"E qui!" Cheers erupt in the small group of ragged men dragging their feet on the pavement. The bar doesn't look like much. A neon sign, a stainless steel door, tinted windows with black iron bars. A place for desperate souls lost in Rome.

The inside is exactly how you imagined it. Neon flooding the room, dirty tables, a bored bartender. A stunning blonde in a bikini is grinding herself against a pole on a small scene. Her massive chest looks as fake as the marble on the counter.

You check your watch, raise an eyebrow and ask the bouncer, "Why is this place still open?"

 He looks at you with a fatalist smile and shrugs. "Mafia."

Right. You pass a hand in your hair. You're not as drunk as you were an hour ago, not as drunk as you should be in a place like this. In your skull, you feel the point of a terrible headache to come. All the guys you met in the club have gone to sit around the stripper. They're ordering shots. Tequila. Vodka. Nothing you feel like. You crawl on a bar stool and close your eyes.

"Troppo sbronzo?"

You jump. The girl didn't sit down next to you or anything, she just kind of... appeared.

You shrug. "No parlo Italiano."

She smiles kindly and repeats. "Too drunk?"

"More like not enough."

You turn the stool to face her. Her voice was a hint, but by all the gods is she beautiful! The face of an angel, a cascade of obsidian hair framing two piercing eyes, a perfectly shaped body, amazing, endless legs... Her outfit does nothing to cage her wild appeal either, with her elegant black dress diving between her breasts and slit up to her thighs. A small silver cross dances on her skin with her every breath. She smiles like someone who is used to being stared at by men.

A loud cheer comes from the group of men around the stripper. She lets her bikini top fall on the floor and comes down the scene, suggestive. A brave soul pulls his erect member out and she takes him in her hand. The others cheer, encourage their friend to push things farther. She puts the money he gives her inside her bikini before starting to suck him off.

"Somehow that seems unhygienic." You're hoping to get rid of the erection growing in your jeans by forced indifference.

"Why? At least the money won't get wet in there." You laugh. The gal knows her sarcasm.

At the end of the bar, the stripper has already finished the first guy and is starting on another one. In seconds, he cums right in her face. You see him whisper into her ear. She smiles and goes to the bouncer, half-naked and cum-covered still. A minute later, a string of girls come down. A cute Arab, a Chinese girl covered in tats, a tall, skinny brunette...Sicilian maybe? All of them beautiful. All of them naked or very close. One by one, the guys are chosen and led in a spiral staircase going upstairs.

Oh... So not only a mafia bar. A mafia brothel. You feel slightly nauseous, your head increasingly painful. You raise from the stool and grab your jacket.

"Everything okay dear?" The girl asks. "Men usually offer me one drink before running off."

 You want to answer something witty, cool, but your mind is foggy. You get your wallet and grab a bright, cracking new banknote. You put it on the fake marble and point the barman to a bottle of champagne sitting above his head.

"Such a gentleman," she comments, with acid irony.

You stumble to the brothel's front door. The cold air of the night works wonders. A point of pain is still pulsing inside your skull, but at least the fog in your mind is slowly rising. You raise your head, look around you. Confused.

"You have no idea where you are, have you?" She is leaning against the frame of the door, her hands at her back, a sardonic smile floating on her lips. It hits you like a playful little slap.

"Not really." You confess. "My friend has a place in the Trastevere?"

She laughs. At you. "You'll never find it alone, I'll walk you back. I brought a present too."

She walks up to you with the bottle of champagne you just bought.

"Thank you but..." She puts a finger on your lips, hands you the bottle. She is impossible to refuse. You take a long sip at the bottle neck.

"Now follow me," she says. You take her arm under yours and you start walking in the Roman night, with the most beautiful woman you ever saw.

Her name is Chiara. Between two sips of champagne, you feel rising in your chest a familiar, warm confidence. The one a man feels when he's with a girl he will seduce and who will seduce him back. The confidence that this evening, with her, nothing could go wrong.

Your erection is back, pulsing, and you just don't care. Judging by the looks she gives to the bulge of your jeans, her tongue caressing her lips, neither does she.

You're drunk again, pleasantly so. You know you'll regret it in the morning, but for now the wine is keeping the hangover away.

On a bridge over the Tiber, you comment, "I wish we had glasses for this."

She stops. A smile you had not seen yet. Rather... kinky? "How right you are and how rude of me!" She exclaims in typical Italian theater. "Let's do it the Russian way!"

She sits on the ledge of the bridge, takes off one of her incredibly high heels. Hands it in front of her. "The gentleman will pour now!" She is drunk too.

Laughing, you carefully pour champagne in the shoe. "Na zdrovie!" She shouts before swallowing it like a shot. Laughing, she throws the shoe over her shoulder.

A fermata. Your eyes can't leave a drop of wine at the tip of her lips, descending to her neck, flowing all the way down to her chest only to disappear in the cleavage of her dress. You are hypnotized by her gorgeous body... She looks over her shoulder. Right at the river. "Ma... La mia scarpa! Cazzo!"

You snap back to your senses when you see her climbing the ledge in a drunken attempt to go find the lost heel. You reach to grab her by the hips. "Leave me, you fucker... I love these shoes! It's all your fault!"

You struggle with her, laughing. She laughs as well, her delicious chest bouncing under your hand. Exhausted, you find yourselves sitting under the ledge, facing each other. You grab the bottle of champagne, only to realize that it's almost empty.

"You might as well finish it," she says, pouting.

With an inspiration, you take her other foot into yours hands, caressing it, carefully removing her left shoe. She bites her lip. Good sign. You present the shoe over and she pours the last of the champagne into it. She looks at you with a renewed, curious intensity as you start drinking slowly from her heel.

It's the best champagne you've ever had in your life. You feel a strange pressure between your legs, a warmth over all your body. In a moment of eternity, you feel every drop of the precious nectar caress your lips, enter your throat, splash on your chin and drip on the collar of your shirt.

You throw the shoe over the ledge of the bridge. The bottle follows. You never hear them fall into the Tiber. 

When you look back down, both her bare feet are pressed between your legs, caressing a very visible erection. Your eyes cross hers. They are filled with something you didn't expect: a lustful adoration, a craving. Never had such a beautiful woman looked at you in that way. You know your eyes reflect the exact same fire.

In a second, Roma is ablaze again. The whole city catching fire, erased from existence as you throw yourself against each other with abandon. There is only this girl and your desire, the desperate passion of your tongues dancing. The cold, dirty pavement you hold her against turns to embers as you tear down her dress.

She is wearing a dark red guêpière made of luxurious laces. Her chest is bare, offered rather than hidden by the slutty lingerie. Her breasts are as perfect as the rest of her figure. Round cups, with nipples as dark as her eyes. Erect. You take one between your lips and she lets out a moan, a cry of pleasure in the night.

With a slap, she pushes you away, but the desire hasn't vanished from her eyes. If anything, it's madder now. "Catch me if you can," she whispers, before darting through the night. You chase after her.

She is barefoot and half-naked. You're faster, powerful, lustful. You catch her in a small alley not far away. Push her against a stone wall. She resists and lusts for your kisses at the same time. She tries to get away while untying your belt, desperate to feel your member with her hands.

So that's what she likes...

Your tongues locked in a fight of desire, her hand holding to your manhood, your shoulders hit a wooden door. It opens wide behind you and you fall heavily against a Carrara marble floor.

You look at her. She fell too. The street light entering through the open door draws the shadow of her perfect body on the flawless white floor. You rush to her again on all fours, pin her against the hard stone. She wants to roll over you, but only manages to get herself on her belly.

You hold her arms firmly at her back, raise her dress over her hips and pull her culotte down to her knees, almost ripping it off her. When you press your hand beween her legs, she is gushing wet.

She is shouting from pleasure at the slightest of your touches now. You get rid of your belt, pull your throbbing erection out. Without bothering to undress, you pull her ass up. Spread her pussy with your fingers and thrust yourself into her.

"O Dio si! Fottimi!" she shouts.

Why is it that the nice girls always call themselves whores and the whores always call to God?

"O Dio!" She has stopped trying to resist you now. You are coming and going into her, her juices squirting on the floor. You grab her hair. You know she will love it.

"O Dio!" The pounding that you are giving her is echoing all through her body. She hasn't felt pleasure like that since... She shouts, and shouts again. When you grab her hair the surprise brings her closer to the edge.

"O Dio!" You member is burning now. The fire all around you. She is the only wet, safe heaven in a world on fire, and you are fucking her so hard...

"O Dio!" Her throat lets out an unstoppable moaning. You drive her to insanity. In the dim lights her eyes play tricks. She sees another man watching her get fucked and she loves it. The surprising pain of a spank sends her flying over the edge in an incredible orgasm.

"O Dio!" The spasms of her body finish you as well. Your member is pulsing, exploding with pleasure and cum. You finish deep inside her, accompanying your fire with deep movements from the hips.

"O Dio..." Her orgasm cannot stop, she has never been so full of pleasure in her life. It's taking every fiber of her body.

But there is another man there. She can see him now, in the dim light of a streetlamp creeping through the door. A weird man. Two legs closely joined, a pitiful, tortured body almost nude, its arms wide open. Pinned to a cross. Paint on wood.

She falls down on the floor. Exhausted. Enraged. The fire of her pleasure still burning, turning her immortal soul to ashes.

"Is this... is this a church?" You pull out of her. Your sperm dripping from her pussy. You stand up and walk around. Not a church, just a small chapel. A simple one, just a few ornate columns, a poor altar and a beautiful, old crucifix.

A whining sound blocks your laughter rising in your throat.

She is crying on the floor, her forehead against the veinless marble. She is holding something in her clenched fist. You remember a small silver cross jiggling between her breasts. Kneeling by her side, you whisper words of comfort that she cannot hear. Her tears form a little puddle next to the one you left fucking her so well.

An idea crosses your mind. "How much do you cost?"

She slaps you, furious. A terrible fire back in her eyes, her make-up ravaged by tears. You prefer her that way. "Is this all I was to you?" she shouts. You catch her arm as she is trying to hit you again.

You hug her tight, whispering softly into her hear. "You know it wasn't." She cries in your arms now, hitting your shoulder again and again. Puny punches of rage and sadness. She stops just before the pain gets intolerable.

She calms down, throwing her torn dress over her shoulders. You cannot bear the sight of her grief. "Seriously, how much do you cost?"

The number she gives sends your eyebrows to the sky. She smiles, with sad pride. "I'm beautiful." she says.

You get your wallet out, take all the money you have in this world and leave it on the altar. Somehow it seems to make it a bit better. Or worse. You don't really know.

She falls with exhaustion. You take her in your arms and carry her out of the chapel. "You can't just buy forgiveness you know."

"Why not? The Americans do it all the time."

Tonight you fell in love with a whore.