Into The Middle Ch. 05-07

INTO THE MIDLE/IN MEDIAS RES

Unfolding over ten chapters and an epilogue at a slow-burn pace, this psychological erotic drama takes the reader on the protagonist's emotional rollercoaster.

In this fictional story--written in the form of a diary kept by the protagonist--an event at the very beginning triggers memories reaching back twenty years.

Reading the story chronologically will lead to a better understanding of the narrative.

The erotic scenes do not cross into extremes that might offend or distress anyone; all characters are consenting adults above the age of eighteen.

Editor volunteer MikePaulWrites deserves a great deal of credit for this story. I could not have published it without him, given that English is not my native language. His patience, support, and knowledge are invaluable.

SIXTH CHAPTER

Do not poke a fire with a sword/Ignem gladio ne fodias

I began smoking and indulging in the hedonism of all the senses. It came as a by-product after I'd allowed myself, for the first time at work, to delegate tasks on a large scale. Four new colleagues hired, another assistant, and I stopped working myself to death.

A trip to Florence for wine tastings on wine tours was something I'd wanted for a long time but hadn't had time to afford myself until now. I travelled alone. Actually, I'm always alone.

There were some minor attempts, not relationships, more like a stable arrangement, fuck-buddy style. He never slept at my place. I never slept at his.

Sex was more quantity than quality. Society called me promiscuous. I called it exploration. Most of them didn't love my independence; they wanted me to need them, wanted me to ask for their help; most wanted to change me, wanted me to dress differently, change my hairstyle, behave differently. Some didn't like the fact that I could financially provide more than they could. Some wanted sex. Some wanted us to live together. Some wanted at least to sleep together. I offered only sex and enjoyment of the senses.

There are many people in my life - acquaintances, business colleagues, colleagues, but only two friends who once a year fly halfway across the world to spend ten days with me and with whom I speak regularly via video call. Their children grow. By them, you best see how quickly time passes. They're still happy. I'm still alone. Even when I'm with other people.

Tuscany is beautiful. Florence is something special. Time-wise, I could only afford five days--too short to visit peacefully all the museums and sights, but enough to visit the wineries I'd planned. I'll return another time exclusively for the art.

I don't like travelling through agencies. There's always pressure with schedules and timing, but I like driving even less. Actually, I hate driving. Actually, I'm terrified of driving. If I can avoid flying, I will.

I was exhausted when we arrived because I hadn't closed my eyes for the entire journey. It was my discomfort about sleeping among people and the anxiety of travelling, as though nothing could happen to us if I kept my eyes firmly focused on the road ahead.

I wanted to escape to my room immediately and fall asleep, but the owners of the small, charming family-run hotel were so welcoming that I felt awkward just disappearing. An apéritif awaited us. Need I even mention that the Negroni originated in this very city? My memories tasted just like that drink--pleasantly bittersweet.

The dinner itself didn't particularly impress me--perhaps due to fatigue, or perhaps because I was eagerly anticipating the bistecca alla Fiorentina, instead, we were served pappardelle al ragù di cinghiale, and the wild boar meat was good but it isn't bistecca. Anticipation is a truly tricky thing.

I declined the grappa and ordered another Negroni. As I sat on the terrace, finally enjoying a cigarette, I heard the sound of a lighter behind me, the kind with a lid that hisses when you strike it, with a dramatic flair worthy of a cinematic close-up. I must remember that. Who knows, I might be able to use it someday. But the "close-up" I saw when I turned around had dark hair, sun-kissed skin, and blue eyes that, even in the dim light, radiated that unmistakable Italian charm. Bloody hell! He was a movie in himself.

"Buonasera!" he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, and I could have sworn that the smoke spelled out the words "fuck me" in the air.

"Buonasera! Non parlo molto bene l'italiano."

"Inglese?"

"Molto meglio." To be honest, I hated speaking any foreign language--a result of the "torture" I endured while growing up and the perfectionism I developed--but you don't just turn your back on blue eyes and a torso like that.

"Tourist wine tours are so boring. With someone who knows all the local secrets, it could be more... interesting," he said.

Can we skip this recycled seduction scenario and just fuck? I thought, but luckily I didn't say it out loud.

"Probably, but I kind of like to try both tourist tours and local secrets. For instance, tourist tours during the day, and local secrets in the evening." I poked at the Italian fire with a sword.

Back home, he probably had a wife and at least three kids, and this was just--well, a bit of sport, I guess. If I get tangled up in this, Italian temperament might cost me the five days of peace, wine, and good food I'd so nicely planned--but still...

"It's evening, and I'm at your disposal." he said, exhaling another cloud of smoke--this time, I could clearly make out the shape of an anatomically precise phallus.

"The journey was long. Maybe tomorrow."

"After a long journey, a massage would be just the thing."

"Well, maybe the journey wasn't that long."

He gave me an inquisitive look. Damn it! I'd stirred the fire, and now I was backing away.

"If signora decides--perhaps tomorrow--she knows where to find me. This is my family's hotel. I'm the stereotypical younger brother--not exactly the most reliable when it comes to business, but I do have a charming smile." With that, he stubbed out his cigarette and walked away.

Me and my stupid big mouth! I came here for the wine and food--it's not like I'm lacking sex in my life. I'd better go to bed.

***

Morning in Florence is enchantingly seductive. Glancing up at the sky didn't help--it was as if those blue eyes were following me everywhere. The only thing I didn't like about Italy was the coffee ritual: you drink it standing up, then move on. I missed my morning routine--slowly sipping a massive amount of caffeine while staring into space, back when my brain was still performing its morning "download."

Small talk is one of the things that triggers my social anxiety. It's a series of questions asked just for the sake of asking. You just have to follow a set pattern. Since that pattern wasn't accessible to me, I was left with a choice: either stay silent or say things that no one is truly interested in. I couldn't wait for the wine tasting to fill everyone's mouths, so that we might all fall silent together.

Late lunch was spent walking around Florence while eating a famous schiacciata sandwich--the kind that's impossible to eat neatly or tidily on the go while taking in the surrounding architecture--so when a "Ciao, bella!" rang out from somewhere, I naturally didn't pay any attention, too busy trying to clean up my crumb-covered shirt and messy mouth.

"Buon appetito!" said the blue-eyed man, appearing suddenly on my right.

With my mouth full--not exactly an elegant look--I didn't even try to speak. I just gave a little shake of my head.

"Does the stubborn signora still insist on being a boring tourist?"

I barely managed to swallow the large bite I'd been chewing.

"Does the persistent local charmer still insist on ruining tourism?" I could have come up with something better, but most of my brainpower was occupied by processing a combination of damn good flavors and inspiring architecture.

"So? What's the verdict on the wine?"

"I'm seriously reconsidering my stance on the stubborn adherence to Bordeaux tradition--which is, honestly, a huge step."

He took my hand and led me off in a certain direction.

"If there's even a shred of doubt left, we'll fix that right now."

I was expecting a restaurant, a wine shop--something wine-related--but I certainly wasn't expecting his apartment. Do I really have to fall for every single cock with a nice pair of blue eyes? Well, at least I confirmed that there's no wife or kids waiting for him at home.

And I certainly couldn't say he didn't put effort into the wine tasting. I delighted in the passion with which he spoke about the wines--describing the nuances in flavor, the different types of glasses, and the proper way to taste wine. I had the privilege of having a private oenologist, all to myself. Tuscany was definitely scoring points with me.

It's easy to surrender to that holiday-like relaxation--to become intoxicated by the wine, the atmosphere, those blue eyes, and a shirt left half-unbuttoned, practically begging to be torn off him.

"Is signora, perhaps, ready for a massage now?" he asked, leaning back comfortably into the sofa, slowly taking stock of how much clothing I was wearing--likely wishing I were simply in a dress or a skirt that could be slipped off with ease.

"You know, no man has ever performed a striptease for me." I decided to challenge him, just to see if he had any imagination. I was convinced I was dealing with nothing more than an average stud, and I didn't expect much.

Well, well--don't go playing with Italian fire unless you're prepared to put out the blaze.

The way he moved soon wiped the smug smile right off my face. I don't know what the music was--I'm not that familiar with Italian artists--but it was tailor-made for a striptease.

Whether spontaneous or planned, every move he made effortlessly flexed a different muscle in his body. He moved with such grace--a masculine kind of grace--shedding more and more clothing until, suddenly, there was nothing left.

I realized I was sitting completely still, having forgotten to breathe or even blink, staring at the whole scene. Standing before me was a living, breathing Michelangelo's David.

I stood up, utterly spellbound, as he approached. I don't recall exactly how or when my own clothes came off. All I remember is that intense blue gaze and the moment skin touched skin.

The music kept a seductive rhythm going, and this David--brought to life--led us toward the bedroom with his dance steps, a rather amusing detail, considering the rock-hard cock standing between us.

I don't know what led him to conclude that I was flexible enough for his ideas. My fortieth birthday was approaching, and I was grateful for my regular workouts when--after laying me down on the bed--he stretched my legs into something close to a grand écart, you know, the splits in ballet. His tongue was relentless and gave me no time to catch my breath, not even after my second orgasm, nor after my clitoris had begun to beg for mercy after a third one. I kept racking my brain: what the hell is the word for "cock" in Italian? It would be more effective if he heard it in his own language.

"Cazzo! Voglio il tuo cazzo! " I exclaimed, hoping that I had expressed my desire for his cock with at least a modicum of grammatical correctness. My clitoris was overstimulated. It needed a breather.

He grabbed my ankles and hoisted my legs into the air, my back arching as he swung them over his shoulders. He thrust at a pace that would have made a sewing machine envious. Just when I thought we were both nearing the inevitable boiling point, he stopped, flipped me onto my stomach, got off the bed, grabbed my ankles again, and pulled me to the edge. At least now I knew how a wheelbarrow felt. Fortunately, we didn't stay there long--I had the feeling my hips were about to give out. The next position was doggy style, and I let out a sigh of relief, hoping we wouldn't go through every single bloody Kama Sutra pose--because at this rate...

I was on the verge of an orgasm again when he shifted us into yet another position, at the edge of the firm mattress. I was sitting on him, my legs wrapped around his waist, and I thought: okay, this isn't too demanding--until he used his hand to slowly press my upper body down toward the floor. There I was, hanging upside down, bracing myself against the floor with my hands, my legs still wrapped around him, and... dear God, it was an incredible experience.

At first, his hands explored my body, caressing my nipples, belly, and groin. Stretched out like that, I felt incredibly exposed, yet the sensation intensified--as if my skin were receiving more powerful impulses. Initially, he moved very slowly inside me--though very deeply--until he gripped my hips and began to pick up the pace, thrusting me down onto himself. He let out beautiful moans, saying something in Italian that I couldn't translate at that moment, then, just as things reached their peak intensity, he stopped and pulled me close into an embrace. Enough was enough! Every muscle in my body craved rest, and my clitoris was screaming from overstimulation. I pushed him down into a lying position--his legs remaining on the floor--straddled him, and rode it out to the finish. At the moment of his orgasm, he arched his hips. It felt exactly as if I were taming a restless stallion.

While he skipped off cheerfully to the shower, I felt as though I'd ​​run a marathon race, but with hurdles.

Just then, my phone rang. The tour guide from the agency informed me that we all had to return to the hotel immediately. The trip was being cut short. We were heading home because there was a risk that borders would close as that bloody virus spread. A pandemic has been declared.

My plan to enjoy a bistecca alla Fiorentina for dinner fell through.

I'll return to Florence someday--for the art, the fine wine, and the bistecca--but one thing is certain: I'm never again going to go poking around with a sword in the Italian fire. That damned clitoris of mine kept stinging for the next two days.

SEVENTH CHAPTER

What you do not wish upon your self, do not do to others/

Quod tibi fieri non vis, alteri ne feceris

The virus came. Then the lockdown, and preparation for "how to survive commercially." Zoom worked wonders. Losses were acceptable. I published a second book.

The lockdown wasn't difficult for me. It was completely my natural habitat, except my hunting ground closed.

And then the internet did its thing again. The chat was interesting at first, but when you're dyslexic, you always need a fraction more time. And when you're also a perfectionist who can't bear to write anything incorrectly, so reads everything three times first and corrects every mistake before sending a message, you need even more time. This is rather inconvenient when you are waiting for an answer just a few steps away from orgasm, and you get a message in this style:

"Yes, dragling, I really wnat to feel your ccko in my very wte spupsy!" Not fun at all.

The other problem was that I discovered an uncomfortable fact: I was an intellectual snob and a grammando. For someone to be interesting to me, they had to first seduce my mind, and if they tried it with a ton of grammatical errors and clumsy syntax, I simply couldn't get excited. That diminished this hunting ground as well. But finally, one was found.

After five days of typing and numerous orgasms, the typing began to get on my nerves. I couldn't focus on both the letters and the orgasm. I suggested a phone call. He agreed.

He had a voice and an imagination from which I could orgasm repeatedly in a loop. The problem was that my brain switched off the closer I got, and he needed words as well, not just sighs or... to see me. He adored my animal and wild passion, but we needed more. I suggested a video call. He hesitated. He was some high-position creature and didn't have trust in such exposure. I understood. It wasn't indifferent to me either, so I suggested that we wear masks. He liked that.

I spent the entire day choosing the image I wanted to present. And suddenly it appeared and was perfect. Black leather, corset, high boots, and a mask that covered enough not to expose myself and revealed enough to quicken the imagination--Domina style.

It took several days for the order to arrive, and I was burning with anticipation. He wasn't particularly imaginative and wore a mask covering his entire face and nothing else. With my costume came a small whip I'd overlooked when ordering, but it seemed amusing. At one moment, I pulled out that whip while we were simultaneously masturbating, struck the coffee table with it, brought my boot close to the screen, and said, "Your Mistress needs her boots cleaned!" in pure jest of the role. It was funny to me. He came the same second.

I should have realised immediately. I expected we'd continue with our usual joint masturbation in which we gave each other instructions, but he remained in this "Mistress" game. Sentences that normally fired my passion like "Show me your horny cunt, now stroke her like my hungry cock is there, slow, I didn't tell you to rush! " he began changing with sentences like "Bring the boots closer to the screen. Move a little more to the right so I can see them better. "

And suddenly, my pussy was off the screen, irrelevant. He pleaded I command him more roughly, and he'd completely lose control of his orgasm. Giving me instructions in a firm voice had become a thing of the past. By the third session, he came ten seconds after we turned on the screens, just from looking at the boots.

I felt quite strange. At the fourth video session, he said he couldn't endure it anymore. Lockdown or not, we had to see each other in person. He'd do all the tests in the world, "for his Mistress." I should have listened to my instinct, but the desire for a real cock was stronger; this had gone on far too long.

He showed up in a few days with a pile of tests and certificates as proof he was healthy. I had only the test from the chemist and my lace underwear, white. He looked disappointed. I wanted to pounce on him, immediately, impatiently and hungrily tearing clothes from him, but I felt his hesitation.

"Can you, please, wear the costume." he whispered.

All right, if it'll get him going, fine, just so I finally actually fuck--for real! I'd had enough of screens of any kind. As I was changing, he began to change. Everything in me screamed to stop this. I held the boots in my hands and stared at him; I couldn't bring myself to put them on. He dropped to the floor and crawled to me.

"Please, please, please. I'll do anything for you. Just put them on! I'll put them on for you, whatever you want, just put them on! Take the whip, put on the boots, please!"

I watched a once strong adult man who'd crawled across the floor to me. This isn't going in a good direction. This can't end well. I set the boots on the floor, lowered myself to the floor, and mirrored his pleading posture, then took his face in my hands, gently, and looked into those desperate eyes.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I don't know what's expected of me. This isn't my game. I'm sorry I chose this costume, and I'm sorry I unintentionally led you in this direction. I can't do this, and I don't know how."

"It's not difficult, just play, please, please, please, please... You have it in you--you have that cold bitch in you--please!" His voice was almost childlike, as though the man had disappeared.

"I cannot hurt a human being. I cannot humiliate a human being. I cannot be your fantasy and don't have it in me for sex. I'd hate myself."

He moved away, stood, and sat on the edge of the bed. I sat beside him.

"Do you want me to hold you?" I asked.

He refused, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry if you feel bad because of this. I don't judge you. I understand your needs, but I don't know what to do with them."

"Who's going to find out about me?" he asked with a hint of fear in his voice.

"There's no reason for anyone to know anything about you."

"Do you despise me?"

"My God, that's the last thing I'd do to someone. Please don't be uncomfortable, not because of me."

He stood, cast one more look at the boots, didn't even look at me, and left.

I wanted to change and go to bed, but I looked at myself in the mirror. Bloody hell, I looked so fucking sexy. There was something in that costume. If he'd been satisfied with a light version, we could've had damn good sex.

I put on the boots. I don't know if it's normal to get turned on by yourself, but I did. I lay on the bed, didn't fetch toys. The whip would do. It slid smoothly across my body, almost like a touch. The handle served as quite a decent dildo. I masturbated alone. Thinking of nobody but myself.

I abstained from any screen sex for the rest of the lockdown.

The virus and measures were easing up a bit. My fuck buddy was without a relationship again, so we both needed our stability. Our only rule was to always ensure a mutual orgasm.

We both looked at the dinner on the table that we had just prepared, then at each other, and concluded that we weren't all that hungry. The clothing left a trail leading to the bedroom. We didn't make it to the bed. I don't remember him ever taking the initiative like that. I just felt him suddenly bend me over the back of the armchair and hammer that hard, curved cock inside me. The beauty of that curvature lies in the fact that he touched points that a straight cock could not.

He was fast, like that rabbit in the commercial for some batteries, unstoppable, with a lot of pent-up energy, and we almost broke that poor antique armchair. After his first orgasm, his cock was still in a standing position; hard, like nothing had happened just a few minutes before, so I put on my Domina costume. It would be a shame for it to sit forgotten in the closet.

Men are visual creatures. They need to see, so no blindfolding. I didn't even want to tie his hands. He'll be needing them soon. He can only watch and not touch as I play with that whip in front of his eyes. I knew he wouldn't last long--I wouldn't have either. The plan was just to top up with a little more fuel.

Of course, it didn't take long before he snatched that whip from my hands and jumped on me. We weren't imaginative at all. It was the classic, good old fashioned fucking, which lasted several hours with brief breaks. He was insatiable.

Dinner was good, even though it had gone cold. It didn't matter to us--we were pleasantly exhausted and hungry. He never again had that kind of energy and stamina. Pity. But sometimes, it's perfectly fine to have consistently just okay sex where you know it matters to your partner that you reach orgasm, too.

That costume ended up back in the closet. I would occasionally take it out, but only for myself. I didn't want to give anyone false hope anymore.