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On July 5th Mr. Roberto Chiellini left the small town of Orangeville Iowa and on July 6th he arrived in Siena to scatter his wife’s ashes at the gate of Duomo cathedral. It was his first time traveling outside Orangeville since meeting his wife Lucia Pardo. All though that was many decades ago, it was vividly imprinted on his mind. It was 1961 and Mr. Chiellini was known back then as private Robert “Linguine.” He and his mates stumbled down the narrow Siena alleyways, searching for the Army barracks in a drunken stupor. That is when he saw her for the first time. On her knees, eyes closed, the palms of her olive-colored hands pressed firmly together as she prayed before the urns of Duomo cathedral. Her concentration and devotion to the Lord were like nothing he had ever seen before. Her lips moved fiercely and silently. Even in his drunken stupor, he knew he was awed by her passion and knew he would spend the rest of his life with her…and he did.
When Mr. Chiellini returned from abroad, he returned with the bride. Lucia Pardo was a woman of God and her passion burned greatly for the Lord. A passion that didn’t mirror her relationship with her American husband. Over the next five decades, Mr. and Mrs. Chiellini lived an ordinary life. They owned a Ford and a small cottage on the outskirts of town. Mrs. Chiellini bore him three children, one daughter, and two sons. She was a stay-at-home mom and he worked at the local factory. Their children would grow tired of their ordinary life and move to the city, for a better life. With their children gone, their marriage grew distant. Mr. Chiellini would often find his estranged wife on her knees, praying to the Lord at the small altar that he had built for her. Even in her old age the passionate glow around her cheeks and wanting lips craved the Lord’s praise. A passion that soured Mr. Chiellini’s love for the Lord. Even though their relationship became lifeless, like salted earth, Mr. and Mrs. Chiellini remained married until her last breath.
“Please…” Mrs. Chiellini whispered, grasping her rosary. “Scatter my ashes across Duomo gate. Let my body return to his eternal embrace.”
When Mr. Chiellini arrived at the Agnello Bianco or White Lamb, he was nearly eighty years old. The hotel had operated for one hundred years and remained stuck in time. Art deco design, painted walls, marble floors, broad desks, eloquent furniture, and geometric shapes and lines. Sitting in the lobby, Mr. Chiellini rubbed his aching legs. His cane at his side, a small suitcase at his feet, and his wife’s urn on his lap. “You are home,” he whispered to the urn. “You are…” he paused when he heard his name being called.
“Mr. Chiellini? la tua stanza è pronta.”
“Mr. Chiellini? la tua stanza è pronta.”
Even though Mr. Chiellini was of Italian heritage and married an Italian woman; he never learned how to speak their language. “I guess that is me,” he thought, steadying himself with his cane. He felt a sharp pain running down his leg. His osteoarthritis flared as he grimaced. Gingerly, he staggered to the receptionist desk, his spine stiff and upright. The pain was unbearable when he would stand. A diagnosis not eased by his growing stomach that hung slightly over his waist. When he arrived at the receptionist desk, his lungs were hungry for air. Beads of sweat formed on the top of his bald dome and furrowed brow. “I am Mr. Chiellini,” he said, leaning against the desk.
“Un momento,” said a voice.
“Take your time.”
From behind the desk, a woman of 18 appeared from an office. A woman of olive-colored skin, kissed by the sun embrace. Her hair is naturally sleek and long, but cut short during the summer months, resting just below her earlobes. Her eyes are cat-like, narrowed, and fierce, detailing a swirling brown-ish green iris that catches one’s breath. She is hourglass-shaped, wide, and pronounced in her thoracic before her curves slope inward before teasingly expanding at the hips. Her legs were long and defined, showcasing a well-chiseled frame. She would stand taller than most, more so than Mr. Chiellini. Her accent has a lover’s ring to it, yet it has a layer of absolute confidence. In the small town she lives in, her beauty is sought after by many, but none have captured this angelic being. While attending the receptionist’s desk, she wore a uniform matching the 1930s elegance of the White Lamp. Her heels were black and exposed at the top. Her pants were pinned, stripped, and gripped at her ankles. A simple leather belt wrapped around her waist and tucked within her pants was a white top underneath a small black vest. Near her prolonged neck, a tie hangs loosely. Her black hair is pushed back around her ears, where a gentleman like that rests on her head.
“Ciao Mr. Chiellini. Una stanza per uno, sì?”
Mr. Chiellini stood in silence. His wanting eyes soaking in the perfection that was the young maidan. She was a modern-day Helen of Troy, a queen like Cleopatra, a painting gracefully göztepe escort crafted by Italy’s most iconic painter, Leonardo Da Vinci. She was Mr. Chiellini’s, Mona Lisa.
“Mr. Chiellini?”
“Mr. Chiellini?”
“Una stanza per uno, sì?”
“Oh! Sorry…I don’t speak your tongue! I am Mr. Chiellini,” he pointed to himself.
The young maiden lips curled into a teasing smile. “My apologies sir. Judging by your name, I thought you were from the area.”
“No, I am not, but I was stationed in this very city, many decades ago. My wife spent most of her childhood in Siena.”
“Donne fortunate,” she grinned, placing her hands on the desk, tantalizingly close to Mr. Chiellini. “Will she be joining you?” she tilted her head perplexed, exposing more of her neck to the old man.
“Yes…I mean…” he paused, looking down at the urn that was lodged between the two. “No, she is unfortunately not with the living anymore. I’ve only returned to spread her ashes at Duomo gate before I depart tomorrow evening.”
“le mie condoglianze,” she replied, reaching a hand towards the old man’s face. Her fingers teasing his chin before flatting against his exposed check. “You must be devastated.”
When she touched him, his eyes shut. His dry lips drew into his mouth, soaking against his tongue. Naturally, subconsciously, his head turned towards her hand like an infant to the breast. When his eyes opened, his wife’s urn glared back at him, causing him to jerk away from the temptress. “Sorry…it has been a long day. I must be tired,” he replied, grasping his wife’s urn.
“Yes…of course,” she soothed. Un uomo della tua età ha bisogno del suo riposo. Può essere difficile dormire quando la tua mente vuole ciò che pensa di non poter avere,” she leaned forward, sauntering ever closer to the old man.
“Ma ti sbagli, così tanto. Tu pensi a me, mi brami, mi vuoi, sappi che lo faccio anch’io. Che entro la fine di questa stessa notte, avrò la tua”.
Mr. Chiellini shivered. The hairs on his arms were erected. Even though he didn’t understand a single word that escaped her lips, he never felt more alive. His heart was beating as his blood began to boil in areas that had remained dormant for many years. Instinctively, his hand moved below his waist to an area that had been neglected for far too long. He touched himself over the layer of his trousers and with trepidation he withdrew his needing manhood. “My apologies…” he half moaned, “I didn’t understand.”
“Sì … sì l’hai fatto,” her voice growled. “”Il tuo corpo risponde a me in modi che un madrelingua italiano naturale non potrebbe.”
Withdrawing, the temptress reached under the desk, her eyes locked onto the old man as the room was in complete silence before the sound of keys ringing broke the growing tension. ” Room 17, just down the hall.”
“Thank…you,” Mr. Chiellini fumbled his room and withdrew his body from the desk and towards his room, yet his mind still lingered.
When he entered his room, still grasping his wife’s urn he allowed himself to breathe deeply while he tried to understand the urges that were bubbling to the surface. Urges that had been covered with layers of molten rock, snuffing out any natural instincts that dared to surface to the top. His arms strangled his wife’s urn, muscles defined against his leathery skin as his face turned sour. The eventual crunch sound brought him back to the present. He glanced down, a small crack line formed at the tip of his wife’s urn. He didn’t move. He didn’t react. He just stared at the pronounced crack lines before he placed Lucia on the mantle above the fireplace.
Mr. Chiellini was never the most physically imposing. He was an ordinary fellow in his youth and even more so as time aged his body. Gravity had insidiously compressed his spine, causing a slight hunch to form on his shoulders. His skin is the texture of leather, rough and malleable. The color is stripped lighter where his clothes cover his dry skin. His stomach extends slightly outward, over his belt buckle, held up by thinning legs that groan for relief. In the privacy of his room, when bare, the old American man’s phallus nudges his inner thigh, foreskin covering his sensitive head. A mound of grey public hair covered his groin, ignored for impression. Below, pendulum-like orbs, large and aching from decades of abandonment, sway with each weighted step. His manhood possessed the same suntanned features of other parts of his body, enchanting his aged physique. When he dried himself after a shower, he dressed in a fashion that clearly showed his age. Simple black slacks, a dress shirt a size too big, a plaid sports coat, and a pocket watch was given to him by his wife, covering his frame. His head was the shape of an egg, smooth with white hair circling the sides of his head, leaving the top completely exposed. His nose was bulbous and wrinkled like the rest of his face. A pair of glasses çorlu escort rested on his nose, hiding a pair of lively green eyes.
Lying in his bed, Mr. Chiellini dreamt of the night he saw her, how perfect she was. He dreamt of their marriage. He dreamt of their small cottage on the outskirts of town. He dreamt of their beautiful children and the joy that it brought him that he had impregnated her. He dreamt of her seductive accent that breathed into his ear. He dreamt of bobbing head against his groin, his mouth parting as he moaned her…name.
“Her name!” Mr. Chiellini sprang up in his bed, hand on his chest. “I do not know her name.”
Grabbing his cane, he slowly stepped into the hallway. The corridor was dark as he crept down the hall. Slowly, the old man stalked forward, towards the receptionist desk. When he reached the end of the corridor connecting to the lobby, he pressed himself against the wall and peered in her direction. He watched, holding his breath. When he saw her, he felt that same euphoria from before growing below his waist. He watched, stared, and wanted like a stalker in the darkness. She manned her post like a Roman centurion, oblivious to his ever-present eyes. Her body swayed rhythmically, showcasing her birthing hips. Mr. Chiellini touched himself again, this time he didn’t withdraw his hand. His mind froze over while his central nervous system erupted. The pleasure was too much, but he held onto his growing manhood before the sound of horror pierced his ears. His eyes darted open. His head against the wall, leaning against it like a lover while his cane slipped from his hand. He froze, only listening for any movement coming from the receptionist’s desk. Heart beating, Mr. Chiellini slowly peeked around the edge of the wall.
Behind the wall, within touching distance, the temptress waited. Her facial features didn’t showcase a hint of disgust or fear for the old man. Her cat-like eyes measured him, pierced through him like a spear. The tension grew and grew until it prompted one to act. The young temptress turned her body towards him, arms pressing against the underside of her chest. “
“Posso aiutarla Mr. Chiellini?”
“Yes…I wanted to know your name?” he throated.
The temptress smiled, rolling off of the wall and slithering into the dark corridor where Mr. Chiellini stood. Her body towered over him as he slouched against the wall, supporting his fragile lower extremities. “Il mio nome?” she giggled, closing the distance.
“Pensi che siamo così intimi di amici?” She tortured his mind, biting his upper ear before her tongue probed his canel. Her hand had already taken hold of his fortress, grinding her youthful fingers across his trousers. “O siamo amici più stretti?”
Mr. Chiellini’s legs trembled like a building ready to collapse. His knees turned inward, pressing against each other while she pressed him firmly against the wall. He was trapped, like a beast and as he looked down the hall and into the lobby, he knew that he was alone. His hands remained firmly against the wall, paralzyed by embarrassment and arousal. His manhood braced the gate, while a foreign power grasped him.
“O siamo amici più stretti, Mr. Chiellini?” she hushed him. Her gaze followed his eyes to the cane. “Mio…Mio, Mr. Chiellini. “Siamo molto amici,” she greedily groaned before slipping her body down his rotund stomach, falling onto her knees. “Lascia che ti aiuti a ottenerlo.” Eyes forever locked onto him, the temptress slowly raised his cane from the floor and placed it against the front of his trousers and pressed the wooden handle against him ever so gently. “Ti piace quello Mr. Chiellini?” “It doesn’t get any more romantic from this point forward, Mr. Chiellini. My words are as soothing as the ocean breeze, but my actions are that of a slut in heat,” and as he choked on his words, the temptress looped the head of the cane into his trousers, hooking his manhood like an eager fish.
The touch. Oh, the touch. It was all too much for him. He now took up the position similar to a catcher as he continues to slide down the wall. His white knuckles were pronounced as he continued his descent. When his member was hooked and lifted, the old man experienced a sensation that had eluded him for decades. There was a brief stillness as both witnessed what had announced itself to both of them. Lowering his gaze, he saw the beautiful temptress staring wordlessly at his trousers. Was it a gaze of disappointment? Anger? Was she holding back her laughter? He did not know and he couldn’t look. He knew already as his briefs soaked through the fabric of his trousers. Mr. Chiellini received his cane from the young woman before he excused himself and scattered back to his room in embarrassment. His voice whimpered as he hurried, opening the door to his room and to the bathroom to clean himself off. “What were you thinking? What were you thinking!” he berated himself, pausing ümraniye escort as he caught a glimpse of the urn. “I’m…” he paused, as the door slammed shut behind him. Standing inside the room with him, the temptress closed the door.
“Immagino che non siamo amici dopotutto. Per me va bene. Mi piace di più così,” she hissed, strutting directly towards the man. “È così che tratti una donna che desidera succhiare il tuo vecchio pene?” Grabbing Mr. Chiellini by the shirt, she pushed him into a chair. Mounting him, her long delicate fingers moved up his arms and across his beating chest. She groaned, her lips ready to please as she pushed her body further up his chest, causing her breasts to kiss his gaping mouth.Tossing her hat, the temptress quickly, eagerly, popped each button off her vest until it ended up on the floor as well. Burst of spasms rocked her pelvis, causing her to grind herself against his groin. “I’m going to eat you whole,” she spat, driving her tongue deep into his mouth. Her tongue wrestling him into submissiveness while her nails dug into the side of his face. She moaned, pulling herself further up his frame. Contorting her hourglass figure, she gleamed back at the urn that rested on the mantle. “I hope she doesn’t mind watching,” the temptress snarled, slowly lowering herself off of Chiellini’s lap and onto her knees.
The sound of his belt buckle rattling brought Mr. Chiellini back to the present. His wife’s judgmental gaze dug a hole into his chest, causing him to grasp his soaked chest. “I..I am sorry…” he paused, the name of his wife’s name abandoning him. “I don’t remember…” he cried out, not because of his infidelity or his forgetful nature, but by the warmth that bathed his manhood.
The temptress had already removed her shirt and bra when her throat engulfed Mr. Chiellini. Her breast pressed firmly against his quaking thighs while she conquered every inch of his leathery tasting cock. She did not let up, her throat vicing him into submission while her hands pressed down on his sternum, holding him in place. Her throat sang to him in the most lewd tone. Moaning like a lioness in heat, she did not stop as a thick layer of precum coated her tongue and upper throat. The seed was thick and rancid after being neglected for decades. Popping off of his manhood, her eyes flashed up to meet him. Her lips and mouth were soaked with saliva that dripped onto his groin. “Avrò ogni goccia! Dammi ogni goccia!”she howled, thrashing her hands up and down his shaft. “Dallo a me! Dallo a me!”
Mr. Chiellini cried out. His head hung back against the chair, his legs shivered and tap-danced in place while the temptress handled his manhood with vigorous strokes. He kicked and swayed like a beast, avoiding a predator’s fatal bite, or snakes swallowing embrace. “I…I…I…” he cried out when the wet vice returned to his manhood. “Her name…Her name…Her name…” he moaned openly, unwilling to gaze upon his dead wife’s ashes. “I don’t know!” he cried out. A flash of radiating pleasure erupted like fireworks in the night. His pendulum-like balls tensed against the under the shaft of his manhood and rumbled to his tip. His hips moved more sporadically, lifting in the air, pain stinging the inside of his right thigh. He cried out, again and again, eyes clinched as instinct took over. When the rumbling reached his swollen tip, his eyes burst open and found his right leg resting on the head of the temptress and his hips thrusting violently against her face. With each thrust, she matched him in kind, choking on his manhood with glee.
When the eruption touched the tip of her tongue, she clamped down on his tip. Her tongue flattened and accepted the rancid seed that filled her throat. Moaning on his tip, her hands stroked his tender balls firmly against his shaft, milking every drop from his sack. The volatility of Mr. Chiellini’s seed did not go unnoticed, but she did not loosen her grip on his mushroom-like head. An ungodly eruption filled her stomach and she met it head-on, driving her lips further down his pulsating shaft inch by inch until her lips pressed against his grey public hair. When the river became a stream, and the steam a drizzle, did the temptress remove herself from his member? She observed her work as Mr. Chiellini gasps for air. His air soaked and damp, glasses removed from his head. Her hands trailed up his chest, dragging her nails against his hair-covered chest before she slowly swayed herself back to her feet. Her gaze met the urn once more and a sly smirk formed.
“Cos’altro desideri da me?” “What does that cock of yours want to taste next?” she moaned, her hands trailing over her exposed breast before dipping lower and lower until her hands meet at the crossroad of her zipper.
Mr. Chiellini couldn’t move. His body ached like an exposed nerve. His skin felt exposed and drench, but he wanted more. When the temptress stood, he leaned forward in the chair. His manhood swollen a dark purple from tip to base, twitched for me. His pendulum-like balls descended downwards onto the chair as she stepped out of her pink striped trousers, bare and exposed to him.
“I…I want to put a child inside you,” he whispered.
“Un bambino?” she teased, rubbing her belly while she twirled in a circle. “Vuoi che porti in braccio tuo figlio?”
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