J Peterman, The Naughty Version (or… A Dress Sized XXX)

jp2I’m sitting in the Stazione Termini, wearing my Melilla dress, admiring its plunging (or is it “spelunking”?) V-line and unruly orange and black pattern.

It suggests something uncontainably sweltering and Dionysian.

Then he approaches. Maybe my ‘Vestito’ summoned him.

“Are you new in town?” he says in English just lingering beneath perfection. My panties moisten agreeably.

I smile. “Yes. I’m in town for a play. A one-woman show at the Teatro Quirino tonight.” I wipe my brow. “Alas, a one-night stand. A play about Pirandello.”

“Ah, a play ‘about’ Pirandello?” He winks. “I sense there is more about you, Ms…?”

“Jillian Peterman. Or ‘J. Peterman,’ as the playbill declares.” I recline and examine his tumescent groin.

I can sense a weapon readying itself for combat.  But a tête-à-tête of the mind must precede a tête-à-tête of the flesh.

Buono.” He kisses my hand. “Again, I sense there is more about this play. Tell me.”

“Well, it’s actually a play about Pirandello writing a play about Pirandello writing a play about Pirandello.”

He smiles in approval. “Very ‘postmoderno’.”

“Yes.” I sigh, awkwardly with a quivering undertone of the purest arousal. “And postmodernism demands an unfettered approach to morals.”

?”

I nod. “Particularly those in the realm of la sessualità. Let me demonstrate.”

Sometimes, there is no appropriate verbal translation. I pull his pants fervidly to the floor, grasping the base of his granitic Italian-ness salivating come una bestia, tasting the (Neapolitan?) top-notes as I savor its contours.

He grunts. “You are una bella fica, Ms. J Peterman.”

Grazie.” I pull up the sublime dress to its elastic smocked waistband and lean back on the bench. I feel a new succulence, a sign of my mounting exhilaration, and I grasp a tuft of his dusky hair as he slithers inside me with intense Mario Lanza enthusiasm, plumbing me like Rocco Siffredi nailing Moana Pozzi.

I cover my mouth. Sometimes there are no decent words for an indecent moment…I pucker like Monica Vitti (but with less icy froideur) as I feel the bella upsurge of a climax.

I pull up my dress and mutter “Grazie per il sesso” as I blow my consort a dirty kiss.

The dress remains sublimely unruffled.

Pirandello here I cum…

sylvialowry1 (at) gmail.com

More Unbridled Reflections

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