When In Venice Ch 01

At the control desk I hand my passport to the handsome young security guard, along with my most dazzling smile. He is dark-haired, broody-eyed, and can't be older than nineteen: in other words, he is perfect. He looks at me, he looks at my passport photo, he looks back at me. He smiles.

'Grazie,' he says softly.

'You're welcome, baby,' I reply in all sincerity, giving the boy a seductive wink as I move on into the terminal building, all the while thinking to myself: Yes, oh yes, this is what I want, this is why I am here…

I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me backtrack. My name is Naomi Sells, though most of you no doubt know me better as Polly Simmons from the award-winning film of the musical "Let's Go To War!". God, that was eight years ago, and I still get stopped in the street by "War!" fanatics (I mean fans), generally older folks whose hearts Miss Simmons captured with those timeless hits "What Is War, Daddy?" and "I'm Feeding The Geese Now". I've done so much since then, trying to get away from Polly's colossal shadow, appearing in stage plays, TV series – even the dire horror flick sequel "Horror House: Certain Death" – but it's no use: to my loyal followers I shall always be little sweet Polly Simmons, sixteen going on nineteen thirty nine. Though I suppose I shouldn't complain. All the royalties from the "War!" CD boxed sets and Collector's Edition DVDs still keep me nicely in Lafitte and oysters.

And in gorgeous rising star celebrity boyfriends (you'd think). Ah yes, the very reason for my little sojourn in Italy: that blot on the landscape otherwise known as Jake Spence. The talented young eye-candy of many a late-night social drama and several cutting-edge (read: impenetrable) modern stage plays – oh and a bloody good fuck too. And we even got on together. Such a waste. But hey, what would any other self-respecting young starlet do on the night of her premiere if she caught her beau in the act of eating out her lesser-known (and, I might add, considerably overrated) "Horror House: Certain Death" co-star? Why, shed pack her bags and takes a trip to Venice of course.

So here I am. The air around Marco Polo airport shimmers from the heat, and thick clouds of exhaust fumes waft idly by me as wave after wave of beautiful curly-haired, full-lipped young Italian men speed past on scooters (alright, so most are wearing helmets, but a girl can imagine, can't she?). Yes, this is why I am here. How better to forget that two-timing talentless vanity-fest himself than by immersing myself in the culture of the world's sexiest country? I get myself a taxi and lean back against the cream leather seat, letting myself indulge in the knowledge that I have a whole weekend to myself. No guest appearances, no agent, no mobile phone. Just me and the city that's more sensual than Rome, less manic than Milan, and which boasts a quite prestigious university. Let me make myself clear. A university in which roughly half the students are eighteen to twenty-three-year-old Italian men. I can't think of anywhere else I would rather be mending my broken heart.

Naturally, my taxi can't take me right to my hotel, because, let me tell you, there's quite a bit of water in Venice, and a lot of it is in the most damned inconvenient of places. So I have to get a boat, and then walk like miles to get to the hotel, which luckily is just off St Mark's Square, which is full of nice smart cafes with sexy waiters in black tie. So I'm happy enough.

The old guy behind the reception desk actually comes round to shake my hand as I stumble gratefully into the land of air-conditioning.

'Ah! Mees Sells! We are honoured! Eh! Psht!' – (This over his shoulder, and not to me, thankfully) – 'Gisella!'

A woman appears and starts flapping her arms as though she'd like to take off (which, judging by her circumference, I reckon is going to be impossible).

'Mees D'Arcque! We love your Polly! She so sweet girl. Good Catholic, yes?'

'Absolutely,' I say from behind my warmest smile. 'Gosh, I'm so flattered. Well, you know, if you have a CD from the film I'd be happy to sign it for you.'

The old bloke looks worried a moment, and I wonder if I've been misunderstood. His lady pools herself around me and gushes, 'Oh, you know, Mees, the music, we no so fond. But Polly, she good, yes? Good clean girl. I say to my husband: "I like her for our daughter, no?"' There follows much laughter.

I laugh as briefly as is politely possible, feeling suddenly very tired. I just want to check in, find my bed, and check out in it for an hour or two. I steer the welcoming party back towards the reception desk.

The formalities dealt with, the hotel guy whistles sharply, and a young man emerges from the back to take my luggage.

'Eh, Roberto,' the old guy snaps to the young man who is clearly his son. 'Room tree-seexteen. And she film star, so watch eet, heh?'

Roberto – tall, dark, and regretfully, woefully unattractive – sidesteps me to reach my bag, and as he does so, he shoots me a contemptuous look. Totally taken aback, I raise a hand to my chest and stare after him as he heads for the lift, but nobody else seems to have noticed. The old guy and his wife are engaged in what sounds like a blazing row (but knowing the Italians, is probably a discussion of the weather), and I am left to trail after my suitcase and its surly porter.

The lift is narrow (everything in Venice is narrow) and Roberto-who-gives-dirty-looks-for-no-reason and I find ourselves almost nose-to-nose with only my small suitcase between us as the lift rises and judders, rises and judders its way up to the third floor. I notice how large his nose is, and how heavy his eyebrows. He has a long scar running from his left eye to the corner of his lip, which horrifies me. I set my face in what I hope is an honest, unassuming expression, but his dark eyes reflect only a severe disregard into my own, and I lose my nerve and end up studying the raggedy twine lift interior instead. I am greatly relieved when the lift doors creak open and I can breathe again as I follow my unfriendly porter up and down the sloping, twisting corridors to my room.

Roberto unlocks the door and pushes right on in there, flinging my suitcase to the floor with little ceremony. I follow, and am happily surprised by the size of the room.

'Thank you,' I award Roberto politely.

He continues to glower at me. I try my best not to look at the long scar which punctures his cheek like the slice of a knife through a ripe tomato.

'That will be all,' I say tetchily, my tiredness and discomfort in his presence finding its way into my voice. 'I hope you're not expecting a tip. I make a point of never tipping hotel porters.'

Finally, Roberto speaks.

'I expect nothing from you,' he snarls in a voice as rich and gravelly as old oak barrels and bitter chocolate. I am discomfited to find the hairs on the back of my neck bristle at the sound.

'Well, thank you,' I mumble lamely, turning my back and pretending to gaze out of the window. I wait for what seems an age, then at long last I hear his footsteps retreat towards the door, and finally the merciful sound of the door clicking shut.

I turn around, for one crazy second expecting to find Roberto standing inside the room, one hand on the door handle and his brooding eyes bearing down on me, but no: he is gone. I sigh deeply. I am just too tired. I can't believe I'm getting wound up by the attitude problem of some grumpy – ugly – bellboy. I sit and pull off my shoes. Fully clothed, I stretch out on the too-soft double bed, close my eyes, and am instantly asleep.

When I awake, it is growing dark. I sit up blurrily and take a moment to remember where I am. Oh yeah, Venice. Cool.

I shower lengthily, relishing the pounding of the almost scalding water from the power shower on my sleep-fuzzled skin. As the steam rises around me and I begin to feel wonderfully alive, I let myself imagine what I will get up to tonight. I might take a stroll around the university district, check out the fresh talent in one or two of the student bars. Or I could make my way to a café on the main square and allow a handsome young waiter to coax me into having a slice of delicious lemon cake – while I coax him into having a slice of me in my hotel room once he's finished his shift. I let my mind wander, picturing this fine specimen of a man as he enters the room uncertainly (I like them coy to begin with) before his passion gets the better of him and he pins me to the bed and tears off my clothes, leaving me laid out and delightfully vulnerable in my tiny black thong.

He begins to kiss me hungrily, moving from my lips down my neck to suck on my breasts, teasing my nipples between his teeth until they are standing to attention. Moving on, he nibbles playfully at my stomach, running his fingers up and down my thighs, before – unable to control himself any longer – pushing my knees apart. He keeps his eyes locked on mine, giving me a knowing smile, as he begins to pull down my panties. I can feel the wetness on them as they slip down my legs, I am ashamed, I don't want him discovering me so wet for him, but I can only stare into his chocolate-brown eyes as he silently orders me to be still, and give myself up to him.

I am still showering, but I have sunk to the bottom of the cubicle, am sitting propped up against the lusciously cold glass panel, while from high above the hot water thrums down upon me as, my legs spread apart, I finger myself luxuriously to my fantasy.

He is no longer staring into my eyes – his gaze has been arrested by the sight of my glistening wet pussy, laid out spread and bare (I shave it all) for him to see. His eyes widen, his breathing thickens, he cannot take his eyes off the sight of me. I can feel myself getting restless, feel the juices in my pussy as they ooze slowly past my labia, feel my clit stiffening, begging to be stroked. Involuntarily I raise my hips into the air, wordlessly imploring him to touch me.

He notices my anguish, and smiles mischievously. Keeping his eyes locked on mine, he sinks down on the bed, until his head is just visible over my pink mound. His focus shifts to my exposed pussy, and he studies it intently as he begins ever so softly to stroke a finger up and down around my labia. I can hardly bear the weightlessness of his touch, it sends shivers up my spine and down into the centre of my being, and my pussy drips wetter and wetter in anticipation. He slips a finger inside my outer lips and is visibly surprised at how wet I have become, at how his finger slips and slides over my swollen clit and how readily my cunt opens for him as he explores it tentatively with his other hand. I moan involuntarily as he begins to work a finger in and out of my willing cunt, and he cannot resist. Finally, wordlessly, he lowers his head and begins to eat me.

I am sprawled across the floor of the shower cubicle, my left leg propped up against the wall, my eyes closed and my fingers gently working at my clit. With my other hand I reach for the cord of the shower head, pulling it off its hook and bringing the thrumming jet of water towards my body, applying the stream to my full breasts, letting the water tickle and tease my erect nipples, while my other hand explores my pussy. I am so wet (in both senses) and two fingers slip easily into my cunt. It is not enough. I tilt the showerhead until the jet is pointing straight at my rock-hard clit. I yelp as the force of the water hits me – I will have to be careful or I'll come too soon.

I let the water play over my pussy, wandering across and around my pulsating clit, spreading the lips of my soaking cunt, all the while fingering myself into a frenzy as I imagine my Italian lover pleasuring me with his tongue while his fingers delve inside my hungry cunt and his other hand lightly strokes the tight bud-like hole of my ass. I buck wildly (in my fantasy and in real life) as I feel the first surges of orgasm approach, as my pussy hole engulfs the four fingers of my hand and the shower head beats against my throbbing clit and I'm coming, I'm coming, and I can't help it as I cry out in pleasure – oh yes! I'm coming so good!

I allow the waves of my orgasm to spread throughout my body, and recede softly, like a tender farewell kiss. I'm grinning like the cat that got the cream (which, in a certain way, I did) and it takes me a good few seconds to realize that someone is banging at the door.

'Just a minute!' I yell, switching off the water and fumbling for the courtesy bathrobe. I stagger to the door, my pussy still humming away nicely, and swing back the door to find my surly friend Roberto.

'What?' I demand.

He looks at me without saying anything, I see his eyes flicker down to my barely closed bathrobe, and feel myself getting flustered.

'Can I help you?' I say loudly, tugging the bathrobe tighter around me.

'Mees,' he says slowly, gazing at me from those cold eyes. 'It is I who am thinking you are needing help. I hear you making crying noise as I pass by, I think you are in trouble.'

I am in shock. I cannot believe I have been overheard – are the walls really that thin? That blows my chances for getting those Italian lessons later in the night. My cheeks burn red as I stutter out a reply.

'No, thank you, I'm fine. There's no problem. Goodbye,' and I slam the door in his face and reel back into my room.

It occurs to me that Roberto may have been listening in on me. I wouldn't put it past him, he's just that type, I think, with his crooked nose and his thin lips and his overgrown eyebrows. Jealous, desirous of me, unable to have me. Well, I can ignore his prying, I'm used to being looked at for heaven's sake. God, men like him make me sick.

Sated, and as clean as clean could be, my mind turns to food. I'm starving, but reluctant to eat out in a restaurant alone. I check out the mini bar, find two packets of peanuts and a miniature bottle of white wine and take these to bed with me. Later I'll grab something more substantial at a mini mart or something to tide me over for tonight. By tomorrow night I'm bound to have a date (or six) dying to lavish me with expensive dinners and fine wine.

I munch on my peanuts and flick through channel after channel of ludicrous Italian game shows, but my mind keeps straying back to my unwanted admirer. There's something about him which is bugging me, something in those eyes of his: they are so cool and detached when he looks at me, and yet I know he must want me, all men do. But it's like he's judging me, his gaze penetrating deep into my soul, and I feel naked and exposed, and pray he won't discover my secrets (of which I have many, which I shall not be telling you).

I can't stand this. I have to get out. I'm in beautiful, romantic, exciting Venice, for God's sake, I should be out there being courted and admired by a thousand Adonises, and I'm sitting in a hotel room eating peanuts? I chuck the nuts aside and, digging about in my suitcase, pull out my tiny black thong. I slip it on, study myself in the mirror with satisfaction, and smile as I think of the next time this little baby will be coming off.

The club is loud and heaving, people stand five-deep at the bar trying to get the barman's attention, the music is some Italian opera/pop I've never heard before (thankfully), and I am gazing into the eyes of gorgeous nineteen-year-old Dante as he tells me for the tenth or twentieth time that I am the most beautiful woman he has ever seen in his life. I haven't told him he's the hottest guy I've seen so far in Venice, because I don't want to give him a big head. Dante is about 6 foot 1, with broad shoulders and strong, muscular arms. His well-defined torso strains at the tight cotton t-shirt he's wearing (not to mention the bulge at the front of his slightly too tight jeans). I've landed myself a good one.

'You stay in hotel?' He asks, looking at me shyly from beneath his long dark lashes. 'You like, we go back there now?'

'Mmm. Uh, actually, you know, that's probably not such a good idea,' I mutter, remembering the lack of privacy I encountered earlier in the day. 'But, don't you have an apartment around here?'

'I live with my mother. Until I am married.'

'Oh---kay. That's interesting.' God, how am I going to work this one out? 'So, you want to go for a walk?'

Dante smiles, and I know I've caught my man.

I grab his hand and get up, pulling my conquest to his feet. It takes an age to push our way outside, but there the night air is fresh and the sky is alive with stars and it is so stunning I momentarily forget about Dante and gaze upwards, relishing the beauty of the starlit sky and the sweet air, so rare in the city I have temporarily escaped.

Dante appears in front of me, takes my arms in his strong hands and kisses me, gently, languidly. It's so breathtaking I could melt then and there, but he has other plans for me, and, taking me by the hand, he begins to lead me down the meandering, unlit alleyways of Venice. I have already got lost several times on my first day here, everything looks the same and no matter how hard you follow the map you always find yourself meeting a canal and having to go off on another diversion. But Dante seems to know exactly where he's heading.

We enter a large, cobbled square with an ancient well in its centre, lit only by the light of a moon just peeping over the high buildings all around. Everything is still. Dante leads me to the well at the centre of the square. I am expecting to see the glint of water deep below, but the top of the well is smooth, it has been filled in long ago. I lean back against the cool stone, and stare into his deep dark eyes as he approaches me and leans in to kiss me again. I grip his wavy black hair and hungrily pull him closer to me, running my hands over his luscious body, pressing my large tits against his chest. I can feel the bulge growing in his jeans as it presses against my thigh, urging me to touch it, which I do.

I rub my hand over the hard cock in his jeans, and he groans. He reaches a hand under my chiffon top, finds my bra-less breasts, begins to massage and squeeze them gently in turn, brushing the tips of my nipples with his fingers until they jut out stiffly. His other hand roams downwards, towards my tight black trousers, stroking my stomach and continuing further down, cupping my mound in his warm hand so that I moan eagerly.

We pull apart for a second, stare into each other's eyes as he begins to fondle my pussy through my trousers and I stroke my fingers up and down the length of his long hard cock. I can feel my little black thong sucking up my juices as they stream from my wet hole. The tight lacy fabric teases my clit wonderfully as he caresses me through the material, and I squirm, rubbing myself against his hand, desperate for more.

Keeping my gaze fixed on his, I slowly unzip his jeans. Liberated, his cock jumps out into my hand, and I cannot resist looking down at it, hot and throbbing in my hand. It is huge – not so much long as thick, I need both hands to encircle it, which I do, keeping one hand massaging the base of his penis while the other begins a steady rhythm riding it up and down like I hope to be doing very shortly. He grunts softly, letting his eyelids half close as he enjoys my handling of his cock. I feel the first trickle of his pre-cum slip out onto my hand and, keeping my gaze locked on his, I raise my hand to my mouth and lick it clean.

Gently, he unbuttons my trousers and I wriggle them down my legs. With ease he picks me up and sits me on top of the covered well. Its cool smooth surface on my bare butt excites me. Slowly, he plucks the soaked string of my thong away from my pussy, and I shudder with pleasure at this hint of a touch on my aroused clit. I sink back onto my elbows, spreading my legs, exposing my hot pussy to the night air and to his gaze.