Olivia Loves Fucking

Pico's embarrassed reaction and boyish embarrassment greatly appealed to Olivia. Perhaps her loneliness had lasted too long, or perhaps she just wanted to just find out how much power her eroticism still had? That she found Pico, who was a few years younger, sexually very attractive, she would never, ever have admitted.

Their game began harmlessly and ended after two days with Pico's abandonment; but she was a little sad when she won the game, for later she sometimes wished she had rather lost it.

Olivia began the game innocuously, raising the stakes each time. She knew that her figure had remained remarkably youthful for her age. Makeup and see‐through negligees were the first things she opened the game with. She teased him with her lasciviously displayed nudity, confusing him with the crackling of her eroticism. Whenever the opportunity arose, she gave him a deep insight into her cunt and smiled when he gawked and squirmed like a carp on dry land. She upped the ante, calling him out when she sat in front of the makeup mirror and painted her nipples with red paint made from mashed petals according to an ancient Egyptian recipe. Pico stared mesmerized at the fine brush and her blood‐red nipples. She looked at him mockingly and asked him to bring her (a liqueur, a compact or whatever) from the living room. The poor guy almost tripped over his own feet when he set off.

Olivia knew how to move deftly enough in a negligee that it didn't look vulgar. Likewise, there were little tricks to tie the somewhat sagging breasts a little higher, more aggressively, without the trick being immediately visible. In the thin silk cape she flew and pranced around the house like a naked elf and laughed as bright as a bell when he gaped at her with his mouth open. One could think that she was getting years younger during this time until Pico's seduction. She called him when she was in the bathtub and needed nonsensical nothings; like a well‐bred poodle he retrieved everything she asked for and tried to avert his gaze embarrassedly from her cleverly half‐concealed nakedness as soon as she looked directly at him and he felt caught. She let him hand her the bath towel and rub her dry; she smiled at him like a sphinx when she directed his hands to exactly where the butterflies began to flutter in his eyes. She loved those butterflies and let him rub her long and hard with the bath towel. Later she lay down on the massage bed next to the tub and ordered him, rub oil or skin milk on her body under the terry cloth bath towel, "but don't peek!". She surreptitiously squinted at his shorts, which were bulging violently, and told him to rub her everywhere — even there, just there! — with warm oils. Sometimes the minutes became half hours, because she gave him almost all freedom in the protection of the terry cloth bath towel. She posed daydreaming and dozing as his fingers reached regions that were otherwise off‐limits, stimulating them to the limit where she became afraid of her own arousal and put a stop to him.

At night, when she heard his mattress creak, she would wait for the right moment and flitted into his room, then stood in her diaphanous nightgown under the door in the backlight of the outer room lamp and engaged him into a discussion about the disturbing erotic dreams she pretended she had just had. She grinned because he had been close to climaxing and could not finish, and that the erotic details of her dreams, with which she was not stingy, now made him squirm like a fish on a hook. Step by step she became braver and left out more and more textiles, sometimes running into his bedroom completely naked and in tears, holding onto him because she had dreamed she was being raped. She allowed herself to be comforted and caressed, "but not touched!" She especially loved sitting cross‐legged naked on the porch and very, very slowly painting her toenails red. Then he would sit across from her, fidgeting on the bench and peeking his eyes out.

The more he fidgeted, the more daring her game became. When they had a glass of wine in the evening, she had only a sheer silk chiffon tied around her hips and would instigate a discussion on mostly erotic topics. She let him tell her all about the sex with Lila and questioned him about what he knew about Rodolfo's flirtation with Lila. Then she leaned back on the couch to sometimes feel, as if absently, the clit under the nothingness of silk cloth, but that was all her sense of shame simply would not allow yet. One evening she overcame even this barrier during a discussion about female masturbation. Even as they discussed, she pulled her legs up cross‐legged and played with her clit; unspecifically and as if in passing at first, while sipping her Rioja more often than usual and building up her courage. The red wine inflamed her cheeks; gradually she managed to clear the hurdle of her sense of shame. Pico told in all frankness about Lila's masturbation, the silk chiffon fluttered to the floor. Permissive as a palace whore, she let him gape while she played with herself at his descriptions, and the more he stared, the more aroused she became. It was only a tiny step after that to close her eyes and enjoy the swaying, misty sensation of being immersed in the buzz as she masturbated gently. Pico crept greedily and impatiently closer, but she brittly and forcefully rejected his overt sexual advances as always, which he didn't understand. Of course, he would never understand, for she exercised power over him and over his horniness, perhaps somehow over Don Rodolfo, at the expense of her sense of shame.

After that, it was as if a dam had broken. Olivia now knew no shyness at all anymore, if she let herself massage now after the bath. He was allowed to do everything under the bath towel, really everything, but only with his hands, and only under the protection of the bath towel. His hands were gentle and knowing, but she usually shied away from going all out and tried to suppress her arousal as much as she could. Only when she closed her eyes and dreamed of her last beloved, she was flooded with her feelings, with her excitement, and writhed ecstatically under his stimulating hands, which could excite her as tenderly as those of her lover. Long since the bath towel had fluttered to the floor, long since she did not care that she was completely naked at his mercy, but she was stingy with the climax, because that was still part of her game. As often as she succeeded, she kept full control and broke off before climaxing. They both knew it was about power and control, about being and not being, about up and down, and they both tried to win. More and more, she seemingly lost control and squirmed blissfully in orgasm, letting him think he was gaining ground. He was almost losing it as she vigorously and coldly rejected him whenever he wanted more.

She was drunk with the power she now had over him and sneaked back to him at night. She knew full well that he was still in a frenzy and had not reached his climax by any means when she lay down beside him; for it was part of her game to interrupt him minutes before. She caressed his chest, his arms and his body and felt, when her hand touched him like a breeze, that his hard‐on almost burst; playfully she started the retreat millimeter by millimeter. She let him caress her body, stimulate her breasts and nipples, felt the arousal rising inside her and felt the greedy emptiness because he defiantly did not touch her abdomen. At some point, yes, at some point in the middle of it, she seemed to have given up the game or had been overcome by her arousal and masturbated. She cried out when at that very moment, in the orgasm, he pounced on her irritably and strongly like a bull and fucked her so hard she couldn't hear or see. She screamed her head off because her orgasm would not and would not, would not and would not end, and when he squirted out hot and heavy, she screamed triumphantly in the fading orgasm because she had won the game! For the next five weeks they fucked obsessively at all hours of the day‐ and night. She masturbated just before he cum and made him cum in the middle of her orgasm, that both of them liked. More and more freely she masturbated in his presence and after telling him her life story and sexual history truthfully and with all the piggish details, she unapologetically admitted her lesbian tendencies. It offended him greatly that she much preferred masturbating to fucking him. He took her by force and fucked her one by one. It was his farewell to her beguilingly seductive body.

The next morning when she awoke, he was no longer there, with only a note to explain. Pico had banished himself to the TITANIA of his own free will, as he simply could not stand to be near her at night, always in fear of either raping her or going mad. If he could have looked into her soul, he would have understood that the banishment had become unnecessary after her victory, but he felt the injustice in his actions overwhelming and lived alone on the yacht for the following weeks.

In the ship's salon, in the dim, cozy light of the kerosene lamp, he read over and over again what his mother had confided to her diary more than forty years ago, about that time and those events that sometimes wafted like Fog billowed through his memory. He was ashamed to read some of the lines, because at that time he had thought that in the dim light of the small writing lamp his mother could not have seen anything on the bed lying in the dark, otherwise he would not have exposed himself nude before her. However, he remembered very well that at that time he gazed between her thighs, feverish and horny at her cunt, when she absent‐mindedly felt herself while writing. Sometimes he cried, because she had only turned 34 and he still missed her very much.

He really got goosebumps while reading, because he had really never gotten any of her shenanigans get along. When he first read about it, he was so horrified at his memory lapses that that for a long time he still firmly believed that Anna Maria had only invented all this. He felt uncomfortable when he read these diary passages, because he had completely forgotten all of this, suppressed and erased from his memory. Pico knew that Lila learned all this from Anna Maria's diary only after his mother's death — nevertheless, he shuddered to think that Lila knew all this and didn't breathe a word about it for decades, even though they had lived together for almost 30 years. He read these lines over and over again, because it was only here that his mother had been able to express herself so openly.

Her most secret, intimate confession was his most precious treasure.