Paulina: The Italian Nymph

Part One: A Therapy Session

Dr. Teresa Mordano hunched within herself and lit a cigarette. She leaned back in her wooden chair and recrossed her legs, studying her young patient with a keen but nonjudgmental eye. She extended a cigarette to Paulina just as one would extend an olive branch in a friendly offering. "Come on, have a cig. It'll relax you."

The teenager held her hand up. "No. Grazie. I smoked one a couple of years ago and it made me sick as a dog."

"Ah, so I remember." The psychiatrist nudged the phallic symbol back into its metal case along with the others. Dr. Mordano rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and chuckled in her deep, sultry laugh. "Well, as you get older, you'll learn what suits you and what doesn't."

Paulina spoke softly and giggled. "I guess so." She swept a long curtain of wavy brown hair over her shoulder, as if challenging the older woman to a competition.

The doctor didn't take her patient's bravado as a serious threat. She was a 40-year-old woman, a few years older than her husband, and keen to all the tricks and attempted intimidations that her youthful charges tried to push upon her. In their small Italian village, Dr. Mordano was a rare and exceptional woman: She was one of the few women who worked outside the home, not to mention a prestigious post as the town's psychiatrist or "headshrinker" as they liked to call her in the taverns and hotels. At this moment, the physician pushed away the gray curl of hair that swept across her temple and questioned her patient more closely:

"Are you going steady with anyone right now?"

"No, though I wish I were. There's one man - or should I say, boy - I have my eye on."

Dr. Mordano nodded and took another drag of her cigarette. "Nothing wrong with that. It's a perfectly healthy thing to feel." She paused and switched topics. "So, you'll be 18 this Sunday. What are your plans?"

Paulina's lips curled into a mischievous smile. "I plan to tease the hell out of this boy I mentioned... And more, if he permits me."

Part Two: Contentious Conversation

37-year-old Joe Mordano held his baby son close to his chest. He cradled his bambino. The child looked up with wonderous, curious blue eyes and wrapped his infant's hand around his father's thick finger. Joe smiled and spoke to him softly: "Precious boy."

The sunlight filtered in the room; it was a beautiful day. It was June of 1960 in the small Italian village of Atrani. The town, filled with big personalities, small beds, and many Catholic churches, were mostly lower middleclass, but the Mordano family lived comfortably: Joe's wife, Teresa, worked as a child and adolescent psychiatrist, and Joe himself worked as a fruit picker, his wages coming in more plentiful as the weather became warmer. Normally, the gap in their incomes did not bother either one of them, but Teresa had become bitter and resentful as of late, accusing her husband of not pulling his weight around the house financially.

He set his young son down in his crib and Teresa came abruptly into the room, very different from the laidback, calm aura that she presented to her patients in her office. She posed her hands on her matronly hips and asked, "Well? What is it?"

"I think he needs to be fed."

Teresa went over to the crib, collected her son carefully, and with an uncharacteristic and exasperated flounce, she fell into the rocking chair and extracted her left breast to feed their child. The infant began to suckle and nibble on his mother's lactating nipple, withdrawing the nutrients he needed for survival.

Joe looked out the open second-story window. The land sprawled before him was wonderous with green fields, orchards, tanned acres, and dust-trodden roads. It also had spots and streams of ponds and rivers near their home that glittered in the late afternoon rays. It was a beautiful place and had healed from the effects of the war some time ago: what had been destroyed and demolished buildings now were rebuilt and upright; the economy had flourished; the people were well-nourished, and many neighbors - including the Mordanos and the Del Patinas - had become more than friends and like extended families with one another. It was unknown to Joe that 17-year-old Paulina Del Patina was being treated by his wife, let alone as a nymphomania patient. He merely knew her as a friend of the family and an occasional babysitter for their new child.

When Joe had served in the Italian Army, one of the first things he wanted to do was get a tattoo, which remained unfaded to this day. It was on his bicep in the shape of a ship's anchor. The rest of his body was natural and seemed to fit the masculine intimidation of the tattoo. His hair was a mop of black curls, and his grin was wide and impish, above which a thick, dark, cookie duster mustache hugged his upper lip and the corners of his mouth. His eyes, too, were a dark color; they were expressive: they glistened in the sunlight and mourned in the rain. Being an emotional Mediterranean man, the story of his emotions could be read through his eyes - one flash of a page, and you knew him from the preface to the epilogue.

His skin color was tinted bronze by his Italian heritage and his body was long and slim. He stood well over six feet tall and weighed about 180 pounds. One of the highlights of his body, as mentioned before, was his naturalness. As a grown man, he sprouted black hairs from all parts of his body, though not so much that he resembled that of an ape. His groin was crowded with a nest of black pubic hair, and his chest was ripe for feminine fingers to coil and uncoil the intimate hairs that sprung from his skin.

In the small village of Atrani, it seemed like everyone knew everyone else's lives and intentions. Despite having many friends in the area, it was a well-kept secret that the Mordanos were having marital difficulties. These difficulties presented themselves in this moment, as Joe knew they would.

"Joe, I can't carry the burden by myself anymore," Teresa told him as she nestled the child to her bosom. "I am taking care of the house. I'm working. You need to find another job or work longer hours at the one you have."

They'd had this conversation before. Many times. If he wasn't working long enough or hard enough, how is it that he had collected these calluses on his hands? They spotted his wide, big palms and fingers from his hours of work picking fruit. He got up at dawn with the other workers and came home in the afternoon just like everyone else. His temper started to rise, but it also started to dim like the flame on a stove; his son, Little Giuseppe, was, after all, present.

Joe left the room, jogged down the stairs, and stood outside on the porch, smoking a cigarette. At 37, his body was in good shape - after all, 37 is not old - but it was also far from the shape it had been in since he had started picking fruit nearly a decade and a half ago. He could feel Father Time reaching out to him and he tried to avoid his grip. But the addled husband knew something had to change. He didn't like his efforts going unappreciated and he was starting to resent his wife's hateful attitude towards him; she was no longer giving him an incentive to be a good husband (though he had always remained faithful and decent), but little did he know there was a teenage nymphomaniac not too far from where he lived who planned, on her eighteenth birthday, to pluck him like one of the dangling fruits he coveted for wage.

Part Three: American Habits

Paulina and her mother, Francesca, sat on their front porch in the stifling summer night. Lightning bugs flickered on and off like miniature lanterns. Francesca, a plump and robust woman, rough and direct, was mending her daughter's silk stockings. She grumbled and mumbled to herself while Paulina sat drinking a Grape Nehi.

"All the sugar in that drink will only oil your face more," Francesca scolded.

"It's my face and I'll do what I please with it," Paulina retorted, not looking at her mother.

Francesca let her tired hands fall in her lap, and she sighed in exasperation. "My dear bambina, you'll only be mine a little bit longer and then you'll cross the threshold to your eighteenth year. Don't make it so hard on your old mama."

Francesca brushed away her loosely knitted bun away from her face. Her hair hung sloppily over her eyes, and one could tell that the two women were related by the way they looked: They both had long, light brown hair; both had wide, almond-shaped eyes; both were about the height of 5'3". Both had a generous chest, though Francesca's breasts, after years of life and breastfeeding, sagged and drooped toward the direction of her navel.

Francesca had been born in Italy but spent most of her adult years in America. The Italian matriarch was an extremely adaptable woman and found the American ways more fitting to her philosophy of life. Having met her husband in America - also an Italian immigrant - they returned to Italy together on a vessel, after which her husband promptly ran from both the responsibility to his wife and his young daughter, who, at the time, was just a toddler.

Francesca had sent her daughter to Dr. Teresa Mordano when she found out of Paulina's affair with another young student. Normally, Paulina could keep her secrets close to the vest; Italians were not squealers. But after seven months of the affair, Paulina missed a period and feared she might be pregnant. This forced her to tell her mother of the liaison and, after a screaming battle and many ugly names hurled back and forth at one other, Mrs. Del Patina took her young daughter to the doctor to see if, in fact, she was pregnant. She was not. It turned out to be a cruel trick played by the gods of fertility.

In Italy, the legal age of consent was 14; in America it was 18. Having adapted so well to American habits, Francesca told Paulina, in no ambiguous terms, that she was to behave like a pristine, pure Catholic woman and keep her knees glued together until the day of her eighteenth birthday. The precocious daughter was frightened by the pregnancy scare and acknowledged there was no choice but to obey her mother's wishes on this request. After all, in the year 1960, a child born out of wedlock was almost unheard of.

There were times, however, when Mrs. Del Patina took her authority too far. Impatient, the matriarch would often slap her highly-sexed bambina on her bottom if she became too flirty with a young laborer. Also, Francesca forbad her child to wear pants of any kind, particularly tight ones that Paulina seemed to have an affinity for. She was to wear a knee-length skirt, a modest sweater, low-heeled pumps, stockings, a full slip, under which there were virgin's garters, and, even more virginal, cotton underwear.

Paulina sometimes found her mother overbearing, overwhelming, and - to borrow a word from Dr. Mordano's sessions - "repressive." But that coming Sunday, when the teenager would become legal, not only in faraway America, but legal in the eyes of her Americanized mother, the tempting adolescent daughter could fondle - and be fondled - by any man she pleased. Her appearance would also be drastically different, she decided. Instead of looking like a chaste librarian, she would exhibit herself, show the whole village - and the man she most desired - what a vibrant, sexually appealing little creature she had become.

Part Four: The Cannoli Cutie

Sunday, midday. It seemed that the weather had been bred especially for Paulina's mission. Overhead the sun burst like the lustful star that it was. It was warm. The blue, thinly-clouded sky was the only fence that faced her. The narrow, dusty streets gathered themselves in a huddle while the young woman - newly legal, even to her mama - passed with a strutting confidence that did not seem to match her age. In her grasp she held a ceramic plate of cannolis that she had made fresh that morning to give to the Mordano family. Joe, in particular.

Paulina looked completely different than she had even 24 hours ago; her mother had tsk-tsked her daughter's appearance as she left the house that day. Francesca knew her newly blonde bambina was on her way to seduce a man in the village, but the matriarch did not know it was another woman's husband. But Paulina was 18 now, even in the eyes of her strict, play-by-the-rules mother. Sexual freedom was hers.

Walking down the street, the young teenager was a beautiful vision to behold. Her hair - which was once a dull brown color - had been styled and dyed the color of gold by a beautician. The various curls and falls of her hair fell down the middle of her back. Some of her tresses were swept across her forehead, while other layers had been cut strategically to make her look as if she had just casually rolled out of bed looking like an Italian Aphrodite. And yet her crown of shining hair was neatly combed, a collection that the rough-and-tumble men on the side of the road dreamed of running their fingers through.

And for the men to eye her the way they did, each one of their dicks rose in anticipation and wetness at the youthful tart they could hardly believe was "that little Del Patina girl." Now she was a grown woman, someone fully available to their advances and glances. And they enjoyed looking. And she enjoyed their attentions.

On the previous Friday, Paulina had gone shopping especially for this occasion. She had bought herself a pink dress, which she was wearing now, and it went against every chaste rule her mother had taught her in the last few years: The skirt of the dress was short, landing high upon her thigh, and pleated, giving her sweet bottom an oomph. It was tucked in tightly at her small waist and flared out again at her full breasts. She had forgone the cone bras that were so popular at that time and decided to go without one altogether. Her fresh and creamy full tits stood up on their own volition, motivated by such a moment in her young life. The neck of her dress was split provocatively so that her abundance of cleavage made itself available to every male eye.

Underneath, she was wearing no slip, no garters, no stockings; she was simply wearing a small pair of white frilly panties that showed in glimpses and glances at the sway of her walk. This was unheard of from a respectable girl in that day and time. On her petite feet she wore thin-heeled stilettos of a tan color lifting her natural height of 5'3" up nearly three more inches. Her legs were bare and shaved as she strolled through the voyeuristic glances of the men that passed in streams and the disapproving shakes of the heads by her fellow female villagers. For a young woman to walk barelegged in Italy in 1960 was brazen and daring, and it was not hard to decipher Francesca's direct message when she told her daughter, before she left their home, that she was "advertising herself like a streetwalker would." Paulina appreciated the ill-meant sentiment and took it as a compliment.

When Paulina was jailbait, just a few short hours ago, Francesca had forbidden her daughter to wear makeup of any sort. Now Paulina was a cosmetician's doll. She had applied a coral lipstick to her naturally full lips, coloring them a tempting shade of pink that she hoped Joe - or if Joe refused her - no other man could resist. The cheeks of her face were brushed with a modest amount of blush and her ocean-blue eyes were decorated with the blackness of mascara, painting both the upper and lower eyelashes of both eyes. Yes, from head to toe, she was an unblemished doll.

Paulina passed on the street to the hushed whispers of quieted men, to the gossiping murmurs of woman who said she looked like "an American hussy." She only looked peripherally at those who noticed her. Joe, with his black curls and thick mustache, was the main reason of her sexual journey, the man she wanted to make love to this afternoon, the man she had set out to give her heart and body to - if he was willing to break his wedding vows for her. The men on the street surely gave her reason to believe Joe may do this, looking at her tightly curved body as she strolled by naturally in her nude stilettos and flash of silk panties that showed themselves with every swerve and sway of her hips. This occasional display of her underpants drew catcalls and whistles from the watchful men on the street.

The adolescent arrived on the porch of the Mordano household. She knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked on it again and Joe answered the door. Normally, he would've greeted her with a broad, welcoming smile and a nod of the head, but his reaction to her appearance was very much like the men in the street: shocked and awestruck by her shining, brazen sexuality.

"He-ello Paulina," he choked out. He stood in the doorway, filling it up with his tallness. He wore jeans and a tight white t-shirt, his tattoo peeking out from his sleeve.

"Hello Joe," Paulina replied. She held out the plate of cannolis. "These are for you. And your family."

Reaching out for the plate, he noticed the contrast between her lily skin and his bronzed skin. It was a beautiful mixing of colors. He took the plate and unwrapped the foil that kept the traditional Italian pastries in place.

"Oh, grazie Paulina. These look delicious."

He looked back up into her eyes, almost questioning her as to why she was there in such a provocative outfit. But this was Italy - he knew what she was offering. And it was quite an offer. She had gone from being a pristine, Catholic girl to resembling a blonde Italian whore virtually overnight. He was absolutely enraptured not only with how she looked but how she carried herself. She held herself like a woman, with the various tweaks and stances of an interested young lady. And he couldn't help but be interested himself, despite being a husband and father to a blossoming family.

Paulina dipped her finger into the cream of one of the cannolis. She brought it up to his lips and he, never taking his dark eyes away from her blue ones, licked her fingertip, allowing the teenage girl to feed him the goodies she had brought over for his family, knowing it was just a pretense to get him into bed. His dick hardened at the thought of sinking into this goddess.

Reality, though, had to intervene. There was hollering upstairs from his wife, Teresa - she needed help with the baby.

Paulina looked at him with a small smile, resigning herself to the fact that this was not the time. She whispered, "Don't give away all your cream at once now."

The 37-year-old man nearly dropped the plate. His hands trembled at her boldness. He leaned slightly outside of the doorframe, nearer to her body. He was fully into the idea she was presenting to him. "When can I see you again, sweetheart?" he asked in a low, gruff voice.

She gave him a quick kiss on the lips. "Soon." And at that simple and monosyllabic word, she turned and ran in the direction of her home. He watched her retreat into the world of the village, a world of trucks and carts and laborers who were taking the day off, for it was a day of rest. In the light of the sun, he saw her fresh, blonde hairstyle swinging back and forth as she ran, impossibly, in heels, and, seeing the way her tiny white panties exposed themselves with each bounce, a drop of desire formed on the tip of his penis, and he withdrew back into his house to tend to his son.

Part Five: Radio Heaven

Mother and daughter joined the Mordanos at their home that Wednesday for a grand dinner of ravioli, minestrone soup, salad, and bread with a dessert dish of apple pie that Francesca Del Patina had prepared for the occasion. The baby, Little Guiseppe, joined the four adults at the dinner table where he fussed and cried and wiggled as the quartet ate heartily and enjoyed the food that Teresa Mordano had made.

It was a round table rather than a rectangular one and Joe and Teresa sat next to each other, with the baby propped up in his highchair between them, while Francesca and Paulina sat side by side.

Joe had suggested to his wife that the two families get together for a meal. Teresa agreed it would be a nice idea and asked Mrs. Del Patina if she and her daughter would like to join them. They agreed.

Though Joe had been inclined to get the five of them together, it was he who sat quietly at the table while his loudmouth wife talked incessantly with Francesca Del Patina. Francesca was just as much of a gossip and a busybody as his wife was and the two older women continually bounced off each other in conversation, gesticulating, finishing each other sentences, and laughing at each other's jokes. From Joe and the young Paulina, though, there was very little talk; they spoke only through their glances.

As each of the four adults passed bowls of food back and forth, filling up on the main course and then partaking in second helpings, Joe could not withdraw his eyes from the young blonde who had made a pass at him only a few days before. Paulina would delicately bring her spoon up to her mouth and look up at Joe from between lustful, dark lashes, and smile mischievously but wordlessly.

On Sunday, when Paulina had come over, she had caught him in his short sleeves, but this evening he had been determined to make a more refined impression on the village tramp, whom he regarded now as his. He dressed in jeans without wrinkles and a blue button-up shirt, loosely rolled up to the elbows and open at the collar. He had combed his black curls with a hairbrush and shaved so that he did not bear the darkness of a five o'clock shadow, though he still wore his thick mustache with machismo.

Teresa Mordano regarded her patient with no suspicion and only saw her as she saw her in the confines of her psychiatric office: as a young woman, lost in her own urges of nymphomania, never knowing that the youth had designs on her husband. And Paulina's mother, Francesca, occasionally eyed her daughter cautiously; her offspring had rarely been so quiet at a dinner that they shared with their good friends and neighbors. Usually, she liked to blab with the two mature women while Joe ate with an anguished, pained face, wishing for some grand religious event to give him the perfect excuse to part from the supper of yapping hussies.

Paulina's dinnertime outfit had distracted Dr. Mordano's husband at once. She was wearing the same nude stilettos that she had worn a few days ago, tight tan pants that showed off the curves of her bottom, and a snug, lowcut sweater, only this time he could tell she was wearing a bra underneath - a sign of respect toward her mother and his wife. In a glimpse, he could see the cone bra's pink, lace strap lying across her bare shoulder in a moment when she turned to have her plate filled up by Teresa. Mrs. Mordano had piled the pasta onto her young charge's outstretched china. She was a well-fed, healthy girl, who often wanted second helpings as her metabolism burned the calories at the speed of light. Despite Paulina's appetite for food, she, since the age of 13, had maintained a waist of strictly twenty-two inches. No more, no less.

"Mrs. Mordano," Paulina broached. "May I excuse myself?"

"Yes darling, of course. Have you had enough to eat?"

"Si, grazie."

Francesca felt her daughter's forehead. "Are you feeling alright, bambina? You've been so quiet during this dinner."

Paulina nodded and flashed a quick, subtle smile in Joe's direction. "Yes mother, I'm alright."

The youngster stood up to clear her dishes and cups from the wooden table, but the lady of the house playfully swatted her forearm. "No! You're a guest. Joe and I will clean up the mess."

"Thank you, Mrs. Mordano. May I listen to your radio?"

Mrs. Mordano was distracted, wiping the lips of Little Giuseppe with a cloth. "Hmm? Yes, dear. Just keep it down. Your mother and I would like to continue our little talk."

Paulina nodded and left the plates and cups where they were on the table. In the clickety-clack steps of her stilettos, she walked around the table, slowing her pace when she passed Joe, and went into the living room. She fiddled with the dial of the old box of a radio, trying to settle on a clear-throated station, and let her tiny body fall onto the sofa after the full meal. She sat quietly for a moment until a deep, masculine voice interrupted her solitude.

"Hello Paulina," Joe said quietly. "Can I join you?"

She looked up at him with her round, oceanic eyes and smiled. "Si. I'd like that." She patted the spot beside her.

Joe circled the sofa and sat next to her, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, and clutching his callused hands in his lap. After a moment of silence, he smiled, making his mustache inch up toward his cheeks. Paulina was enraptured by each of his movements and watched him carefully with wide eyes. "I'm glad you decided to join your mother, Paulina." He paused once more. "I'm happy to see you."

She let her head fall on the back of the sofa, the long layers of her blonde hair falling behind her in waves. She studied him. "I'm glad I came, too." She picked up his hand nearest to her and looked at it thoroughly, letting her soft fingers run over the rumpled and sore calluses. "Are these from picking fruit?"

He nodded. "You couldn't convince Mrs. Mordano of that, though." He looked at her and smiled.

The kitchen was just out of view. They could still hear the two women at the table, gabbing and laughing, though they could not make out what the conversation was about.

Paulina brought his battered hand to her lips and looked up at him. He looked at her lustfully, allowing his lips to part, wanting to speak but not being able to. His eyes fell heavily onto her ethereal beauty. He was wordless as he watched this highly-sexed youth puckering her coral lips to kiss his bruised hands. The warmth and wetness of her mouth felt so good on his wounds. She kissed with a gentleness that his wife didn't harbor in her whole body.

"I hope," Paulina spoke softly, "that your wife appreciates all your hard work in the fields." She decided to forego the respectful title of "Mrs. Mordano" and opted, instead, for "your wife." "Does she?" she asked. "Does she?" Paulina asked again in a whisper, this time more urgent.

"No. No, baby, she doesn't." He paused. "Would you?"

"Would I what?" the naughty teenager asked with a mild hint of suggestion in her voice, holding his big hand between her two little ones. She smiled at his weathered face, his eyes overwhelmed with intensity and warm brownness.

"Would you... do for me what she doesn't?"

Paulina giggled in her high, girlish tone and nodded. Joe was overcome with a rush of passion and the adolescent matched him in his desire. A family of butterflies flew in her tummy, and their two bodies came together. He wrapped his arm around her small set of shoulders and drew her to him, kissing her with his mouth, welcoming and authoritative that she was now his, though he had a wife who was just in the other room.

"Oh Joe," she whispered as they kissed.

"Baby, my little babygirl, you are so sweet to me. I can't believe this is happening."

Paulina drew back him from him gently. "But the others are just in the kitchen. They could walk in at any minute."

"No baby," he groaned in a hush. "No, they won't catch us." He stroked her golden hair. "Oh, my sweet little baby, I love your hair this color. It looks so good on you."

In the background, the radio played soft music as the taboo couple continued to neck in danger of being caught, not only by Mrs. Mordano but by Mrs. Del Patina as well - their two opponents. Paulina rested her small, curled fist on Joe's thigh, and he spread his legs and shifted down on the sofa, hoping to make her hand move higher toward his crotch. He wanted her to touch him in his most intimate place - the place that spurted out his son - and he realized, with a touch of kink, that the girl he held in his arms was closer in age to his baby boy than she was to him. He felt himself harden and drip, anxious for a warm little hole he could call home.

"My mother would hate this," Paulina whispered.

Joe chuckled in his deep, vibrating way. "Oh, I know it. Teresa would hate it too."

Their heads tilted at an angle. They kissed each other with a renewed passion at the idea that this was a forbidden danger they were venturing into. Joe ran his large, outstretched hand down her back and loved how her warm little body felt being collected by his. She was his. She had offered herself to him three days ago, and he would be damned if, sooner or later, he wouldn't claim her as his own.

"Oh baby," Joe spoke quietly, holding her chin in between his index finger and thumb. "Imagine if your mother caught us. You're such a bad, bad little piece."

"For you, Joe, I am."

"Naughty. So naughty for me, my little darling."

He hugged her closely and kissed her ear with soft, dry lips. Their two bodies - one big and one small - fit together like two spoons in a drawer. Fast passion was the Italian way. Sometimes it fizzled out quickly, other times, not so much. Joe, despite all the temptations he had had along the way, had never been unfaithful to his bride. Paulina, meanwhile, had remained as virginal as a tramp could be in the last three years. With the two of them so guarded in their heat - "repressed" one might say - they couldn't help but erupt into each other's arms.

But the call of reality, once more, rung like a shrill bell. Teresa Mordano called out to Joe from the kitchen; she needed him to help with Little Giuseppe. "He has just spit up on himself!" Mrs. Mordano hollered at him from the other room. Besides, her hands were full from the mess of dinner.

Joe sat on the edge of the couch and kissed his new mistress one last time, for now. "Till next time, little one."

And the two of them, as innocent as fawns, entered the kitchen. The three women - though two were guests - helped Mrs. Mordano clear the table against her wishes, and Joe tended to his baby boy who had, indeed, spit up on himself. The bambino was crying in an anguished way and Joe took him up to his bedroom to change, clean, and soothe him. Meanwhile, Paulina helped Mrs. Mordano with the plates and cups and cutlery, his wife all the more oblivious to the temptation that had almost unfolded before her eyes.

Part Six: The Naked Nymph

The river raged. The branches of the trees were fingered by the lingering wind. The sky was a clear blue color. The sun scorched overhead with its massive disk. And Paulina, naked as the day she was born, played in this river that roared behind the quaint house of Joe, Teresa, and Little Giuseppe Mordano.

Joe and Teresa had agreed on one thing: they agreed it would be a good idea to send the baby to family members about thirty miles south of their residence for a few days. The child would be more comfortable with his grandparents for the time being, and the couple would welcome him back home in three days' time. The Mordanos entertained the scenario that they might also work on their relationship during this time period, but it was more of a break from parenting than anything else.

The fact that a young naked nymph was skipping and jiggling in the wetness of the water could only harm the Mordano marriage further, but Joe's hot-blooded Italian needs and urges vetoed any logic and reason within in his head - and his veins began to pulsate.

He had been preparing lunch when the sounds of squeals and giggles grabbed his ear. He went to the window to identify the source and found it was little Paulina who was outside drawing attention to herself by playing in the water.

Over the last nine days or so, since they had necked on his family's sofa - a sofa where he had kissed and touched his wife so many times before - Joe had only seen Paulina a few times during chance encounters: at the village bakery, out in the street in the early morning, or the instance she had been babysitting Little Giuseppe before he went to stay with his grandparents. He had been trying to take the feeble glue of his marriage and make it stick. Wasn't it too much of an ask, though, to resist her?

Unshyly, he had taken a seat on the wooden swing on his back porch and watched this sweet girl displaying herself in the river for him. He sat, elbow propped on the arm of the furniture, and rested his chin upon his hand, watching her with a dancing gaze. And she was beautiful in the summer sunshine. He could feel his dick, already so big and demanding in size, extend to its full length at her image.

Her clothes lied on the riverbanks. She was facing him, her tight body glistening with moisture in the shine of the pale afternoon. She stood thigh-high in the raging waters. Her long hair, straightened and drenched by her river bath, clung over her shoulders, and she ran her dainty hands over the top of her head, flattening her hair out against the shape of her skull.

In between her thighs, there was a small patch of pubic hair, too, that glistened and stuck to the pink curves of her pussy. Her thighs were heavenly, slender, and slimming up to the roundness of her hips. Her belly button, which was tightly inward, held a single drop of water. Joe's tongue, thirsty for the prettiness of her marble-like body, left its home and slightly licked the corner of his mouth. He needed a cigarette to relax.

Out of the breast pocket of his button-up shirt, he jostled from a pack of cigarettes a singular one and found a match from a flimsy matchbook. He struck it on the bottom of his boot and lit the end of the cig. The day was unusually sweltering. Joe watched his new love interest putting on a show for him, and he watched unashamed. With an ankle crossed over his knee, he was positioned very much like he was that evening that he and Paulina had necked on the sofa. He watched intently, never taking his eyes away from her sweet body.

Little Paulina's ribs stuck out a bit from her body and her breasts, oh, those big beautiful tits he had dreamt of so often, were erect and protruding with youth. They were full and free of the constraints of any bra. Her nipples were ruby red and an appropriate, round size for the fullness of her precocious jugs that were just barely beyond the years of puberty. They were extraordinary. So adult for someone so young.

A squeal jolted him back to reality. A giant current had come upon her and splashed her in the face, and she giggled as a teenager would. As she continued to play and frolic in the water, arms stretched out, gathering the air in large swooping motions, her legs kicking up and the stubborn jiggle of her beautiful thighs rippling, she was a wet dream that had come to life for him. It was a Friday and Teresa was at work. With his significant other enslaved over papers and patients, he was enjoying this little wet show the village nymph was performing for him.

He was unsure if she knew he was there, though he was sure that was her intention. She swam towards a rock and carefully climbed onto it. It pointed itself through the surface of the water, and she held her balance steady, then stood proudly upon the boulder that she had conquered. The young lady - the babygirl - then turned her back to him. Her form was beautiful and was shaped like that of an hourglass: Her shoulders stood bold and proud and tapered down to a taut waist and flared again at her hips and slimmed down, once more, from her buttocks to her legs to her tiny feet that were capped with little toes.

Her ass was something to behold. It was small and tight, but was also in the shape of a tiny, delicious bubble that he wanted to fondle. Her skin was without flaw, and his eyes could not take themselves away from her frame as she ran her palms over her pert buttocks and looked at him, behind her shoulder, with eyes half-closed. He leaked for her. That sweet little ass was waiting to be cupped by the hands of a masculine man, and he found himself wondering if a man had ever been in that girlish bottom before.

With the beckoning of a crooked finger, she told him, wordlessly, to join her in the river. The husband, about to officially pass over the threshold of infidelity, did not need any convincing, and he extinguished his cigarette and jogged down the riverbanks, unbuttoning his shirt as he did so.

He stood on the land, undressing next to her pile of discarded clothes. He was not ashamed of his nudity, and this was something he and the adolescent had in common: They both loved to be naked, and this was something they could enjoy together.

Joe shrugged his shirt from his shoulders and then next came his boots, socks, jeans, and underwear. He stood fully nude, his skin bronzed under the sunlight. The two odd lovers looked at each other's naked forms for a moment. Joe was beautiful. His body was slim and toned - he looked like some Italian god standing there in his natural spotlight. His thighs rippled in strength, and his ass - which a former girlfriend once ate breakfast off of - stood clenched and tight. His stomach was drawn in and his chest expanded broadly. As experienced as Paulina was with men, she had never seen a cock quite as big as his was; it almost seemed like weapon, the way it stood up in its creamy, dripping desire. It could do so much harm if he was not careful. He shouted to her with a smile: "How's the water?"

"Perfect!" she hollered back. "Hurry up, though! I'm liable to go to another river and try and catch another man!"

He chuckled at her playful humor and began to stride into the forceful currents of the water. It was not cold at all; it was warmed by the rays of summer weather. His naked form, godlike in its health and brownness, strode heavily through the raging waters to claim his girl who still stood on the rock. He walked in long powerful strides in rushes of the river, determined to get to this little woman who had been making herself available to him. When he arrived at his destination, he stood at her toes, looking up at her, holding her smooth little shins with his callused, bruised hands.

"Bellissima! A beautiful girl! You look like art, my sweet babygirl," he confessed to her with a great and proud grin, almost as blatant as the sun overhead.

She crouched down on the rock, her thighs closed in false modesty, her breasts hidden by her knees. "You think so?" she asked, her eyes alit by the beauty of the older man before her.

"I know so. Now come down from there. I want to play with my girl."

She fell into the river with deliberate intention and found herself in Joe's arms. In this particular spot of the river, with the uneven patches of the river floor, Joe found himself up to his pectorals in water, while the naked youth in his arms was covered almost up to her shoulders.

They looked at one another for a moment, and then he gathered her in his arms, his chest covering hers easily. He could feel her wet jugs pressing up against him and it felt heavenly. Their hands made love. Their fingers and palms felt out one another, each finger intertwining with the other, their palms rubbing together and readying each other for the inevitable. Their eyes searched one another. She was a gem, the way she sparkled in the light, the swell of her breasts heaving up and down in passionate anticipation. They breathed heavily.

Their lips met softly at first, almost shyly, searching for each other's intentions, but their passion grew quickly. For once, they were alone, and their private time would be completely hot and uncensored without the risk of witnesses. His lips wandered from her mouth to her cheek and down the curve of her soft, slim neck, his large hands cradling her face. He murmured little moans of approval about her appearance and her sexual prowess, letting little phrases like "my little slut" and "baby streetwalker" slip out from between his lips. The nastiness of his appraisals only wetted her skin further, this time from the inside out. She could feel the tip of his erection up against her belly button, looking for a warm hole to sink into. It tried, mindlessly, to penetrate her navel. She rubbed her tummy into his erection, enjoying the way it felt. He whispered something inaudible, but it didn't matter what he said - she was lost to him now.

In between kisses and caresses, they played in the river's swallow like two children, dipping each other's heads below the surface, splashing waves of water at one another, and generally making lovely fools of themselves as two people often do when they have fallen in love.

Joe remembered seeing a romance novel that his wife had read many months ago, and he wanted to strike a similar pose as the Casanova had on the cover: He grabbed his girl with authority and held her in the cradle of his arms, sideways. Her appearance was beyond earthly. Her long hair hung along his forearms, and he could feel her tight little buttocks rubbing against his erection. Her breasts rose and fell with both excitement and humor; her laughter was a certain kind of music.

Joe decided it was time. He took her hand and led her through the rushes of the water and to the riverbank, the two of them running like horny teenagers anxious to make love. Paulina stumbled on a rock and nearly fell, but Joe's strength held her steady, and lifted her light weight up, balancing her. They fell onto the land together, Paulina on her back and Joe poised above her, the craziness of their actions seeming appropriate when they lied parallel and horizontally, ready for love.

The older man, breathless and smiling, absolutely crazy about the kitten beneath him, stroked the teenager's hair away from her face and whispered to her. "Oh, my sweet girl. It seems like I've been wanting you for so long. I want you, I want you..." he said as kissed the side of her neck, unable to control his sexual impulses.

She ran her petite hands down his back and grasped his ass with her hand, so firm and round, as if it were made for her to grip it. "I want it, Joe. I want you. I want all of you inside of me."

"Baby, how I've dreamed of this, how I dreamed of your hot little body beneath me. Are you sure you want to, honey? It may hurt a little bit." He cautioned her as he looked into her eyes with slight worry across the hair of his brow.

Paulina sweetly rubbed the outside of his hand which rested on her cheek and looked at him confidently. "It's a risk worth taking, baby." She paused. "And if you don't believe I'm woman enough, I will prove it to you." She grinned up at him impishly at this last part.

"God, you're such a woman," he said hoisting himself onto his knees and spreading her thighs delicately. Drops of river water dripped from their shining bodies, and he ran the head of his penis along the strawberry pussy that opened up slightly to him like an obscene flower. "You're beautiful. God, look at the way you're offering yourself to me. I wish you could see it, my darling."

The teenager raised her hips and spread her legs even wider, as if such a position came to her like second nature. "Joe," she spoke softly, stroking his weathered, tired face with the back of her fingers. He looked up from his sex. "Joe, you're so sweet to me. Make love to me. Fuck me."

"Ohhh," he groaned. "You want me to fuck you, my little baby?"

For a moment she hoisted herself up onto her elbows to meet his face more evenly and, looking into his eyes, she whispered: "I'm willing to do anything for it."

His eyes rolled back in his skull, skywards. "Oh my God. So hot and willing. So eager."

A moment of tension passed, and he eased his cock into her yawning, waiting hole. She was open and ready for him. With the wetness of the river's tongue, Paulina's pussy was an even more blaring scarlet than it would have been normally. Even though her bold and sexy words urged him to bang the daylights out of her, he proceeded with caution and care, knowing how young she was, how little her body was. As everyone in the village knew, Joe included, she had had many, many lovers, but whether she had ever taken a man of Joe's size was a question that went unanswered.

As the length and thickness of his dick eased into her, her most precious spot stretched and wrapped around him accordingly. She was tight. It felt like a velvet glove was gripping him. He realized, in a fleeting moment, that he had never been this hard when he screwed his wife. He gently placed his palm on her clit, and she let out a squeal at the surprise and sensitivity of his touch.

The size of Joe had not hurt her. On the contrary, it felt more pleasurable than she had ever felt making love before. It's almost as if his big dick knew every curve and swoop of her pussy and had nestled into those spots, rubbing up against them. He began rocking back and forth, their rhythm pornographic and X-rated with obscene sighs and words that matched their movements. The heat of the Italian season stuck to their skin like tight clothing.

Everything Paulina was experiencing lit her nerves on fire. Joe was such a sensuous lover; he knew how to make a woman. His inward strokes moved faster, and their hips slapped against each other in a language that spoke of their love even if their words didn't. But their words did. And they were passionately overwhelmed.

"Oh Paulina," Joe grunted as his hips bucked relentlessly. "Oh, my darling, sweet slut. I love you so much. God, you mean everything to me. Fuck this feels so good." He rambled almost nonsensically at the pleasure. "Do you love your papa too, honey?"

"Yes, yes, yes," she whispered urgently. "Papa - oh - it feels like you were built exactly for my body, you know what I mean?"

"Yes, baby. We - ooh, look at that - we fit together as if we were made to fit together."

"You were made for me, Joe. You were made to fuck me." With every rough, inward thrust, the jiggle and bounce of her big breasts made Joe's eyes roll back in his head in ecstasy. It was a sight almost too much to bear. Her tits moved obediently, reacting to his hot efforts.

"Oh, and I love fucking you, little one. Do you like this? Do you like the way I'm fucking you? Oh, my cute little streetwalker."

"I-I love it. More, more, more." She begged. "Show me what you got. Oh fuck. Your hand feels so good on my clit."

"Old man's hands," he breathed.

"Yesss," she hissed, aroused at the idea of being soiled by someone more than twice her age. His calluses served as pleasurable, rough little bumps as he masturbated her little button of a clitoris.

Joe's breathing had reached an almost dangerous rasp as the teenager wrapped all four of her limbs around him, holding him to her silky body. His sexual efforts were so grand and his lust so great that he felt he was going to lose himself inside this tramp, this sweet little tramp he could now call his own.

"Oh fuck," he cursed. "Do you want more, honey?"

Paulina nodded, unable to form words with her breath. Her glamorous white teeth bit her lower lip in ecstasy and her eyes fell back into her skull the way Joe's had done just a moment before. The sky looked upside down to her: the sky blue, the sheep-colored clouds plump and pregnant, and the houses inverted with their rooves pointed downward.

Paulina's long golden tresses stuck in wetness to her head and skin, little droplets lying in the valley of her cleavage. Joe's hands gripped her hips as he humped her, but he could not take his eyes off her jiggling globes, those big jugs he had coveted for a lifetime in just the last two weeks.

"Oh Paulina." He could not take his eyes off her lively breasts. "You love showing off that hot little body to men, don't you?"

"Yeah. I love the way they look at me."

"I love this. I love doing it with you, baby."

Their lovemaking was frantic with madness. Joe felt he was about to break loose and lose his insides to sweet little Paulina. He laughed lecherously at how much she would enjoy that. He laughed lecherously at how much he would enjoy that. She could sense he was getting close. She reached down and held up one of her big tits, bringing the nipple up her lips. Joe nearly lost it. She licked the ruby red nipple of her breast with her sweet, pink tongue, inventing a new form of pleasure: oral masturbation.

Joe could not hold it in anymore, and he began to flood her insides. "I'm cumming, my sweet little baby. Oh yes, yes, yes," he panted desperately. "Oh, fuck yes. Oh my God." He spurted inside with a rush he had never known before. As the ecstasy drained from him, his humping motion slowed as his dick became flaccid, but he didn't want the fucking to end; he penetrated her as long as he could, and she too, came.

"Ah!" she hollered out in an open-mouthed phrase of pleasure as she orgasmed, her little body trembling in his embrace.

In the seconds after their mutual climaxes, Joe's mustache looked like it was askew on his handsome face, almost looking as if it were glued on, and he fell onto Paulina, both of their chests heaving from relief. They lied together on the riverbank, breathless and panting.

"Oh, Paulina," he whispered in her damp ear. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Joe, oh Joe, I love you too. You're beautiful."

He pulled his head back and he looked into her bright, glittering blue eyes. They looked at each other with the glimmer of lovelight. They now belonged to each other, and the rest of the afternoon they played in the water and made love over and over in all three ways until it was time to assume their old lives.

Until then, the two lovers fell heavily into each other's arms, completely besotted and enraptured with one another, nearly tripping over their own toes at the sight of each other. And they were, indeed, in love. And they repeated this sentiment to each other almost obsessively, as if they were virgins to the phrase. It felt good to say it. It felt good to hear it. And so it was.

Part Seven: Silvio

In the old rundown tavern, the aproned waiter put down two glasses of wine for Paulina and her plump, old, former lover Silvio. They clinked the glasses and drank a generous mouthful from their cups before Silvio inquired on what she wanted to see him about.

"So," Silvio said, sitting back and lighting a cigarette. "What can I do for you?"

Paulina smiled good-naturedly, accepting of Silvio's direct way. It was uncharacteristic for him to beat around the bush and this occasion found him no different. Leaning over, and borrowing his cigarette, and exhaling rings of smoke, the Italian nymph rhapsodized, in great detail, of her encounter with Joe that afternoon. The move to confide in Silvio came naturally to her - she had relatively no feminine paesani to speak of: Her mother was out of the question, and she was afraid Dr. Mordano might recognize little sexual quirks and kinks in the description of her husband's sexual activity. It was also an added bonus that Silvio would be eating his heart out over her latest romantic conquest, as he had always carried the torch for her. A little jealousy never hurt anyone.

"So, what do you think?" she asked at the end of her confession of pleasure. She stuck the cigarette back in his mouth. His lips were not agape from surprise; he had heard rumors in the village of her bold sexuality and the way she went after anybody who wore trousers.

Silvio took the cigarette out of his mouth and puffed and laughed. "What can I think? Little belladonna, I've known you since you were yay high," he said, demonstrating her short height with his hand. "I say, 'Go! Be happy! Be Merry!'"

Paulina looked at him, her face deadpan. Her coral-painted lips were agape in a way that his were not. "So... you're not jealous or envious?"

The older man's round belly jumped with laughter, and he adjusted his hat and shook his finger. "No. I didn't say that. I'm terribly jealous that other men are exploring you."

Paulina smiled contentedly. "That's what I thought, Sil." She paused. "Good ol' Sil. Never a man to worry my pretty little head about." She brought the glass of wine up to her lips, and they were stained an even deeper shade of ruby.

He stood up and threw a few lira on the wooden table. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. I've got the mind of a fox, remember?"

The teenager looked up at him and swallowed uncomfortably. "You mean... you'd actually tell Mrs. Mordano about everything?" She stood up to meet him eye to eye.

"Never cross an Italian man, my dear."

Her voice lowered in a deep, threatening tone and she glared at him. "You're a fink."

"Now now," he said, patting her blushing cheek. "I didn't say I'd inform her, did I? Only that I was indecisive about the matter. It makes no difference to me whether Mrs. Mordano is in the dark or not."

Paulina threw the remainder of her drink in his face and strutted out the tavern door into the velvet night. It was unlike him to be so coy, so conniving - he was usually straight as an arrow with people. It turned out that Silvio, now, was someone she had to, indeed, worry her pretty little head about. In a rush of youthful enthusiasm, she had told him information any man in the village would've killed to have had. She realized, then, that she had given her secret away much too quickly, and that her confidante was unreliable. He was also free to blackmail her at any time. She had expected to lead him like a farmer does with a goat. Instead, he stayed the course and was now leading her. Her scheme to make him mad had gone in the reverse, and she walked home briskly in the warm summer night, angry at herself the most, for she might - just might - have been the culprit of her own undoing.

Part Eight: Freedom

Paulina decided that it was not worth her time to worry about what Silvio was planning to do. Paulina was more like the kid who worried terribly about the color of her high heels rather than natural disasters that planet Earth stirred up. The latter was something out of her control, the former was not. Best to keep herself out of conflict, even though she had created one with Silvio.

And now she found herself in Dr. Mordano's office once more. To speak of Silvio would mean unveiling the reason behind their talk and she was not going to let the cat out of the bag unless the winds of fate went against her.

Dr. Mordano looked through the medical file of Paulina. Her eyes then met with her patient, and she smiled, the dimples in her cheeks prominent. "I'm curious to know how things are going with the boy you intended to seduce on your birthday."

Paulina, wearing her tight slacks, sweater, and stilettos (a look she was now famous for amongst the men in the village), held her delicately manicured hand up to her collarbone and laughed. "Oh, it's going quite well. I've got him now. I think I really do."

"Now - and I only ask this to inquire further about your nymphomania - are you able to find satisfaction after a reasonable number of climaxes?"

"That's hard to say. It's almost like a drug. The more of him I have the more of him I want. When he and I part, I want more of him. It's like I miss him before we even split."

"Has this happened with any of your other lovers?"

"No. I always felt like, after a number of orgasms, I had been filled up to the top. Figuratively speaking."

"Are you seeing other boys or men besides this particular boy?"

"You mean at the same time?"

"Si."

"No, but I'm not closed off to the idea. Now that I'm out of the grip of my mother, I have the freedom to do - and do who - as I please."

Dr. Mordano nodded, taking notes on her notepad. Looking past the psychiatrist, Paulina noticed, not for the first time, black-and-white photos of her family in golden frames on her desk. There was one of Joe and Little Giuseppe sitting on a checkered picnic blanket and Joe playfully trying to get his young son to eat what looked like a spoonful of applesauce. The other photo, on the right, was of Joe and Teresa fishing from the banks of a river. Could that have been the same river in which she and her new lover skinny dipped and made love only a few days before? The possibility did not tame her desire, it only made it grow.

And now, as Dr. Mordano took notes absentmindedly, Paulina twirled her voluptuous hair on her fingertip's end and chewed gum, the nymph almost in a trance knowing that she had her doctor's husband on a chain and that they were bound. At least for now. And she enjoyed this dark, pleasurable thought that she was looking at their family photographs and confiding in Dr. Mordano about her current sex life that she didn't know involved her own husband. Paulina counted her lucky stars.

"Hey," Dr. Mordano said abruptly, leaning forward in her chair, a tissue spread over her palm. "Spit out the gum. I don't like a sticky office."

"Sorry," Paulina said shyly and let the pink bubblegum fall into the veiled hand of her psychiatrist. The doctor crumpled it up and threw it in the wastebasket.

Dr. Mordano sat erect and redirected her attention to her patient. "And this man you seduced, you said he was about your age?"

"Si. He's close to my age."

"I'm glad to hear that, Paulina. I know you've been attracted to much older men since your pubescent years."

Paulina waved her hand, trying to put on a façade of casualness. "Si, but that was in the past."

Dr. Mordano returned to scribbling notes. "I've always thought that was because of the absence of a father figure. It's not unusual for young women with no male role models to seek out men who are much older than themselves. Would you say that that was the case with you?"

"I think so," Paulina confided, not mentioning that this passion for older gentlemen still thrilled her little body. "But the past is the past. Isn't it true that people go through different phases with their sexuality?"

The doctor put her notes aside and leaned backwards in her chair. "That's true. What might've drawn you to someone three years ago might not draw you in in the same way today. Anyway, I'm glad you've found a young man; it's good to stick to your own age group."

Paulina nodded. "I agree. It feels healthier. I feel cleaner." She spoke these words as clear as a bell being rung, even as she looked at the family photographs on Dr. Mordano's desk and the way she omitted certain details of her new, fresh sex life with her doctor's husband, like the way the tip of his tongue touched the apex of his upper lip when he orgasmed or the way his glistening bicep would flex in an almost involuntary way when he grabbed her hips. These little details that Paulina now knew of are things that Dr. Mordano would also know of her husband, and the teenager locked her lips and threw away the key, this time playing it wiser than she did when she had spoken to Silvio. Silence was now a code she must live by, and she relished the deliciousness of it like forbidden fruit.

Part Nine: Trollop Walks

Paulina, being 18 years old, energetic, vibrant, and always on the prowl for a good time, could not limit her attentions to just Joe. In the year of 1960, many young women her age were engaged, if not already married, but Paulina wanted to float on the wind - she wanted to go where the wind would take her. She was a free vessel not at all looking for an anchor.

Over the next several weeks, Paulina and Joe saw quite a lot of each other, but there were times, of course, he could not escape the reins of his wife. In between meetings of frantic lovemaking, they left scribbled, sexy little notes beneath a rock that sat near the riverbanks where they first made love.

Paulina, alone on the banks of the water, kneeled and felt around under the mossy, wet stone - and found what she was looking for: a note. A slightly moist message from the wetness of the atmosphere. It was in a hurried scrawl and read:

"My Dear Little Bambina,

I am missing you so much my sweet little baby. I am so hard right now thinking of you in your beautiful, colorful clothes and your tiny little body. You make me so proud. You make me so proud to be your man. I love you, sugar.

Love,

Joe"

Paulina could feel her panties moisten and she rushed home to reply to his note. She was sexually ambitious and not at all ambiguous or coy about her feelings for this man who happened to be her psychiatrist's husband. One thing about Dr. Mordano, her diagnosis of nymphomania was correct. The young lady tore a piece of paper from her diary and wrote to her lover:

"To My Darling Joe:

I miss you too. In the night, when I am alone, I writhe between the sheets, hungry for your sticky loads of love. And there's always a big load. I want to eat all that you have to offer, I want it all over my body, and I want it inside my body. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for your love, papa. Just let me know the next time you want me - I won't ever refuse. I'll be waiting.

Your Baby,

Paulina"

In a clicking, urgent sound, Paulina ran down the stairs of her home in her stilettos and rushed to the rock where they kept their notes. In all her blonde and young vibrancy, her thick waves of angelic hair swayed back and forth underneath the sunlight. Her full tits bounced freely, braless, her tightly knit sweater hugging the shape of her round jugs. Her nipples stood out, erect, on the perkiest points of her boobs, and she slipped the note beneath the rock, having folded it three times out of secrecy.

Joe kept her pretty busy. It seemed like she was always either thinking of him, satisfying herself to thoughts of him, writing him, or begging him to stick it in her. She acknowledged, with Joe's gentle teasing, that she was his "baby streetwalker" and she welcomed his advances towards her as if she were the village slut instead of a young lady who had just found her sexual independence.

As busy as she was with her married and much older boyfriend, she had plenty of time to practice what she called her "trollop walks." During these strolls, usually in the late afternoon, she'd walk the dusty streets to the local tavern for a drink or two, in what was a scandalous set of clothing. She believed in bright colors (especially in warm weather) and her short dresses and miniskirts (which were not in fashion at that point) showed the glimmer of her shaved legs, bare and daring when most young ladies wore stockings. She saw to it that her frilly, silk panties were also on display to the panting men; they caught a glimpse when the pleat of her skirt swayed in a certain direction.

Sometimes she would wear midriff-baring tops and tight pants and her signature stilettos that added another three inches to her height. Her tummy was taut and touchable, a delicious destination for the wandering hands of men. Over the course of this here summer, she had turned a kissable tan color; she was brown and healthy, sun-roasted and the product of natural light. As she walked along these dusty roads for a glass or two of wine or scotch, she felt very much the same way she did when she was first approaching Joe's home only hours after she turned 18: Powerful and in full control of her sexuality and the effect it had on men.

Her provocative Italian breasts jutted from her body, nearly begging for the mouth of a man to accommodate their curves and points. The men of the village, at this point, had gotten used to seeing the vixen crossing this particular street at this particular time of day. They stopped what they were doing. They stopped talking. They stopped their work on their cars. They stopped working at their jobs. Shrieks of catcalls would escape their puckered lips, and they'd invite her, in no pure terms, to sit on their laps, play with them, and "upset the old wife." Paulina merely ignored them, finding satisfaction in their attentions and not necessarily their touches, though, a few times at the tavern, the tanned, old hands of men caressed her naked midriff without permission as she wiggled on the dance floor. She enjoyed their molestations. They were like welcome money.

The next two days brought numerous notes between the two lovers, but Joe's most recent note mentioned that he had a gift for her. Paulina snickered when she read this part of the message. She had had that gift many times, often leaving lipstick on his cock afterward, half-hoping that Mrs. Mordano would find out that her husband was fucking the hot village whore who made herself available to any man at any time.

Part Ten: A Cherry's Taste

It was a smoldering day in July and Joe and Paulina stood in her childhood bedroom. In the young woman's palm, she held Joe's gift: A small gold-and-pink box with a ribbon wrapped around it. It was long and rectangular, and she excitedly started to unlace the ribbon.

As the teenager began to unwrap the box, Joe busied his hands and lips to her skin. She stood there in the dancing sunlight, wearing an unusually short and white slip made of silk. His nose nestled into the loose-hanging blonde locks of her hair and he kissed the gentle swerve of her bare neck, almost shyly removing the spaghetti straps of her undergarment and kissing her shoulder. She absentmindedly stepped out of her slip as he took it off of her, revealing herself in just her bra and panties, and squealed at the sight of the gift:

"Oh, Joe!" she said, grasping his wrist. "They're beautiful!"

His lips continued to explore her skin, planting small kisses on the lobe of her ear. "They're very appropriate for you, my darling. Beautiful. Just like you."

He had given her a pair of dangly earrings. They were very bold with long, multiple strands of gold on each earring and, interrupting each strand, were dotted with the glitter of false (but just as lovely) diamonds. They hung several inches long, the kind a prostitute might wear, but Joe had seen them in a shop window, and he instantly thought of his precious girl. She interrupted his affectionate gestures and touches:

"Let me try them on, Joe."

She sat down on the small, round chair at her vanity mirror and slipped each curved piercing into the holes of her earlobes. They hung down whorishly, caught up in the tresses of her hair and nearly landing at the curves of her collarbone. Joe stood by her side and smiled as he watched her childlike joy in the glass. He then knelt by her chairside and looked up into her baby blue eyes. He whispered to her, stroking her soft, naked arm:

"What do you think, baby?"

"I love them." Her fingers fiddled with the gems and golden strands. "I love them so much. Grazie, Joe. You are so good to me. Too good to me."

He chuckled. "Nonsense. No such thing as being 'too good' to my little princess."

Turning her body sideways to face him, she spread her legs, taking him between her knees, and gave him a warm hug, feeling the hot flesh of his face rubbing up against hers. He withdrew his face from hers for a moment and looked into her eyes once more, resting his callused his hands on her smooth, tender thighs.

It was late in the afternoon. Joe had come straight from work to Paulina's home where he knew her mother would be out working. His wife was also working. He had brought over a bowl of peaches which he had picked that afternoon at his job. He was hoping to barter with her: A bowl of peaches for a taste of her split and scarlet cherry, so garish in its color and aroma.

Around him, in Paulina's bedroom (where he had not been before), were all sorts of trinkets and mementoes, testimony to her young age: On her shelves sat heavily made-up porcelain dolls and teddy bears that her young beaus had, no doubt, gifted to her at carnivals. She also had a record player with a collection of records sprawled all over her messy hardwood floor. As a symbol of her Catholicism (lapsed), there was a figurine of Christ fixed upon the cross on her wall, and a photograph of Pope John XXIII.

It was a very girlish room with the dominant colors being white, pink, and red. The clothes that dressed her bed (that her mother had made up that morning) were white and pink. Her bed was a petite twin-sized bed, suited specifically for one person, but Joe had no doubt that the two of them could fit on it: They would make it work.

Joe took her hand and led her to the bed. He had been in a romantic mood since he awoke that morning. Paulina had been making love for so many years that she had learned to read her lovers very well - she fell back upon the bed at his gentle push, and she giggled. He growled in an aggressive, friendly way and crawled in between her open legs, kissing her.

She laughed. "What has gotten into you, Joe?"

He growled once more. "I've been waiting to see my little kitten all day."

He paused for a minute to unbutton his shirt and slip it off his shoulders. He had such a strong, middle-aged chest. His abdomen and arm muscles rippled in modesty, and he made it clear with his body language that he was in command. The blue jeans he wore hugged his lower body tightly.

Paulina lied on her back in her underwear. Both her panties and bra were small and silky of a pure, virginal white color. Joe gently clutched the waist of her panties and helped the small girl wriggle out of them.

"That's what I like to see, baby," he grunted. "Such a sweet little streetwalker for your old man." He paused. "Here. Let me get at your bra." He attempted to squeeze his hands under her back to unclasp her brassiere, but she resisted playfully and pretended to keep him at arm's length - literally.

"No," she said, grinning up at his lust-worn face, his dark curls twinkling in the golden rays of light. "And you can't make me."

"Oh," he smiled, his mustache creeping up his cheeks. "I can't, can't I? I think I can. You know what I can do, honey." He paused. "Come on, take it off for your papa."

She shook her head.

"Come on. You know I love those big tits of yours. Let me see."

Paulina sat up at an awkward angle, reached around and unclasped her bra, and plopped back down on the soft bed made of satin. Joe slowly withdrew this last remaining undergarment from her slim arms, and, as he was most times, he caught himself breathless at the size and shape of her bosom. Her breasts were swollen with excitement, and he pawed at them like a kitten might. He was half-clothed, and she was completely nude. The possibilities were now endless and exciting.

He knelt on the floor at the foot of her bed. Taking the undersides of her thighs, he dragged her to him, and in his face stared at the sweetest, reddest cherry he had ever come across. There was just a slight amount of pubic hair and, he noticed, perhaps for the first time, that she had shaved it into the shape of small, sluttish heart: a bit fuller around the clitoris, and very little hair that closed and ended its tip around that wonderful opening that was so coveted in the village.

He softly dipped the tip of his index finger in her hole and, almost at once, each vaginal wall gave way, just waiting for the slightest provocation. Her little miniature baby folds in this region of her body were so inviting, so adorable. Her pussy was a pinkish red, like an explosion of cherry, just waiting for a penetrative force.

As he sunk his thick finger into her hole, he gently pushed her soft pubic hair to the side and began to nestle and kiss her clit. It was so lovely, and he groaned in delight. The petite girl who lied in front of him, legs spread, still wore her bold new earrings, and he could hear them chime and ring out every time she rolled her head from side to side in carnal pleasure.

"So sweet," he muttered to himself.

He could hear a girlish sigh from the head of the bed. Paulina could feel the coarse bristles of his mustache tickling her most delicate skin. As commanding and dominant as Joe could be, his sensitivity shone through at this moment as he softly and sweetly Frenched her precious, thin skin between his lips. He kissed and nurtured her swollen, tight pussy lips and dampened the insides of her thighs with his mouth and tongue. She was so wet. He looked up in the direction of her face which was eclipsed with the perky roundness of both of her beautiful adolescent breasts, fresh and rising like homemade bread.

"What do you think," he whispered to her, his hot breath on her skin, continuing the molestations of his mouth. "What do you think of me kissing you this way, baby? Do you like papa kissing his baby's sweet little cherry?" He couldn't stop even if he wanted to; he couldn't tear himself away from this most private of heavens.

"Oh," she sighed once more, her voice raised higher than normal. "Oh Joe, it feels wonderful." She giggled in that youthful way that almost always made his eyes roll back in his head. "I can feel your mustache on my pussy."

He grinned, and she could feel his mustache creeping and moving on her most intimate of skin, and again, she giggled outwardly, her small waist rippling in and out with her pleasured laughter and the jiggle of her jugs bouncing in joy.

He dipped his tongue into her gaping hole, so bold and inviting, and a single, long strand of desire rested upon one of his tastebuds. She tasted so good, so fresh. His long Italian nose rubbed against her little love button of a clit as he mouthed her sex. Her aroma, her scent was unblemished and untainted with use; she was a new girl, unspoiled, and in mint condition.

"Oh, oh Joe," she moaned. "Oh, you feel so good. Oh fuck."

"Oh baby," he grunted with her. "Come on. Cum for me, honey." His finger that penetrated her worked its way in and out of her at a growing pace.

The girl on the bed, this wanton teenager, was wriggling her upper body back and forth in desperation, a hot sheen of sweat decorating her naked skin. She clasped the sheets between her manicured nails, and her face was contorted and agape in pleasure.

"Fuck," she cursed under her breath. "Oh, you're so good at this. I love your mouth so much. I love you so much. Fuck me. Fuck me with your finger, your tongue, everything."

Joe, in a rare obedient position, did as she commanded, and a moment later her little body began to shudder. He spanked her on the side of her bottom, urging her to orgasm on his outstretched tongue and his gaping, patient mouth waited for her rush of honey.

"Come on, baby," he whispered. "Cum on me. Cum on daddy's face. Papa wants your juices so much, sweetheart. You know how much I love it. Come on. Let's bust your little cherry, baby."

Her busy little body swung with enthusiasm and her breasts jiggled; it was as if her whole body convulsed to the music of his words and, with no more warning than her body language, her figure tensed up into a tight knot, and then unwound as she came onto his handsome face and rushes of sweetness crowded upon his outstretched tongue, almost as if he were a puppy waiting for a reward.

Paulina tried to catch her breath. Her lover was at the foot of her bed, now standing. He was not done with her just yet. The sweet scent and stains of her baby-honey covered his face; it glistened with her juices. He took off his remaining clothes - his tight jeans, his underwear, and his socks. His boots had previously (and appropriately) been planted beneath her bed when he first arrived.

"Joe, oh Joe," she breathed, reaching out to his naked form.

He stroked his cock that stood erect and dripping with desire. "What," he whispered. "What is it you want, baby? You want my cock, sweetheart?"

She bit her lower lip and nodded. Joe laughed in a gruff, deep manner. "I love how you want it all the time. My little Paulina."

He crawled up onto the bed, his naked body parallel to hers, and he held his penis in his hand and directed the tip to her opening. Her pussy was still open and wet, all the more willing to receive what he was willing to give. It was this eagerness that Joe absolutely loved.

Each time they made love, it was easier for Paulina to accommodate her petite body to his large size. Because Joe was the man she most often made love to, it was as if her most private body parts had memorized the shape and length of his dick, and gripped him like a custom-made, velvet glove. They fit each other so well.

It was a passionate afternoon. The heat in and out of the bedroom was sweltering them, and as Joe fucked her, a drop of sweat dripped off his nose and onto her cheek. He could never resign himself to the fact that this beautiful girl would willingly take her clothes off anytime he requested; it was almost too good to be true. He suspected that he wasn't the only man she was sleeping with, but it didn't bother him: this is the way they loved each other.

His broad chest eclipsed her perky one, and her big Italian jugs bounced and swayed with every inward - then outward - thrust, their two bodies synchronizing with one another as they made love.

Their faces were aligned with another and as they fucked, their mouths were open, and occasionally they'd lazily, breathlessly kiss one another, and their sighs and moans alternated with one another, as if they were communicating by sounds instead of words.

Now that they were used to each other's bodies and sex, Joe fucked her without mercy, and each time he pushed inside of her, there was a seductive jingle-jangle that came from the new earrings he had given her. It was as if it were a song being sung that claimed her as his and his alone. It was almost the music of a prostitute, for she was now owned by the man who had bought her those jewels. And she loved being owned by him, though she was fun for other men, and he loved being owned by her, though he was the husband to another woman.

Their movements challenged each other to the ultimate rapture: With every inward thrust of Joe's cock, Paulina opened her legs to an almost impossible spread, wanting to grab every inch of his manhood and more if that were even possible. She grasped his shoulders and brought her small body up to his and, like a kitten, licked and kissed his face, tasting her own orgasm on his skin.

"I love you, Joe. Cum in me, baby."

They were curled up in each other's bodies, a tangle of limbs and joints, a choir of new earrings and squeals of the mattress beneath them. From the open window of her second-story bedroom, a stiff breeze made its way in, temporarily cooling the lovers.

"I love you too, sweetheart. My little Paulina."

"Oh Joe." She lied her body back upon the pillow, overwhelmed with emotion.

He stroked her precious face with the back of his fingers. "My precious, precious girl. Oh, my little baby streetwalker." He paused. "Do you do this with other men, my angel?"

"Yes. Oh yes, Joe."

"Oh fuck." They were both enjoying where this conversation was going. "Tell me more, my sweet slut. Are some of them boys your own age? Or older men?" He pushed in particularly hard after this last question.

"Both," she breathed. "But Joe - oh God - you're my favorite lover."

"Oh fuck, Paulina. You're so much hotter than my wife. Such a better lover, so much hotter in bed."

She giggled. "Am I?"

"Fuck, yes."

And at this height of their conversation, they also found the height of their physicality that afternoon. In one swoop of his body, Joe came, spurt after spurt of joyous, gooey cum into Paulina's vulnerable cherry. Paulina, unexpectedly, came too. The juices of their insides mixed into one incredible scent in her teen bedroom; the ominous and blank glances of her porcelain dolls looked on as witnesses, as did the unblinking, sacrificial Jesus that was in a crucified position.

They unscrewed themselves from their tangled position and Joe, naked as a newborn, went downstairs to retrieve the bowl of peaches he had brought with him that afternoon. He ran back to the haven of the girl's bedroom, not wanting to be caught by Francesca should the older woman come home sooner than either of them had expected. They lied side by side in the tiny bed, propped up against the headboard, and let the juices of the fruit drip down their chins. It had been an eventful afternoon.

Part Eleven: Body and Heart

As Joe and Paulina's relationship progressed, Joe never found out that Paulina was a patient of his wife - and Teresa never found out that Paulina was her husband's mistress. Except for the rare slip to Silvio, Paulina was the ultimate secret-keeper.

The fact that Silvio could squeal at any moment hung around in the back of Paulina's mind - or was that her own conscience bothering her? Conscience did not seem to be a problem for either lover, particularly when they found themselves in the other's arms. Or maybe it was Joe himself who was lurking so attractively...

Every night since he had tasted her sweet cherry for that first time, he had come to her bedroom window well after midnight like a lovestruck suitor in adolescence. He tossed a pebble or two at her windowpane or called out to her gently to join him and, always, she climbed down the vine, nude like Eve to join him. She'd run off with him, naked and nymphlike, wearing just the earrings he had given her, a jingling memento to his ownership of her body and heart, soul and mind.

Whether their love affair was still a secret to his wife was a fair question - she would have to have been pretty blind not to discover her husband missing each and every night. But she never questioned him about it and, like so many women during this time period, she turned the other way at her husband's suspected infidelity. Meanwhile, Little Giuseppe had made it safely back home from his travels down south and had returned to the loving warmth of his mama's arms. And it could possibly be said he was nearly as blind to his father's liaison as his mother was.

Still, Joe and Paulina wanted to conceal their secret. Whether Silvio would ever sing like a canary was still a question that haunted them. He was a bit of a Judas at times, doing almost anything for money. Would Silvio be able to sew his lips together at the appropriate times? Or would he reveal everything for the price of thirty pieces of silver? Only time would tell...