Sarah had been in Paris for some six months when, out of the blue, I received a call from her asking if she could come and stay with me at my apartment in Rome for a week or two. Of course I said yes. I had not seen Sarah since we left college in Chicago three years previously and went our separate ways. She, with the ultimate aim of becoming a writer, went to work for a small publishing company in New York. I, on the other hand, decided to spend, or some would say waste, a year traveling the world. She was hoping to find her sense of perspective while I was hoping to lose mine. Ironically, in no small measure we both achieved what the other was seeking.

Having written a novel and two volumes of short stories, none of which had been favorably received by any of the publishers she had submitted them to, for whatever reason she decided to embark on a stuttering and largely unsatisfactory odyssey as something of a femme fatale. Physically she was perfect for the role, with a sleek torrent of tousled, untamed, shoulder-length ebony hair, moonless and whispering eyes bathed in seduction, vertiginous cheekbones, and full, luxurious lips which seemed to reflect a natural, dark and sun-kissed cherry hue. She had several brief ‘affairs’, which lasted no more than a matter of days before she would make some excuse to end them. She would retreat discreetly into whatever solitary space she could find in a desperate attempt to reclaim her perspective. Having done so, she would exit her brittle, self-woven cocoon once more.

A secret part of me had always loved Sarah. I had tried on more than one occasion during our college years to seduce her. However, I had soon realized that Sarah’s life was essentially lived within the velvet confines of her mind. Some would call her a fantasist, but that was unfair. I had formed the conclusion that she was simply afraid of relationships. It seemed to me that somehow every part of her, down to the warm, syrupy, insistent responses between her legs, was made for sensual pleasure. There was, however, a restraint within her which suddenly seemed to provoke the lowering of a dark veil over her ability to control the inevitable feelings and emotions that followed them.

Eventually, partly in order to satisfy her all-consuming need to write, but more with the intention of building herself a soft, save haven in which to play out the desires of her alter ego to what she considered to be their natural conclusions, she began to write erotica, with increasing commercial success. She steadily began to build a reputation for herself within the genre. However at the same time she also found herself attracting the attention of some, primarily predator males, who simply wanted to slip inside her panties and enjoy the pleasure of her wild and vivid sexual imagination. They assumed that if she was creating a world of rampant sex and lust in her books that she would certainly be interested in enjoying them herself with just about anyone. In many ways she became a self-fulfilling prophecy. The more erotica she wrote, the more successful she became. The more successful she became, the more attention she attracted. The more attention she attracted, the more she felt compelled to lock herself away and write more erotica. 

It was mainly for this reason that Sarah decided move to Europe for a while. She chose Paris for a variety of reasons. For her it held an allure of sensuality and more than a suggestion of sophisticated licentiousness. She spoke no French whatsoever and made the decision not to learn. Paris did not disappoint her, with its barely-hidden sexuality and casual infidelity constantly caressing and feeding her mind and senses. She did not understand it, but what she did not understand she embraced. As she did, she would write for hour after long hour. She was interrupted only by the ever-increasing need she felt to tease her fingers into her panties and relieve the mounting sexual frustration that built in her until the crescendo of desire could no longer go unfulfilled. As she pleasured herself, her mind would slip down new avenues of sexual fantasy and desire, and weave their way into her stories. Her fingers would fill her, fuck her and stimulate her body and mind to new heights of creativity. Eventually she finished what she believed to be her most powerful writing to date. It left her feeling spent, both emotionally and physically. For a time she did not wish to write another word.

“Emma, you are not, I repeat not, to let me write anything for the whole time I am here!” she said, hugging me on her arrival in Rome. I knew she had been writing voraciously. She looked full and voluptuous, as though deliciously swollen with the fruit of her wild, unfettered sexual imaginings. She told me that when she shut herself away to write she always ate a little more and exercised a little less. Her blouse opened a little, exposing the swell of her breasts as they curved down and disappeared within the confines of her white lace bra. She saw my eyes linger. She smiled. I felt the coquettish and irresistible nature of the femme fatale in her rising again for the briefest moment.

For the following days I again became a tourist in the city which had become my home. We visited all those places – places resonating with life, death, hope, disappointment, greed, beauty and every other shade of human emotion and experience - that most visitors to Rome consider a ‘must see’. We laughed, drank coffee, hugged, reminisced, drank coffee, shopped, danced, drank coffee; and, of course, ate. ‘Dolce far niente’ as the Romans say. And at night we would take walks; sometimes alongside the River Tiber past Castel Sant’Angelo, to the Spanish Steps or Fontana di Trevi, or in whichever direction our feet took us. We would return to the apartment late in the evening. We would then sit and drink Sangiovese late into the night until our eyelids felt like little strips of lead.

I found myself falling in love with Sarah all over again. It was as though the years had slipped into the slow flow of the Tiber and dispersed them. I began to flirt with her more openly, if subtly. One evening, as we sat on my sofa, my arm strayed over her shoulder and suddenly I felt her lean in to me. She turned her head. Our eyes met and I brought my lips to hers. The kiss was deep and gentle. It moved easily into a depth that quickly began to submerge my senses. Her mouth, soft and warm, yielded, and then yielded again. Her fingers slipped into my hair, brushing it back over my ear as her tongue plunged into my mouth in search of my own. Then suddenly she drew back. She made a fuzzy, intoxicated apology and went to bed. The room was, for a few moments, thick with the reality that Sarah was living in fear of something, namely herself.

That night I awoke to the sound of light scrabbling coming from Sarah’s room. I could hear drawers being opened and shut and similar sounds. After a little while, I went to her door, knocked lightly and waited.

“Come in,” she said. When I did, I saw her sitting on the end of her bed, every curve of her body exposed except for a wisp of black satin which was barely covering her sex.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you looking for something?”

“I need something to write with,” she said, a hint of frustration in her voice. “A pen, pencil, paper... anything.” I sighed and smiled softly.

“It was you who told me there was to be no writing while you were here, Sarah. Give your mind a rest. There will be plenty of time to write when you get back to Paris.” Sarah flung herself back on the bed, her full breasts heaving above her as she grabbed a pillow, held it lightly over her face and let out a small grunt of exasperation into it.

“Goodnight, Sarah,” I said, closing the door.

I woke up the following morning to both brilliant sunshine pouring like warm liquid gold through my open window, and once more to the sound of Sarah in her room next door. This time I was left in no doubt what she was doing. The long, languid moans told me that she was in the throes of pleasuring herself and that her climax was building. I sat up in bed a little and listened. Her moans were becoming louder, more like little screams. Each one was becoming a little faster and more breathless. I could hear her through the thin dividing wall, yielding to her pleasure; “Oh god, oh god... fuck,” she would moan, over and over. I closed my eyes and pictured her on her bed, as she had been when I left her during the night, her hand delving in her panties, her thighs parted, her fingers sliding in and out of herself and using her moisture to lubricate her protruding, sensitive bud. As I did so I could feel my own arousal build quickly between my legs. I squeezed my fingers into the palms of my hands as they lay stretched out beside me, and clenched my thighs together tightly. My own need was becoming urgent. I hadn’t pleasured myself for several days. As I uncurled my fingers from within my palms, the telephone on my bedside table rang, and suddenly I was jolted back to reality.

I had already decided to take Sarah for a walk that morning. I wanted to show her some of the lesser-known, more ‘intimate’ Rome, and to buy her coffee at a bar I had discovered when I first arrived, Bar Rambollini. I put on a wafer-thin white cotton-silk summer dress with delicate noodle straps, with a flirty mid-thigh length hemline that teased my thighs. We linked arms as we walked through the narrow streets, but I could tell that Sarah was not her usual self. She seemed more reticent, as though deep thoughts were congregating in her mind and affecting her mood.

Bar Rambollini was quiet. I knew it would be. We ordered two capuccini scuri and found ourselves a quiet booth to sit and talk.

“Sarah,” I said, taking a deep breath and hoping to penetrate the shell I sensed she was beginning to surround herself with. “There’s something the matter. What is it?”

Sarah took a long, slow sip of her coffee.

“Can I be honest with you?” she asked. I nodded. “For almost six months, I have written almost all day, every day. I have shut myself away in my apartment, pouring myself out and into every word I have written. When you are alone with yourself, with your thoughts, feelings, emotions and, yes, desires, things can become very clear to you.” I nodded again.

“And what, if anything, has become clear to you, Sarah?” She paused again for a short time.

“As time passed, I began to realize some things about myself that I can no longer ignore. For whatever reason, I cannot ‘do’ relationships, Emma. Whenever anyone gets close to me, I retreat into my carapace and allow my deepest needs to be fulfilled through what I write. All my desires find form within my mind, and then are transformed into word after word, page after page of expression and emotion.” I remained silent, nodding as if to signal my concerned understanding at what she was trying to convey.

“Last night, when we kissed,” she whispered, “I felt all those feelings of insecurity and fear surge through me like wild, crackling electricity. You know that my body was responding to you, don’t you. But my mind was also suddenly beginning to become paralyzed with fear. All I could think of was to detach myself, to be alone, shut myself away and write again. It’s almost as though my reality only now exists on sheets of vellum and expressed through ink on a page. It is as though I need to somehow express my feelings in a story, rather than experience it myself. It’s where I feel... safe.” Sarah took a deep breath and another mouthful of coffee.

“You are a storyteller, Sarah,” I said, smiling at her and placing the palm of my hand on top of hers. “Storytellers have existed as long as anyone can ever remember. Before stories were written down, they were imagined and told. However, whether they are written down and find their expression between the covers of a book, or whether they are shared around a camp fire, all stories, Sarah, need to find an audience. They need a reader, a listener, whatever. It doesn’t matter, but they find life in being read or heard.” It was Sarah’s turn to nod in agreement. I stroked the back of her hand with my fingertips. Her skin felt warm and smooth against them, like olive porcelain.

“Why don’t you tell me a story, Sarah?” I whispered. “I want to hear one.”

After a moment or two, Sarah turned to me. She rattled her cup lightly against her saucer as she replaced it.

“Is that a challenge?” she said, smiling.

“No, Sarah,” I replied, my voice lowering a little, “It’s an invitation.”

“Then I will accept,” she replied. She slid herself a little closer to me in the booth, turned her head. Suddenly I felt the warmth of her breath playing lightly against my ear, sending a tingling wave of little electric shocks cascading from the back of my head down my spine.

“Here goes,” she said.

“Sarah had spent the morning in her bed, lavishing pleasure on herself. Since arriving in Rome, she had gradually felt her desire building like a slow roll of a single bass drum within her. She lay there, her body warm and wanting and her mind filling with images she was powerless to control. All that mattered to her at that moment was her selfish satisfaction and she indulged it over and over. She was used to surrendering to her lust whenever it surged within her, like an obedient submissive to a demanding mistress.

She knew that Emma was aching for her. She could sense Emma was craving her touch, her kiss and her provocative, whispered words. She had known it since they were in college together. And now, there they were, together again, in the mellow Roman heat, each knowing that the other was close to a line that they both wanted to cross. Somehow both knew that line would be crossed.

As they sat together in a quiet bar, Sarah felt the urgency of her need rise within her once more, as it had that morning in her bed. Between her legs she felt a familiar moist warmth gathering. It was one that she knew would have to be obeyed. The mistress of her sultry, wet sex was calling once more. She slipped her fingers onto the knee of the woman who was craving her, and slowly eased it under the hem of her skirt.”

At that moment, now with my eyes almost closed and my mind fluid and floating as if held in the warm breath of a sea breeze, I felt Sarah’s fingertips brush the soft skin of my thigh and ease underneath the skirt of my dress. Her fingers began working their way slowly and intuitively up my leg, until her hand was fully under my dress. I felt her fingers spread slowly over my thigh, and then extend, caressing my inner thigh with a delicate lightness that made those inexplicable tingles ripple once more in waves down my spine.

“Sarah felt the smooth skin of Emma’s inner thigh, thrilling at the way the sensation of it under her fingers felt like silk to the touch as she eased them, almost imperceptibly, ever higher. As she did so Emma almost instinctively began to part her long, slender legs slightly, as though urging her friend’s fingers to slide higher.”

My responses were effortlessly beginning to harmonize themselves with Sarah’s words which were saturating my senses. I felt Sarah’s fingers, stroking my inner thigh and, blending intoxicatingly with her words. They were slipping like warm oil into every recess in my mind and my arousal was beginning to overtake me. I knew where we were, but the risk of being in such a public place only served to heighten and inflame my desire. I parted my legs and invited Sarah to take the story wherever she wanted it to go.

“Sarah could feel her hand, resting for a brief moment between Emma’s provocatively parted thighs. It was being warmed by the radiation of lust emanating from her hungering sex. ‘Part them for a me a little more,’ Sarah said. Her voice was barely more than a husky whisper in Emma’s ear. As Emma felt Sarah’s lips pull lightly on her ear lobe, she moaned softly. As she did so Sarah allowed her fingertips to drift lazily over the delicate fabric of Emma’s panties. ‘God, they’re so wet aren’t they’, Sarah purred.

I felt my desire rising almost uncontrollably.

“Come on,” I said, my words almost crumbling under their own weight. “I need more.”

We left the bar and slid into the back of a nearby taxi. Within moments, Sarah had moved her mouth back to my ear, and her hand had snaked its languid way back under the skirt of my dress. I bit my bottom lip and let out an instinctive moan of pure pleasure as I felt her fingernails dragging tantalizingly over the almost weightless fabric of my panties. She moved them up and then down in a slow, teasing motion.

“Sarah felt Emma’s wet desire betraying her. She turned her head momentarily and her eyes met the dark, almost disbelieving gaze of the young taxi driver. As they did so, Sarah eased aside the wisp of material barely that was barely covering Emma’s honey-drenched sex and slid her fingers over it. The taxi driver’s eyes were flitting like young butterflies between the two women as he became ever more lost in their lust. Sarah turned her head back to Emma, She surveyed her surrendering body, She knew that every movement of her fingers was moving Emma closer to the loss of control she so desperately craved. She moved closer still. Their soft, moist mouths were now almost touching. In one easy movement two of Sarah’s fingers slithered easily between Emma’s open, inviting lips.”

I felt Sarah’s fingers penetrate my sex. I let out a long, low moan of pleasure as I felt them disappear inside me. I parted my legs a little more to accommodate their insistent pressing. Almost at the same moment, Sarah’s mouth moved to mine. She parted my lips with hers and pushed her tongue into my mouth with the same urgent insistence as the fingers that were buried within the sweet depths of my sex. Her other hand slid across and cupped my breast. My senses were assailed and awash with a wild wave of reckless pleasure and feeling of moral abandonment. Her tongue was slithering in my mouth and between my legs her fingers were deep within the honey-drenched inferno, causing a raging fire that was beginning to melt every sane thought in my mind. Over and again I felt Sarah’s fingers slipping in and out, every now and then twisting and curling them.

“The taxi was approaching Emma’s apartment, but Sarah’s lust was building uncontrollably as she felt Emma pushing her hips forward. She was seeking more of the exquisite pleasure that was enveloping her senses like a deep, downy blanket of wanton warmth. Sarah could see the eyes of the taxi driver in the rear view mirror, burning like a furnace of frustrated lust. As the taxi slowed to a stop, Sarah withdrew her fingers, now warm and slick, from Emma’s deep, hungry pussy.”

Almost immediately, I felt Sarah hook her fingers into the waistband of my panties. Instinctively I lifted my bottom slightly from the seat. In a smooth, easy movement I felt them being pulled down my legs and slipped off. Sarah leant forward and handed the taxi driver twenty euros for the fare. Then, as he turned, I watched as she slowly lifted her hand. My moist panties were hanging like the silk-spun web of a spider from her slender fingers. She pressed them playfully to his mouth. I watched as he breathed in deep the scent of my sex, filling his nostrils with it. “Your tip,” Sarah whispered to him, as she pushed them into his mouth.

We kissed on the threshold of the door to my apartment as I fumbled for my key. Once through the door, Sarah pressed me almost immediately against the hallway wall, lifting my arms over my head and holding my wrists tightly with her hands. Her mouth moved to my neck. I felt her mouth, warm, wet and insistent, against my skin, and then her tongue running all the way from my neck to behind my ear. I opened my eyes, and saw our reflection in the full-length hallway mirror opposite where Sarah had pinned me. I began to feel deliciously wanton, craving more.

I ran my fingers into her hair as her tongue slid over my neck. She then plunged it into my mouth again.

“I’ve wanted you so badly,” she groaned, “So badly.”

With that she suddenly sank to her knees below me. I watched in the mirror as she used her hands to push up the skirt of my dress. My legs parted. It was instinct. It was encouragement. It was craven desire and lust. She pushed the skirt up to my waist, revealing my waxed-smooth sex glistening with need. Sarah moved her mouth and nose between my legs. “Fuck,” she purred, breathing me in. “Your scent is divine.”

I ran my fingers into her hair as she knelt below me. Suddenly I felt her tongue being drawn slowly up the wet, puffy-pink lips of my pussy. The shock and sheer ecstasy of her tongue between my legs caused me to press my back involuntarily against the wall and part my thighs a little wider. She lapped at me for a few moments before sliding the full length of her tongue between the soft petals of my pussy. My fingers tightened in her hair as I felt her tongue snake deeper. I could feel myself flooding my lust onto her tongue. A mix of her saliva and my juices ran in a honey-stream down my inner thigh. Every so often her tongue would withdraw, find the stream and lick it upwards, before driving her tongue inside me once more.

My eyes for a moment focused on the mirror once more, where I could see our mutual lust playing out visually in front of my eyes. As Sarah’s tongue worked its way inside me, every now and then flicking my sensitive clit with the tip and driving me into a frenzy of lust, I lifted my hands to my shoulders. I slipped my fingers under the noodle straps that delicately held my dress and in one easy movement lowered them over my shoulders, allowing the dress to fall. My firm, swollen breasts fell free. My pink and engorged nipples were pointing firmly and insistently into the air. I began to massage my breasts. Between my legs Sarah’s tongue was slithering inside me and fucking me into a frenzy of abandonment and desire. I felt two of her fingers push up inside me as her tongue teased and tormented my swollen clit. I could smell the heavy scent of my arousal. I could feel myself flooding. I could hear the sound Sarah’s fingers were making in the depths of my wet pussy as she fucked me with them, ever faster.

“I want you in my bed,” I gasped. My mouth by this time was struggling to form words coherently. “I want to take you to my bed and fuck you.”

She lifted herself easily from her knees, sliding her tongue over my breasts as she did so. As she stood in front of me I could see fire in her wild, wanton eyes. She pressed her mouth to me and drove her tongue inside its moist, velvet confines. Instantly I could taste myself. I could taste my love for her, sweet and easy on her tongue.

As we fell into my bedroom, Sarah pulled my dress down, over my waist, leaving me naked before her. In one smooth motion she slid the side-fastening zip of her own dress down and dropped it off her shoulders. She pushed me back onto my bed, so I was lying on my back. She then swung herself around and straddled me, so that her drenched pussy was inches over my mouth. I moaned again as she lowered her head and once more brought her tongue between my legs. Almost simultaneously she lowered her wet pussy lips onto my mouth. She began to move her hips, grinding her wanton, flooded pussy against my mouth and chin. She dribbled her lust over me in waves as my tongue found its way between her yielding pussy lips. I was intoxicated by her scent, which overpowered all of my senses. Between my legs I could feel her tongue and fingers once more fucking me. It was pleasuring me and driving me on, as my lust began building to a beautiful crescendo.

As my tongue licked and lapped, I could feel her legs begin to shake and judder and her moans become louder and more violent. She was grinding her pussy against my mouth. She was becoming urgent and more desperate now. She was seeking my tongue and wanting it deep within the depths of her. I drank her in like warm wine and moaned myself as her tongue and fingers filled me and fucked me. Suddenly, in a heavenly crescendo of uncontrollable lust, I screamed out as my climax thundered over me, sending me into spasms of indescribable pleasure. Sarah’s climax followed almost immediately after. She flooded my tongue with her wet lust, filling my mouth as her orgasm broke in wave after seemingly endless wave over her. Her body was quivering and heavy on mine as I sensed she was almost unable to support her own weight any more. I continued to lick and bathe my face in her love, until we eventually rolled over, spent of every physical and emotional ounce of energy in our exhausted bodies.

Sarah and I spent several more heavenly days together before she had to return to Paris. The book she had worked on for several months had delighted her publishers, who then wanted her to return to New York for publicity and the eventual launch. She had written me a long, loving letter when she first returned to Paris, but all of me sensed that she would, once more, retreat into herself, and that I would probably never hear from her again. And I didn’t.

Until three days ago, that is. Out of the blue I received a telephone call from her from New York. In an emotional phone call that lasted over two hours, she told me how much she had missed me and wanted to see me again. I told her that I wanted that more than anything. It was then that she told me that she had bought a ticket to Rome. It was a one way ticket, she said, and told me that she would be arriving in three days time.

And so here I am now, excitedly on my way to Fiumicino airport to meet her, having called a taxi to take me. When it arrived, the driver knocked on the door of my apartment. I opened it to see two familiar eyes and a wide Roman smile. “Signorina,” he said, holding out his hand “I think these are yours?”