Strange and Wild Chapter 2: The High Priestess
July 5, 2022
The restaurant was tucked away in a dilapidated strip mall, concealed by the remains of summer rain. Upon exiting my car, the heat enveloped me like a damp towel. The sunlight glimmered on the numerous puddles left behind by the rain, adding an iridescent sheen to the sporadic drizzle. However, the light could not brighten the dull window tinting or the boring gray words above the entrance: "Melograno."
Inside, the ambiance was chilly and sported a chrome finish, a mix of "1950s diner" and "Mafia casino." The ownership had made a half-hearted attempt to embody both styles, resulting in a disappointing combination. Pink and blue neon lights reflecting off cheap tiles and carpet. A row of half-circle booths covered in white, tufted pleather. And even during lunch, the establishment was barely occupied.
In this setting, Lucia Visconti stood out like navy hydrangeas in a rundown laundromat.
She was the only woman present, sporting an attractive azure summer dress. Casually waving off the bartender's brief curiosity, I made my way to say hello. As she rose from the booth, her hand revealed five shimmering yellow talons.
I forced a smirk. "Ms. Visconti?" Her touch was soft as silk. "Sorry I'm late."
"Just 'Lucia,' please," she responded. "Visconti was my father's name."
"Is this his place?" I inquired, sitting down. My inquiry was slightly mocking, but it served as conversation. And I was curious as to why the lawyer from a downtown firm had decided to meet me at this cheesy Italian restaurant on the edge of the city.
"Melograno is owned by my brother-in-law," Visconti chirped with affection. "I hold most of my business meetings here, with J.B.'s blessings. Everyone knows me, and everyone can forget I was ever here."
She settled back into the booth, smoothing her skirts beneath her. Deep blue eyes shone from her remarkable face, which showcased the classic Italian features: high cheekbones and sharp eyebrows, the jawline they used to stamp on ancient coins. A solitary mole rested on her upper lip. Visconti appeared to be in her late thirties, yet she concealed her age with cosmetic procedures and an abundance of makeup.
"It's not polite to stare, Mr. Rocchi."
"I apologize," I said. "A bad habit."
"Perhaps from your line of work? You observe people?"
"Yes," I replied, steering my gaze away from her. The few other patrons consisted of hushed, overweight gentlemen in creased slacks, their wrinkled dress shoes accompanying the clothing.
She awaited my attention once more. "Your relatives would call you an 'allocco,'" she mentioned coyly. "A wise-old owl."
Her accent was unpredictable: New York? Jersey? She boasted a strong Italian contralto, although her vocals sometimes drifted into a more breathless and Californian inflection, as if she had picked up her speech from vintage films.
"I'm a fourth or fifth generation Italian, only my name rhymes with a vowel."
Smiling gently, she forked two pieces of pasta from the dish in front of her. The light from the overhead fixtures bounced off her jewelry: a gold crescent ring on her middle finger and a gold bangle on her left wrist.
"You must refer to me as Lucia," she insisted, bringing the dish to her lips. She was used to getting her way.
"Lucia," I acquiesced, "why have we gathered? I was told everything had been resolved." To solidify her statement, she tapped on the iPad sitting on the table beside her.
Visconti indulged in her pasta for a moment before revealing, "You're still in the clear."
"So...what? Any news?" It took me nearly two hours to reach the restaurant, and I was eager to return home. To indulge in my private wallowing. Unfortunately, the location played soft, monotonous jazz. A repetitive piping sound.
"You should order something," Lucia suggested, "maintain your energy. And the food is excellent, contrary to appearances."
While relaxing in the booth, I found myself perplexed as to what my next move should be. Visconti wasn't what I'd anticipated. Her blue summer dress overflowed with curves, yet the belt held her waist in place, accentuating her hourglass figure. Her skin held a porcelain hue, making it appear pricey. She donned an abundance of jewels, save for a wedding ring; I was suddenly aware that I was still wearing mine. Her most attractive accessory was a large gold cross necklace that snuggled in her cleavage, drawing attention.
Visconti, a lawyer for the city, had an unreal aura about her. She exuded a timeless allure that had managed to seep into my life after enduring months of grief and guilt.
"What are you having?" I inquired, momentarily losing sight of my earlier apprehension.
She used her fork to point out the menu items. "I'd like the orecchiette with apple, kale, and pomegranate. And an espresso martini," she stipulated. The drink sat neglected beside her; she'd been anticipating my arrival.
"Lucia," I chided, attempting to mirror her demeanor, "it's not even one o'clock."
She cocked her eyebrows, each as exact as claws. "I needed the caffeine. Some of us are night owls and early risers, Mr. Rocchi. You should try it."
Despite my disheveled appearance due to not wearing a belt with my linen trousers, white sneakers, and an olive henley, I couldn't help but feel scrutinized by Visconti. My hair appeared unkempt, and my silver bristles now resembled a beard. Her gaze seemed more like confusion than pity.
"I'm grieving," I said hesitantly, realizing that my words sounded similar to an apology.
"I understand," she replied with conviction. "And thanks to our firm's actions from February, the authorities are aware as well."
She sent the server over with a laminated menu. He wore a polo shirt and slacks that matched and had a wispy blond mustache, acne scars, and pupils that approximated the color black.
I waved off the menu. "I'll have the same as her," I said, pointing at Visconti. "The orecchiette." The server walked away, displeased.
Visconti didn't take her eyes off me as she swiped away on her tablet. "Orecchiette," she vocalized. "Thomas Anthony Rocchi," she continued reading, "38 years old, born on Valentine's Day in 1984. Known addresses in two states, parents' names, alma mater, and the critical piece of information: single."
Penny's demise echoed through the air, the link between her and I: "She was married to someone named Thomas Anthony Rocchi, and he's been found not at home."
I made a halfhearted attempt to hide my discomfort. "I interacted with her at work."
Visconti opened another PDF on her tablet. "Your writing stands out," she murmured. "Many positive outlooks, a good memory, and a firm adherence to honesty, they say."
"What happened to Penny?" I inquired, steering the conversation in a different direction.
"Penelope Underwood is a talented attorney. She had positive things to say about you," Visconti asserted, flipping to another page. "Attentive, diligent, and honest."
"I think I did the smart thing, visiting you avocating my innocence."
"You're not a suspect, signore," Visconti shared with a slight smile. "You've done the right thing by reaching out for assistance."
"I've watched crime shows. Suspects are generally male and close to the victim."
"Holy Ghost?" Visconti inquired, giving up on hiding her mirth. "The police consider you a potential suspect because you're a man?"
"In the absence of a male relative, such as a father or son... the perpetrator is usually a man," I tried to clarify.
Visconti inspected me, a smile curling her lips. "I find that a fascinating notion."
"In legal and police circles, there's a trend of always suspecting the husband, or boyfriend, or male relative."
Visconti glanced at me, scrutinizing me from head to toe. "I trust your perception of the truth. You're said to be thoughtful and professional."
"Do you believe in your client's innocence when you're representing them in court?" I asked, seeking a sense of understanding.
"That's an interesting question," she mused. "Occasionally, dreaming of such a situation would be comforting."
As I sipped my second martini, a waiter appeared with another glass. Lucia grabbed my wrist and gently patted it before releasing me. "Enjoy, Anthony," she grinned, "Penny made the same order for you."
After the server left, Lucia chuckled. "You told him to repeat the order, but he took you literally. Drink up." Her voice held a hint of magic, and I felt compelled to obey. The drink had a rich chocolatey taste mixed with sugar and coffee. I could feel a hint of citrus as well, maybe Cointreau.
"Did you come here to give me news?" I asked, trying to return to the matter at hand.
"Yes, I wanted to tell you in person," Lucia responded, elbowing me. "They considered your wife's case closed. The police have determined it an accident."
Whatever she said next, I couldn't hear her over the images that flashed through my mind. Chattering cherry lips, falling petals, and bones on the rising pavement. I saw coloured velvet drapes and covered eyes, all these thoughts sparked by her words.
Noticing my gaze, she studied me closely. Her expression mirrored a scientist observing a failed study. "How are you dealing with this?" she asked.
"I'm fine. Never better," I replied. "But then, did the police investigate your club?"
"It wasn't high on their list," she responded. "You mentioned... " she muttered something under her breath, "...something about your wife meeting suspicious men. It doesn't sound credible."
"Perhaps," I conceded. "But there was someone else in the room when she died."
"Really?" she raised an eyebrow, her eyes riveted on mine. "Was it a woman then? Did you hear her on the phone when you called?"
I nodded, remembering the high-pitched whistling noise. "A stranger tried to hide their noise," I recalled. "They were whistling a tune."
"You're suggesting a sex ring?" Lucia asked incredulously. "A cabal with its own... motive?"
"I don't know," I admitted, growing increasingly nervous. "They found traces of a drug in her system."
"Robbery or rape? A random act?" Lucia continued, her voice full of pity. "She wasn't involved in any elite crime ring. I've gone over everything you told me and other statements."
"You don't do moralizing?" I asked, feeling the pain of her words.
"No, Mr. Rocchi, I'm just saying... it seems unlikely," she paused, "and you had an affair so close to your wife's death. Coincidence?"
"I would never hurt..." I protested before she cut me off,
"...la bella signora Rose," she finished for me, her voice raw as though speaking to herself, "Rolling Stone."
"I was away when it happened," I replied, ignoring her literal translation. "It's all on the reports. The cops had no reason to believe otherwise."
She licked her lips, her eyes widening. The lips that had belittled me were suddenly soft and pouting. "Why are you making this so complicated?" she asked, her voice full of fake concern, and eyeing my arousal.
I dismissing her pseudo-interest, "I just wanted to make sure all the possibilities were considered. And since you said you suspect the cops may think you're using your influence to escape justice."
"The police know me well enough. They wouldn't suspect anything," Lucia replied, sipping her own drink. "But unfavourable associations with a morally decent widow don't suit me, so Penny was assigned to handle your case by her bosses. It's a small favour to you but also an important precaution."
"You certainly go the extra mile for clients," I muttered under my breath.
Lucia had eyes that burned with emotions. The passion they held could put a thousand stars to shame. Her voice held a hint of pity as she said "A thousand miles and one inch. You were in someone else's bed when your wife died," she repeated, her words bringing forth the painful memories. But instead of shame or guilt, I was filled with arousal.
I swallowed hard, trying to hide my embarrassment, but she was unperturbed; she continued, "how do you like your sex, Mr. Rocchi?"
"I... it doesn't matter," I stuttered.
"I'm sure it does," she responded. She reached out to touch my thigh and then withdrew her hand abruptly. "Since this is our private time, do you have any preferences?"
I slowly nodded my head. "In my experience, it's always better when there's consent," I replied in a whisper.
"Agreed," she murmured.
It was in this moment that I felt myself flushed under the light of her gaze, like a steel rod heated in a fire, and my body responded. When she asked, "Did your wife ever tell you about her preferences? If she shared information with you regarding her personal life, Anthony?" I couldn't match her assertiveness.
Once again, you had no real danger, Mr. Rocchi. You were merely a person of interest in this investigation.
You didn't feel that way, though.
Visconti leaned across the table, placing her bare arms on its surface. Her breasts touched, and the gold cross between them glimmered in the light. "Anthony," she spoke solemnly, "you were in good hands."
She took your wrists in hers, turning them over gently to reveal your palms - a mystic reading your future or a doctor examining your wounds came to mind. You could've just stood up and left, but you didn't because it was the first time in nearly five months you'd felt someone's touch. Nothing compared to Visconti's tender grip on your wrists.
But then your pasta dish appeared. Visconti had to release your hands. The server's eyes darted when he set the plate before you, although he quickly collected himself and left without a second glance.
"Enjoy your food," Visconti instructed with motherly confidence. "There's something else I want to share with you."
So you ate, and she spoke. Surprisingly, the food was delicious.
Visconti told you she'd been fascinated by your case right from the start. Reading about Iris Braithwaite's death online, she was intrigued by the one detail that stood out: Iris Braithwaite - 44, found dead outside your condo - retained her father's surname, Bram. In the early '90s, Bram Braithwaite had written a string of twenty grim, well-regarded crime novels, each set in Glasgow and each dedicated in the same way:
"To my darling daughters, Iris and Vee."
A young Lucia Visconti in Bensonhurst, New York had devoured Bram's books in her childhood room, later rereading them as an English major at Barnard.
"They called Braithwaite a British heir to Chandler or Cain," she told you now, gazing at you with sincerity reminiscent of someone in love. "Hard-boiled noir relocated to Scotland. These days, you can earn a Ph.D. by reevaluating his work. The flawed masculinity. The hidden eroticism." And she gulped her martini in one mouthful.
"I've read his books," you said, a hint of boredom creeping into your voice. "There's not much that's submerged."
The truth was, you'd had this conversation many times before - at cocktail parties and in upscale bars, at conferences and even at your own wedding. Bram Braithwaite, the successful author, had followed you and Iris throughout your relationship. "Your dad would've loathed you," Iris had said on numerous occasions, and she meant it as a compliment. Yet even after her death, the talk always circled back to Bram.
"Are you a fan of his writing?" Lucia asked playfully, showing off her teeth.
You couldn't be bothered with answering that question. "Do you revisit the families of all your cases? Invite them out to lunch to muse over airport fiction?"
Lucia dismissed your question with a lax, unconcerned shrug. "What was I to think?" she murmured. "The mysterious death of a writer's daughter - it was like a plot from his books. I couldn't help but be drawn in, Anthony!"
You gave up on eating, pushing the plate aside. "It seems your year is as thrilling as any novel."
Disappointment crossed her face. "You keep insisting I've angered you," she stated. "Why? I know you're miserable, but my inquiries are innocent. So stop beating around the bush."
You could've fought back, but you chose not to. Instead, you sat up straight and attempted to hold her gaze. This was difficult as Lucia simply smiled back at you, her eyes as clear and unreadable as the summer skies.
Finally, you relented: "Go on with your story."
She leaned forward on her elbows, sharing a secret. "You didn't kill your wife, Anthony. You didn't hire somebody to do it, either. Both theories were evident to Penny, and she informed me of every detail. Yet the more I analyzed the story you told her, the more it began to seem convoluted." Her face lit up with excitement, and it was easy to imagine her as a young girl, dissecting the clues in one of Bram's novels. "Want to judge for yourself?" she asked enthusiastically, gesturing toward her iPad.
Just before I could speak, she slid around the table to sit next to me. Our shoulders almost touched, and I became aware of the enchanting scent of her vanilla perfume that I had been inhaling for some time. She shared the tablet screen with me, unlocking it to reveal a two-page spread of black and white photos. These images showed a hotel hallway I had hoped never to see again.
"Here you are," she said, pointing to my grayscale image approaching the camera. "And here is Bethany Abel. MFA candidate at the University of Iowa. 25, 26, or so? More than ten years younger than you, at least. Tall and blonde as honey. Not like your wife at all."
"Be careful," I said, but the words came out as a croak. I was watching Lucia zoom in on the younger woman's figure, which even the pixelated captures couldn't hide. The memories were coming back in full, vivid color: red lips and taut pale flesh; a body like sin, like Eve, like envy. Thinking about Bethany, my penis sprang to life.
"The hotel provided this footage quickly," Lucia said, "once Penny explained our need. Midnight in Iowa, neatly timestamped. There are no cameras in the rooms, of course, but we both know what happened inside. You provided us with all the details we wanted--and more."
"I answered my lawyer's questions," I said, becoming aware of Lucia's gyrating hips, her curves almost touching my arm. My rising penis was sandwiched between my thigh and the table.
"You felt it necessary to be thorough," Lucia continued, her eyes locked onto my eyes."You told Penny that you 'had sex' with Bethany Abel for two hours. Then you tried calling your wife again, around 2 a.m. This time she didn't pick up."
The memories came back: seeing Beth in my bed, or bent over a chair, her chest spilling free of that forest green cocktail dress. We'd finished against the hotel window, with her silhouette on display for the city below.
I shifted in my seat, desperate to free my penis. It didn't help, and Lucia's wide blue eyes were taking in my discomfort.
"'We'd both been drinking,'" she started quoting,"'and she gave me half an Adderall, so it took a long time to come. She needed a break in the middle, but two hours seems about right.'"
"You remembered all that?" I wondered aloud, feeling Lucia's seductive gaze.
"I've got a great memory," she replied, smiling. "And a ton of imagination. You said the poor girl 'took a break.' Is that how you would describe making love, Anthony?"
"I don't recall what I said exactly," I retorted, but I was challenging her.
"Oh, but I do," she said, her eyes filled with amusement. "Penny has that memorized because she also asked about the gap between your first and second phone calls. What were you doing in the more than two hours"--Lucia seemed to be savoring her words--"between your first and second call to Iris Braithwaite?"
My memory brought back Beth in my bed, or bent over a chair, her chest spilling free of that forest green cocktail dress. We'd finished against the hotel window, with her silhouette on display for the city below.
I shifted in my seat, trying to ease my overly confined penis. It didn't help, and Lucia's blue eyes were focused on mine.
"'We'd both been drinking,'" Lucia quoted again, "'and she gave me half an Adderall, so it took a long time for me to cum. She needed a break in the middle, but two hours sounds about right.'"
"You remember every word I said?" I whispered. Lucia's proximity was getting to me; her scent permeated everything. I could feel her fabric rubbing against my thigh.
"I've got a really good memory," she replied. "And a strong imagination. You said the poor girl 'needed a break.' Does that sound like you were having sex, Anthony?"
"Ms. Abel gave her enthusiastic consent," I answered defensively, holding her gaze. "More than once."
The lawyer's cryptic smile only grew wider. "\nYes, she confirmed during our private Zoom call--yours and mine. She was embarrassed to talk about any of this, worried it might have to be exposed in court. But when we spoke about that night last February, she was red with shame. She admitted you'd left a ... strong impression."
My cock flared in my pants, still trapped, and Lucia's admission seemed to endear her to me, despite the situation. Then she reached under the table with one manicured hand, her eyes still on mine.
"Let me help," she said in a soft voice, her fingers enclosing the bulge in my slacks. She eased my stiff cock to its full, liberated length. "Better?" she chuckled, and I nodded. I felt a sense of relief wash over me for the first time in days--until Lucia's fingers started exploring elsewhere....
Lucia tilted her head, "Is that what you want, Anthony? My voice in your ear, just explaining things, while you tense up in your seat? I don't think that would be enough for you." She patted my leg. "You'd need more than that."
I glanced around the room, surveying the group of middle-aged men deep in conversation and the server remaining glued to his phone. No one was paying attention to us.
"What's this all about?" I asked, feeling like I was fending off an attack. Lucia kept her hand on my thigh, her thumb on the bulge in my pants, sensing each pulsation and twitch.
"The puzzle pieces don't fit together," she said, watching the blood flow in my neck. "You told us your wife attended this sex club. Fourteen? We've seen proof that you and her went there at least once. This suggests a couple who's okay with sharing. Yet, on the night of her death, you had sex with a stranger in a hotel across the states. You cheated, Anthony," she drawled, "and I want to know why."
I considered lying - to Lucia, to myself. But something in her eyes hinted at an ultimatum. She held a complex blend of professional composure and carnal indulgence, a flash of sadistic enjoyment. However, deep down in her penetrating gaze was something I hadn't anticipated - kindness.
"We had taken a break from each other," I explained. "We were on a hiatus." And then I added, bitterly, "Besides, she would've been fine with it."
"Bethany?"
"Iris."
As soon as I spoke her name, Lucia began to fondle my member through my slacks. She carefully caressed it, almost treating it like a skittish animal seeking comfort. Given my vulnerability, I couldn't deny it.
"You wanted to sleep with other women," she hypothesized, guiding me to reveal the truth. She slid her index and middle fingers over my fabric-covered shaft in soft, teasing motions. If she'd applied the same pressure to my scalp, she might've put me to sleep, but my genitals were past being swayed. Each of her light touches only made me harder.
"Yes," I sighed.
"Why?" She asked before giving me a lengthy, enticing pathway. If she'd solely focused on my pleasure, I could've given in, but my cock wasn't easily convinced. Her fingertips only served to heighten my arousal.
"I couldn't... fuck Iris," I whispered.
"Couldn't? Wouldn't?"
"I couldn't. She had ... had... it made no difference. "I was trying to overlook the things she wasn't supposed to learn. I was afraid to express these thoughts - here, during the foreplay.
"You just wanted your wife?" Lucia's hand stopped moving, showing the separation between her splayed fingers as my enlarged associate got caught under her palm.
I recalled velvet, strawberries, and a balcony smothered in summer flowers. "I only wanted her," I expressed, speaking out the saddest truth I knew.
"Ah, so why did you sleep with Beth Abel?" Lucia's hand slid to my waistband, lowering my slacks' button to reveal my trunks. Patiently waiting for the sordid details I sought to conceal.
"Is this getting you off?" I questioned, curious about her motivations.
Lucia curled her nails around my erection, digging them in deeply, cutting off my attempt at stalling. With her free hand, her left, she navigated her tablet for more information. A text transcript appeared.
"'As soon as we walked into the room,'" she read, recognizing the familiar words. "These were Bethany's memories, her retelling of that fateful night in February. "'He attacked me as soon as we walked in. He seemed so ravenous, so violent, I thought it'd be over quickly. He yanked my dress down and pushed me onto the bed, on my back. Then he started fucking me.'"
Lucia put emphasis on the word 'fucking' and fished for my pants' zipper. As she tugged it down, I heard each little tooth escaping, a hole ripping in the universe. My shaft stiffened to fill the gap.
"'He was frantically yelling things, but it sounded like he was yelling at someone else,'" she skipped to the next section, "'I guess it got better. I came so fast, I was startled. It was like an out-of-body experience.'"
The swift thunder of Lucia's epaulete arched back. "She came so quickly," I recalled, re-enacting the situation. "It shocked me, but that wasn't all."
Lucia refolded my slacks, showing off my boxers. Her look shifted to my aroused member. [
"'He just stopped, like he had no one left to yell at,'" read Lucia, continuing Beth's narrative. "'And then things changed. It became enjoyable. I guess he remembered I was there.'"
The swift bend of Lucia's curved back. "She came so quickly," I described with a shiver of memory, "It surprised me, yet it didn't last long."
Lucia's caress shifted my thoughts, and she managed to satisfy me without saying a word.
"I'm not as surprised anymore," she mumbled. Then she wrapped her fingers around my jeans-covered erection - upside down, using her thumb along the shaft - and gave it two trial strokes. Through the thin fabric, I felt her ring finger curl around the tip of my cock; and her palm grazed my slit, causing a delightful tingle.
I blurted out, "We need to leave this place." I wanted to escape this location, as well as Lucia's teasing grip. I needed to break the spell she was casting.
However, she had different plans in mind. "Sad, forgotten Anthony," she breathed. "How long has it been since a woman made you cum?" While still fondling my dick, she let her index finger trace down the shaft. Then she tickled my balls through my pants with her one golden nail. Playful, like she was petting a puppy behind its ear.
"Have you not forgotten?" I said, spreading my legs. I wanted to show I was okay with it, in control. Probably, I only managed to appear needy.
Lucia answered, "I do," while massaging my cock with a bunched-up piece of cotton. "And it wasn't that night by the window." She held me tightly, as if trying to mold my manhood into something new and different. "It was the next morning, after you had healed Bethany's aching and inflamed vagina. She sucked you off in that hotel bed, over room service."
It was true. It had been recorded and saved, always preserved in my memory. The room had reeked of fresh toast and honey. I saw Bethany stretched out before me, tangled in the sheets, with her face cleansed by the shower. Eyes closed, mouth full. Thankfully gulping my load. Seconds later, the bedside phone rang - my cell was dead, and so was my wife; they had been trying to get hold of me for hours. That's when life as I knew it ended.
"This is cruel," I murmured, referring to the grilling and her hand on my dick. But also ... me. My faithless choices.
With a sigh, Lucia draped her head on my shoulder, dispersing the fragrance of vanilla. Her hair was warm and ticklish against my neck. The tablet in front of us timed out and turned off.
"I'd wager," she murmured, still stroking my length, "that I've never felt a man's cock get as hard as yours. I can almost make out my initials in this table using your tip."
"Fuck you," I muttered softly. My feelings were being overwhelmed with mounting pleasure.
She laughed at me. Then, sneakily, she licked her fingers. When her hand darted back to my crotch, it slipped inside my pants, and I felt her fingers encircle my head, moist from her saliva. The first thought that came to mind was Bethany's damp sex.
In my ear, Lucia whispered, "Here comes the waiter."
Jumping in surprise and disgrace, I scrambled for my empty glass. Lucia stood up more calmly, not releasing my dick. She clamped it firmly and immobile beneath the table, and she beamed at our server as he arrived to clear the plates.
"Thank you! We'll take the bill."
"No dessert?" the boy asked. He was glancing between us, and I was trying to imagine what we looked like: Lucia, with her charming grin and her hand up my lap; and me, flushed and agitated, downing the leftovers of a warm martini.
"Nothing for me," replied Lucia. "What about you, Anthony? Wish to have more?" And she gave my cock a devastating squeeze, which caused me to jerk up from my seat.
"No," I groaned, attempting to act unperturbed, "I shouldn't." I informed the server, "You can bring the bill to me."
"Charming gentleman!" shouted Lucia, sliding her hand up my raging erection with teasing stealth. The second the server was gone, she made a vicious upward stroke - base to tip - that caused me to throw my head back in astonishment and pleasure.
"Are you done?" I snapped. "We can go now?"
Lucia turned to face me, perched elegantly on one thigh, also crossed over the other. With her left hand, she pushed my pants down to reveal the throbbing member beneath, still trapped in her upturned right fist. She administered one final, tantalizing stroke and then removed both her hands, allowing my waistband to snap back into place.
"You're not like most men, Thomas Anthony Rocchi," she said, looking at me. "Most men can't stay hard in public. They would have softened or even come already." She said this, sadly, which brought a dark humor to her words. "You are not like most men."
In the restaurant, she softly tapped her sandal against my shin as she contemplated what I had shared with her. It was an almost intimate gesture, more so than her hand on my genitals.
"I think you're right," she said softly. "You're intelligent and detached, but not completely unsympathetic. Or you weren't before, I mean. Could be that your sadness — your guilt — has left you cold."
"It's only been five months."
"Still, it seems like a part of you is ready to move forward." Lucia affectionately rubbed my crotch, causing my penis to surge back to life in her hand.
"I see myself as more than just my strongest impulses, Ms. Visconti," I replied, even as I allowed her to continue caressing me with just a single thumb.
"You don't believe that," she retorted angrily. "You despise this drive in you — the overpowering need for lust. But it appears your wife understood it."
I pictured my deceased wife, radiant the first time we met, sitting in a chair by my bed, both of us offstage. Her hands folded in her lap, and she was smiling.
In the current moment, Lucia squeezed my penis sympathetically. "I'm not sure what happened at the club. Maybe your wife wanted something you weren't yet prepared to gift? Something you thought could make you detestable." I gave nothing away this time. Simply watching her, Lucia meticulously tossed her head, nose flaring: "What is it, Anthony? The world itches you, and you won't let yourself it.
On that last word, she grabbed my crotch firmly, causing my right knee to jerk and slam into the edge of the booth, knocking over the remaining glasses. The diners in the restaurant looked over, then quickly looked away as they witnessed Lucia's private moment. Meanwhile, the waiter arrived to present the check on a silver tray.
I signed for both meals using the handheld device, taking note of the pain in my knee and crotch. Lucia slipped her tablet into her laurel shoulder bag and began winding her headscarf around her wrist. Preparing to leave, Lucia casually dismissed me: "If I don't see you again, Mr. Rocchi, I wish you good fortune on your path. Otherwise, wait five minutes before joining me."
The invitation was so casual, I was unsure if I'd heard her correctly. She patted my forearm as she gracefully departed, ensuring onlookers would perceive her leaving as anything but an invitation. As I was left alone in the restaurant, I became aware of Lucia's smaller stature as she stood at only 5'6" in her flat sandals. Her toenails were painted yellow to match her fingernails, and they brought out the blue of her dress. When she noticed I was studying her, she smiled and gently caressed my arm.
"I'm going to use the restroom. If I never see you again, Mr. Rocchi, I wish you the best. If you're still here, wait five minutes and then join me."
The invitation was so casual that it was unclear if it was really an invitation. Lucia gave me a consoling pat before leaving, making her exit appear straightforward. Frozen in my seat, I admired the curves of her thick, white thighs visible under her dress. Then she disappeared down a passage at the back of the restaurant. Left to my own devices, I slowly made my way back through the restaurant, my erection obvious.
I can't say that I grappled with the decision long and hard — one of the defining moments of my life was not a result of reasoning or Lucia's provocation. She had drawn me as taut as a bowstring, and I had been counting the seconds since she disappeared from view. My cock was a missile on its way toward its target; I knew where it belonged.
I lingered in the corridor, unsure which of the two doors to choose. There were heavy wooden doors — one black, one white — each marked with a letter in the other's color: "M" and "W," respectively. Unsure of which door to enter, I knocked lightly on the white one.
The door opened slightly, and I saw Lucia's smiling lips in the crack, the darkness. "Hurry," she instructed, urging me inside. I heard the door lock behind me.
The bathroom was designed for a single occupant, yet it was roomier than I had imagined, with a lengthy sink spanning one entire wall. In the dimly lit mirror above, I could make out Lucia's figure and the surprised expression on my face. The dim orange lights revealed little, yet the wallpaper was dark, filled with a spinning pattern of flowers and fruits. Prominent in the artwork were cut-up segments of pomegranate, their seeds visible.
"Get on your knees," instructed Lucia, pointing to a spot on the floor. She was leaning against the sink, her exposed skin vanishing in and out of the shadows — face, chest, limbs. She had removed her belt. Now she was lifting the hem of her dress with spread fingers, revealing thick, golden thighs; a wide hips; and her pristine slit, waxed and glistening.
Seeing me still standing, she clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Kneel, Mr. Rocchi."
In that small enclosure, Lucia's scent enveloped me: a blend of perfume and fresh, wet pussy. I dropped to the cold tiles, and she intertwined her fingers in my hair. Then she drew me towards her crotch face-first, demanding my lips on her slit. I kissed her once, reverently, and was rewarded for it: she closed her legs around my head and drowned me in pussy.
"Prove your true identity," she said.
I complied by delving into her with lengthy, clumsy licks, aiming to crawl my way up to freedom. But whenever I tried to take a breath, Lucia fought back with sudden, sharp jerks of her hips, ensuring my face remained level with her pussy. Her hands clutched the back of my head, and she directed my lips to her glistening clit. As her dress drifted around me like a veil, she maneuvered me further down, to her wet opening. Then lower still, till I found myself hungrily licking her ass. To support myself, I grasped at her hips, savoring her fleshy curves.
As the minutes passed, I remained focused on the task at hand. My tongue probed through cinammon folds. I felt disoriented, weightless, mad, but the blood was pumping through my cock, convinced of its destiny. And best of all, Lucia was pleased: when she yanked back my head, it was to grant me a beatific smile.
"My dear, lost young man," she purred. "See what you've become."
I didn't have a witty comeback, no rebuttal; I just kept my eyes fixed on hers and returned my lips to her vulva. With my ears no longer muffled by her thighs, I could appreciate each moan and gasp she made, and I used them to guide my tongue over and around her clit. Soon, a steady, musical cooing accompanied each flick of her clitoris, and I witnessed the pleasure growing on Lucia's face; she was clenching her teeth to hold back her noises. My hands slipped over her rear and held her cheeks apart, pulling her pussy towards my mouth. I was like a man quenching his thirst from a life-giving bowl of nectar.
Too late, she realized she was about to climax. Tried to stop me. But she couldn't: I held her right fist in my left and pinned it against the sink's edge. Then I grabbed one of her ankles and hoisted it from the floor, causing her to nearly lose balance. She had to stumble forward instead, into the unflagging exploration of my lips and tongue.
She came then, in my grasp, almost silent; only a strangled cry at the end hinted at her, as she was no longer able to suppress her happiness. I felt her wrist and ankle convulsing in my hands, gripping with pleasure, and a drop of her juices rolled down my chin. When I withdrew, grinning, triumphant, a bead of her nectar coated my face.
It took her a while to straighten up. "Some men," she growled, "savor pain. You... savor pleasure. Am I wrong?"
In response, I didn't answer, instead I scuttled backwards, groping for my trousers. My erection had been dormant while my mind wandered, but now it was as solid as iron-trapped. Still kneeling, I grappled with my slacks. I lowered my chinos to the hard floor, being careful of the cell phones I carried in my pocket. Pulling off my trunks with my hooks, I stepped out of them-and advanced, my penis close to Lucia's midsection. Hungry for her.
She nodded, as if I had begged for mercy. "Stand up."
I stood, kicking off my shoes. I undid my henley and slipped it over my head. Tossed it onto the tiles. That left me sans clothing except for my socks and wristwatch, and I shivered under Lucia's gaze. Bursting with a lust I'd rarely known.
"Oh, Anthony," she breathed. "Look what we've forced on you."
Before I could inquire who she meant, she placed a hand between her thighs, and in the next second she daubed my cock with her own excitement. Anointing me-or perhaps warding off evil. She touched me twice more, each time with loving ceremony, and then she stroked me once with a graceful sweep. Her touches were subtle, tittilating, designed to entice me. They sent tingles to the back of my head.
"Here," Lucia said, flashing a square of gold foil. "Condom." She removed it and rolled it onto me expertly. Gave me a gentle squeeze. Then she hopped onto the sink's counter. Perching her legs. "Fuck me," she commanded casually.
I obeyed, standing, discarding my different shoes. I slid my trousers down to the hard floor, taking care of the cell phones I kept on me. I unbuttoned my chinos and pushed them off me-and headed forward, my penis only inches from Lucia's belly. Seeking her out.
"Blouse, too," she murmured, watching it sway. "Stripple naked."
I pulled the top over my head. Throwing it onto the tiles. That left me bare except for my socks and wristwatch, and I quivered beneath Lucia's gaze. Engulfed with a lust I hardly knew.
In the dark, her eyes no longer seemed blue. They looked black and bottomless - two voids into nothingness. As I moved closer, I grasped the tops of her arms and let my dick press against her belly, so she could feel the intense heat and firmness, even through the latex. My thighs slightly widened her legs, bringing my testicles close to her heat. Then, as I withdrew my hips, allowing my cock's tip to slide down to her entrance, I noticed that both of us were shaking.
"Tell me you want this," I mumbled.
She laughed sardonically. "Oh, I want it," she said, pretending to be a younger woman, sounding slightly immature. "I want it so bad, Anthony. I want you to penetrate me and make me scream." She elongated the words, simulating vocal fry, and then burst into real laughter. "Is that what you need?" she asked teasingly. "Adoration? Admiration?"
"What do you need?"
She hesitated, shaking her head regretfully. "Sometimes a woman shouldn't have to share her needs." She reached between our intertwined legs, clutching my penis. She guided the tip towards her pussy. "And sometimes? We don't want to be asked." She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me into her, until my head brushed against her entrance, tight and wet. We both made sounds of satisfaction, and it was amazing to experience her warmth and wetness. Her unyielding grip on my cock. By now, she sighed, "Perhaps you can just fuck me the way you want?"
Those thoughts resonated with me, like a siren's melody. She was holding me with both arms for balance, so I slid my hands down her sides, picking her up off the countertop. This new angle allowed me to thrust with more of my length, delighting in her moans. As I began to withdraw slowly, savoring her hold on my cock, she joined me in the effort, rotating her hips while matching my rhythm.
"See?" she panted. "I knew you had it in you."
Contentment swept through me. Excitement. I dug my fingers into the roundness of her buttocks, lifted her ass, and slammed her down onto my penis; only her tightly squeezed thighs kept me from plunging as deep as possible. My head throbbed with pride, and I ground against her, smashing her into the wall, hailing a cacophony of nasty sloshing noises, representing passionate, unconstrained sex.
Lucia wasn't trying to talk anymore. She rested her head on one side, displaying her trademark mole. Then, she released a long, rattling moan, muffling it with her hand, and I asked, "More?"
She left her eyes closed and her hand in place, but a delighted expression formed on her face - granting me the tiniest of nods.
Laying her back flat on the countertop, I yanked her legs up over my shoulders. She accommodated by bending into an unflattering posture, resembling a distorted question mark, leaning against the bathroom mirror. Now I could lean all the way into her, my pelvis pressed against her lifted thighs, making full contact with my penis and cervix. There was no real effort required for thrusting, only hips swaying back and forth, creating a constant wet noise within the small room.
However, Lucia didn't surrender easily. Her pussy pulsed around me, contracting and expanding, and I had a baffling thought: perhaps it was shaping me to fit her perfectly, or we two together were simply a perfect fit - made for each other.
"Come for me, Anthony," she gasped. "Let go."
Unfortunately, my cock was encased in a condom, remaining unyielding. I laughed loudly, gripping her dress. I tore down one shoulder, uncovering her perfectly rounded cleavage, glistening with moisture. Beneath the garment was a satin bra in white and cream, bursting with rounded flesh. I wrenched her bra down one cup, disclosing a peachy breast, shuddering in response to my touches. Surprisingly, her nipple, a shape like the crescent moon, was ringed with a delicate, golden piercing.
"Fuck me," she urged, struggling to maintain the effort, "like you fucked ... Beth Abel." Her eyes were open again, watching me intently, while her crown touched the mirror. "Fuck me ... as if you didn't ... fuck your wife."
Unintentionally, her words launched me back into vivid memories. Her words tortured me. Trapped in the past, I'd been forcing myself for months to move on, to reach this barren present, where Iris's memory meant something less than a vicious blade.
I gradually came to the realization that I had pulled out. I was kneeling, stark naked, in a restaurant's bathroom tiles. I was struggling to breathe, as panic had stolen the air from my lungs. However, Lucia was by my side, with her fingers and nose pressed against my hair. "Shh, Anthony," she cooed, hot breath against my scalp. "Shh now, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." This calmed me down, and my heartbeat resumed its normal rhythm. Lucia then ran her lips across mine in a tender kiss.
Her eyes locked with mine, and I finally felt the sorrow lift. I inhaled shakily, and came back to life. Lucia flicked her kisses over my lips, and her nails dug into my arm. She ran her hand over my erect member, which was still covered in latex. Finding it was still rock hard and slick, she graced it with a caring squeeze and a shy, approving smile.
For the first time, we felt connected.
"Turn around," I instructed. "Face the mirror."
Her face lit up with glee. Spinning on her heels, Lucia teasingly displayed her backside like a present - even lifting her skirt to mimic tearing off the wrapping paper. Once she was in the right spot, bending forward to hold on to the sink, I watched as her calves trembled. Her earlier position had left her weak, so she had to widen her stance to remain upright.
I moved behind her, raising her skirt by the hem. Lucia slumped into me and leaned on the sink while simultaneously spreading her legs. While she was in a vulnerable position, I had to push her torso against the sink, removing her grip on her body. She went along with it, giving no resistance, and when I wrapped my hand around her left wrist, she moved her fingers in agreement. Now, she was entirely in my control: feet together, legs bent, and half off the sink.
I moved within her once more, at the perfect angle. I slid right in to her core in one swift stroke. Lucia gave her approval with a short sound.
"Oh fucking fuck," she agreed.
I sensed something more than this.
I lowered Lucia slightly, closing her legs with my own, guiding them together. She wobbled, and I had to support most of her weight. I helped her to lean against the sink by pushing her over with a firm grip on her torso, withdrawing her arms from bracing her. She didn't object, so I grabbed her right wrist and held it in place, locking her hip to ensure she couldn't move. She was in my hands now: heels together, legs bent, and halfway off the sink.
My thrusts were like climbing a heavenly mountain. Lucia stopped me, and I found myself clinching onto her with all my strength, holding her onto the sink. She groaned with raw excitement.
"Hold back no longer," she urged, bucking wildly into my thrusts. Each pump was accompanied by the quick clicking sound of her piercing against the sink. I matched her pace, desperate to leave the world behind. Grabbing her right hip, I joined her as she moved to meet me, forming a perfect union.
Encouraging me, she whispered "Look at me, Anthony. My face. My body. Fuck me hard. I can take it."
There were two Lucias present: one whose flesh shook under my motions, another mirrored figure that mimicked her, also in the reflection. They both stared back at me, sharing the same expression with their wide-open eyes and bared teeth, even connecting their mouths to each other and rapping their heads together.
"Now focus on yourself," she panted. "Fuck me senseless. I see you, Anthony. Your lustful face. Your hungry body."
The world had condensed into the noisy room and Lucia's warm opening. If I had other desires – tranquility, perhaps, or recovery from heartache – they lay within her depths, her moist heat.
"Look, Anthony." she urged, gazing up towards the roof. I followed her gaze, fascinated, only to encounter a reflection of myself in the mirror: lips parted, eyes half-lidded, a primal look about me. Reborn.
"Look, Anthony," she repeated, focusing on heaven. I turned to perceive my reflection, and saw my face in the mirror. Naked, golden, twisted in pleasure under lights - I had remade myself.
"You can join me now," Lucia suggested.
And she was correct. It was incredibly easy to release myself; to contract and quiver out my being; to immerse myself in her love hole. I came while watching my reflection gulp and squirm in the mirror, and as I came - within the condom, injured - I felt Lucia tighten in empathy, as if her walls were draining me dry. I realized she was also cumming, too: I had found the key to her pleasurable stash.
Miles away, I heard Iris's voice. She was naming each bird.
Soon, my thrusts weakened, and my legs induced discomfort. I waited until Lucia fell silent before removing myself from her pussy. Then, I slumped to the bathroom tiles, my hands resting behind me, and burst into laughter.
Lucia was laughing also. After fastening her bra and dress in the mirror, she turned and knelt between my legs. She took off the condom and exposed my slick penis. From that moment, she commenced stroking her tongue over my cock. Soothing it. Calming me down.
The sensations were nearly overwhelming, but she was persistent, patient, and tender. Her mouth worked its magic, and a sense of numbness washed over me, allowing me to ignore my masculinity and its unceasing desire.
For an instant, she was kissing me better.
As soon as she was through, Lucia studied her fancy watch and swore. "This was enjoyable," she said casually. "We should do it again someday." And she winked at me saucily.
"Why did you ... have sex with me ...?" I commenced, unsure of how to phrase the inquiry. I trailed off. I wished to understand her reasons for any of this. Why had she enticed me to this space, set fire to my frozen grief?
She gave me an uncomplicated kiss on the cheek, leaving it sticky with gloss. "I was interested," she stated. "I simply wanted to learn the result." She was massaging my jaw with one hand, and I witnessed her grimace as her palm scraped against several days' worth of facial hair.
"I need to shave," I indicated.
Lucia nodded idly; with her other hand, she was fixing my hair, shaking it back into place. Close up, her eyes were blue once more. As deep as the sea.
"No," she said. "You should let it grow. And leave - travel. Spend a year if you require it. Come back home with new perspectives."
I nodded feebly, conceding to her wishes, but the act of nodding seemed to officially agree to this implied pact.
Visconti stood and began adjusting her reflection's composition: refitting her dress, smoothing it; I merely sat there, immobile, while she tended to her messy hair. When I gathered my scattered wardrobe and shoes and donned them, I had no perception of time's passing, yet I didn't check my phone. I desired to postpone our reentry into the human realm.
"You should depart first," said Visconti, comprehending my thoughts. She grasped my arm with her other hand while fiddling with a brush to untangle her hair.
She accompanied me to the door, locking it again after I departed. But as I laid a hand on the door handle, she touched my arm: "One concern has been troubling me. You mentioned you were separated. 'Taking a break,' you said. So why was Iris in your apartment that evening? How long does that drive toward the north take?"
I shrugged dispassionately. "She was picking up some of her belongings, she claimed. She had her own key." In my mind, I heard those whistled notes again - four notes going up, followed by a fifth, descending down.
Visconti pondered this extensively, her gaze locked onto my face. Finally, she nodded. "All the best, Mr. Rocchi. I'll keep your number just in case."
Outside, the world was as before. The restaurant was surprisingly identical. There were no patrons present now, and the lone server was occupied behind the bar, clinking the spirits back into position. He didn't rotate to face me, which felt deliberate; and I didn't reply with a farewell.
I pushed the door open - the "STAFF WANTED" sign swaying in the breeze - and left into the blistering heat. It struck me like a hammer, like a wet towel forced down my throat. Squinting in the shimmering light, I patted my pockets: keys, wallet, both phones. Something felt off, however, so I extracted the gadgets to examine them.
My cell was spotless and brand new, completely generic. Then there was the other one, which the police had just returned - a chipped black brick that was riddled with spiderweb cracks. Somehow, a piece of satin fabric, striped in cream and white, was sandwiched between them. I'd found Lucia's last trick - a final act of defiance she'd done when she thought I wasn't looking: she had slipped me her underwear. I could now smell it, with its scent of vanilla and a hint of cinnamon.
Read also:
- Anu's Merging: A Harmonized Combination
- My delight: Chapter 1
- In Bangalore, overlooking the omission of Trisha
- Mind Control Experiment by F.L.R.
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