I never thought I’d confess this, but under the silvery glow of the moon in that secluded Italian villa, my desires unraveled like never before. My name is Elena, a wanderer at heart, chasing fantasies across the globe. At 28, with my lithe, curvaceous body—full, firm breasts topped with pale pink areolas, skin as smooth as silk, and my most intimate folds plump and tender—I found myself entangled with Marco, a mysterious artist whose eyes promised worlds of pleasure.
It started innocently enough, or so I told myself. We met at a midnight gallery opening in Florence, where the air was thick with the scent of aged wine and blooming jasmine. His gaze lingered on my form, tracing the curves illuminated by soft candlelight. ‘You are a vision,’ he whispered, his voice a husky caress that sent shivers down my spine. I laughed it off, but deep down, my body ached for more.
That night, he invited me to his villa overlooking the Tuscan hills. The moon hung full and luminous, casting ethereal light over everything. We sipped Chianti on the terrace, our conversation turning intimate. His hand brushed mine, warm and insistent. Before I knew it, his lips were on mine, tasting of sweet grapes and unspoken promises. The kiss deepened, his tongue exploring with a salty-sweet tang that made my core throb.
He led me inside to the opulent bedroom, where moonlight filtered through gauzy curtains. He undressed me slowly, his fingers tracing my skin, raising goosebumps. My breasts heaved as he cupped them, thumbs circling the shallow pink areolas until my nipples hardened like ripe berries. I gasped, the sound echoing softly. His scent—musky, with a hint of sandalwood—filled my nostrils, intoxicating.
For our first union, he positioned me on the bed, entering from behind in a gentle yet commanding way. His cock, thick and veined, pulsed with arousal, the purple-red head glistening with pre-cum. He teased my entrance, rubbing the swollen tip against my plump, tender labia, which parted eagerly, slick with my arousal. The scent of my musky desire mingled with his, heady and primal.
As he pushed in slowly, I felt every inch: the initial stretch as my tight, wet heat enveloped him, the friction of his veined shaft against my inner folds. Deeper he went, the ridges of my vaginal walls clutching him like velvet gloves. When he hit my cervix, a jolt of deep pleasure-pain shot through me, and I moaned, the wet slapping sounds filling the room. He thrust rhythmically, building from slow grinds to faster pumps, each withdrawal pulling at my labia, each plunge massaging my clit indirectly.
My breaths quickened, a prelude to ecstasy. My vaginal walls began to spasm lightly, love juices flowing copiously, coating him in slippery warmth. Then the peak hit: my body trembled violently, muscles clenching like a fist around his cock, squeezing in waves that milked him. I screamed, a guttural cry, as fluids gushed, mixing with his sweat. The contractions rippled to my core, my cervix pulsing in response. In the afterglow, my passage throbbed gently, our combined essences sticky and warm, a soulful fusion that left me boneless.
We lay entwined, his cock still semi-hard inside me, pulsing softly. But desire reignited quickly. ‘Tell me your secrets,’ he murmured, flipping me to face him. This time, I straddled him in female superior, my full breasts bouncing as I lowered onto his rigid length. The insertion was exquisite: his swollen head parting my saturated lips, sliding into the tight channel, friction igniting sparks. I rocked, feeling the deep penetration, his tip kissing my cervix with each downward thrust.
The rhythm varied—slow circles grinding my clit against his base, then frantic bounces with wet smacks and my moans harmonizing with his grunts. Scents of sweat, cum, and my tangy arousal enveloped us. Taste lingered from earlier kisses, salty skin on my lips as I licked his neck.
Climax built again: breaths ragged, walls fluttering, fluids increasing. The pinnacle exploded—shudders wracking me, vagina contracting fiercely, gripping him like a vice, spurting nectar. I wailed, body arching, then collapsing in blissful pulses, our mingled fluids a warm, sticky embrace, cervix echoing with aftershocks of unity.
Post-ecstasy, we moved to the bathroom for a steamy shower. Water cascaded over us, moonlight peeking through the window. Against the tiled wall, he took me from behind once more, this third time urgent and raw. His cock, reinvigorated, plunged into my eager depths, the water adding slippery lubrication. Insertion felt like diving into hot silk: slow engulfment, inner wrinkles massaging every vein, culminating in that profound cervical tap.
Pumping varied—deep, slow strokes building tension, then rapid pistons with fleshy slaps and splashing water. Sensory overload: visual of water beading on his muscles, touch of cool tiles against my breasts, sounds of our wet union, scents of soap mixed with our musk, taste of water-kissed skin.
High tide approached: pre-orgasmic spasms, breaths heaving, walls quivering. Then the storm: full-body quake, vaginal vise clenching rhythmically, expelling waves of fluid amid cries. Aftermath: gentle throbs, sticky warmth pooling, a transcendent bond.
But the night demanded more. We dried off and returned to the bedroom floor, where he bound my wrists lightly with a silk scarf—a playful force I confessed to craving. Resisting at first, I yielded, his commands fueling the fire. He entered missionary style, my legs wrapped around him. The deep fusion was intense: his cock breaching my core, penetrating so profoundly it felt like entering my womb, a mythical merging.
Thrusts escalated from tender to fervent, dialogues of ‘Take me deeper’ and his growled responses. All senses alive: moonlight on sweat-slicked skin, velvet touch inside, symphony of flesh and breaths, mingled odors, salty tastes.
Orgasm crescendoed long: mounting tension, spasms intensifying, peak of seismic contractions squeezing him, floods of essence, ecstatic screams. Lingering pulses, cervical whispers, ultimate satisfaction.
Finally, in the kitchen at dawn, on the countertop, we united one last time in cooperative passion. I rode him again, our bodies in sync, confessing every desire. The final climax was a shared explosion, leaving us spent under the fading moon.
As the sun rose, I knew this confession would forever haunt my dreams, a testament to unbridled ecstasy.
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