Che Uomo Italiano

Remember this guy?
So, I’d decided to not worry about him, and indeed, use his potential stalkerness to my advantage. Now that daylight savings time is over, and it is dark by 5pm, I can tell him I am working late and he keeps an eye out. The office is spooky after dark – tinted glass walls and fluorescent lights put me in the klieg lights for anonymous passers-by. I can’t see out, but anyone can see in. (Sometimes I fantasize about masturbating on the conference table in front of the window, but that is a story for another day.)

Earlier, the chef helped me unload my car of numerous office-bound boxes. It was difficult to not notice his calves, dark and muscular, poking out from the bottom of his shorts. From there, it is only a short anatomical stroll to his forearms and hands, strong and defined, baker’s hands. I feel my heart jump and my kitty twitch. I notice dimples, and dark eyes sparkling from beneath hooded lids. Quite mischievous. Another sharp twinge rips through my bits and I take in a quick breath. I notice that he is staring at my tits, set off today by my form-fitting deep red tee. He notices me notice and jumps a little, looks startled. He waves vaguely toward them, looking away and blushing. “The boxes got you a little dirty.”

I glance down and sure enough, there is a straight line of dust making a perfect line connecting my nipples, which are protruding, apparently to bask in his gaze. My turn to blush now, I begin brushing at the offending equator, trying to remove the mark. I thank him for the help and say I’m working late. “I’ll be in later for a Coke or something.” He smiles, nods, returns to his kitchen to work his cavernous ovens that billow forth hot, mouth-watering aromas all day long.

Later I call to order some takeaway. “Are you ok? Is everything all right?” He wants to save me, I think. I tell him I’m fine, order, disconnect. When I go to pick up, the restaurant is empty. My dinner isn’t quite finished, so I accept a glass of wine. While talking, he tells me he is separated from his wife of 30 years. I had not yet mastered walking at the time of his wedding.

He offers to show me around the restaurant and makes a joke that he is hiring. He shows me the prep area and the walk-ins. He shows me the ovens and the storage area. Then we are in the office, sparsely furnished, with little more than a desk, a couch, and a television. He has nervously chattered the whole tour. Now, in this room, there is an awkward silence.

By now, I’ve found myself charmed by this man, endearing in his nervous jumpiness, oddly hot. I thank him for the tour with a hug and a quick kiss. I feel him tense, but he doesn’t pull away. Emboldened by stale wine, I kiss him again, longer this time. His arms gingerly move around me as I pull him to me. I wonder for a split second if I am making a mistake. Maybe he doesn't want this. If that is true, though, his body betrays him because I can feel his stiffness against my belly as I press against him. My nipples perk up immediately in response and I decide that if he thinks this is a bad idea, he is certainly old enough to speak up about it. I lead him over to the couch and kneel on it before him, stroking his chest. He does not complain.

I kiss his neck, nuzzle into it while breathing deeply. He smells of oregano and man. I taste him and delight in the mix of garlic, herbs, and sweat. My hands run down the front of him; his shorts are bulging. I want in.

I look up at him and notice his emotions as they play out in his eyes. There is anxiety. There is fear. There is lust. I undo him and tenderly bring forth his cock. When he is out, it is my turn to be surprised. He is not very long, but his shaft is enormously thick. I think about it stretching the walls of my steaming cunt and my eyes dilate as my pussy involuntarily spasms and my rosebud slams shut.

I lick my lips and take him into my mouth. I wish there was a mirror. I’d love to see how that big prick distends my cheeks, stretches my lips as I do my best to stuff my face as full of him as I can. I look up at him again, and almost laugh.
He is wide-eyed and startled. He looks confused. Confused as in, “there is a hot little ragazza attached by her face to my dick and I’m not sure what to do about that.” The look makes me mirthful. Then it occurs to me that it is possible I am the first woman outside of his wife to suck his cock in 30 years. That idea sets my Naughty-O-Meter ™ spinning uncontrollably. I decide to put him out of his misery.

I stand up quickly and undress. I throw my tee and jeans on the desk followed by my bra and panties. When all that is left is me standing before the chef in nothing but my t-strap heels, I try to explain things as clearly as I can. “I want you. I’ll do anything you want.”

It takes a few seconds for this to register. As it does, I watch his face melt from its fear-induced paralysis into an expression of what appears to be resolve. First, he wants me to finish sucking him off, because he wants another go and knows he won’t last much longer at this point.

I motion for him to sit on the couch and get on my knees before him. I run my hands up his legs and over his shorts until I reach his still-hard cock. Despite myself I moan slightly, in admiration of its brutish girth, and slowly take it back into my mouth. The chef, more relaxed now, moans slightly, trembles as I flick my tongue back and forth across his head and then make long laps up his length, breathing deeply in the scent of his musk as I go.

I run my tongue in circles around his tip, and then take him deeply into my mouth, stifling my gag reflex. I feel both his hands grabbing my hair as he reflexively thrusts his hips up into my face. He is sitting ramrod straight and I grunt as he crams my face full of his cock, and begins pumping spasmodically up into me while simultaneously pushing me down by the shoulders.

From the sides, I work at his shorts until I can reach his balls, and I can feel the rumblings of oncoming climax gaining ground as I massage him. I taste his salty harbinger and I release him from my mouth. I sit up, shoulders back and tits up to work him with my hands until he begins pumping his hot thick cream onto my chest and belly, alternately gasping for air and moaning as he comes for me. I continue stroking him until he shudders no more and sinks back into the couch, dazed and spent.

More time has passed than I thought. It is late, and I have to head for home, although in this moment all I want to do is impale myself on that enormous shaft of his and get fucked until I am silly. It is too late for that this evening, though, so tingly hot with frustrated sex yet resigned, I clean myself up a bit in the restroom instead. I'll finger myself until I climax in the car on the way home this time. I collect myself, my clothing, and my dinner, and take my leave with the promise that there will be a Round Two very soon.

As I leave, I catch sight of him in my rearview mirror, standing in the shadows where I was parked, immobile, watching. Always watching.