NyLon! – Chapter 4

- Nessun dorma! Nobody sleep! They won’t prevail! Rise up!

Daniel Crapazzoni dismissed the executive board with the usual incitement to the members of the secretariat gathered in the Torre Argentina. It was nearly 10pm on Sunday and he wanted to leave them free to listen to the radio those hoarse and persuasive voices that would have inspired the political strategy for the upcoming week. However, after fourteen hours of meeting they were all dead tired: the soporific voices could only inspire them in their sleep before they awake the day after. In London it was 9pm and me too I had spent Sunday at the party headquarters, but thousand miles north-west. The night before Raffa feigned a headache, frustrating my erection rather than simply whip it as usual. Never mind, patience, I resigned myself, and spent the night on the web beginning to put in practice my plan aimed at infiltrating Italian radicals. I learned that they had a website and in the website a forum where they quarrelled vehemently. A gold mine of information supplied voluntarily, sparing me the hard work to inquire. From a first analysis, three fundamental pillars emerged:

1. There was the current of libertarian radicals on the left;
2. There was the current of liberist radicals on the right;
3. All radicals in Padua were faggots.

I signed up to the forum myself but withstood the temptation to write: I had to maintain a low profile in order not to reveal my intention to infiltrate them. Instead I got out at dawn and went to the party to spend Sunday writing a detailed report for Charles – whom would have been happy to find it in his bloody Outlook on Monday morning -, and Janine, whom would have been less happy to find out my idea to finance the membership to Italian radicals of fifteen or so Londoners with the double goal of becoming shareholders and arouse Crapazzoni’s curiosity, so that he would visit us in order to get acquainted (while it was me who wanted to study him better). I was sure that I would be successful, I knew how to trap him, but at two hundred euros each it made a total of nearly two thousand pounds. Janine would not have appreciated; therefore, I only sent the report to Charles hoping that in his wisdom the leader would only have forwarded my demand to the treasurer after moistening her throat with some double shots of single malt. Satisfied for the good job, I returned home hoping that that night with Raffa would have been better.

—

I heard Raffa spit the last peach-stone when I went to the bathroom to wash my penis. I wouldn’t go back to bed, I wanted to put down on the WC, er, the PC, another chapter of an ocean-going novel of mine which I used to write in leisure time, and the night of sex had supplied me the inspiration. The evening before I thought of those two kilograms of peaches on the bedside table as a seductive invitation: peach-flavoured kisses are the best. Instead, she imperturbably kept on guzzling peaches as if nothing was going on while I sweated maneuvering her in every position. I pistoned her in front, from behind, from the top, underneath, even laterally, and in the meantime she ruminated peaches as a professional would shape her fingernails. Exhausted, I burst out

- Are you finished with those bloody peaches?

- They are good for the skin

- Sperm too is good for the skin – I replied spraying and spreading her – and my balls are aching

So much I was worn out that I wouln’d have been surprised to find one or two testicles among the peach-stones scattered on the floor. She was usually frantic like a nymphomaniac, but this time she had been very little co-operative. Clearly, she had something else in her peach, her head, which she left to fall behind onto the pillow covering it in a perfectly symmetrical composition of her dyed red hair. Laying with her arms and legs open on her inviting pussy, she was very beautiful indeed. Peaches were surely good for the skin, but they didn’t explain that gaze lost on the ceiling and that happy smile from an ear to the other. Evidently, she was thinking of someone else.

- Do you mind if we get out earlier picking up Maria Cristina? Andrea has broken his van and he cannot take her to the airport. In exchange, they invite us for lunch, but we must go quickly

Perhaps the other one was Andrea? No, he was a handsome stallion and once she rode him, unknown to me and her best friend, but it was him who didn’t find her appealing, after he found out she had painted toenails, something that Andrea couldn’t stand. He nicknamed himself Andrea to make it easier, his true Turkish name being Bülêňŧelıfyildız Åtatunçıller-Demıreleçţževitÿ, and he made the best niçoise salad with some mushrooms from Camden Market. At lunch, I refused it because I had to drive the girls to the airport in threatening stormy clouds darkening West London. But he knew that I would have appreciate it later on that night because it was a monday, one of our secret pleasure mondays the girls were totally unaware of. Under the speed-cameras flashes the girls were rolled up on the Ferrari’s only passenger seat, dashing on the A4 in order not to miss the 3pm transatlantic flight.