I have taken up residence in the house of an old shepherd and his wife. I fix things for them, like the big loom she weaves the rugs on, and sometimes watch the sheep when Salvatore is preparing for a festival. Other than that, the only thing I do is buy the wine. They drink a lot of it.

It's not such a bad duty. Most evenings I knock at a heavy wooden door and a woman answers, sees me and sends me on my way with a jug of the heaviest wine.

But one day, having nothing better to do, I went early in the afternoon, at the end of the siesta. I knocked and stood in the hot sun. Nothing. I knocked again. Then noises. The door flew open and there she was, her hair all mussed, buttoning her blouse. Most of the buttons were still undone.

She was tall. Taller than me. She had dark hair usually pulled back tight against her scalp. Her skin was the color of the olives, and it glistened with tiny speckles of sweat. Her high cheekbones and big almond eyes made her look Spanish, proud and strong like a flamenco dancer. And she had the legs for it too.

She stood with her hands on her hips and looked at me for a long time. She had left the top three buttons of her blouse undone, and I watched her heavy breasts heave with each gulp of the stifling air. A droplet of perspiration begin at her neck and slide down between her breasts. She noticed me gaping and ran her hand down her blouse as if to spread the moisture over herself.

"Vieni!" she ordered, finally holding the door open for me. She didn't leave much room to squeeze past and her breasts bumped softly across my body as I made my way into the small entry. When I turned to look at her her eyes they had that fire in them that you might see in a flamenco performance late at night when the exertion has turned the music into pure spiritual passion. She had a crooked smile on her full and lush lips and her head was cocked to one side as if she were wondering something about me, like was I worthy or not.

She finally ushered me into the kitchen, pointing me toward a chair before heaving a huge jug of wine from the floor onto the table. She filled a tumbler and pushed it toward me. I sipped a little politely. Clucking at me, she grabbed the glass and downed it, slamming it on the table.

She looked at me like I was a sheep who had no means to know what she was thinking. I didn't, evidently, because at that moment she sat at the edge of the table and began to undo the bottom buttons that ran up the front of her skirt. Then, slowly, she lifted a leg over my head and continued unbuttoning the buttons until the skirt peeled away and I was left staring at that dark triangle of curls I couldn't seem to take my eyes off of. She peeled her lips apart and held them open for my inspection. As if I had never seen anything like this.

I didn't know what to do so I stood up. Her body snapped forward quick as a switchblade and her hands were at the buckle of my belt before I could protest. She ripped down my zipper and fumbled for my hardening cock, holding it in her hand for a moment and giving it a few rapid jerks before pulling it toward her hungry cunt. Inching up on the table until contact was made, the head of it gently nestled between those soft lips she hesitated for a moment, then pulled herself hard onto me, looping her legs around my back and urging me into her with her heels as if I were a recalcitrant pony.

My cock sunk deep into her and she started to get all wild, bucking on the table, spurring me with her feet. We had used up what little air the closed room held, leaving us gasping. She glistened with the sweat of exertion and a river was flowing off me, wetting her thighs. I bent to lick a breast and the saltiness of it tantalized me. My hands followed, contouring the sweat-slickness of the taught mounds. She began to twirl her hips, the wet slap of her ass hitting the table was followed shortly after by the slap of my balls against her crotch. Wetness had overcome us. The smell of sex was overpowering: We were swimming in it.

The glass vibrated off the table and crashed on the tiles. Still she didn't hesitate, gyrating faster and faster, grabbing her breasts and twisting them with a force that astounded me, the nipples contorted beneath her long and slender fingers. Then her back arched and there was one last, violent lunge toward me, the slickness of her body squeeling against the table. I couldn't help myself; I gave a giant heave that sent her body sliding back again, my anxious cock slipping out of her as she tried desperately to stop moving away, her palms sliding futilely over the wet table. The come shot out of me anyway--in long arcs across the table, falling on her thighs and on the thick triangle of hair between them. She watched it spatter her and soon came again, her long fingers a blur as they flew across her clit, finishing the job.

It was my first time. And I came all over the table. She didn't seem to mind. She smiled a lot after that, even when she was pushing me out the door with my jug of wine.

Back to Calabria I- A Jug of Wine and Thou -- Angie's Story.

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(c) 1998 by James Martin. All rights reserved.