Sophia

What is it with Italian people and their exhausting combination between repressive guilt and absolute freedom? Constantly alternating between bodily acceptance and freedom, and overarching invasive control... Like, it was common to see or hear about topless women at the beach, suntanning with nothing more then a pair of skimpy bikini bottoms and a thousand eyes staring at bouncing bronze tits, men with ripped bodies and barely there shirts, flexing constantly and showing off in the sun and heat. Women young and old wearing the tiniest of bathing suits in a bid to soak up the most sun and attention, dresses with deep v-necks and blatant lines to highlight the natural forms of the body, and such a huge emphasis on looking good and being seductive... and yet the minute anyone IS seductive, its the shame of the town, the talk on everybody's lips, the shunning from even family members till they've deemed that you've learned your lesson.

This is the world in which Sophia was raised. A young Italian woman of 19, she had been tortured with this abyssmal back and forth polarity switch for the crimes of having been born in the mediterranean sea-shore town of Andora. One minute its slinky sundresses and tiny bikinis, flirting with any man around, the next its "Sophia, you are acting like a slut for doing the same thing as me!"... Okay, so maybe not in EXACTLY those words, but it sure felt that way to the girl. And for what? For the fact that she was born with her mother's figure? All bouncing tits and round ass and no man worthy of standing with her? I mean, sure, many had tried. But a small town like this meant that she knew every boy her age, knew their dark secrets and their every repulsive feature, and knew that any one of these momma's boys would happily rat her out for loving her own body for a few brownie points with their boys. She had fooled around with one of them in her youth and he bragged to everyone with ears about kissing the "bella", which had led to her being grounded for months, and she was not about to let that happen again. No, now she only trolled the beaches during the day, enjoying the feel of her own breasts bouncing and twitching as she walked. She was hyper aware of every movement of her body, the way her hips swayed as she walked, the way her ass bounced and her breasts bobbed, the way her eyes surveyed the beautiful, but shallow, bronze bodies of every other Italian out at the beach. The young men with their tight, toned bodies. The older men with salty hair that spoke of grace and culture and the knowledge and wisdom of the old greats. The young women, with taught and pampered bodies, oiled to a shine and blatantly advertising their sexuality. The older women with their pronounced curves, motherly and nurturing figures and large, heavy breasts. Age, shape, size, it didn't really matter. Sophia saw them all, saw them as attractive, saw them as the sexual beings they were.

Was Sophia a pervert? Well, she didn't like to think of it that way. She was... An explorer! A conneissur of cultural depravity, a delighter in debauchery, a ... Okay, so maybe she was a pervert. She couldn't help but imagine those hard toned men pounding into her from above, the softness and welcoming forms of the older women holding her, riding those dashing older men, and nestling herself betwixt the soft legs of these beautiful but vapid women, tasting their box even as their boyfriends rail them from behind.... The very thought sent shivers down Sophia's spine, the arousal spiking in her very core. That was the advantage to being on the beach, nobody questioned a light scent, or a woman with a wet spot on her bikini. So Sophia regularly walked the beaches of her home town, catching eyefuls of locals and tourists alike, silently ogling the beautiful bodies on the beach, while doing her best to give them an eyeful of herself. She knew she'd have to go home soon, even if only to hide in her room and fuck her old hairbrush till she screamed into her pillow again.