'll you have?" "The usual, Jem. Andrew's not in?" "He went motoring this morning. I expect he'll be back any moment - the weather forecast is not too favourable for motoring. And at night, in a strange area? He seems level-headed enough." Florence nodded. She took her glass and sat down. She made a face at herself. She'd expected Andrew to be in his usual corner... He came into the bar about half an hour later, stamping his feet. "Brrr," he said "It's started to snow. Boy, it's cold! Hi, Jem - I'll have a double Bells, please." Then he saw Florence and put up his hand. "Hello," he said, and he went over to greet her. She got up to shake his hand, and the same feeling she'd had the night before returned at once when she saw the way he smiled at her. "You're alright for drinks?" he said. She nodded. "Okay," he said. He went back to the bar and collected his whisky, and sat down at Florence's table. "How was your day?" he said. "It was nice. I had a call from aunt Martha this morning - she's my favourite aunt, in her mid-seventies, but very keen - and I spent most of the time reading Mantel. I brought you the diary, by the way." She took it from her clutch and handed it to Andrew. "Thank you," he said with a smile, and put it into his coat pocket. "I'll read it tonight. Now's not the time for it." She smiled back at him. "What did you do today?" she asked. "I went to the coast," he said. "I visited St Andrew's in Covehithe and then drove down to the beach near there. I walked along the sea for a long time, and I had dinner somewhere on the way back. It was quite beautiful. You do live in a lovely part of the world!" "Good," she said. "I do agree. Look - what happened to your family? You said three of them died on the same day?" Andrew flinched. "Yes," he said. "That was really horrible. I was in Lisbon, for a conference, some five years ago, and it was close to the holidays, and so we'd decided I'd stay on there, and Lizzie, my wife, and my sister and my son would join me there." He sighed. "It seemed a nice place to be and we'd never visited Portugal. So they flew to Lisbon, and I went to meet them there. When I arrived at the airport, the arrivals board had "crashed" to their flight number. It's strange - I went to have a cup of coffee, and when I went back to the arrivals area I was actually surprised it still said "crashed". So I went to contact the airport authorities, who confirmed that yes, their plane had crashed. It had caught fire, and there were no survivors. And then you think - that may, er - maybe they were not on it - maybe they er, missed it - and you ask if they have the passenger list, and they say they aren't free to give it as yet, and so you hang on there for a long time... Erm - they'd duly caught their plane, of course." Florentine Soujourn Florence in the middle of summer is blazingly hot and, to my surprise, eye squintingly bright. I've just arrived after an overnight train ride from Vienna, my best friend from high school in tow and complaining (already) about how dirty this city is. University is a year behind me. I'm now able to tell people I have a Bachelor of Science degree majoring in biology. I think it means I'm entitled to work somewhere in the public service but I honestly have no idea. I didn't distinguish myself academically. I didn't get into postgraduate studies. I made uni my 'me' time. I played rugby. I spent many hours surfing Sydney's Wanda beach, developing my tan and my shoulders. I tried karate for awhile but didn't get into it. In any event, I am now a uni graduate with a fit physique and a not quite as equally developed brain, a year's worth of temporary administrative assistant earnings translated into AmEx traveller's cheques at the bottom of my backpack and a 3 month unlimited Eurail pass. It's July 1994. My friend Scott and I are 'doing the backpacking thing'. A rite of passage for many young adults, irrespective of nationality. Go out and see the world before life traps you and routine becomes your source of oxygen. I have been hoping to meet gorgeous Swedish girls. One, because they're gorgeous. Two, because, from everything I've read, they will have no fears or qualms about my uncircumcised penis. Australian girls, in my experience, want little to do with it. Sadly, my soon to be former best friend Scott is an enormous wet blanket and has thus far managed to sabotage any and every attempt at socialising we've had on the trip. Not that we've encountered any hot Swedes. Lots of fun English girls but Swedish babes have been pretty scarce. Scott's idea of fun is to retire to whatever room we have for the evening and read dog eared science fiction paperbacks. But we're now in Florence at the main train station and a grumpy little hunchbacked Italian man is waving a laminated piece of paper at us, full of photos of what seems to be decent looking accommodation. Scott begins to protest with a "But he could be anyone...", a little too late to stop me. I'm off already, throwing my backpack into the old man's Fiat. Scott jumps in behind, mid whine. I think again about losing him. It's too much for him - all this...foreignness. Nothing is like it is back home in the Sydney suburbs. It hasn't been since we disembarked the plane at Heathrow (quelle surprise) and consequently, the past 2 months have been the most terrifyingly miserable of his life. I want to just vanish one morning. 'See ya mate - have fun', but he's been my friend since I was 11. Mates don't abandon one another. We pull up at the end of an alley, our little hunchback swings out of his door, pulls the sliding rear door open where we're sitting and gestures us out. As we clamber out of his tiny van, he's already taken both backpacks, one on each shoulder, and is disappearing into the gloom. It's all I can do to keep pace with him and I hear Scott curse as he steps in a puddle of filthy water. That'll be reason enough for him to want to leave tomorrow. A door opens to our right and in go our bags and our bent porter and to my delight, we find ourselves standing in the courtyard of a beautifully renovated stone villa. It's an oasis in this heat. Our room is even better - marbled floors, thick dark wooden walls and heavily shuttered windows that open directly onto the Plaza del Signorina. I can't believe our luck; this is magnificent! "Fuck. My shoe is gross. It's wet and my sock is wet and did you see that water? It was disgusting..". Scott is starting to meltdown already and I want nothing to do with it. "Why don't you stay here and get yourself sorted," I suggest, "I'm going to pop out and see what's what." and before he can protest I've grabbed my camera and the room key and am on my way to discover Firenze. My first discovery, sadly, is siesta. Nothing is open. I'm not deterred though - this is a charming, colourful city - and I click away happily with my Pentax. I first see her ahead of me as I'm heading back to the pensione. She's tall, easily 6'2, has long blonde hair down to her mid back, her rear deltoids (I do remember some biology after all!) are beautifully defined and exposed by her tank top. She's even browner than I am. I'm already half in love and I haven't even seen the front of her. I follow her and realise with a thrill that she's making her way back to my hotel. I call out to her to hold the door and run to catch up just as she's going in. She looks back at me and I swear, in those few seconds she faces me, I feel my heart stop. She is the most striking woman I've ever seen in my life. Beautiful? No, not classically beautiful. She has exquisitely high cheekbones and a slight slant to her large blue eyes. Her nose is a pert little ski ramp, and her mouth, open in a slight smile, shows off dazzlingly white teeth. Her skin is flawless. Her face is oval shaped and I notice a small dimple in her chin. She's so immaculate she looks almost alien. "Are you going to come in?", she asks me in accented English. I am stopped dead in my tracks, my mouth open like an idiot. I haven't moved since she turned in answer to my call. I feel like one of the statues I've just photographed and it takes several more seconds before I can will myself forward. If she notices any of this she's too kind to let on. "Have you been here long?" she asks as I take the door from her and smile my thanks. "Just got here. How about you?" "I'm here since 4 days.(how cute is her English?) There's so much to see. I think I might stay another 4. Where are you from?" It's the universal backpacker's question - usually used to punctuate a sentence after first meeting someone and not really accorded a whole lot of meaning, but (am I fooling myself?) she seems genuinely curious. "I'm Australian", I say. "Where are you from?". "Oh" she says, drawing out her 'Ohhh..' in a way that suggests she already knows things about me that I don't know myself. "An Aussie? You look like you could be from my country." This is an obvious invitation. I can't believe this goddess is interested in prolonging a conversation with me but I'm going to grab the opportunity anyway. "And where is that, exactly?" "I'm from Finland. I'm Pauliine." She smiles as she extends a delicate hand to me. Not a hot Swedish girl, but close. Very very close. "Aha. A viking!" She snort-laughs in reply. "Not quite. That would be the Danes. They're great people, they really know how to drink! What's your name, Mr Aussie?" She wants to know my name! "I'm Jack", I say, giving her cool slender hand another slight shake. "Nice to meet you". It turns out that Pauliine is the perfect woman. We sit in the sun on the rooftop terrace, chatting, and sharing a cardboard box of horrid red wine that she produces from her knapsack and I listen to her tell me about her life in Finland as a trainee policewoman and keen rock climber. She's fascinated with everything I tell her about Australia, my surfing, the countryside, the animals, my time at uni. She asks once if I play Aussie rules football but, surprised that she even knows what it is (what do they get on tv on Finland?), tell her it belongs to the rest of Australia. Only 2 states play rugby, one of them is mine. "I met another Aussie who played Aussie rules" she explains in response to my puzzlement. We agree to head out and see Florence by night and I apologise in advance for the friend I'll likely be bringing with me. "He's not really having a good time on his trip" I say. "Don't worry. It's probably overwhelming being out of your country for the first time.We'll have fun." Unbelievable. I'm certain she volunteers at orphanages and animal shelters in her spare time. True to her word, we have a fantastic evening. Even Scott is having fun, although he's as dumbstruck by her looks as I was this afternoon. We challenge each other to see who can end the evening with the most gelati flavours sampled (I win with 17) and who finds the weirdest tasting ice cream (Pauliine, easily with liquorice, but she claims to like it). We drink a large bottle of great tasting red and, once it kicks in, move on to the shitty stuff in boxes. We eat pizza, photograph ourselves in front of impossibly muscled marble figures and dance with the locals when a group of indigenous South American musicians starts busking. I haven't had this much fun since I left home and I have well and truly fallen for this girl. There is a pull there and she feels it too. I know she does. She laughs, her face dimpling beautifully, and those deep blue eyes hold my gaze for that fraction of a second too long for complete strangers. It's not just the wine making us giddy. Too soon we're back at the pensione, Scott oblivious to the chemistry sparking between us. "What do you want to do tomorrow guys?" he says, walking ahead of us. It's the most proactive thing I've heard him say since starting the trip. "Sleep in a loooong time" purrs Pauliine looking at me. She stops and opens a door. "Here is me" she says stepping in. Her english is so good, but occasionally she makes a tiny slip that ratchets her attractiveness up even more. She's standing there looking at me, swinging slightly against the open door. I don't need any convincing. Scott, noticing things have gone quiet, turns around and sees me enter her room. "Oh" he says, "we're gonna keep going in here are we?", and in he comes too. Now it's awkward. The tension between Pauliine and myself is tangible, - a rubber band stretched taughtly, at it's limit. Scott has no idea and is chattering away about something he's read in the guide book. Pauliine takes the initiative, says "Scott, you seem like a nice guy, but you have to fuck off right now", and grins as she gently pushes him back out into the hallway. The last thing I see as I close the door is a look on his face that tells me he still doesn't know what's going on. I have my shirt off as soon as I turn back around and Pauliine is already slipping her tank top over head. Her breasts are cupped in a lacy yellow bra which she releases in one smooth motion. They're a good C cup and I'm momentarily surprised to see she has slightly puffy nipples. I'm not that experienced with women - my self consciousness about my foreskin curtailing previous encounters with the Aussie girls. Puffy nippples are not something I've often seen before - perhaps once in a Playboy magazine filched from my father's stash 10 years before. I decide on the spot that I like them and must get to know them better. Her body is flawless. It's lean and her muscles just seem to flow on her long frame. Her beautiful dark honey tan extends over her entire body, (not that I'm asking myself about her tanning habits right now). I can see her abdominal muscles smoothly outlined against her skin - not scalpel sharp like a bodybuilder, but clearly visible, a testament to her fitness. She has a small firm peach of an arse. She's drinking me in too, as I kick my shoes and socks off and fumble with the belt of my shorts. I'm the same height as she is, not quite as tanned, and I'm well conditioned after spending years at the beach. My shoulders are capped, my serratus muscles clearly standing out at the top of my rib cage and my obliques, also honed by hours of surfboard paddling and swimming, arrow in toward my groin. She pulls me on top of her, and I can see her pupils are dilated and her breathing is heavy. Our kissing is too passionate; we clash teeth, and giggle. Slower now, I move my tongue into her mouth and she does the same. My hand is on her thigh, stroking the silky skin just below her mound and reaching around to cup and squeeze her butt. With surprising strength she reverses our positions, and I am now underneath her, her blond hair draping my face and tickling my neck which she soon sinks her teeth into. She takes a nipple into her mouth and sucks gently, curling my toes and arching my back. I've always had sensitive nipples and this is exquisite torture. She looks up, sees my reaction and smiles before doing the same to my other one. My turn now. I want to see these soft nipples of hers up close. I push her back and I can feel her wetness soaking my belly. I go to sit up but she pushes me back down, swings a leg over me and pulls her yellow panties off. She is totally bald, save for a small patch of hair above her vagina. It too, is blonde. This is 1994, pre internet. I have no idea that some women shave down there. It so fascinates me I'm almost distracted from exploring her fantastic nipples. Almost, but not quite. I roll her back over - now I'm on top again - and bend my head, and mouth to the task. Surprisingly, I find no trace of them. Their previous puffiness has vanished and I find myself stroking my thumbs over pert little tips sitting on small pale pink wrinkled areolae. How interesting! I run my tongue over them softly and feel Pauliine's hips rise and her hands grab my head. I'm not the only one with extra nerve endings there. I let my tongue and lips lead me further down her body, kissing and licking the inside of her thighs. I'm looking at her vagina and as she opens her legs her inner lips part and I can see how wet she is. I give her vagina a quick peck - I'm not going there just yet and she moans in frustration and desire. More of this - for how long I don't know and I don't care. I lick and kiss and stroke and explore every part of her - her breasts, her stomach, her neck and ears and face. I lick and tickle her back and her buttocks and kiss the backs of her knees which elicits squeals of delight, but she soon can't take anymore and reversing positions again, pulls my underwear off (I was too busy to do it myself), freeing my erection and dives for my groin. I sense a moment's hesitation (is she inspecting the goods?) before her mouth closes on my penis and my eyes roll back into my head. Our lovemaking starts off slowly and sensually, but it soon becomes apparent that Finns (this one at least), view sex as a high level athletic endeavour. It is the best workout I have ever had, and fearing for my life on occasion, I climax three times over the course of the evening and we eventually lapse into unconsciousness, entwined together just as the edges of our window framed sky are starting to turn pink. I wake up the next day to an angel smiling down on me by the light of the bedside table. The shutters are closed and Pauliine tells me she's shut them against the noon brightness a little while ago. Hmmm - it's past noon already huh? A small flicker of guilt flashes as I wonder what Scott has done with his morning but it disappears as soon as Pauliine pulls the sheet off me and drags me toward the shower. We stand under the running warm water, soaping each other gently. I look again at her breasts and see her areolae are once again soft hills, her nipples small flat apexes at the summit. With my hands passing over them, massaging them with shower gel, they seem to retreat back the level of her breasts, the skin contracting on itself and her nipples standing erect as they had last night. They're incredible. She's incredible. Meanwhile I notice her ministrations have come to a stop at my penis. She is looking down my torso and I follow her gaze to see her right hand is holding my foreskin against my pubic bone while she soaps my shaft and glans. She has my skin pulled so far back my frenulum has bowed my penis so that's it pointing toward the slate floor of the shower, soapy water running in a stream off it's end. I look back to her face but she doesn't make eye contact. She seems utterly entranced by my cock. She releases my foreskin and watches as it returns to sit against the corona of my glans, then, after a second or two, she reaches for it again and pushes it all the way forward, so that it rosebuds in a tip. Then, adjusting her grip so that she now has a loose fist wrapped around my shaft, pushes my foreskin further forward, wrinkling it in loose folds beyond the head of my penis. She holds it like that, examining it, before retracting my foreskin once more, well behind the glans. I begin to stiffen in her hand and this seems to break her trance. She looks up at me, her gorgeous face dimpling into a smile again, her blue eyes twinkling at me, and kisses me deeply. Once we're out of the shower and back sitting on her bed I ask her if she liked what she had been doing. My insecurities about my uncircumcised cock have come back in full. A lifetime spent being the only foreskin afflicted boy in both primary school and high school, fumblings at uni that resulted in girls telling me they found it unattractive, that I should have been circumcised as a baby, that they'd never seen one like mine before - these incidents have left deep wounds. I have read that circumcision is not practiced in Scandinavia, but what do I know, really? There isn't all that much printed material I've been able to get my hands on about circumcision anyway. This 'fact' is something I may have only seen once in passing; I can't remember. I have no real evidence to back this up - and now I'm thinking about Pauliine's slight pause last night before she went down on me. Maybe she really was checking me out. "Think you cleaned me properly?" I try and make a joke as a way to introduce the subject. "Yes" she claims, her beautiful smile fixing on me, "I can say that you have a very clean penis!". "You seemed to be very interested in my foreskin", I offer. I want to see where this goes. "Well, I was surprised. I thought all Australians were, you know, without the foreskin?" "You mean circumcised?" "Yes, like French - circonçise - right? How again? Circumcised?" There is something incredibly erotic to me about this stunning woman knowing how to say 'circumcised' in French, and in me teaching her how to say it in English. I'm confused though. Her curiosity about Australia yesterday made me think she'd had very little knowledge about my country. What do they show on Finnish tv? "Oh? How did you come by this information?" I tease her. "Come by? Again please?" She's not used to my syntax. "How did you know that about Australians being circumcised?" "Oh - I understand! Well, that guy who played Aussie football, remember? I met him in Antwerp and we slept together, and he was...circumcised? Circumcised. And I read that it is normal in the US, but he told me all Aussie guys are like him. But you're not, so now I don't know what to believe." My adrenaline is pumping now as I'm sitting here next to the most breathtaking woman I've ever laid eyes on, wearing only a towel and calmly discussing a topic that has shaped my identity throughout my entire life. "Well, he's right," I say, "most Aussie guys my age are circumcised. I think they don't do it so much to babies anymore, but when I was born, almost everyone was circumcised." "Almost everyone? Not you though?" her eyes are sparkling. She's teasing me. "No, not me", I sigh. "My mother thought it would be too painful." "Well, she was probably right. But when my little brother was ...again? Circumcised, right? When he was circumcised they used a pain medicine, so it didn't hurt him." Wait a minute. Her brother is circumcised? Her 'born in Finland where they don't circumcise people' brother??? "Your brother has no foreskin?" "Yeah, uh huh. When we were kids I used to play with it! I was very curious. I am still!" she laughs. I'm having enormous trouble processing this information. "I read that people don't practice circumcision in Scandinavia" I offer weakly. The room is starting to spin. "Oh, really? Some do, some don't I guess. I haven't slept with the whole of Scandinavia! Some of my boyfriends have been and some not. More not I think. I'll have to look more closely when I go to the sauna next time!" Florentine Soujourn She'll have to look more closely next time? How can you fail to notice such a thing? For me, whose entire span of conscious existence has been dominated by unfavourable comparisons to my surgically modified peers, such a thought it inconceivable. This is too much for me to deal with. She's had an Aussie lover who was cut, but she's also had Finnish guys who were cut? What the hell? "Are you sure?" I ask. I can't get past the information in my head that, from somewhere, from somewhen, lodged in my brain that circumcision was unknown in far northern Europe. She finds this hysterically funny and falls on me giggling. Her towel falls off her, exposing her perfect body to me again. I'm so tense I don't feel myself stir at all. "Of course I'm sure! But the Aussie guy, Brad, his was a little different. His didn't move - it was very, hard, or something. Like they almost cut too much off. My ex boyfriend, Veli, his was more, softer? I don't know how you say it. Flexible? I'll show you", and before I can think she's pulled my towel off. In my adrenalised state, my penis has shrunk to less than impressive proportions; something Pauliine notices straight away. "Oh ha. Where has he gone?" she wonders. My seated position is not doing me any favours either, and my penis looks like little more than a sock of wrinkled skin. She takes this all in her stride though and pushing me back down on the bed, she positions herself next to me and takes my penis in her hand so that we're both looking at it from above. "Veli's penis was bigger than yours (I hate him) and when he was soft his had skin here (she points to my corona, prominent under my foreskin) and it looked a little like this", whereupon she pulls my foreskin back until it rolls into a cuff behind my glans. "But I could still push it up to about here" she pulls my foreskin halfway up my glans,"and I could pull it all the way back to here" and she now stretches my skin all the way to the base of my penis, my frenulum limiting the range of movement as it did in the shower. "Maybe he wasn't really circumcised?" I suggest hopefully. "Oh no, he definitely was. All his brothers. I saw them all in the sauna and his father told me they were all operated as babies. And my other ex who was also without foreskin, Jaarko, you could only push the skin up to here maybe" and she slides my foreskin up to just cover the corona but no further. He didn't have skin like Veli did, like this," as she rolls the skin back behind the corona again, "it seemed to sit further back, about here" and she pulls my foreskin halfway between my glans and the base of my cock. "You could see where his skin was gone - there was a scar. It was hot." These words crush me a little. I look up at her and her face is, as it was in the shower, completely fixated on her hand on my penis. Her areolae have lost their swellings and are now hard little disks supporting erect nipples. Her breathing shallow. She's enjoying this. A lot. "What about the other Aussie?" I venture. She needs no further encouragement. She pulls tightly back on my penis (a little bigger now but not erect) and says "It looked like this, but not like a curve (she's referencing the downward bend in my cock caused by my frenulum). It was straight and I couldn't really move the skin at all. I didn't see it when it was soft, it was only for one night. I really wanted to check it out in the morning, but he was gone when I woke up." She giggles a little, lost in her own thoughts. I'm about to start hating this Aussie Rules player as well. "It, ummm, it kind of sounds like you like circumcised dicks?" I venture. This brings her back to reality once again and a wave of sadness washes quickly across her face. She looks at me and smiles again. "I think you are a beautiful man" she says, "and it's not a big deal to me at all". Her now pointy nipples tell me otherwise, and I coax her to continue. "But...?" "But? No buts! No, really - it's not a big deal. What do you like most from last night? The pistachio gelati or the lemon? Maybe you choose one before the other but they're both great, right? Maybe sometimes you choose the other one first? It's the same. It doesn't matter." (actually, pistachio kicks lemon's arse three ways to Sunday. I would always choose pistachio, but I get her point. Still, I can't leave it alone...) "Do you remember so much detail about your boyfriends who had foreskins?" "No. Honestly, I think they all look the same. The one's without foreskin are more interesting to me." My face must betray me because she kisses me softly and says quickly "It's only a, how do you say it? A préférance?" She uses the French word. "A preference?" "Yes. A preference. That's all. It's not a big deal. Like you might have a preference for a woman with curvy hips and big boobs and dark hair, like these Italian girls you know? A 'real woman', but you still find me attractive, hopefully?" "You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you," I tell her honestly. She is a woman who would inspire poets. "Well - that is a wonderful way to begin the day," she announces and throwing our wet towels to the floor, she slides across to the shutters, casts them open and stands there, sillhouetted and naked and perfect against the Florentine backdrop, before rejoining me on the bed.