Rocco Siffredi? ¦who?

Who you say?
Really!
Are you saying you don't know who he is?
Liar!
Your voice did say 'who?'
But your eyes lit up¦ just enough for me to see and...yes they went woo!
You know who he is¦ of course you do¦ all the good girls do.
Yeah! All the good girls that dream and want to be bad do.
Yep you better believe it darling¦ I'm going to Rocco Siffredi you.

Come here. And listen.
No, don't giggle or wiggle.
I don't want your voice, resistance or participation.
All I want is your passivity, obedience and submission.
And I will do with you, as I will do.

Good!
Now stay standing and turn around.
I'll place my hands on and gently caress your arms and shoulders.
I'm going to softly breath¦whisper his name slowly in your ear.

Roc...co..Sif..fredi Roc...co Sif...fredi.

Ah!
Yes, I thought so, just the sound of his name.
And your neck and chest are a flame.
Or was it my voice, or fingertip touch, gliding up and down your frame,
that sent a thousand ripples of hot-fired blood
carousing through your veins.

I trace a line with an index finger through your silk blouse, pressing down lightly along the vertebrae line of your back, as you arch your head back towards me, a quiver shimmers from the top to the bottom of your spine, and with every breath I whisper his name again and again.

Rocco Siffredi Rocco Siffredi.

Your neck is open and defenceless, so how can I resist? I let loose a thousand butterfly kisses, that fly and then land along the line of your neck nibbling and tickling all the way up to the lobe of your ear. You arch back further and sigh. I then raindrop kiss the lids of your closed eyes.

'Yes, Rocco Siffredi me now, before I melt,' you say. And I have to chide you for knowing who he was all along, and for speaking and breaking the rules of my game.

'Yes,' I say, 'I'll Rocco Siffredi you, when I'm good and ready.' But for now, I want to play more of my game, so don't rush me.

Your blouse is now completely loose from the waist of your hip tight skirt, you're heavy cantaloupe breasts are trying to burst through the buttons and threads. You're already limp and couldn't care less what I do. Ok so you're aroused, so I lift the back of your skirt and ride my groin into and up an down the thin fabric of your sexy black thong, grinding into your rump. Yeah, see your tits aren't the only things straining to be free. And then I growl in a low guttural voice, 'You might well be turned on sweetie, but just look what you're doing to me.'

Now I have to really touch your skin, my right hand slides under your blouse and glides flat palmed over your stomach, just below the undercarriage of your tits and just above your hips. Your tummy concaves in at the electricity of my touch.

You fall back onto me weightless and begin to sigh another dreamy word, and my left index finger has to zip fasten your lips before sliding in and out of your wet mouth. ' No, I told you not a word.' I say.

Yeah, just like bloody Rocco Siffredi.

Rocco Siffredi a six-foot plus Italian stallion. A mean lean fucking, fuckety, fuck fuck machine, moody eyes like a hunting wolf. His manner chauvinistic, blunt, crude and directly to the point. If you're a woman and he wants you, he gets you no messing. Oh I can't believe that women desire the things he wants to do¦but my oh my, it seems they do.

My right hand has gone too far south¦ and oh dear, the combination of pink blouse, tight skirt, black underwear, perfumed hair and your submission has made it all too, too exciting.

If Rocco were here, he wouldn't be in ten per cent of the state I'm in. He'd be calm and fully in control, me, I just want to bend you over, pull that thong to one side, grab your peachy arse with both hands, and ram my baby deep and hard all the way home.

No Rocco would bite, fondle, squeeze, suck, grab, nip, spit, caress, slap, nibble and feast for at least an hour. Then ride you from behind, using your golden mane like a horse's reins¦the filthy Italian beast.

Oh gawd! I'm going to have to bypass all of that! I'll have to do it my way instead.

'Erm¦ do you mind if I skip all the Rocco Sifredi dear? Perhaps just go for a quickie?' I say.

'MMMMMH! I thought you'd never ask,' you say.

'Thank god for that.' I say.

And afterwards I can only offer you a sheepish smile.

'Erm¦sorry I got carried away, and that I'm no way a Rocco Siffredi dear,' I say.

And you just smile a contented sleepy grin and say, 'Rocco Siffredi dear¦ Who on earth is he?'