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He stood across the piazza on his black marble pedestal, foursquare and firm. I walked toward him, ignoring the crowd, the babble of a dozen languages around me. As I drew near, I raised my chin, letting my gaze linger over his feet, strong white feet, able to walk all day and into the night. His ankles were slim, yet sturdy, his calves well shaped. I saw the veins in his calf, the sinews connecting lower leg to knee. His legs were long, lean, strong.
Have I told you of his magnificent body, of the strength of his arms, his legs? Of the beauty of his naked chest, his uncovered shoulders? Do you know what a real man looks like, how the muscles lie close to the body, so that every movement becomes a symphony in efficiency? His right leg holds him upright, while the left relaxes. His left arm is lifted, holding a sling, with which he will defend himself--or me--from harm through the long, dark night.
His penis hangs softly, but I could imagine how it would grow under my touch--swell and grow into a shaft of velvet-clad steel--rampant, ready. For me.
My mouth dried at the thought, butterflies fluttered in my middle. I imagined his hands on my shoulders, his fingers touching my cheeks, my eyelids, my lips. I felt his mouth upon mine, not cold like stone, but hot. Wet. His tongue invaded me, swooped between my teeth, tangled with mine.
My knees grew weak. I trembled. The smoldering warmth flared into flame, consuming me. Perhaps I cried out.
"Signorina, you are ill." A strong arm encircled my waist, a hard body supported me.
I smelled sweat and tobacco, a faint aroma of wine, as I was lowered to the pavement and propped against the pedestal supporting mylove.
The eyes staring into mine were brown, soft like a doe's, ringed with thick, long lashes of sooty black. The face was familiar--like so many I saw daily in the streets, a poor replica of my David's. The hand cupping my cheek was hard with callus, but gentle, tender in its touch.
"No, I am not ill," I said, but my voice betrayed me. It quavered with the aftermath of my helpless passion.