The non-Italian Stallion

Their tongues wrestled, one with practiced fury and one aimlessly splashing around like a fish that jumped aboard a ship and has no idea what to do out of water. It was clear which one of them got up top and yet it purposefully slithered under the other, rotated around it and seemed to map out the clueless fools mouth. Almost as if the ineptitude of the flailing tongue invigorated the experienced tongue to show off her skill and make up for the others lack there-of.

The signora Caliciente, a sophisticated Italian woman in her early forties, stood before him in a that red dress tailored to encase and showcase her curves with elegant lavishness. Her dark hair was pinned up in a chic chignon, and her full lips were painted a deep crimson. Her whole get-up radiated that she was so far above him, it became nauseating. How did John get so very aware of those impressions? Obviously because he had his eyes open the whole time during the kiss, awkwardly moving from the bits below he could see through the obscured field of view up to the point where their lips met, scanning her face.

She was the picture of refined European allure—poised, wealthy, and used to men who knew exactly how to charm with words, wine, and worldliness. But today, somehow none of that seemed to matter. On the contrary, what stirred the heat between her thighs was him: this lazy, clueless boy with his deadend job and zero hygiene. His very ordinariness, his lack of polish, seemed to make her pulse race in a way no polished gentleman ever could.

“Vieni qui”, she murmured when she datched herself from her lips to get some oxygen, her voice a sultry Italian lilt as she hovered close, her manicured fingers tilting his chin in place. John looked up at her with that dumb, half-lidded grin, his breath still carrying the faint tang of his makeshift breakfast, but now mixed with the lemon-note of whatever fresh dish his superior had had for lunch.

“Uh, yeah?”, he mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, not a hint of what she asked. Or said. Or if that was words, could have also just been an exhale.

Catalina’s breath hitched. God, his clumsiness was intoxicating. She threw his paradoxically srawny-chubby body on the locker room's bench, her strength from pilates classes and lifting Salmanazar bottles on her families vineyards. She straddled his lap without hesitation, the bottom of her dress riding up her smooth thighs as she settled against the bulge already forming in his dingy pants. Her hands cupped his face—rough boyish stubble against her soft palms—and she leaned in, her elegant perfume mingling with his musky, unwashed scent.

Their lips met again in a familiarly messy collision. John’s kiss was unskilled, now more eager but still sloppy—his mouth slightly open too wide, his tongue pushing forward without rhythm, wet and insistent like an overexcited puppy. He neither knew how to properly take charge, let alone the art of teasing or slow build-up. He just devoured, his hands clumsily grabbing at her waist, one slipping under the dress to paw at her upper theighs with zero finesse, trying to weasel their way up to her ass.

And Catalina moaned into it. Into whatever this was.

She deepened the kiss, her aura of sophistication cracking as she sucked on his tongue, tasting the manhole that was his mouth. As her mature tongue slithered her way over the tantalizing receptors of his gums, the back of it stumbled upon... corn. A single piece of corn tucked away in a pocket between two of his backend teeth grazed her tongues side and the stinging fascimile of a taste made her almost wretch. And almost cum. Her hips rocked against him, grinding slowly while his sloppy mouth slid against hers, saliva trailing at the corner of her lips. Her euphoric bliss was telling her to suck that leftover stickler out of his gumpocket, but an ever deeper instinct in her was blocking that. Having something bordering on biological waste in her mouth might tarnish her quality as a kisser and John deserved to kiss someone with flawless dental hygenie.

Unbeknownst to her, said delinquent wouldn't for the life of him be able to tell when he last ate corn. Hell, him eating any veggie voluntarily was an outlier. Maybe he ate some glazed corn on the last carnival? Or on 4th of July maybe. Mayyybe.

She pulled back just enough to nip at his lower lip, then plunged back in, her tongue dancing around his awkward thrusts with practiced grace, guiding him even as his lack of finesse made her wetter.

“Sì… così”,she whispered breathlessly against his mouth, her accent thickening with increasing arousal. “You kiss like that's your first kiss and like you're just imitating what you saw in some porno movie. It’s… perfetto.”

John grunted, his free hand fumbling to squeeze her asscheek having freshly found her way there, fingers digging in without rhythm. He broke the kiss for a second, a string of saliva connecting their lips, and mumbled, “Fuck, you taste good”, he complimented at the peak of his eloquence before diving back in, even messier this time—open-mouthed, noisy, his teeth accidentally grazing her lip.

Catalina’s core clenched at the raw, unrefined hunger. This wasn’t the elegant foreplay of her previous lovers. This was crude, ****, and utterly addictive. She pressed her body flush against his, her nipples hardening against the fine fabric of her dress as she rode the sloppy rhythm of his kiss, her former ice queen facade melting into pure, shameless need for the slob beneath her.

The kiss went on, wet and imperfect, her elegant hands tangling in his messy hair while his unskilled ones roamed freely, and for the first time in years, Catalina felt truly, deliciously alive.

She broke the kiss off to tell him just that, a tiny piece of spittle still connecting their lips when she slowly parted them from each other. When that connection snapped at its furthest point and the mixed droplets of drool fell down on his shirt, she clamped her legs around him in infatuation.

"Youuuu", she breathed out and realized she knew exactly nothing about this 'man'. Even calling him that in her mind kind of felt wrong. Men take charge, men are in control, men got a good grip on life. This before her was a boy at most, sure, but what a boy. He smelt like his last bath was two presidents ago and his mouth tasted like he only brushed his teeth whenever there was a change in popes. Total dreamboat material, obviously. As much as it pained her to pause kissing this Casanova, she needed to know more about him. Starting with the big questions.

"Who are you?", she winked down at him, "And where have you been all my life?"

He was gasping a bit for air after their kiss ended, the physical exhaustion of making out already bringing him to his constitution's limits.

"Uuuuh, John. John Doe", his primat brain took a second on how to address the woman who on the one hand was his bosses wife, but whose butt cheek was in his other hand, "Ma'am. I work here, doing garbage stuff, I guess."

Believe it or not, this was the most eloquent way that John has ever described his job so far. The absolute bottom feeder nature of his craft made Catalina's bottom half twitch appreciately between his hand and his junk. And at the same time, she felt an urge bubble up inside her, an urge to lift him up.

"No", her so far blissed face took on a serious form, "that won't do at all. You're working here?"

He nodded.

"That's nothing to be proud of."

He nodded.

"That's nothing worth bragging about."

He nodded.

"My lover should at the very least run this place. I'll see what I can do with my husband to have it change hands."

He nodd- Wait a second?!