Olympia, the wife of all desires

New Year's Eve 1983: I contemplate myself with a few pimples and a few extra hairs (but not many). Not a few gray spots on my temples, but the light brown of youth, on a face imbued with the joy of living. My eyes remained the same as ever, blue-green and very inquisitive: essentially, an intriguing boy who had given way to a man, they say, fascinating.
I, a young man with great hopes, was still without sexual experience, living in erotic dreams and practicing the noble art of the "Love Gym," as Woody Allen calls masturbation.
The incredibly shy boy in me fantasized, but didn't carry out his (not so) precocious fantasies, purging his tool with a regularity befitting his 18 years...
Same old story: on New Year's Eve I didn't have a girlfriend and I was working hard to organize the classic New Year's Eve dinner with my usual friends. Same place, same company, but this time something seemed off, as Antonio, who used to offer his garage for parties with friends, had been beaten to the punch by his older brother in booking the family venue. With
few options in front of me, the New Year's Eve dinner with relatives, which I had always vehemently snubbed, was approaching. My sister offered me hope: "Why don't you join us? We'll have a lot of friends."
I thought back to this invitation, which also gave my sister the excuse to stay out all night. I also thought about the fact that, in any case, among the friends she mentioned there would only be couples in their thirties: the worst for a guy who's been dry all his life and whose testosterone levels are way above the safe level.
Left with no other options, I replied smugly:
"Don't worry, something will come out eventually."
Indeed.
On the afternoon of the 31st, I listlessly carried bottles of liquor and beer, cursing my bad luck and my shyness... I had to admit, reluctantly, that the party had been well-organized, and besides, unlucky in love and lucky at gambling, I would have cleaned out my sister's friends' pockets for seven and a half.
The party was being held at my parents' house, and they'd let us have our way, celebrating at my aunt's. Food and alcohol would be plentiful, and playing cards was my secret passion.

The "friends" began arriving around 9 pm and, as expected, they were all strictly paired up.
I helped them park in the family garage and walked them home.
They were all introduced to me, and I was certainly struck by a thirty-year-old blonde, Maria, who, alas, was married and even expecting her second child. Gradually narrowing down the sexual target, I focused my attention on another thirty-year-old, also married and with children: Olympia. Accompanied by her husband and a cute little boy, she seemed at least interesting (and you know, at 18, you don't get too fussy).
Greek by birth, a shock of dark, frizzy hair framed a pretty face, with an embarrassingly captivating smile. A firm, plump body could be glimpsed beneath a skimpy black velvet dress. The back of her figure was absolutely in line. And, what's more, the foreign accent made me dream.
I decided not to force events, at least for now. The first part of the party went by without any particular distinction, with moderate libations (my sister kept an eye on me, however), good food, and, most importantly, with Olympia sitting less than a foot away from me. As luck would have it, we happened to be sitting next to each other: I remember we even exchanged a few words and settled into a relatively familiar atmosphere.
It was time to play cards, waiting for the fateful stroke of midnight: the real men gathered in the living room where they began playing poker.
That game, however, was off-limits to me, so I opted for the more familiar game of saltocavallo. The very nature of this game required a certain secrecy: it was not uncommon, in fact, to deal a terrible hand to the neighbors...
Luck, however, was only intermittent, and my concentration on the game was at an all-time low, because all my gray matter was absorbed in figuring out how to nullify those fateful 30 cm... My legs and torso moved a millimeter a minute toward my warm prey, Olympia.
"What are you doing, giving me the card?" she said to me.
All I had to do was deal her a terrible card, but I bluffed, boasting it was an excellent gift.
We traded cards: she blushed when she discovered I'd "dropped" an ace, putting her out of play. Could her blushing have been due to the final elimination of the distance between our bodies?
She didn't shy away from contact, but she didn't encourage it either: I began the second part of the grand strategic maneuvers by rubbing my leg against hers in a rhythm that couldn't have been accidental.
"I see you're out of the game, why don't you play with me? I feel a little guilty about the ace I dropped you..." I said politely.
"Okay," she replied in her broken Italian.
The consequence of that agreement was a further closeness of our bodies which, with the distance now eliminated, increased the mutual pressure. I can't describe my violent erection, all the more amplified by the fact that playing together, besides transforming the relative familiarity of moments before into a flirtatious complicity, gave me the opportunity to approach her nervous ankle with the outside of my hand.
The intensity of this caress made me go crazy and, combined with her now admitted foot, made me even more bold, aiming for ever new goals.
So I decided to be more daring, intentionally letting my hand fall on her warm knee. Her reaction was one of surprise, but the feared slap that would have branded me a "rat" for life didn't come, but her smile was more eloquent than a thousand embarrassing moments. Touché.
Her hand, almost reluctantly (at least I hoped so), gracefully lightened her knee. I found myself back where I started, but at least now I knew she wouldn't get angry or make a scene. My honor would have been saved by her discretion, but my hormones were raging.
Olympia asked me,
"Excuse me, where's the bathroom?"
"I'll take you there."
"That's kind of you, but it's not necessary."
"In the hallway, the first door on the left."
She stood up and slipped past me, with a (deliberate?) rub of her luscious ass (by the way, I told you it was luscious), heading toward the bathroom.
I shrewdly reached the bathroom, too, after barely 30 seconds. I adopted the tactic I'd sometimes employed with my sister: the tried-and-true keyhole was my friend, providing me with a detailed view of her thick hair and ample breasts. I suspected the show was aimed at me, and my hand slid toward the bulge protruding from my jeans. What a flirt, she was touching herself, and my lack of experience in these matters prevented me from fully understanding what was happening.
Suddenly, she put her skimpy black panties back on and slipped back into her dress. I nimbly made my way to my bedroom and watched her, unseen, as she emerged. I reached the bathroom door and, unable to read or write, slipped out the key, returning to my seat and closing the (zero) distance that separated me from that hot woman.
I was aroused. With deliberate nerve, taking advantage of the next hand of cards, I clasped her hands under the table and said:
"Come on, let's keep the card hidden together. This time, don't you think?"
My roguish spirit, after a life spent in shyness, was awakening—or rather, awakening.Taking her hands and placing them boldly on her shapely thighs was all in one. She didn't flinch.
My hands discreetly roamed her thighs and confirmed what I'd long suspected: the black stockings sheathing them were nothing more than hold-ups—even better than in my wildest masturbation fantasies. I wonder why men tend to identify a woman's availability with such a detail; the way the male mind works is strange.
By now, I'd found a way to caress the underside of her thighs, unprotected by the sheer veil of her stockings: it was the first time I'd ever touched a woman's flesh, and the contact felt delicious, especially given the situation. The groping satisfied us both, at least for the moment, and pushed us toward new intimacies, with her breasts (did I mention I found them very ample?) pressing against my shoulder. Meanwhile, I never missed an opportunity to feel their firmness with my mischievous elbow.
The groping was now free, but discreet: we were, after all, at a table of about 20 people!!! The shy boy had transformed into a bold Ottoman rascal.
We continued "playing cards" until midnight, and guess who I wished the first one Happy New Year, starting the new year with the first dead-hand-on-a-female-meaty-posterior?
After midnight, my sister put on some music and dimmed the lights. The group consisted of about fifteen couples, and I was the only single one: they consequently gave me a bottle and the dancing began. I watched Olympia dancing with Antonio, her husband, and felt a twinge of jealousy. I approached them and kindly handed the bottle to Antonio, who accepted with a smile. I was naive and couldn't understand the meaning. I was just thinking about the fact that I was finally getting my hands on the curves I'd longed for, with the seal of "almost official." Taking advantage of the shadows, when she wasn't turning her back, I'd grope her ample, firm bottom, whispering tender words like,
"What a soft ass you have."
She'd smile smugly, pretending not to understand, the flirt.
"Here's the bottle."
It was Antonio who had broken the spell. I put on a brave face and danced with Maria, but despite her good intentions (she was tenaciously trying to cling to me), we were eight months too old. I even got to do an ultrasound of her baby, but nothing more than a few furtive touches with her ample, almost-mother-like breasts.
I regained control of the bottle and went to dislodge Antonio, who was chattering and dancing with his wife. A vigorous mortham tormented his behind, while my turgidity became acquainted with what I had furtively stolen from the bathroom keyhole. Her breasts were now pressed against my chest, testing their softness, while her nipples, now like hardened iron, seemed to want to pierce the fabric of her dress to penetrate my flesh.
"Come on, let's get back to playing."
It was that cocksucker Antonio again who, with barely concealed irony, taking advantage of the end of the last slow dance, turned on the lights and had us go back to playing.
The rest of the night passed in the most senseless nothingness, with Antonio constantly at the side of an ever-distant Olympia.
I managed to touch the object of my desire again, unseen, but it was pure chance.
Around six in the morning, the usual layabout of any self-respecting company, through eyes now buried in sleep, began with a pathetic idea:
"Guys, shall we go get some warm croissants at the bar downstairs?"
Disbelief painted everyone's faces, but the desire to overcome boredom won out. As everyone got ready, I heard Antonio say to his wife:
"Hey, go get my glasses from the car, I'll take out my contact lenses."
"Yeah, but I don't know exactly where."
My hormones coalesced with my still-active neurons (apparent sleepiness by now), and, having analyzed the situation in the blink of an eye, I offered:
"If you want, I'll take you there."
"Love, please let me go, my eyes are really tired."
"Okay, okay, let's go," she finally agreed.
We walked alone toward the garage, about 500 meters from the house, and I, making the excuse that she might fall because of the broken glass lining the street, offered her my arm, which she happily leaned on. Truth be told, her breasts also jammed into my begging arm, bringing my testosterone levels back to the same orbital altitude as geostationary satellites. It was quite difficult for me to contain myself, but we were in sight.
We reached the garage and got in. Olympia opened the door of her car and knelt on the seat, almost as if offering me, as a very welcome gift, her ass (oh, did I mention it was juicy?).
I couldn't see anymore, inexperienced, clumsy, and naive in my approaches, I grabbed it, while she muttered feeble excuses, sticking out her juicy rear even further.
"Antonio might see us, come on, stop it, I don't want to, you're so young."
My hormones were raging, I couldn't understand anything anymore, the diesel pistons of a battleship whined incessantly in my ears. I lifted her skirt and pulled her panties aside, awkwardly beginning to touch Olympia's pink plum for the first time, searching for her innermost depths. I must have been beginner's luck, because her excuses first became increasingly feeble, then breathless, turning into cries of pleasure once I accidentally touched the magic button, nestled hard and tense between her labia.
The lesson was quickly learned, and while I continued the rubbing that was giving her so much, I explored her two hot, close-knit holes with my other hand. One was as large and wet as the other was small and dry. I penetrated them both with my fingers, driven by instinct, and she came with a scream amplified by the unnatural silence of six in the morning.
It was also instinct that drove me to unsheath my sword and bring it closer to her pleasure. The mere contact with those warm, moist parts was enough to flood them. The sperm, bottled up by an evening of erotic provocation, gushed forth copiously and drenched her with a white flavor.
Still in disbelief, I heard her murmur, in a tone of voice that left no room for doubt:
"What a waste, now I'll clean you."
The slut—I don't know how else to describe her—turned around and inserted my tool, still in a good state of rigidity, into her throat, sucking it and rolling her eyes. The suction was truly effective and pumped new life into my tool, further enlivened by a shocking play of tongues.
But the best came when that slut dipped her hands in her private parts and withdrew them dripping with our mutual juices. Defiantly, she pulled the tool out of her mouth and cleaned her other hand thoroughly, wiping her little thing in quick bursts. She was practically making a "cum shoe."
It was too much; my inexperience suddenly vanished, and I found myself rapidly pumping her throat, gripping her head tightly and ejaculating all my youthful ardour directly into her esophagus.
I was thunderstruck, as the gourmet gave my softness one last squeeze, voluptuously sucking the last drops of love.
Without a word, she regained her composure and, as if nothing had happened, locked the car and headed for the garage exit. Looking at my watch, I realized that a full 15 minutes had passed: a long time to justify with the rest of the group. This realization left no trace in the boldness of having "possessed" a gorgeous and voluptuous woman. Not bad for a first time!!!
We left the garage and reached the bar. Antonio was the first to ask, albeit with a grimace somewhere between amusement and mischief, how much time we'd spent in the garage:
"So, we also heard a scream in the last fifteen minutes: isn't that a bit long for a pair of glasses?"
My mind wandered to Olympia's cry of lust, and she had surprising quick wit:
"You know, dear, the garage was dark and I sprained my ankle."
"And I bet this kind and handsome boy gave you a little massage on your sore spot, eh?" she said, winking at me.
I nodded, but I still didn't understand Antonio's strange attitude: it seemed obvious to me that he'd understood, but could he also be happy about it?
"Darling, would you like a cappuccino and a croissant?"
"I'll just have a croissant, I'm not thirsty anymore," she replied.
Was it my imagination that made me see his tongue lasciviously glossing the lips that had given me so much pleasure moments earlier? Or was it reality?
Antonio continued with his strange conversation:
"You're a handsome guy, who knows how many girls you've had and how many are after you?"
Olympia nodded amusedly, while my embarrassment had once again given way to a healthy swagger. I boasted of my many conquests.
"We could really use a handsome young man like you on our soccer team, why don't you come play with us?"
I nodded.
"You could stay with us that evening..."
I nodded again and we exchanged phone numbers, saying goodbye. The following week we spoke again, and I went to play soccer for his team, even winning a coveted prize, but that's another story...