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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
to Calabria I- A Jug of Wine and Thou
-- Angie's Story.
(c) 1998 by James Martin. All rights reserved.