0 comments/ 11476 views/ 0 favorites Secret Inspiration By: Antonino A word from the author Please note, any names of characters resembling among the living or the dead is purely because I lacked the energy needed to come up with original characters. If I have broken copy write laws or offended anyone, I do apologize. Well actually, I don't, but I need to say things like that so that if I have to stand at some sort of hearing or something, I'd have a shot at getting off. (And not in the way you're thinking!) * Northern Italy - 1928 David had writer's block. Bang! It snuck up on him with little warning and had now it had firmly taken hold of his spirit. The worst part of writer's block is that it is a state of mind, and obsessing about it just compounds the issue. Then one worries about worrying about it; and before you realize it, you've exacerbated the situation to a point beyond repair. "How could this happen to me?" he would ask the Gods of the typewriter. David had always seen the world through different eyes. He'd always refused to acquiesce to the status quo, and made it a point to write about how society's little rules were a hindrance on the soul. A stance that landed him in hot water on many occasion, so much so that he had to leave his native England for fear of reprisal. He'd been traveling ever since. Italy, Mexico, the Americas... all in search of ways to enrich his soul. His wrote all along his travels, a few short stories here, and a smattering of poems there; but now, his inspiration had dried up. Truth be told, he was tired. He no longer possessed the energy he had in his younger days. David found himself without the youthful desire to learn about the world and its people. With it, his desire to challenge the conceptions that people back home still clung to had also evaporated. Once, not so long ago, his inspiration had flowed like the waters of a mighty river, and his drive had the power of those giant waterfalls he'd gawked at on his travels. That mighty river had now dried to a babbling brook. Where, before, his mind would scream "For God's sake! Can you people not think for yourselves?" He now thought: "I have neither the time nor the inclination to get excited about anything you have to say to me." After an hour of staring at his typewriter with nothing to show for it, but a few crumpled sheets of paper, David felt the need to "stretch his legs". Or rather, if he didn't get away from the typewriter, it might end up being hurled out the window. So instead of surrendering to some banal, caveman instinct, he grabbed his coat, which was not really necessary with the weather being perfect, and left his country villa on foot. He took a route which would have him walking along a small gravel road in between the neighboring farms, a route he had walked many times before. Too many times before; especially since these walks only started recently with the onset of his writing disability. He set a fast pace for fair amount of time until quite suddenly, he came upon the boundary of the orchard. A low stone wall, a few feet think, marking the extent of his small empire in Tuscany. David was half annoyed at himself for arriving so suddenly at the wall. This meant he'd been so absorbed in his self-admonishment that he'd barely looked up to soak up the beautiful countryside; a crime all in itself. When he first bought this old villa, the smell of the jasmine creeping up the east wall was enough to inspire poem after poem about flowers and the wonder of their existence. Now, he'd walked though two and a half miles of paradise without lifting his head to notice a single olive leaf. Disillusionment and age, two enemies of the spirit, have robbed him of his ability to see and appreciate beauty, or even his bloody olive trees. He climbed onto the wall, which was wide enough to walk on without doing a trapeze impersonation, and started to make his way south. He loved his little wall. It seemed more ancient than the countryside it adorned, and extended over the hill into the Tuscan distance. He christened it "Adriano's Wall", because, David being English, relied on it to deter Italians from invading his empire, as opposed to its more established counterpart in Northern England, built by the Romans, to keep the English from invading theirs. Well, actually it was the Scots, but let's not knit pick over the details. It was a good joke, and one that had inspired bouts of laughter from Adriano, who happened to be one of the Italian neighbors the wall was supposed to ward off. The memory brought a smile to his face. He remembered the day he first came up with that clever entendre, especially since his "fine joke" as quoted by Adriano was told over and over again to all of Adriano's friends over an obscene amount of wine. Wine and debauchery! Truly, they were the modern day Romans. Laughing, drinking and being utterly vulgar with the level of conversation. All that was missing to transform it into a full blooded Roman orgy were the receptacles to vomit in and the loose women. The smile suddenly faded from David's lips, remembering the women at Adriano's villa that evening. One woman in particular was more unforgettable than any other; the enchanting Mrs. Alditore, Adriano's younger wife. Never before had he stared at another woman like he had at Carla. In England, beauty was defined by the daintiness and grace of a lady. Soft, pale skin and a softer demeanor were regarded by English poets as the epitome of a lady. Carla was not beautiful in this classical sense, she was a striking parallel. She was graceful; but not is the same way a "lady of the manor" was, she was graceful like a lioness is graceful while it's moving through the jungle. Nor was she slight or petit; she had the voluptuous curves of renaissance paintings... paintings that had inspired other "ungraceful" thoughts in David's mind when he was a boy. Carla was neither genteel nor vulgar, but rather somewhere in between. Above all else that made her irresitable; she had an aura about her, an aura that seemed to intoxicate David's senses. Surely it was this same aura that was possessed by Helen of Troy and Cleopatra; auras which enabled them to bend the will of the most powerful men in the world. Carla Alditore... David was now very aware of his surroundings. He was no longer staring at his own dominion in northern Italy, but rather, that of his neighbor. Somewhere, beyond the vineyards belonging to Adriano Alditore, was the villa where, surely, Carla was busying herself with running the household. He tried to picture in his mind's eye a scene in the Alditore kitchen: busy servants being ordered about by the vivacious "lady of the villa". He tried to imagine her features as she commanded both men and women around the house, her chest heaving as she raised her voice to make herself heard over the sounds of a busy house. He imagined her lush hair, pulled back behind her face with perhaps a few rogue strands, lucky enough to escape and rest on her perfect bosom. He pictured her vividly in his mind, every detail crisp and sharp. David was positive in fact, that he could paint her from memory. The idea of painting her began to take hold in his mind. Like the bougainvillea growing over his terrazzo, the seed grew to completely block out the sunlight of any other thoughts. He imagined painting her as he first pictured her, in that classic renaissance style of admiration for the feminine form; specifically, the nude feminine form. David imagined trying to transfer her indescribable beauty and allure to the canvas. He wondered how he would paint her; he wondered how he would pose his imaginary Clara in his mind's eye. Carla wouldn't be one of the meek ladies to have their portrait painted with a breast exposed; somehow, David knew that Carla would be far bolder than that. Far, far bolder. In addition to being aware of his surroundings, David became acutely aware of his arousal too. He could feel his heart increase its tempo and his chest constrict with emotion. He could feel his member swelling with blood, pulsing as if it had a heartbeat of its own. His erection grew to almost painful proportions, surely, the hardest he has been in many years. David reached down and adjusted his trousers to allow his erection to move from its previously painful position to a slightly more comfortable one. Thoughts of David's wife have never inspired such a granitic response from him; in fact, nothing has achieved such a response since he was a young boy. He was a middle aged man with the erection of a teenager. He continued his walk on top of Adriano's Wall, although his gait had somewhat altered. To an observer, without having spotted the obvious cause for the widened step, one would have been forgiven for assuming he was nursing an injury from the war by the way he dragged his left leg out and around his particular predicament. "What did you do today David?" "Oh nothing dear, I just took a walk atop my stone wall, sporting the most impressive erection I've had in decades!" "That's nice, dear" The imaginary conversation made David chuckle. Finally, the woes and worries of his recent lack of inspiration were finally starting to peel off his battered brain like the blossoms being blown off a tree in a strong gust of wind. Finally, the aromas of the Tuscan countryside were filling David's lungs reminding him that he was in his most favorite place in the whole world... and he has seen most of the world. Finally, David felt the Italian stones beneath his feet vibrate with the force of the history and passion of this incredible land, its energy rising through the soles of his feet and revitalizing his weary bones! David stopped walking for a moment, and raised his fists into the air. There he stood, on a low stone wall, with fists in the air posing like The Bronze Warrior, save for the, now dwindling, erection. "Sometimes, all you need is a walk on your own wall." thought David as he lowered his fists and continued ambling up the wall, this time, with a smile on his face. He continued for some time, until he reached the end of Adriano's vineyards, where a small clump of fig trees grew. David had always liked figs, which made Adriano's comments about them all the more compelling. "You know what zis fruit name, Davido?" "Of course, it's a fig." "You know why zis is called a 'fig' in inglese, Davido?" "Are about to educate me on the subject of the English language, Adriano?" "You Inglese think you know life. But I tella you now, Davido, that ze Inglesi forgot all what il Romani gave to you people. You see Davido, ze Romani knew all about zis fruit anda whata is inside. And they knew that is nota as sweet as the grape. But, Davido, it still is ze sweetest fruit God give to man. You know how come zis is, Davido? Is cause, ze Romani knew ze right way for man to eat zis fruit. You know ze right way to eat zis fruit, Davido?" "Clearly I have been doing it wrong since I was a boy, my dear Adriano. All this time, I thought you simply put it in your mouth, masticate, savor the sweetness, and then swallow. I didn't know there was an art to eating fig." "You know, Davido, you speak more truth than joke, in your joke. You take knife, you butcher the poor thing like it dead onion, and you eat like you justa need to fill stomach. That is how inglesi eat, that is how inglesi live; to fill stomach. There is more to ze fig than just filling your stomach, Davido. Let me show you how an Italian eat ze fig, Davido, and maybe you see why we call it ze sweetest fruit God give to man. Maybe you see why ze fig is like life; is not eating that is important, but ze way you eat." Adriano then showed David how to eat a fig like an Italian. The memory brought another smile to David's face. Watching Adriano eat that fig was hilarious at first until the clouds of preconception parted, and it all became apparent and obvious. For years, he had been eating "ze figs" wrong, and he had wasted so much time. Adriano might have been drunk, but it became all too apparent that it was, in fact, David who knew nothing. A sound brought David back from his journey down into his memories. Indistinguishable, yet recognizable as a sound a human would make. David immediately froze mid stride as if not to alarm whoever he had inadvertently ambled upon. He alerted his senses to try and identify the source of the sound. It definitely came from Adriano's side of the wall, a little further up the wall. He didn't know why, but David began to make his way along the wall as silently as possible. Perhaps it was to try and identify the sound if he heard it again, perhaps it was because his subconscious had already deciphered the sound, and David knew exactly what he was about to discover. In a small clearing in-between the fig trees, lay a man and a woman. To be more correct, the man was lying down, and the woman was kneeling astride the man's legs with her face buried in his lap. The man was lost to the world, running his hands through the woman's hair, making content mewing sounds. The slight movement of the woman's head left no question as to the reason for the man's contented disposition. The man's eyes were squeezed shut as he grabbed the woman's hair and forcefully pulled her face deeper and faster against his groin. His expression changed from deep contentment to one of carnal distortion, the kind of face someone would pull when they're lifting something extraordinarily heavy. The sounds escaping his, now open, mouth changed dramatically together with his facial expression; where first they were contented mews, they now had become guttural grunts, as if he regressed fifteen thousand years in evolution. With one final cry, the man held the woman's head down as he rose to a half seated position, driving her face deeper still. David could tell the man was forcing her head with a fair bit of strength because the muscles on his forearms were pulsing just as he was holding on for dear life. The man bellowed as if he had been mortally wounded by an invisible spear to the abdomen and fell back down to lie on his back to complete the simile of death. Were it not for the rapid rise and fall of the man's chest, it would have been a faithful reproduction. David had stealthily dropped to the ground, on his side of Adriano's Wall, and hunkered down as if he were a soldier taking cover to avoid being shot by enemy fire. That analogy was far more honorable than a gentlemen hiding behind a low stone wall trying to remain concealed while spying on a couple fornicating in his neighbor's clump of fig trees. The man's arms had, in the mean time, dropped to his sides, and David expected the woman's head to bolt up and curse the man for boring her head down on his genitalia so hard; instead, the woman kept her head buried in his lap, but her movements had slowed dramatically. Where before, she was moving in concert with the man's thrusts, now her head moved in a slow and deliberate fashion. Clearly, she did not mind the rough treatment. David transferred his attention to the man again. Of course he recognized him almost instantly; it was Adriano's grounds man. Where others were employed to tend the vineyards, Mario, the grounds man, would live in a small house on the villa's grounds and see to everything else. Well, Mario was definitely seeing to his duties this afternoon! David had spoken to Mario many times, mostly in connection with how he should look after his own giardino, and he seemed a nice enough fellow... for a grounds man. David definitely had no plans to bring to Adriano's attention the fact that his grounds man was taking a breather from his duties. After all, surely, a content grounds man would be a much more industrious grounds man than, say, a frustrated grounds man. Slowly, life seemed to return to poor Mario. The first sign that Mario was still among the living was his chest decreasing in frequency yet increasing the magnitude of its laborious task; filling his lungs with the restorative Tuscan air. He craned his neck forward, lifting his head to stare at the top of the woman's head, which was still moving up and down with the grace and rhythm of the Mediterranean itself. Mario then said something to the woman, David couldn't quite make it out, but it was clearly a compliment. Mario's eyes looked glazed over, as if he had had a fairly decent dose of the juice of the poppy, but the expression on his face gave away the game. Mario had been to the absolute heights of human ecstasy. David had obviously heard of fellatio, but his wife had never dared perform such a dastardly and profane act on him, nor had he dared dream of suggesting she try it. From where David found himself at the present moment, Mario didn't seem to think the act dastardly at all! In fact, if David's powers of observation were anywhere near the level of infantile, he would have to surmise that Mario had had a fantastic experience. David, truth be told, could not recall any moment in his married life, ever having suffered a climax of the magnitude that Mario had just suffered. From his vantage point behind the low wall, David was staring at the pair of lovers from a perpendicular viewing angle. He could make out that Mario had merely dropped his trousers to his knees before commencing with his sport. The woman, on the other hand was still fully clothed. David had realized that, until now, he had only been concentrating on Mario and not really his companion. This was no servant girl! Her dress looked far too expensive to be that of a mere servitora. Perhaps this was a neighbor's daughter who was having an affair with the Alditore's grounds man? But alas, David knew it not to be so. He should have recognized her from the luscious mane of hair that now draped the grounds man's nakedness. As if the universe conspired to pick that moment as David's realization came to pass, Clara lifted her body off the Alditore servant. The sun's rays hit her perfect face and reflected off the remnants of Mario's passion. She looked down at her lover with hooded eyes, her lips pursed in a pout as she rose to a seated position, back arched somewhat as if she were mounted upon a stallion. Her one hand remained wrapped around Mario's semi-revived manhood while the other sensually made its way up over her breasts to her mouth, where her dainty finger slowly collected some glistening fluid from the corner of her lips and she made a show of sucking it. It was clear from Mario's reaction that the show must've restored his interest and vitality; he seemed to grow to double his size in her hand. Clara's pout transformed slowly into a lusty smirk as stared down at his swollen member. Her hand began a slow dance up and down his shaft with her gaze fixed on Mario's lower body; she manipulated him with practiced and expert hands like a skilled weaver operating the handle of a loom. Her hand would rise and then she'd twist her wrist as it reached its zenith before she began the journey back down to the base of him reversing the twisting motion. Her other hand snaked its way in between Mario's thighs, where David could only imagine what her deft fingers were doing. David's hand moved of its own accord. It was only then he realized that his erection, like Mario's, had returned with vigor! His fingers unfastened the front of his trousers and released his own penis from its confinement and he had begun touching himself. His eyes never left Clara. His hand seemed to emulate the movements of her hand without his conscious consent. They had fallen into a rhythm, Clara's hand and his own. David bit his lower lip in an attempt to stay his rasping breath as Clara's tempo increased. He saw her lips move as she clearly said something to her lover, David could not make out the words but he noticed her eyebrows arch as she spoke. Mario clearly liked what he was hearing for his eyes widened as she spoke and he nodded furiously when her lips ceased to move. Secret Inspiration Her busy hand slowed to a halt as she gathered her knees up from under her. Her billowing dress gave the illusion that she was floating on a cushion of air as she made her way up Mario's chest until his head disappeared under the folds of her garments. Clara then lowered herself a little before she seemed to be comfortable in the saddle once more. David could not believe what he was witnessing. His hand had inadvertently ceased to move as Clara's hand ceased on Mario, but now it picked up from where he had left off. At first, Clara remained quite motionless, but before long she started tilting her head slowly to one side and making small soft moaning sounds in her throat. Her hands moved to rest on her hips as she craned her head forward, as if her glassy gaze could penetrate through the material of her gowns and add the visual confirmation to the sensations she must be feeling. David's hand was a blur of fingers, working towards the same intoxicating level of sensation that Mario must've felt a few moments ago. His eyes never left Clara's expression but he was imagining that is was David's ministrations responsible for creating her expression as opposed to the individual whose legs were poking out of her gown. He imagined what her sex must feel like pressed against the skin of his face. He fantasized about the decadent perfume he would encounter and he visualized lapping up her essence with fervor. It was David's turn to become lost to the world, his powerful imagination probing her depths as deeply as his surrogate's tongue. David had performed cunnilingus on his wife, albeit for a few moments before his wife hastily moved his head away with exasperated commentary. For those few moments where his lips were in contact with his wife's Mons Venus, he was enjoying himself immensely, and he could have sworn he heard a moan escape his wife's lips which is why he doubled his efforts. His wife seemed to snap out of her trance and breathlessly shooed him from between her thighs as if he was a naughty schoolboy. Clara had begun to move her hips about, as her own arousal was clearly on the increase. Her hands had now left their perch and were roaming over her own body. Her head was now moving in giant arcs as she began moaning with more intensity. Her hands slid up her neck and into her curls as she raised her hair skyward. Her hands erupted out her mane and the luscious locks cascaded down in the most feminine display David has ever witnessed. Surely, this is how the Sirens lured their Greek heroes to their deaths on the reefs of legend. Never before had David witnessed an unashamed woman, proud, confident and in harmony with nature's splendor, reveling in the magnificence of her own audacity. Only then did David realize what those Sirens were meant to symbolize and why a blind poet such as Homer was so obsessed with something that he had never laid eyes upon. David was completely enraptured by Clara's beauty and her passion, so much so, that he inadvertently let a moan slip past his lips. He ducked back behind the cover of the wall, certain that Clara had heard him and was staring at the source of the noise. He froze, cock still throbbing in hand, his breath still coming up short as he tried to bring his body back under his own control. He started running scenarios in his mind of Clara bursting over the lip of the wall at any second and catching him in this most compromising position, yet he was frozen... well... stiff. The seconds seemed like hours as they dragged on. David waited for the inevitable screams of indignation, yet more and more heartbeats past with no such hellfire from above. It was then when he heard Clara's soft moans. With relief, David realized that his moan had escaped detection! Clearly, Clara was too far gone in her own world of pleasure that she didn't hear anything at all. David's feeling of relief was rapidly replaced by the thrill of almost being discovered which, against all he knew possible seemed to make himself even harder in his hand. He knew he had no other choice but to resume his voyeuristic tryst, every fiber in his body would never accept anything less. He once again peaked over the low stone wall. Clara was now grinding her hips onto her husband's servant with ruthless abandon. Her hands were cupping her bosom as she rotated her hips in short thrusting motions; her head was still swaying in all directions with the odd flick that would send her volume of hair slashing through the air in a delayed arc. Her head came to rest for a moment tilted toward David's position, and her lovely hair dangled majestically over her face before she flicked it to one side with one of her hands. David felt as if for a fleeting fraction of a second, Clara was staring in his direction, but he knew it to be the guilty aftershock from a few minute or two ago. He had seen that glazed expression in her eyes and they were not registering anything that was happening besides what the sensations she must be feeling. Her hands moved over her bosom again and with deft fingers, Clara untied her bodice. David steeled himself for what was sure to follow, he mentally prepared to not forget himself and cry out at the imminent actions of Mrs. Alditore. With the grace of a sleek panther, Clara nudged her dress first off one shoulder and then the other, until it seemed to deny the laws of physics by not falling around her waist. Her dress seemed to slip down with glacial patience, as if gravity itself conspired against David's desire. More and more of Clara's perfect breasts were revealed until the pink of her nipples peaked out from the top of her bodice. For a few painful seconds, it appeared as if that is as far as the dress would fall, until finally, David was rewarded for his patience when the bodice slipped off the small spears of pink flesh and fell in a crumpled heap around Clara's slim waist. David held his breath as he stared at her breasts. All the while, his hand was furiously trying to keep up with Clara's own arousal. David should have been overcome by reverence and awe, but instead, lust gnawed at his lower body as he felt the pressure build in his loins. Clara was moaning openly now, crushing her sex down onto Mario's face, whose penis was fleetingly visible from the folds of her dress; it was hard as ever, but neglected, as Clara focused on achieving her own climax. Clara suddenly bore down with her hips as her orgasm reached the precipice. She grasped at her own breasts and squeezed the nipples as if she were trying to add every sensation to the impending avalanche that was sure to cascade through her body. Her mouth was wide open in a silent moan, eyes shut and her head was pointing skyward as she squeezed her pelvis down onto her servant. David noticed the change in Clara as she poised herself on the brink of climax. He too was ever so close; his vision seemed to fall away leaving nothing but Clara in perfect focus. His hand was squeezing hard as it worked its way up and down his manhood faster than he ever thought possible. His breathing was now coming in short, labored bursts through lips that were locked together to prevent his own moans from joining the pair's on the other side of the wall. Clara eventually let out a piercing scream as a wave of orgasmic energy wracked her body. David witnessed her physically pulsate as her muscles went into spasm. He watched her hips jump forward in short, vicious bursts as wave after wave of passion flowed threw her luscious body, making her breasts jiggle deliciously with each thrust of her hips. David's own passion soon joined Clara's as he felt lightning shoot through his body. David came with hurricane force as he witnessed the object of his fantasy lose herself in her own pleasure filled reality. Her moans filled the once peaceful countryside with the sounds of violent sexual release and clouding David's head in a haze of lust. David's hips were spasmodically thrusting into his own hand and brushing the tip of his penis against the rough surface of the stones with each stroke. The slightly painful sensation drove David to new levels of sexual experience as his semen exploded from his cock, soaking a small patch on his low stone wall. David slowly returned to reality, and his eyes eventually re-focused on the scene before him. Again, he though he saw Clara glancing in his direction as she lay arched over her, still somewhat restrained, grounds man. David was now feeling incredibly overcome with guilt at what he had just done, but yet he could not tear his eyes away from Clara's partly nude form. While he was still staring at Clara, she made a motion of rising to her feet, where Mario's glistening face was revealed to the light of day once more. Clara seemed to gather the folds of her dress about her, lifting them above her knees as if to re-arrange them in the proper fashion. She then stepped over Mario's form and stood looking down at him with her back facing David. She then bent over ever so slowly forward as her dress hiked up the back of her thighs until her rear was exposed to David's view. She began to kiss Mario's moist lips that had recently given her so much pleasure. David's eyes were glued to her thighs and ass as she kissed her servant, but he did notice one of her hands snake its way to wrap itself around Mario's, still hard, member. Her other hand was resting on her right ankle, but it began to make its way up over her calf, behind her knee and sensually stroke its way up her outer thigh. The hand then reached the soft curve of her rear and it lingered there for a moment before it deftly gripped her cheek and pulled it outward revealing the secrets nestled in between to David's unwavering gaze. Every inch of her most hidden folds were bared in the sunlight. David could not breathe! With the lithe grace of a practiced dancer, she began to rise once again upright, taking her time with the motion as if she wanted to prolong Mario's torture as her hand left him unsatisfied. As Mario realized what cruel fate had befallen him, he began to make some degree of protestation, but Clara was clearly not having any of it. She slipped her dress back up her shoulders and retied her bodice. All the while, Mario seemed to be begging Clara, gesturing towards his erect manhood, to alleviate his suffering. Clara seemed to soften and Mario lay back down facing up at his feminine employer, expecting her soft hands to resume their expert ministrations. Before Mario could react, Clara hefted her boot into the air and brought it down onto her servant's nether regions. The blow lacked malice or bad intentions, but the effect was still disastrous on Mario's state of sexual arousal. He let out the unmistakable howl that every man can identify instantly. Clara on the other hand, promptly dropped the folds of her dress and stepped over a much incapacitated Mario, and made her way towards her husband's villa. David, now wracked with guilt, began to make his way back to his own villa, where surely, his wife would be waiting. Epilogue David was playing the day's events through his mind over and over again. "Was it real?" He kept asking himself, "Or did I imagine it all?" David was seated in the same chair, in his same study, staring at the same empty page, perched and ready to go, in his typewriter. The feeling that it had all been a dream was tempting to embrace, but the dust on his shoes and the small white stains on the thighs of his trousers suggested otherwise. His wife had politely knocked on the door a little while earlier, and informed him that supper was nearly ready, but eating was the last thing on his mind right now. He could not process into fathomable and rational thoughts what had transpired. It just didn't seem possible. At the dinner table, David sat and picked at his food. His wife had obviously noticed his deteriorating mood over the past few weeks but knew that it would be worse if she made it evident that she had noticed that anything was the matter. But her concern for her husband could not be kept inside for very much longer. She knew he had not written anything for months; after all, she made sure the study was kept tidy, and it was difficult to notice there weren't many typed pages on his desk but there were always a healthy supply of crumpled ones on the floor. There was a knock at the door which brought both husband and wife out of their respective introspection with a start. "I'll get it, dear" David's wife blurted as she rose from the table. She returned to the table carrying a small, ornate wooden box with a small card sporting her husband's initials and last name. The handwriting was definitely feminine, that much she could tell immediately. It was obviously sent from Mrs. Alditore, for it was their grounds man, Mario who delivered the box. A gift? An invitation? She could only guess what these odd Italians viewed as normal behavior. "Who was that at this hour, my dear?" David asked in an almost disinterested tone. "Oh, what a surprise, it was Mario." she replied "I beg your pardon?" "I said: it was Mario." "Mario? That would be the Mario, from the Alditore farm?" "Why... yes dear. Which other Mario is there around here?" "And? What did he say?" "Oh darling, you know I can't understand his Italian, so I didn't understand all he said, but he did deliver this." She placed the pretty little box, about the size of a small jewelry box, in front of her husband. "I think it's from Mrs. Alditore, this handwriting is far too neat to be from that lush of a neighbor." Without any further discussion, David grabbed at the box and sped off into the study where she heard the lock engage. "How curious!" she muttered to herself and returned to the task at hand, which now became clearing the untouched supper off the table. She thought she heard a gasp and a thump coming from the study so she rushed to the door and placed her ear against the door. "Darling? Is everything all right?" "Ah... Yes dear... fine... everything's perfectly fine... how clumsy of me... I stubbed my toe and this thing fell from my hands!" the muffled reply through the door. "How curious, indeed!" she muttered again as she busied herself once more. Many hours had passed and she had not seen her husband emerge from his study. She began to wonder what was in the box that would have her husband behaving so strangely. Being a woman, she immediately thought the worst, that her husband was having an affair with that Alditore woman. She had met her once or twice and could not help but be intimidated by her. She was beautiful! She had a dark, exotic skin that made her English complexion seem pasty and pale. Her breasts threaten to spill out of every outfit she wore and... She snapped herself out of her unpleasant reverie and she forced herself to abolish the though from her mind. David was her husband, and she would not believe that he would be unfaithful to her. As soon as she mentally admonished herself, she immediately knew it was folly. She knew her husband was gradually losing interest, and she thought she knew the reason why. She always felt so anxious living out here in Italy. The women behaved differently than back home in England, and the men, well, the men certainly behaved even more so. She could feel that there was an undercurrent to this land, one that stirred emotions she never knew she had. She would be sitting in the sun, reading, when David would walk past and the musky aroma of his scent mixed with jasmine and oregano would send her heart racing. She would feel her cheeks grow hot and red, and her breathing would hasten as if she had run a mile! But how should she react to those feelings? From a young age, she buried those feelings behind a veil of duty and companionship, never allowing them to surface and lead her astray. She learned to set aside her passion and concentrate on being an "English lady". Yet, in Italy, it all felt so very different. Here, people seem to be driven by their desires, not their guilt. Their music, art and even their daily toil seem to all be fuelled by the passion, and the emotion, fused into the very soil that this land possesses. She knew her husband felt it, and she felt it too. Just the other day, she and David were making love and he slid down between her legs and kissed her on her sex! She had never experienced anything like it! Her whole body was tingling with sensations she'd never believed possible! She was so overwhelmed that she pushed David's head away and fell back on her old demeanor as a defense to these impure desires sparked by her husband's lips. She paced back and forth in the kitchen, wrestling with her emotions until she reached a decision. She would let go of the yolk that was bogging her down and she would be damned if she would let some buxom strumpet like Mrs. Alditore steal her husband from her. If her husband wanted to kiss her down there, then she will bloody well let him! She had to chuckle at her mental argument. It was a good release for all the feelings she had locked inside all these months. She wiped away her tears and took a few deep breaths before preparing herself mentally to charge through that study door and start fighting to win her husband back. As she neared the door, a familiar sound stopped her dead in her tracks. She heard the soft clicking of her husband's typewriter. Click-click-click Click Click-click She smiled to herself and made her way to their upstairs bedroom, unbelievably relieved that her beloved David has hammering at that old typewriter once more. She woke with a start, realizing that someone was on top of her! She opened her eyes to the pleasant surprise of David smiling down at her. What followed could only be described as Ecstasy! Born of the passion captured in every small stone of the very Italy she only recently embraced. The next morning, she woke to find he husband's naked form still fast asleep next to her. Careful not to disturb him, she slipped out of bed and found her robe. She crept down the stairs and began heating water for some of the strong Italian coffee that David liked so much. Today, she felt like she might need a cup of espresso herself! Maybe its fabled restorative powers could help with the sleep deprivation of the previous night... and the early hours of the morning. She smiled to herself as she took stock of the pleasant aches and pains that had resulted from their... exuberant... display of affection towards one another. And to think, barely hours ago, she was convinced she was losing her husband to another man's wife. The box! She knew she shouldn't dare open it, but she could not help herself... The box was waiting on the desk of the study. Before the coffee was brewed she was already inside the study and examining the box once more. The card with her husband's initials and last name was still on it. She once again studied the elegant handwriting and decided she liked the look of her David's name written like that. D. H. Lawrence She opened the box and found a letter, written in the same ornate script as well as a solitary fig. "A fig? How Curious!" The letter read: Caro Davido I thoroughly enjoyed seeing you behind your wall earlier this afternoon and I thought I might send you this one perfect fig that I picked very near to where we spotted one another. I hope you don't mind me sending Mario to deliver this present, but I was exhausted from riding all day, and truth be told, I think that Mario could use the extra exercise. I hope you found inspiration in my husband's clump of fig trees. You'd be amazed at the restorative powers that grove has on one's soul. Secret Inspiration You might say that I have a love affair with that clump of fig trees. But please, I'd hate for everyone to find out about it as that would ruin its tranquility. Please accept this gift on behalf of myself and my husband. Carla Alditore P.S. You're more than welcome to include the fig grove in one of your stories, but please, change our family name so that no-one finds my secret hideaway. Grazie tanto. Notes and Acknowledgements I made several inferences to literary works by D.H. Lawrence. These include: "Lady Chatterley's Lover" and "Figs". All other inferences are a product of fiction and my imagination. I am in no way claiming to have any knowledge of how Mr. Lawrence drew inspiration for his pieces. I did however do very light research into where D.H. Lawrence was based when he penned "Lady Chatterley" and ran with the fiction from there. The idea from this story flowed from an idea I had reading a similar story about another literary figure where the author exercised his poetic license and wrote an interesting short story from the historical figure's point of view. The short story was one of many in the following book: "Forbidden Acts: by Nancy A. Collins (1995)" Thank you for reading my initial foray into writing. I sincerely hope you had as much fun reading this short story as I had writing it! Comments and suggestions are more than welcome. I'd like to thank someone very dear to me who dared me to write. I hope her surprise was genuine.