I am told by competitive strategists that it is never wise to go first. Embarrassed However, since I offer this story in the spirit of fun, I hope someone enjoys it as much as I did writing it. Grin For those of you who are accomplished authors, I provide the caveat that I consider proper grammar “restricting”. Therefore, please forgive my transgressions against the English language. Finally, obviously this submission ends my potential reign as a contest judge. I look forward to reading everyone's work, but will not submit a vote.
Through the Looking Glass – Part 1 West69
Alice stood looking intently into the full-length mirror. She had just stepped out of the shower in her second floor room at the Hotel Andreotti. She could hardly believe she was in Rome. She had made a resolution for adventure almost 11 months ago, and the year was rapidly coming to a close.
Her mind clicked back to the image staring at her in the mirror. She was a full 6'2″ in height, intimidating to some men, but majestic as a woman. Coal black hair cascaded down her back all the way to the gentle arch above her hips, reminiscent of the mane of a Lipizzaner stallion. Her eyes, a natural hazel/brown, would be changed to indigo using the deep blue contacts she brought. She let her eyes follow the nape of her neck, down her shoulders, past the European sized 87C, well formed breasts, to her narrow waist.
She dropped her towel, revealing the newly shaved area just above her pubic bone. She giggled because it was the first time she had looked down there since her little tuft of rich black hair was removed. She couldn't resist moving her hand across the area, then down slightly, tempted to rub just a little. She felt a tightening in her nipples, and decided, “No”, she would wait, in case her plans went astray. There would always be later in the warmth of the room, maybe with legs spread feeling the flames in the fireplace reaching out to embrace her. Then maybe a slow dance under the golden portable shower head, intentionally designed as a perfect phallic substitute. Her thoughts started to carry her away again anticipating the pulsing pleasure of the warm torrents of water caressing her clit, but she caught herself and tried to regain focus on her resolution.
She let herself daydream a little about the fun of pretending to be an American. In fact she had registered under the name of “Alice
Miller” because it was so blatantly American tourist. Her thinking being, that Italian men always hit on American women.The women were on vacation, oblivious to where they were, and most of the time silly. They made the perfect Italian score, physical pleasure, but no commitments. As she looked back in the mirror, she realized how stupid she was. She was European to the core. She was from Madrid and her culture and mannerisms were clearly European. She was a mix of Brazilian and African on her mother's side, with a contribution of other exotic ethnicities from her father. Her skin was a creamy chocolate, the same color as rich espresso with sweet cream swirled in. She was only 20 years old, and when she smiled it revealed she was a girl. But if she pouted her lips, tilted her head down, and brought her eyes up to meet yours, she could have easily passed for 26 or 28 years old. She was sultry, and even a man transfixed by her beauty, could not mistake the confidence and style of a European woman.
Returning to the moment, she began to dress herself, pulling on the fresh pair of purple panties and lace bra. Orchids were her favorite flower, so of course shades of violet, lavender, and deep purple were her choice for lingerie. She decided she would use a very subtle shade of amethyst as eye shadow. Not enough to detract from the blue contacts, but enough so that her fantasy lover would notice, when her clothes came off, her eye shadow, bra, and panties all welcomed you together. She hurriedly slipped into a white sundress, just short enough you could not miss her thighs. The days had been warm in Rome, so a multicolored long scarf was added just to fend off the chill of the evening. Her outfit was completed with Prada “Aviators” to make her more mysterious. Matching Prada pumps provided an air of affluence, stylish, but not haughty. She made sure the heels were short enough for walking the cobblestone streets comfortably, but just tall enough to stretch her calves with each step. Any truly attentive man notices the calf muscles of a woman as they tighten, and tease you into wondering if the thighs would welcome you with equal power.
Now, out of the room, and down the sweeping stairway into the lobby of the Andreotti. Simply stepping out of an elevator would ruin it. She descended the stairway, knowing all eyes were on her, and as she glided between the 15th century renaissance tables and huge urns of flower arrangements, she saw a movement on her right. Back in the shadows of the Via Veneto bar a man's head turned and followed her. She felt his fixed gaze from across the lobby, almost hot against her skin. She had to keep moving or she would lose her nerve.
She could not see the man in the bar's features, but was sure by his movement that he never took his eyes off her. The massive carved iron and beveled glass doors opened in front of her, and she stepped onto the Via Castelfidardo. The Trevi Fountain and Spanish Steps were only 20 minutes walking time, but she turned the opposite direction seeking the more rustic narrow streets through the residences.
Matronly women watched her with admiration from their old iron balconies. A few who once had her fieriness in their youth recognized what was on her mind. You could almost inhale the earthy desire as she glided past. Men froze their ancient chess games, and held their wine glasses in the air, unable to move them closer to their lips or to set them down. Memories of youthful erections teased smiles of satisfaction as Alice swept by them.
She kept moving past the bakeries and little shops, most of which were shuttering themselves for the evening.
A few people smiled as she slowly climbed the rise of the narrow street, but most were already thinking of preparing dinner or an early aperitif in their rooftop garden. The smell of fresh baked bread and pungent ripe green olives had almost carried her away when the street opened into a small piazza. It was very old, perhaps 800 to 900 years, with rock pavers worn smooth by passersby over the centuries. The piazza, no more than 30 feet in diameter was ringed by apartments, and in the center were a guitarist and a saxophone player, quietly jamming to their own muse. At the edge of the circular piazza were three small rows of rock benches, sparsely occupied by a few locals. The musicians paid the crowd little attention, although they hoped for a spare coin in appreciation. The listeners made no demands of them. They just drank in the acoustic sounds as they floated up to meet the last of the sun's rays caressing the apartment tops.
“Alice” decided to sit and accept the artful gift of the musicians. Even though only six to eight people were there in the piazza, she sat down in the second row toward the end, away from the other listeners. As she gazed about the circle, she felt a person's knees behind her, gently pressed against her back. He must have sat down close behind her when she was not paying attention.
She politely moved to the left to give him more room, but his legs seemed to follow her. He had now opened them slightly, so the upper part of his calves just grazed her arms. She could feel he was quite muscular, possibly a professional soccer player or athlete. She did not want to move again so she leaned back slightly and his legs caught her, allowing her to recline a bit. Then he leaned forward, moving her long black hair aside and kissed the back of her neck. This startled her, but she felt a warmness just below the newly shaved pubic area. Her eyes quickly looked first at the musicians, then toward her fellow concertgoers. No one was watching her. Her breath quickened at first, but she was soon able to control it. Was she really doing this? She was trembling, but reminded herself of the resolution.
Without turning, she reached her arm behind her, her hand eagerly searching for a response. His hand met hers and he moved her hand to the zipper on his pants. He had cleverly placed a long coat in his lap, so no one could see they were touching.
Together with her hand, the stranger moved his zipper down, and she felt him, hard and pulsing. He was not wearing underwear.
He helped her form a circle between her finger and thumb, and moved her up the shaft of his cock, just below the head. She could not pull away now. The sax player was pelting out a mournful solo, and she began moving their hands together up and down the strangers cock. She could feel his excitement, as he stiffened, and lifted his hips slightly. She could feel herself getting wet, but was so busy she could not touch herself without interrupting his pleasure. She turned the palm of her hand upward, flat against his cock, and moved it faster. She ached to turn around, throw off his coat, and take him full in her mouth, feeling his heat, all the way in. But a few people were there, and she flashed on the thought of trying to explain to her parents how she got arrested in Rome. She continued stroking him, hearing his breath quicken, until he exploded. He was as silent as he could contain himself, but her hand was wet with his essence. It was warm like the handlotion she heated at home before she secretly rubbed it on herself when alone.
There was a shudder, then the man leaned back. She could hear him exhale, and she knew her hand had pleased him. As she started to turn and offer him her best smile, the musicians suddenly stopped and began packing up their instruments. The crowd, knowing the concert was over, began to look about, one or two locals taking notice of her. They weren't sure how to interpret the look on her face, but clearly she had been carried to some level of ecstasy by more than the refrains of the guitar. When she was able to regain her composure, she turned, and the man was gone.
At first she was disappointed, but upon reflection realized that regret had no place in her adventure. She was proud that she had shown resolve, and that she was able to silently please an unknown lover, even though he could not return the favor. There was nothing left to do but pull her wet panties apart so they would dry a little under her white dress as she began her walk back to the Andreotti. Maybe she would enjoy a glass of port in the bar, then return to her room, and let her anxious fingers play the part of the stranger.
(See next post to continue)
Maybe something with an underwater oral theme 
or “sex in a lifeboat”? 😮