Oleaginous

 

Our first contact was at an evening class. I was teaching English to foreign students. It was the end of February, that miserable time of the year when winter finally gets the better of you. I was tired and depressed. Depressed because I’d just finished another relationship, or rather my boyfriend had finished it. He’d done the right thing. Like most things in my life it had trundled along; a routine with little excitement. I had a safe job and a boring sex life which consisted of evenings in with hot chocolate, a vibrator and a collection of old melodramas; ‘Gone With The Wind’ – summed up my life.

Anyway, in he came, a late enrolment which led to our first conversation. His English wasn’t bad so I let him join the course, though I hadn’t really wanted to. He was good looking and confident, which irritated me. He was also kind and charming which irritated me even more. My lack of self confidence was manifesting itself by a catty attitude that I was aware of but couldn’t seem to help. I was a little curt with him when I agreed to let him join the class. I’d noticed several of my female students adjust themselves when they saw him coming in. I think, underneath, I must have felt a little envious, spiteful, like a child. I couldn’t have him, so why put myself out?

He was a waiter in a local Italian restaurant. Stereotypical. Handsome, charming, I assumed he liked kids and had a big, happy family. Although his English was passable his written work was appalling. I took a spiteful pleasure in letting him know, my meanness offsetting the sycophantic comments of the other female students. But my criticisms never dulled his enthusiasm. He would smile in a deprecatory fashion which annoyed me even more. He made me feel guilty.

About a month after he’d joined our class, I’d wandered around the room checking the student’s progress with an exercise I’d set. I looked over Toni’s shoulder (yes, even the name was stereotypical) and tutted at his efforts. He turned around and said:

‘Tits.’

I was taken aback.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Tits,’ he repeated loudly, shrugging his shoulders. Some of the other students laughed.

I thought he was trying to humiliate me.

‘Tits,’ he repeated and then pointed at his work. ‘It’s all gone tits up.’

I looked at his face, his eyes kind and innocent, and began to laugh.

‘Where did you hear that phrase?’

‘My friend told me, it means it’s wrong, it’s a mess.’

I nodded, not knowing how to explain the phrase. It was then I admitted to myself that I fancied him like mad. I became much kinder towards him.

At the end of April, Toni came into a class early and found me flicking through a travel brochure.

‘You have a holiday?’

‘I’m thinking of it, yes.’

The following week he brought me pictures of his father’s farm.

‘We have apartments, only a few, it’s beautiful and good price, it’s lovely holiday. Here, you love.’

He left me the photographs of a beautiful olive farm in Arezzo in Tuscany. Over the next few weeks he used his developing English to describe the beauties of his family’s farm; good food, beautiful countryside, plenty of sun and peace and quiet. It sounded idyllic. He sold me a holiday. I booked two weeks in June.

All I took with me were a few clothes and my Kindle. The farm was idyllic. The sunshine, the colours, the food and drink, everything was beautiful. I spent the first week lazing around; sunbathing, swimming, reading and eating at a local restaurant. By the end of that week I’d developed a light, golden tan and had completely unwound. I don’t think I’d been happy for a long time, but here I felt easy, peaceful.

I met Toni’s parents. His father was a stylish looking man of about fifty. Like his son, he was kind and had gentle eyes. His mother was plump and curvaceous. They brought me a gift of bottled farm olives and described the farm which had been in the family for generations. When they left, I watched them wander off, hand in hand, laughing. I felt envious. I bet they made love regularly.

At the beginning of the second week I was lying on a sun lounger, engrossed in an airport thriller, when Toni appeared. I sat up, shocked.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said, my tone unintentionally accusatory.

He laughed.

‘This my home, where I live.’

I was wearing the skimpiest of bikinis. I sat upright and rather prudishly held a tee shirt to my front. Toni smiled, bemusedly.

‘I come home to live, I finish at uncle’s restaurant.’

‘Oh,’ I said, surprised, ‘I thought you had made your home in England, I thought your job at the restaurant was permanent.‘

‘Just experience,’ he said, ‘and I miss home.’ The smile hadn’t left his face. ‘And I think I miss you.’

I felt myself reddening.

‘You look very … rilassare. Will you come with me tonight?’

I was momentarily thrown, I thought he was asking me to make love, then he finished:

‘I take you out to meal.’

Oh well, I thought, it’s a start.

That evening I put my hair up and wore a simple dress and flip flops. I had little else to wear but it didn’t matter. I studied myself in the mirror; I knew I looked better than I had done for months which made me feel confident. I felt relaxed and healthy. Toni picked me up at eight and we drove about five miles to a restaurant where we sat down to a dinner on a terrace overlooking the Tuscan countryside. It was beautiful.

‘You look fabulous,’ he said.

‘My, that’s a new word, your English has improved tremendously since I first met you.’

‘Thank you. Now you have to learn Italian, no?’

I felt relaxed in his company but excited at the same time. I wanted to impress him. He was attentive. A pretty Italian lady on a nearby table had tried to attract his attention as she passed our table en route to the washroom. He paid no attention to her, his eyes straying from mine only to look at my hands, breasts, body. I felt flattered.

I asked Toni about his family and the farm and he told me how important olives were not just to his family but to Italians generally. He recounted the history of olives and their association with myths, medicine, food and sex.

‘I will show you the olive presses on the way home.’

When we’d finished he drove me to the farm. We parked near an outbuilding which contained the farm’s olive presses. Toni came round, opened my door and held out his hand. I took it and felt comforted as my hand nestled into the gentle warmth of his grip. He helped me out of the car. Our hands remained engaged as he led me to the outbuilding.

Inside it was pitch black but I could smell the wonderful aroma of olives mixed with wood and dry brick; it felt rustic, earthy. Toni spoke, quietly.

‘I do not put on the lights or they think we have thieves.’

He took a box of matches from a nearby shelf then found and lit a large lantern which cast a warm glow around us.

‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the centre of the room, ‘this where we crush the olives and press them for to get the oil. Come, sit here.’

He led me to a table. I say it was a table but it was more like a large block of wood on short legs. He lifted me onto it and I sat facing him, feeling the smooth, warm wood beneath me. Although the wine at dinner had left me in a relaxed enough state to appear fairly nonchalant, my heart was thumping. Toni stood facing me. The light from the lamp gave a warm glow to his skin and danced provocatively in his eyes. He reached up to a shelf beside him and took down a bottle from a neat row.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I will show you why the olives are so … so …  eccezionale.’

He took a cork from the bottle and poured a little oil onto his fingers. He put the bottle down and rubbed the oil between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Smell,’ he said, holding his hand to my nose.

The oil had a rich, fruity, Mediterranean smell.

‘Mmmmm, wonderful,’ I said, as I felt the aroma filling my nose and making my mouth water.

‘Beautiful aroma, no? Now,’ he said, as he knelt in front of me, ‘feel the… the… consistenza.’

He slipped off my flip flop and took a toe between his thumb and forefinger, gently massaging it, covering it in oil.

‘How is that?’

‘Mmm, wonderful.’

He stood up, took the bottle, knelt back down and dribbled oil onto my foot. He looked up at me as he began to massage it, his hands gently working, gliding over my soft skin. I felt the warmth working its way up my leg.

‘Nice, no?’

‘Wonderful.’

Toni carried on for some time, enjoying the feel of my toes between his fingers, then he stood up and selected another bottle from the shelf. He wiped his hands on his shirt and poured more oil from the new bottle onto his fingers.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘how does this smell?’

‘Mmmmm, not as fruity but I can taste herbs of some sort … Is it basil?’

He smiled.

‘You have a good nose. And what about the … consistenza?’

‘The texture?’

‘Si, the texture.’ He put his hand on my shoulder and began to rub in the oil. ‘Smoother, no?’

‘I’m not sure, keep going.’

I’d let out an involuntary groan as he began to caress me. He was now massaging the whole of my shoulder, my upper arm, and around my neck with soft, sensuous, smooth strokes and I leaned forward, rested my head against his chest and closed my eyes to enjoy the feel of his touch. I’m not sure how long he spent massaging me with oil, I’d lost myself in sensation but I became aware that the table beneath me was now feeling damp due to my own arousal. I heard his voice again and lifted my head, dreamily.

‘One more,’ he said and took down another bottle from the shelf. Again, he wiped his hands carelessly on his shirt and poured fresh oil onto his fingers which he rubbed together, provocatively.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘smell.’

I took a breath through my nose and my olfactory sense was enlivened by a rich, tangy aroma that caused my mouth to water.

‘Well?’

‘Mmm, rich, vibrant, a fresh saltiness …’

‘How does it remind you?’

I inhaled deeply again.

‘Life, happiness, vibrancy … sex.’

He smiled again. ‘You do have a good nose … and a beautiful mouth. Here,’ he said, putting his thumb and forefinger to my mouth, ‘taste it.’

I licked his fingers then held his hand in mine and began to suck his forefinger.

‘Mmmm, definitely sex,’ I said, staring into his eyes. I watched as his eyelids fluttered in response to the softness of my tongue.

‘Sex is right,’ he said.

He withdrew his finger and slipped the straps of my dress from my shoulders, easing the dress down to my waist, revealing my bare breasts. My nipples had already hardened. He took the oil bottle, held it up in the air and tipped it slightly, moving it from side to side so that a thin stream of oil dribbled onto my breasts. He put the bottle down and began to massage them. I leant back on the table, gasping as the oil warmed my breasts while his hands glided over them. He gently plucked my nipples, trying to grip them between his thumbs and forefingers but they slid easily from his grip, the smooth friction teasing tiny nerves, sending wonderful sensations all the way down to my pussy. Toni leant down and licked some of the oil from my breasts, then stood up and began to massage them again. He leaned into me and kissed me filling me with his tongue which tasted rich and fruity. I was still leaning back on my arms and I let him taste and fondle me like a ripe fruit. Toni pushed my thighs back and spread my legs, so that my feet were resting on the edge of the table. I felt his fingers ease my panties aside and slide into my pussy, the oil mixing with the juice already lubricating me. His fingers and knuckles, now covered in oil and juice, worked me into a frenzy. I held tightly around his neck, sucking his tongue as he brought me to orgasm. I threw my head back and cried out with pleasure, pressing myself onto the oily smoothness of his hand. He eased away from me.

‘So, you like olive oil, yes?’

I giggled as I watched him lick his hand.

‘Mmmm, you taste wonderful, a mix of English and Italian.’

I looked up at the shelf.

‘We haven’t tried that one yet.’

He reached up and took down a bottle.

‘Yes, this is very nice.’

I took the bottle from him.

‘My turn,’ I said.

I put the bottle by my side and undid the buttons on his shirt which he helped me remove. I ran my hands briefly over his chest before undoing his belt and trousers and as I eased the trousers and shorts over his bottom his cock sprang out, erect and eager. He waited, expectantly, while I picked up the bottle and covered my hands in oil. I caressed his tanned chest and ran my hands over his tight belly. I put more oil on my hands and pulled him to me, kissing him as my hands moved sleekly and smoothly over his back and shoulders. As I continued kissing him I moved my hands down to his cock and he groaned as I gripped it tightly, covering its length in oil, running my thumb and the palm of my hand over the bulbous glans. He moaned with pleasure. Toni pushed my thighs back and parted my legs so that my feet were again resting on the edge of the table. I put my hands around his neck and held him tightly. In one rushed thrust he filled me full of smooth, warm, hard cock and I let out an appreciative moan. I felt his hands gliding over my breasts and bottom, trying to grip them as he fucked me. I moved my oily hands to the cheeks of his bottom and fondled them, feeling the tight muscles working beneath the smooth, soft flesh as his hips thrust back and forth. He was groaning and shouting in fluent Italian, words I didn’t understand but they were full of urgency and heightened my arousal. As his hips thrust more fiercely I fondled those beautiful buttocks and my nipples tingled with pleasure as my breasts rubbed easily up and down his chest. As I came again, shuddering and shouting, I let my fingers slip into the oily cleft of his bottom, gently scraping the tight muscle with my fingernails. It was too much for him. He shouted, loudly, as he came. His buttocks felt like smooth, warm marble as they tensed, squeezing his come into me. My head was resting against his chest, I was already satisfied. As he relaxed against me he whispered, ‘Grazie, mi amore,’ in my ear. What a sweetie!

Since returning from holiday, I’ve enrolled in evening classes for Italian. The other day I received a postcard from Toni. He says there are plenty of other interesting ingredients used in Italian cooking. The picture on the postcard shows one of those large, phallic shaped pepper grinders they use in Italian restaurants. In a few months’ time I’m returning for good.