Getting to Know My Neighbor Ch. 03

I had said that any actual physical contact with my fellow-exhibitionist 18-year-old neighbor was out of the question. It could only lead to trouble. Her Italian father, for example, might take a dim view of the 40-something foreigner from next door fucking his teenage daughter's brains out, especially after our friendly conversation about his garden when we first met. That would be the garden that I had jacked off into from my balcony while watching his daughter masturbate last night. As I say, only trouble.

Well, not only. What is trouble when there is opportunity? And how often in life do such opportunities come along? It was worth a try. I knew that I was playing with fire. And that her father might be one of those Italians who hunted on the weekends for sport, shooting innocent animals in a stocked game preserve. Or whenever a suitable target presented itself. But I thought: Che sera sera. That girl was like a drug you just take once -- or twice -- and you're hooked. I had to have her body.

The next day her parents returned from wherever they'd been. I saw her father tying up his tomato vines; I thought of tying up his daughter with the leftover twine. Her parents' bedroom was on the opposite side of the house (she had a younger brother, too, but he was away). At midnight I stole into the garden and tossed a pebble up at her shutter. She hadn't come out yet tonight, but her light was on, and the pebble brought her out to investigate. I called to her from down below. Does this remind you of Romeo and Juliet? it was happening to me in real life, but I was aware of the precedent. They had a little family problem too; and, yes, it ended badly. I told her (in my best whispered Italian) to come down.

She did, in the clothes she had on: a sleeveless jersey and a pair of silky lounging pants. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her hair was still wet from the shower she'd just taken. The first thing I said to her was to tell her she was a beautiful and sexy girl (bellissima e sexissima). Then I introduced myself. She said her name was Isabella. "Such a beautiful name," I said, "Isabellissima". I repeated her name like that several times, then took her by the shoulders and kissed her. She kissed me back and held my body.

How could this be happening to me? The fact is that I had caught her at just the right moment: she had just gone through the hell of university entrance exams, it was her first free summer, she had just turned 18, she had no boyfriend, and she was ready for real sex; her body was ready to burst. She had lost her virginity (she later told me) on a school trip, and she'd had one other guy a few times, but he'd chosen to go with one of her friends instead.

She knew she wasn't thin like most of her friends; that's just the way she was built. And she was taller than most Italian boys, though shorter than me. I later told her (in my soulful foreign accent) that I liked a woman I could wrap my arms around and wrestle with and look in the eyes of. Boys her own age didn't, and couldn't, talk to her like that.

It had an effect on her. I could feel the heat coming off her. Because she hadn't had much experience, I was getting pure, unpracticed, natural passion (with a little help from the internet). And though not passive, she was willing to let me lead: to dominate. There we were in her father's garden, behind his arbor of climbing beans, and nothing was going to stop us.

Oh, you can be sure that I reached under her jersey and caressed those breasts that I had so much admired from my balcony. God, her skin was smooth and supple. Her breasts were heavy, and not so much firm as dense and soft. I raised that jersey and began to feed. I'll bet those Italian boys hadn't sucked her nipples as hungrily as I did. She began to sigh deeply. I could see she loved having her breasts adored like that. I buried my head between them, and I could have sucked them for hours. Her nipples grew big and chewy, and she made sounds when I chewed them. Dangerous.

We thought we heard a noise! It was her mother letting the cat out the side door. The door closed again. My heart was knocking and my knees were weak. I lay down on the garden path, took off my jeans (no underwear), slipped on a condom, and beckoned to her to come on top of me. She stripped off her pants (no panties) and sat right down on my stiff and throbbing cock, just like that. I grabbed her by the hips and began to thrust upward. Before long I was pounding up at her madly, and being smothered by her breasts, and holding her by the shoulders, then locking onto her hips and ass and forcing her down to meet my thrusts.

I didn't hold back; I fucked her fiercely in a frenzy of fear and desire. Before long I came, intensely, in shooting, spasmodic waves, trying to stifle the cry that wanted to come out of me. She kept moving; I pressed my pubic bone up to meet her, she ground down on top of me, rubbed herself against me like an animal and then her body suddenly shook as if she were having a seizure and she made a low, rumbling, vibrating groan, which she did her best to muffle. Then we were still and silent -- and afraid of having been heard. We sprang up and quickly dressed. We staggered a little as if we were drunk, which in a way we were. We kissed, hard. And then we parted. I slunk away like a fox. Like a fox who has just enjoyed a plump young chicken. But my Juliet had enjoyed herself too.

And now that we had had a taste of each other, of course we wanted more.