"Hasselblad," I said, more to myself than to anyone else.

The word was on the front of a giant camera, about half a metre away from my bare breasts. 

"Yes, 'Hasselblad', Swedish. One of the finest cameras in the world." 

Meet Gastone Contini. He's the grey-haired man holding the camera. He is father to Giulia and Marco and husband to Flora, and right now we are in his studio and he taking pictures of me.

Gastone arrived home a few weeks ago after a long series of concert tours. There was a magnificent party in his honour. I will tell you about it later, but right now, I am half standing, half kneeling, on an ornate antique chair in just my panties.

"That's lovely, Sophie!"

"Suzy," I corrected. 

"So sorry, my dear. Now, if you could pull your panties to one side?"

The shutter goes again and again, and after each click, Gastone winds the film forward to the next frame. And so it goes on, click and wind, click and wind. It's hypnotic. At first, I wondered if there was even film in the camera, but later, he showed me some of the results. He was actually an excellent photographer. He's got a proper darkroom and everything and develops his pictures himself.

Now it's my bottom's turn. Gastone likes to take pictures of my anus. He calls it my 'Rosebud'. I have always detested the term. 

Actually, he isn't too bad, middle-aged, well-groomed, ever so charming. He calls me his muse, and often he invites me to his studio, where he takes pictures of me with no clothes on. He never touches me or anything. He did that first night, of course, at the big party, just about everybody touched me that night!

I know that Gastone takes photographs of Marco and Giulia, often both together, but he always photographs me alone. He's very polite and charming and ever so complimentary about my looks, my body, my 'rosebud!'

Eventually, the photo session is over, and I am allowed to get dressed. Gastone kisses me on both cheeks, and I leave.

"To the next time!" he says with a dazzling smile. Now I feel guilty at being so half-hearted with him.

Waiting for me in the blazing sunlight is Marco in his lovely bright red Spider. We are to go up into the mountains where there is a village with a beautiful Byzantine church. I am learning loads about art and churches and many other essential things. For example, it is NEVER correct to drink a cappuccino after 10:30 in the morning. For the rest of the day, one drinks un caffe, an espresso coffee. Strangely, 'correctness' is essential to Italians when it comes to unimportant things.

Now we are following the twists and turns as the road snakes up the mountain. Marco drives ever so well, and he never takes risks when I am with him. At the very top of the mountain is the pass. There's a bar there, and inside, there are ancient, faded pictures of men in mountaineering costumes posing outside the self-same bar.

We both have un caffe and a glass of Prosecco. Then it's back on the road, and suddenly we are in the tiny village. Marco parks (sensibly), and a small group of boys gather around his car, admiring it. 

The church is all cool and dark inside. Marco dips his fingers in the holy water thingy, and he makes the sign of the cross on my forehead. Neither of us seriously believe in God anymore, but Marco was raised as a Catholic, and some things never leave you.

We look at the tall wooden confessionals. Perhaps not for us!

I am fascinated by an enormous painting of St Agatha. She is just standing there patiently and wearing a strange smile while some men are cutting her breasts off. One is already off and is sitting on the ground, nipple upwards. Marco explains that people needed vivid and realistic images in the middle ages to understand the horrors of martyrdom. 

There is a small doorway on one side of the church, and through it, I can see a pretty garden. The door creaks as we push it open, and suddenly we are in the fresh air. Marco and I sit together and share a kiss, and then another.

Marco makes me feel ever so relaxed and comfortable when we are alone together. We kiss a bit more, and I cautiously unbutton his jeans. Marco always goes commando. I do as well, but not if I will be getting in and out of a sports car!

Flipping the top button, open his jeans properly and release his cock. It really is lovely. As you know, I don't have vast experience of men in that way, but I know what I like.

He's a perfect size for me, just a bit under six inches. (I have measured.) And he is circumcised, which I prefer. There is something about the exposed head that makes it look ever so cute. And the shaft is not all veiny and lumpy either. (I am not sure if 'shaft' is the usual word, but I like it.)

Now, I must ask your opinion, dear Reader. I am not at all fond of the word 'balls'. It's probably just me, so I have begun using the word 'pearls'. Is that okay, do you think?

Marco's pearls are nicely shaven. I know coz I watched Giulia doing it! She shaved him everywhere but left him a neat tuft above his cock. He's not very hairy anyway, and that suits me down to the ground.

Stroking him with one hand and cupping his pearls with the other is just heavenly, and Marco loves when I do it like that. As he gets closer, I use both hands on his cock so that the head rubs against the palm of my hand, which is by now quite wet coz his pre-cum comes quickly and easily.

Just in case you are wondering, my jumper is near at hand should the door to our little garden open unexpectedly and I can quickly hide everything.

Marco gets ever so hard and stiff when I touch him like this. I like to make my thumb and forefinger into an 'Okay' sign, and then I tighten it just underneath the head. And then I slide it slowly down the shaft, all the way to the base. Then I release my grip and repeat. My victim is gurgling happily now. Marco is excellent coz he doesn't try and force the pace as some men do.

I have tissues ready... here we go.

And oh, YES! 

Good boy, Marco! What a happy ending.

I hadn't been staying at the Contini's villa for long, and the return of the famous Gastone Contin was the big story. A local restaurant would do the catering and provide the service. We thought that Gastone needed a break from classical music, so Flora booked the band that played in the nearby villages wherever dances were held. It would be all bright, cheerful party music, with accordions and mandolins, guitars and trumpets and lots and lots of tambourines.

Everything was to happen on the terrace overlooking the sloping grass of the vast estate. Paper lanterns were to be hung in the trees, and it was going to be simply magical.

A few days before the event, Flora had sat us young ones down and asked us if we would like to give a little performance for the guests. Marco, Giulia, and I thought about this, and after discussing it amongst ourselves, we decided that we would each give short performances. 

Marco's no Pavarotti, but he has an excellent tenor voice, so he said he would find something well-known that everyone could join in. He would dress as one of the waiters, begin singing while serving drinks, and then take to the stage. Now Giulia and I looked at each other. We burst out laughing because we both knew how it would be for us, the Tarantella.

That night, Giulia had come to my room, and she was clearly ever so aroused. Maybe it was the thought of us both doing this wild pagan dance, or perhaps she just wanted my particular kind of love, the kind that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Giulia knew what she wanted as she piled the pillows high on my bed and lay across them on her tummy. I wasted no time and began stroking all the way down her spine all the way down to where her cleft began. And it was here I began feasting. Experience has taught me not to go to her cunt too soon, so I allow only occasional tongue trips over the little bridge that is her perineum.

Now Giulia sighed her sigh. I recognise it. It's her white flag. Not about domination or submission but a sweet surrender to her own feelings.

Afterwards, we made spoons, and Giulia was Little spoon, and I cupped her sex which was toasty and sweetly hot, and I kissed and nibbled her neck, which is just about all I can remember.

As the day of the celebration draws closer, we are all ever so busy. Not all the guests will know about our family's 'special relationship', so we will have to do our best to behave conventionally. 

Marco has decided on his party piece, 'Funiculi Funicula.' It's perfect coz everybody knows it so well, even if they don't know all the words. It will be a riot.

Giulia and I have decided to recite a poem each and then straight into La Tarantella. One of the people who work in the villa is Sicilian, and she knows a lot about this dance and is teaching us. The dance has a complicated history dating back to the Greeks, but essentially it is about drinking wine and having sex. Oh, I should also mention that the dance is also a cure for the poisonous bite of the tarantula.

If it's okay with YOU dear Reader, I will finish this chapter now, coz the famous party needs a whole chapter to itself.

End of Chapter Three