The Angel of the Night

Milan by night envelops me like a river of ink, while I wander around in my car with my personal demons as my only traveling companions.

Night is my element. Driving in the wee hours has a cathartic effect on my restless mind. The city transforms after dark--more honest, more raw, as if it were ripping off the mask it wears during the day. I drive slowly, letting chance chart my course. The clock on the dashboard says two. A rational voice whispers that there is work tomorrow, that I should be home, but I ignore it. I lose myself in the streets until a right turn catapults me into the pulsing belly of the night.

I find myself in the slow flow of night traffic, on one of the avenues where desire has a price. Memories of the "puttan tours" of twenty years ago surface involuntarily as I join the procession of cars. Here the viados reign -- bodies suspended between genders, perhaps by choice, more likely by necessity. One throws open his raincoat with a theatrical gesture, exhibiting the incongruity between the female body and the male member. A cocktail of envy, fear and disturbance pushes me to the accelerator. The South American chant "Twenty mouths, thirty love" accompanies me along the avenue like a hypnotic lullaby.

Desire awakens, sneaky and insistent. The idea of ​​stopping, of giving myself a moment of mercenary pleasure, begins to take root. But none of them can fool me--the heavy makeup isn't enough to mask their masculinity. I turn again, pretending to head home, but I continue to move from one avenue to the other. Hope refuses to die, like a stubborn flame that refuses to go out, while the dick in my pants throbs with an urgency I can no longer ignore.

I'm standing in line, mesmerized by the nocturnal ritual of Milan that never sleeps, when a voice emerges from the darkness like a promise. "Will you walk me home?" She appears out of nowhere, leaning against my door with the ease of a predator. Her coat--an expensive piece, I note absentmindedly--is open just enough to reveal a body that seems designed for sin, wrapped in a dress that provokes rather than dresses. I stare at her, dazed, my mind wavering between desire and suspicion.

"Can you give me a ride home?" she repeats, and her voice has a peculiar quality--too refined for these nocturnal hunting avenues. I ask her destination, struggling to keep my tone neutral as my body already responds to her presence. "Old fairgrounds," she says, and something in the way she pronounces the words sounds like an invitation to a dangerous game. I know that area well--it's not the usual hunting ground of professional women, and it's this detail that sparks my curiosity even more.

She climbs with the studied precision of a dancer, movements that seem too measured for a woman of the streets. She smiles at me, running a hand through her hair in a gesture that has the naturalness of a well-rehearsed play. "I wouldn't want the police to stop you because of me," she says, and in her smile lies a secret that I can't decipher--a mix of provocation and amusement. "My name is Paola, and you?"

I can't take my eyes off her. She's disturbingly beautiful--not the artificial beauty typical of these avenues, but something more authentic and precisely for this reason more unsettling. "Dago," I reply, and my voice betrays an excitement that goes beyond mere carnal desire. Her perfume invades the cabin--Chanel, perhaps, definitely not the usual heavy sidewalk smell. It's a perfume that speaks of offices in the fashion district, aperitifs in Brera, not of late-night bargaining.

I move through the streets of a Milan that I know but that tonight seems different, as if the presence of this woman had altered the coordinates of my reality. The silence in the car thickens, electric. I would like to talk to her but every word seems inadequate. "Do you know the way?" she breaks the silence. "Yes, yes, calm down," I reply, and finally find the courage to explore. "Where did you come from? I didn't see you on the sidewalk."

"I was giving a blowjob to a customer behind the bushes..." The answer comes with disconcerting naturalness, and in my mind an image forms so vivid that it makes me grip the steering wheel: her, kneeling in the shadows, her luxury coat open to reveal her generous tits almost spilling out of her dress, while her perfect mouth works the cock of some old manager in search of forbidden emotions. My cock throbs violently in my pants, betraying an excitement that goes beyond rational control. The idea of ​​that sophisticated mouth getting dirty in the dark drives me crazy.

But there is something in her tone--a subtle, almost imperceptible irony--that clashes with the crude words. Her voice is that of a woman accustomed to moving in environments far different from these nocturnal avenues. "Where are you from?" I try to maintain a semblance of normal conversation. "A small town near Padua," she answers, and there is indeed something of the Northeast in her accent, but filtered through years of refined education.

He leads me with precise directions: from Piazzale Lotto he makes me go around the old lido, skirt the side of the swimming pool on Via Diomede and then make me turn into one of those little streets full of villas and shaded areas. He shows me a parking lot, far from the streetlights. The perfect place for those who don't want to be seen, I think, and this knowledge excites me even more. His hand is still on the back of my neck, his fingers playing with my hair in a caress that is more command than comfort.

She turns off the engine, with a gesture that asserts control of the situation. The click of the key is like a signal--the boundary between before and after. She reclines my seat with a confident, precise movement. There is no hesitation in her gestures as she unbuttons my shirt--her fingers seem to know every button before they find it.

"How much..." I start to ask, but she silences me by pressing a finger to my lips. "Shh... let me do it." Her voice has a commanding note that brooks no reply, too authoritative for a street whore. My cock throbs in my pants, responding to that authority with an animal urgency. Her expert fingers undo my shirt quickly. She kisses my chest, and while her tongue traces incandescent paths over my skin, her hands have already opened my pants, pulled down my boxers, grabbed my sex. My cock responds like a trained animal to her touch -- hard, eager, ready for anything. I close my eyes, silently thanking whatever god of the Milanese nights sent me this unexpected gift.

I feel my cock disappearing into her hot mouth, and fuck, this isn't a professional's mechanical blowjob - there's something different, more personal in the way her tongue caresses me, explores me, owns me. My mind registers the absence of a condom first. Then how she sucks it, tastes it, licks it, without neglecting a millimeter of skin, without that rush to make him cum typical of someone who just wants to finish and go home.

She takes my hand and guides it between her thighs. "Just to reassure you that I'm a woman." She pulls me into her lace panties--another detail too refined for a street whore--and what I find makes my head spin: She's soaking wet, but not with the cheap lube the pros use. She's wet with real, primal desire.

As she continues to give me a blowjob with increasing intensity, she uses my hand to masturbate herself. I don't have to do anything - she controls every movement, using my fingers as a tool for her pleasure. The thought of this elegant woman using my body to masturbate herself while she sucks my cock brings me dangerously close to orgasm.

She pulls away for a moment, and with a studied movement lowers her cleavage and bra, freeing her generous breasts. They are perfect -- too perfect to be true, I think, but when I touch them I discover that they are natural, warm, alive. She takes my cock and squeezes it between her breasts, creating a tunnel of warm, silky flesh. "Do you like fucking my tits?" she whispers, and there is something in her voice -- a mix of innocence and depravity that drives me crazy.

As she squeezes it between her tits, my cock throbs as if it has a life of its own. I look down at her--her breasts are a breathtaking sight: generous but firm, with large, dark areolas that seem designed for sin, hard nipples that betray her arousal. They are the tits of an ancient goddess, a Renaissance Madonna, too perfect for a street whore. When she moves, they swing in a hypnotic, natural rhythm, revealing their authenticity in every movement. Her skin is smooth, immaculate, and the way she squeezes my cock in that channel of warm flesh makes me want to own her, to mark her, to dirty that perfection.

The contrast between her innate elegance and this dirty thing she's doing in a car parked in the dark drives me crazy. Every time the chapel emerges from that tunnel of perfect flesh, her half-open lips welcome it with an almost reverential kiss, as if she were officiating a profane rite.

"Look at me," she commands suddenly, and there's a light in her green eyes that I can't quite decipher--a mixture of lust and... amusement? "Look at me while I get my tits fucked by your cock." The dirty language in her polite mouth makes me tremble with excitement. It's not your usual slutty dirty talk--there's something more personal, like she's discovering the pleasure of being dirty right now, like every dirty word she utters is a little personal transgression.

Her tits are slick with my pre-orgasm cum, and the thought of it drives me even wilder. She notices, speeds up her movements, tightens those natural works of art around my throbbing cock. "You can't take it anymore, can you?" she whispers, her voice honey and poison at the same time. "You want to cum on the tits of a whore you meet on the street?"

There's something strange about the way she says "whore," as if she's playing a role that excites her as much as it excites me. It's as if every time she uses that word, a shiver runs through her body, making her instinctively squeeze her breasts around my cock with more force. But I don't have time to analyze this thought, because her tongue starts licking the glans every time it emerges, and the pleasure becomes unbearable.

Pleasure courses through me like an electric shock when his tongue touches the glans. My fingers, still between his thighs, feel his sex pulsate with every movement. "You like it like this, huh?" he whispers, his voice cracking with excitement as he rides my hand. He lifts himself slightly, offering my cock that tunnel of warm, silky flesh. "Tell me how much you like fucking my tits... tell me."

I can't speak. Every neuron in my brain is torn between the feel of her breasts squeezing my cock and the way her pussy tightens around my fingers. I push deeper, searching for that spot that makes her tremble, and when I find it, her moan is a confirmation that drives me crazy. She increases the pressure on her tits. "Tell me," she insists, but her commanding voice falters as my fingers quicken their pace.

"You drive me crazy," I whisper, my voice hoarse with desire. "Your tits... fuck, they're perfect." She smiles, satisfied, and rewards my compliance by increasing the pace. Her breasts move up and down on my cock with increasing urgency, while her pussy drips onto my hand, betraying an excitement no professional could fake.

"Do you want to come?" she asks, but the question turns into a moan when my thumb finds her clit. Her body betrays the control her voice is trying to maintain. "Do you want to dirty these perfect tits with your cum?" The vulgar words in her polite mouth bring me closer to orgasm, while my fingers feel her sex contracting harder and harder.

She slows suddenly, but her control falters as I slide a finger deeper. "Not so fast," she whispers, but her breathing is labored. Her hand slides between her butt cheeks, following my lead, and she begins to play with her little hole as she rides my fingers with increasingly urgent movements.

She is torturing me, alternating moments of intense pleasure with pauses that drive me crazy, but she too is losing control. Her tits squeeze my cock like a hot silk vice, her tongue plays with the glans, while her pussy squeezes my fingers as if she wants to suck them inside. Her little hole opens under her own fingers, in a total abandonment that betrays how lost she is in pleasure.

"Look at me," she commands again, but this time it's almost a plea. There's a wild, primal light in her eyes. "Watch me make you come... make me come." Her command is broken by moans as she rides my fingers with increasing urgency. Her breasts squeeze my cock harder, her tongue grows more insistent. "Come," she pants, "come for me... make me dirty... make me come..."

It's no longer a game -- our pleasures fuel each other in an unstoppable crescendo. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing ragged, her nipples hard as rocks. I abandon the confused exploration of her holes and focus on her clit, massaging it with increasingly insistent circular movements. Her body responds immediately -- I feel her arch, pushing her hips against my hand, demanding more. Her fingers have left her ass and are now gripping the seat tightly, her knuckles white with effort as she tries not to lose her rhythm on my cock.

"Like this... fuck, like this..." she pants, and her elegant voice breaking into a vulgar plea drives me wild. Her clit is hard, swollen, hungry under my fingers that give it no respite. I can feel her trembling, her sex pulsing and contracting as the orgasm overwhelms her--a real, wild orgasm that blows away all pretense, all role-play. She's coming, her body shaking uncontrollably, and it's the sight of her genuine, primal pleasure that pushes me over the edge.

I can't resist anymore. The first spurt explodes powerfully, painting a white streak between her perfect breasts. She moans at the sight of my cum marking her body, and with a quick movement she engulfs my cock in her mouth, hungry, greedy for every drop. I hear her moan and suck as I continue to come, her orgasm making her tremble as she rides my hand with increasingly wild movements.

I feel it, just a hint, a small gush with a strong, particular, unique flavor -- the forbidden flavor of her deepest pleasure. I stand up, my hard cock throbbing painfully with contained excitement. I move along the table like a predator studying its exhausted prey.

Paola closes her eyes, still lost in the post-orgasmic waves. The first thing she sees is my cock, purple and swollen with repressed desire. Like a thirsty creature, she instinctively moves her head toward it, seeking it with her mouth. I don't pull away -- on the contrary, I grab her hair with my left hand, squeezing those brown waves until she moans. My right hand finds its way between her thighs, middle and ring fingers sliding without resistance into that pussy now transformed into a lake of pleasure.

She begins to suck me with an almost desperate greed, as if my cock were the only thing that could still give her pleasure. But when my hand begins to move up and down, shaking her pussy with rapid and precise movements, her body responds in an unexpected way. I feel her tremble, trying to move away -- not out of disgust, but out of fear of this new and overwhelming sensation that is building in her belly.

She wants to tell me to stop, I can see it in her wide eyes, but I hold her still with my grip on her hair, my cock filling her mouth preventing her from speaking. I give her no respite, intensifying my movements until she explodes -- a powerful jet of clear liquid squirts from her pussy, flooding the kitchen floor. The air fills with the intense smell of her orgasm, a primal scent that speaks of total abandon.

I don't stop. I make her squirt again, enjoying her confused and surprised expression, the way her body responds against her will, the power I have over her. Only when I see her almost sobbing from the intensity of the sensations do I let her go, watching her as she lies on the table, trembling and vulnerable.

But it's not over. Her total abandon, her post-orgasmic vulnerability excites me beyond all limits. I want her again, I want all of her. Adrenaline takes control of my body and mind, erasing every trace of gentleness. I yank her off the table with a brusque movement, placing her on all fours on the cold kitchen floor. It's no longer time for sweets -- she's my whore and I'm going to use her as she deserves, as she desires.

She lowers her head, offering her soft and firm ass, desirable beyond all modesty. I wet my cock in her pussy, enjoying how wet she is, how her body betrays the desire to be used. I sink and come out, then back in but immediately out. Paola's moans are the soundtrack to our sex. When I press my cock against her asshole, she holds her breath, but doesn't pull away. I sink hard, tearing a cry from her that is pain and pleasure at the same time. As I push, trying to sink all my flesh into that tight hole, my hand falls on her buttocks, leaving red prints on the pale skin.

"You like being my whore, huh?" I growl, sinking deeper. "You like being fucked like a whore?" Her response is an animalistic moan as she pushes her ass against me, begging for more. The more I feel her enjoying it, the more brutal I become, and the more my pleasure increases--a primal pleasure that erases every trace of our refinement.

Our bodies move in perfect sync, driven by a bestial instinct. Her screams fill the kitchen--no longer the elegant woman she once was, but a creature of pure pleasure begging to be used. I step out, and watch her for a few moments. Her asshole open, wide open, her pussy dripping onto the floor. "Cum in my ass, fill me up," she growls, a compromise between command and plea. I slam back into her ass, fucking her with all the strength I have left. Violently until her ass cheeks shake. As I come, filling her ass with hot cum, I feel her pleasure dripping onto my balls, her pussy throbbing in an orgasm that seems to never end. She mutters incomprehensible things as she continues to push herself against my cock.

My cock is still hard--the sight of her used body, my cum dripping from her stretched ass, keeps me in a primal state of arousal. I'm still horny, hungry for another orgasm from her. I thrust into her pussy, the sound of juices squirting out accompanying the action. I clutch at her tits, hard as ever, her nipples swollen and begging for attention, and even though I'm no longer fully hard, I fuck her with a renewed fury.

Her moans are getting louder, more desperate. Her pussy is a wet oven sucking me in, not wanting to let go. I can feel my abs burning with the effort, but I can't stop--her pleasure is like a drug. I can feel her coming again, and again, and again, her body writhing beneath me.

I finally give in, dropping into the chair, exhausted. After a while, she moves like a contented cat, nestling between my legs. Her tongue finds my balls, moves up the shaft, licks away every trace of our mixed juices. I want to tell her to stop -- I'm hypersensitive, it almost hurts. But her tongue is irresistible, and when she takes my cock in her mouth, sucking and licking it at the same time, I feel myself hardening again.

The clock on the wall says seven. The reality of the outside world begins to infiltrate our bubble of transgression. I stand up from the couch, searching for my clothes scattered around the kitchen. "I have to go to work," I say, as I pull on my boxers and pants. "Duty calls." My body protests with every inch of skin I cover, as if it wants to remain immersed in this endless night.

Paola moves around the kitchen, gathering her clothes with the studied grace that drove me crazy hours ago. She slips on her silk shirt without closing it, a silent invitation to stay that makes it even harder to leave. She walks me to the door, the fabric swaying with each step, revealing fragments of her body that I now know so intimately.

"It was..." he hesitates, searching for the right words as he leans against the doorframe, "... an interesting encounter." There's something feline, promising about his smile, and the way his shirt opens slightly makes me think that perhaps this isn't the last time we'll get lost in the Milanese night.