Here. I’m Gwendoline. Let me introduce my friends.
Martine Aubin – my girlfriend. Martine is French and she’s a film star. She is blond, blue-eyed, in super form, beautiful, always a golden tan, always mischievous, affectionate, and loyal, and almost always – even when she’s rip-roaring mad about something – in good humor. She’s very French. If you want to check out what that means, you can listen to an old radio show on French eroticism, Pleasures of the Flesh. It has two parts. So have fun!
James Hewett Spencer – my partner, tall, handsome, rich, extraordinarily intelligent, my master: James is British, a sort of Sean Connery James Bond type; he has a darker kinkier side, as do I; we play it out in many of our games. Other than once abandoning me, James has never hurt me.
Philip d’Este – Martine’s partner. Philip is a tall disheveled, brilliant, dark, excessively handsome – and famous – French-Italian film director, and producer. He writes his own scenarios, sometimes with writer partners, and often with Martine, and most of his films star Martine; she is his muse, his partner in work, and in love.
WARNING: CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT
A Dusty Road
So, some notes from my travels:
The four of us – James, me, Martine, and Philip – were in Sicily. A Sicilian girlfriend of Martine’s, Giulia Costa – Giulia was doing location scouting for Philip – told us about an isolated beach where very few people went – a twenty-minute bus ride from town. “Hardly anybody goes there. You’ll probably have the whole beach to yourselves.” So Martine and I decided to go and swim and sunbathe – just the two of us.
James and Philip wanted to visit a church and a local archeological site near the beautiful seaside mountain town of Taormina which used to be a paradise for gay sexual adventurers – and, accompanied by Giulia, Philip was going to visit a couple of locations – an old abandoned hillside village and a half-ruined castle – for some scenes in an upcoming film.
James decided to tag along with them.
James and Philip said they would join us on the deserted beach – later.
So Martine and I, dressed in shorts and T-shirts, and armed with an old rucksack, decided to take a bus along the coast.
The bus was filled with locals, quite a few students from the University of Messina, and it trundled along a coastal road, near the Strait of Messina, through a fishing village, and then up into the hills, so we could see the Tyrrhenian Sea, as it stretched away beyond fields and small woods.
“It’s like we’re running away from home,” Martine whispered into my ear. She leaned close, and put her arm around me.
As always, she smelled of lemon – sweetness itself.
On one desolate stretch of road, the bus pulled off the asphalt and stopped in a cloud of dust. The driver told us this was our stop.
We said thanks, and got off. There was nothing but palm trees, the dusty gravelly side of the road, a small shop on the opposite side of the road, and the sun glaring down out of a blue, blue sky.
We crossed the road, sheltering our eyes from the glare of sunlight, and went into the shop – suddenly finding ourselves in the shadowy coolness, cluttered with things to buy – and bought ham-and-cheese sandwiches and two bottles of mineral water from a friendly young woman called Paola.
“Paola, how do we get to the beach?” Martine gave Paola her best, most brilliant smile.
“I’ll show you!” Paola came out of the shop and pointed.
Half-hidden by a cluster of palm trees, a dirt road headed off, through some bushes, towards the sea.
We waved goodbye to Paola and we began to walk down the road, a narrow dusty corridor winding between trees and thick bushes.
The heat glared at us from the white sand. I blinked and put on my sunglasses, big things with broad white plastic frames.
Martine took my hand and leaned close. She nibbled at my earlobe. “I think, Gwendoline, that you should change here.” The point of her tongue tickled its way along the edge of my ear.
“You do, do you?”
“A strip-tease, right here? In the middle of the road?”
“Yes, my little pony-girl, exhibitionism for the exhibitionist.”
“Okay. I am your humble servant.” I lifted off the old leather rucksack that grandmother Claudia had given me – I was the packhorse of our expedition – and handed it to Martine who was holding out her hand.
She grinned and held out her hand for my T-shirt and shorts and panties.
“I think this is perfect,” she said.
I was still wearing sandals.
She frowned. “No, on second thought, you don’t need sandals. The sand is like powder. It’s soft and it’s hot, but not too hot. Your bare feet will enjoy the touch of the earth.”
Martine was definitely the boss in our lesbian romance.
Well, for today anyway. Gwendoline, as you may have noticed, is very accommodating.
“Okey-dokey,” I lifted off my sandals, and with an obedient little bow, I handed them over.
Now I was truly naked, despoiled of everything – except for the oversized white-framed sunglasses.
Martine put my shorts, T-shirt, and panties, and sandals into the rucksack and she zipped it up. Then she hooked it onto my back.
“You are cruel, Mistress! What if somebody comes along?”
“If somebody comes along I’ll denounce you! You are a wild nudist exhibitionist American who has escaped from some secret dark priestly satanic gothic insane asylum up in the hills, on the slopes of the mighty volcano, Etna. I am a bounty-hunter sent to trap you and take you back to your dungeon, where you will be chained up, naked, against a sweaty stone wall deep underground and fed on bread and water by a beautiful sadistic nun until you agree to take your vows of eternal chastity, forever and ever.”
She adjusted the rucksack, tightening it on my shoulders. She patted me on the bum. “Let’s go little donkey!”
“Yes, Mistress Martine, of course, whatever you say!”
The heat glared at us from every direction. The road was dusty white, brilliant, like a pathway of chalk.
Through the trees, palms, and a thick wall of thorny bushes, we caught glimpses of the sea – a brilliant line of dark blue with shadows hovering at the very edge, beyond the horizon, the Aeolian Islands, one of them was an almost perfect pyramid shape, like a ghostly Egyptian pyramid floating over the water.
“Islands,” said Martine. She leaned close and kissed me on the cheek. Then she put her hands on my waist, turned me towards her, and kissed me on the lips. It was a deep kiss, a long, warm, hot, cool, beautifully smooth, slippery, eloquent kiss.
“Oh!” I breathed, “Oh!” I was trembling.
Martine slid her hand down my tummy.
Then, slowly, slowly, as she kissed deeper and deeper, she moved her fingers down, tapping out a playful little tune, and then, sliding over my smooth, waxed pubis, her fingers found their target, and began to work their twisting magic, smooth finger-tip motion, dialing me up, and up, me and my clitoris up and up, towards…
“Volcanic islands – very explosive,” Martine whispered, letting her lips and warm sweet breath brush mine.
Then she plunged again into that deep, liquid, exploring kiss.
How is it that a kiss can be so intelligent, so sensitive, and, oh, so wonderful?
Around us, the glare of the midday sun, the rasping of cicadas, the absolute still of the immense and purely blue sky.
By now, I was trembling. I was on the edge of …
I imagined how it looked: The two of us, standing in the middle of that dusty glaring white narrow little road twisting its way down towards the Tyrrhenian Sea. Martine was blond, with her hair twisted up with elastics and a sweatband into a perky pony-tail. Her sandals were stylish, her white shorts were impeccable, her white T-shirt was perfect, her long legs and her arms and her face were tanned a pure delicate gold. Her classical features are a marvel. And then there was me – chalk-white, naked, barefoot, wearing oversized white-framed sunglasses, a statue of ivory, coated head-to-toe in gleaming beads and rivulets of sweat.
What would anyone think?
I was teetering on the edge. I trembled. She kissed me deeper.
I put my hands, my fingers spread wide, in the small of her back, and pressed her closer to me. Her fingers explored deeper, twirling, twisting – Oh cruel!
Her other hand was now on my left buttock, sliding over it, patting it, molding it, caressing it, slapping it, oh, so gently!
“Oh, my love!” I whispered when she let me.
Then that fierce return kiss, ever so fierce, and then she bent me backward, just as James would do if we were standing in some shady stream, or in the dark nights in Rome, standing, pressed close, making love.
It was suddenly as if Martine was going to swing me … oh, gulp … into a … into a tango!
Oh, oh, oh!
Oh, oh, oh!
I came in a shuddering liquid dissolving burst. I trembled. I wanted to scream; but her kiss was locked onto mine, she wouldn’t let me; she choked my scream; I wanted to bite her tongue, I wanted to eat her up, I yearned to melt into her, I wished she would melt into me.
Oh, oh, oh – it went on and on.
On and on!
She didn’t stop; she was relentless; her caresses went deeper, wider, savvy, controlled, but I noticed she too was breathless.
Her heart was beating, I swear, almost as fast as mine.
She disengaged, planted her wet, dripping fingers on the curve of my hip. She kissed me on the forehead, and then she kissed and licked and bit and twisted my right nipple.
I swallowed. “That was a perfect Martine Aubin power trip,” I growled.
She gave my breast a last lick; she looked up; her eyes twinkled, oh so bright blue, her forehead glistening with beads of sweat, her blond hair darkened with sweat – She grinned, like a little kid, she grinned. “Of course it was,” She said. She reached out and cleared a strand of hair from my forehead.
“Just as you do in your power trips with Philip,” I pretended to pout.
“And he with me, and James with you, and you with James,” she said. “You and I are equal in all things and you are a wicked mischievous genius imp! A mistress of BDSM! It must be one of your Ph. D.s, a Ph.D. in kink. Remember that time you tied me up, handcuffed and helpless, and forced me to eat buttered popcorn!”
“Yes, Mistress, I do remember. You were furious and dripping delicious hot salty butter from your lips and chin!”
“You were, oh so cruel, Gwendoline! It was very erotic, the bondage, the popcorn, and that horror movie! And then we made love, naked, on that tickly thick deep warm white carpet!”
“Yes, in front of the crackling fireplace!”
“And it was raining outside, a regular horror movie tempest!”
We began to walk again, side by side, hand in hand.
The sun seemed even hotter.
Sweat trickled down my spine, inside the backpack.
The road gleamed white, a scar torn and bending away in the brilliant dark green foliage.
I was naked, dripping sweat, dripping passion, wearing those ridiculous oversized glasses, and burdened with the rucksack.
At that moment, a man came around the bend, emerging suddenly out of the wall of green vegetation, facing us
He was carrying a walking stick and he was, I think, perhaps in his sixties, very handsome, strong features, tanned, with a gray handlebar mustache, a white Panama hat, an open white shirt, and white trousers, and black leather shoes. He didn’t react at all, but, as he approached he lifted his hat, and said, with a smile and in a deep, serious voice, “Buongiorno!”
“Buongiorno!” we chorused, bowing and nodding our heads in greeting.
His smile turned to a grin, his eyes narrowing against the sun. “I might just warn you,” he said, in rather formal, literary Italian, “That a group of school children is coming up the road. They have a schoolmarm with them.”
“Thank you!” We chorused.
“You are welcome! Enjoy the sea!” He passed us, winked, nodded, and continued on his way. Then we heard him sigh, a stage whisper, “Ah, giovinezza! Ah, youth!”
Martine took the backpack off my shoulders, opened it, and plucked out a long, very long, black, silk T-shirt. I slipped into it. It looked like I was dressed.
But I wasn’t.
The black silk fluttered around my naked thighs, then stuck, captured by the beads of sweat.
I settled the rucksack – its warm leather straps pressing through the silken T-shirt – onto my back, and hand in hand, we continued, and, just at that moment, the little herd of school children came around the bend.
“Ciao, ragazzi!” shouted Martine.
“Ciao, ragazzi!” I chimed in.
“Ciao, Signorina! Ciao, Signorina!” they all shouted, as they grinned and filed past us.
The school teacher, a pretty young woman in tan shorts and an open white shirt and sandals, smiled and nodded, “It’s a wonderful day for the beach,” she said, “Have fun!”
“We will! You too!” we said.
We watched the little herd disappear up the road.
And, then, we continued – toward the beach.