Chapter Text
For 22 Euro per night the hostel in Naples (sorry, Napoli, let’s not be an ugly American) isn’t bad. You’ve woken up in much worse places.
The pounding on the door is insistent and for a groggy moment you’re concerned you passed out in the shared bathroom down the hall (man, if you had a Euro for every time you’ve done that!). But no, as your brain wakes up you realize you’re sprawled in your assigned bed, on top of the scratchy blanket and wearing nothing but lacey black boy-short panties and a cropped white tank top.
Late-afternoon sunlight is streaming through the window and it seems you had a nice nap! After the events of that morning you must’ve been totally tuckered out!
You stretch, noting the soreness between your legs and you finger yourself idly as memories of the lovely time you had earlier that day on the train with that purple-haired guy (what did he say his name was? Melone?) rush back to you. You smile to yourself.
The knocking is getting louder and you frown.
“Cool your tits, geezus!” you yell, rolling out of bed and stumbling groggily to the door. You fling it open and it’s one of the Irish guys you’d seen drinking and playing poker in the lobby when you checked in. “Fucking WHAT?”
“Uh, sorry,” he stammers. “There’s a call for you down in the lobby.”
“A call?” You frown, rubbing your eyes and squinting blearily. “What time is it?”
“It’s… it’s about four in the afternoon? Want me to tell him you’re sleeping?”
You stifle a yawn. Who the hell wakes a girl up at four in the afternoon? And who the fuck even knows you’re here… unless it’s…
“No, I’ll take it.” You push past the Irish dude and down the hallway, your sleepiness suddenly dissipating. You practically skip to the lobby and snatch up the phone that’s set out on the table, pressing the handset to your ear and flinging yourself down into the squeaky pleather chair. You toss one leg over the arm of the chair and settle in comfortably, shivering in anticipation.
“Hello?”
“Ciao, bambina.”
His voice is even deeper and sexier through the phone than you remember and your nipples take note through the thin fabric of your tank top. You circle one with your finger, idly, and grin. “Who is this?”
“Who…” you can practically see his lovely green eyes scrunching up beneath his sheer violet mask. “The man from the train earlier today. Remember?”
“Hmm…” You slip a finger beneath the lace of your boy shorts, stroking yourself thoughtfully. “You’ll have to narrow it down…”
“Really?”
“No, stupid!” You laugh, rolling to your knees on the chair, letting your boobs squish against the backrest and propping your chin on one hand. “I’m just fucking with you. How could I forget Mister Tongue? Hello, Melone.”
He chuckles in nervous relief and you can almost hear his blush through the phone. “How are you,” he asks.
“Hmm… little sore down there…” You shift your hips, letting your hind end sway in the air. The cheeky boy-shorts you have on are cute but not too comfortable. The lacy seam is digging into your abused lady bits and you get a flush of wetness listening to Melone’s voice and remembering just how nicely he abused them…
“Too sore for a second date?”
“Never too sore for a date with you, baby.” You twine the phone cord through your finger and flop to your back again, knees spread wide for comfort as you drag the curlycued cord back and forth idly across your breasts.
“Is it okay if I bring a friend?” Melone asks breathily and you can tell he’s got his mouth cupped close to the receiver on the other end. You can hear another man’s muffled voice in the background raised querulously.
“Hell yeah of course you can bring a friend!”
“Di molto!” It sounds like there’s a bit of a scuffle on the other end of the phone because Melone quickly gasps into the phone, “I’ll pick you up at ten o’clock in front of your hostel be ready to go out clubbing ciao” and the phone goes dead.
You slam the phone back onto its receiver and leap from the chair in excitement, beaming over at the tableful of Irish guys playing poker next to you.
“Guess who has two thumbs and a hot date tonight?”
They don’t respond, instead staring at you open-mouthed, their cards forgotten in their hands.
You jack up the two aforementioned thumbs and angle them at yourself proudly. “This girl! High five!”
You thrust your hand out at the guy closest to you expectantly. He slowly sets down his beer, raises one hand apprehensively and taps it against yours.
“Alright!” You pump your fist in the air and with your other hand you reach down, picking your lacy boy-shorts out of your ass-crack where they keep riding up.
You skip gleefully down the hallway back to your room. You’ve got a lot to do to get ready for tonight!
}
You issue forth from the crummy hostel and into the golden Napoli sunshine, whistling over cobblestones as you make your way to the downtown and shopping. It takes a while to find the red-light district. You stop some of the locals to ask directions, and since your Italian sucks you resort to pantomimes and charades in order to describe what you’re looking for. They watch for a while, amused, before one of them finally asks in perfect English how they may be of assistance.
After shopping and dinner you return to the hostel, your arms laden with bags containing all the normal stuff people get for a second date and a night on the town: a new pearly-pink bullet vibrator and purse-sized bottle of lube, flavored condoms, purple plushy handcuffs, a rhinestone-studded dog collar, glow sticks and a two-pack of enemas.
Next you dig in your suitcase for an appropriate outfit. You lay out your fishnets, sturdy black pumps good for dancing, the little black pencil skirt from that morning, a sparkly blue tube-top and a fluffy pink maribou feather shrug.
“Perfect,” you whisper to yourself.
By the time ten o’clock rolls around you are ready.
You burst through the dingy lobby with your little silver “going out” backpack slung over one shoulder and your maribou shrug over the other and wave bye-bye to the Irish lads still drinking beer and playing cards. “Later, boys!” you call out as you fling the door open and hop down the stairs to the narrow European street below.
There’s a red four-seater convertible double-parked under the streetlights and your sweet wonderful Melone is in the front seat, climbing over to the back. He’s wearing his same get-up from earlier, the black latexy outfit that leaves his abdomen and one arm bare and the sheer mask covering one eye, his limp violet hair falling over his face fetchingly as he takes in your appearance with a grin.
“You look molto bella, so beautiful!” He grins and spreads his arms wide.
“Baby!” You don’t open the door, instead clambering over it and falling into the open back seat on top of him, your ass in the air. He squeezes it and gives it a little shake.
“Does Mommy have a kiss for Baby?” he asks coyly, his hands riding up beneath your skirt.
“Ooh, Mommy’s got more than a kiss for her wittle Baby,” you coo, sliding your own hand down the front of his pants and squeezing his still-sleepy cock affectionately. He groans as it responds, swelling just slightly in your hand and the two of you giggle, mouths open on each other’s in a wide, sloppy kiss. The giggling intensifies as you straighten his hardening dick in his pants, giving it a couple of tugs.
“Um, Melone…”
The two of you pause mid-giggle and look up at the front driver’s seat, where a man with short, curly blue hair has turned and is staring down at you through red-framed glasses. He pushes them up angrily on his nose. His severe white jacket makes him look a bit like a constipated dentist who just heard you haven’t flossed since your last checkup.
“Melone,” he continues with strained casualness, “where is the other girl?”
“Lha-uller-gir-?” Melone mumbles, his tongue still trapped between your lips.
“The… the other girl, the double date!” the man hisses through clenched teeth.
Melone struggles to his elbows and you release his tongue, letting him half-sit on the seat beneath you.
“Yes, double date. Me,” Melone points to himself. “You.” He points to the blue-haired man who is starting to tremble like a volcano about to blow. “And her.” He points to you. “Double date,” Melone concludes.
“Goddammit Melone, I am about to lose it here!” The man slams his fist on the headrest of his seat. “That’s not… that’s not what a double date means, you fucking idiot! I…”
Melone ignores his tantrum and turns to you. “Amore, this is my best friend, Ghiaccio. You can call him Ghia. Ghia, this is my new girlfriend.”
You release Melone’s dick, slide your hand out from the front of his pants and offer it to Ghia. “Pleased to meet you,” you smile.
He looks at your hand as if it’s coated in roadkill and turns back to the wheel with a sniff. Traffic is beginning to back up behind the convertible and people are honking with cries of “dai!”
“I can’t believe I’m giving up TV night with Ris and Pros for this,” Ghia mutters, shifting the convertible into drive and peeling away abruptly, fishtailing back into traffic on the main via. He shoots a dirty Italian gesture at the pedestrians who jump back up onto the curb and you’re off!