My 1977 Italian Summer
by Paul Darkblue
Copyright© 2026 by Paul Darkblue
True Story Sex Story: Just a little flash from my past. Two weeks in a beautiful Italian summer. My girlfriend, her mother, and what happened to me during those hot days.
Caution: This True Story Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa Teenagers Consensual True Story First Safe Sex .
Author’s Note
This story is quite different from the previous few ones I’ve published here so far.
It’s a true story. My true story. I’ve changed some details and names, of course, but all of this happened to me fifty years ago.
Initially, I wrote this story just for myself, long before starting to publish my stories here on SOL, simply to fix the events that led to me making love to a woman for the first time.
It must be something that happens as we get older: we can easily forget what we ate yesterday, yet we can still clearly remember events and situations from our younger years.
The first version was shorter, just the events for me. While reviewing it for publication here on SOL, I added a few notes for non-Italian readers regarding Italian family laws and customs in the 1970s. I think this will help readers understand details and place the story in its proper historical and social context.
These notes are in italics throughout the text and can be ignored while reading.
I was sixteen at the time, as was my girlfriend. Everything that happened was consensual, but everyone who objects to sexual content involving teenage people should skip this story.
Feedback is always appreciated.
It was the beginning of the summer of 1977. I had turned sixteen a couple of months earlier and had just finished my first year of Liceo Scientifico.
Liceo Scientifico and Liceo Classico were, and still are, Italian high schools for students whose primary goal is to attend university after graduation. The alternative track was (and is) to attend an Istituto Tecnico or Istituto Professionale, where students could earn a high school diploma with a specific specialisation (such as construction, mechanics, chemistry, economics, or computer science) and enter the workforce directly.
Around the middle of June, my grandmother died of heart disease. Born in the 19th century, she was 81 at the time and had been married twice.
Her first husband died between WWI and WWII, leaving her with two children. Later, she married my grandfather and had three more surviving children: two sons, one of whom is my father, and one daughter.
She was dearly loved, and the whole family gathered for her funeral. Even my eldest half-uncle, whom I hadn’t seen for years, came from Liguria, the scenic region in north-western Italy, where he was running a family-owned hotel in a small coastal tourist town.
He stayed with us for a few days after the funeral so we could spend some time together to catch up before he returned to his town.
At the time, I was looking for a summer job, as I was eager to earn some money of my own during the long three months of the Italian school holiday (In Italy back then, lessons would start on October 1st and would end at the beginning of June the next year. Nowadays, the lessons start a bit earlier, around mid-September, while the end is quite the same).
You know, my family belonged to the working class, so there wasn’t much money around. Only my father had a job at the National Electricity Company, while my mother was the classic Italian housewife, and there were three of us siblings. I am the eldest. My parents wanted to give us the best possible future, allowing us to study and achieve our goals based on our talents. Eventually, all three of us had the chance to attend university, graduate, and build good professional careers. (This was also thanks to the fact that in Italy, university was public and virtually free, with minimal fees to attend and earn a degree).
Still, in our family, money was tight, so a summer job would help.
While we were talking during a family lunch, I mentioned my plans for the summer, and my uncle said he could hire me for a couple of months at his hotel. He was looking for a junior bartender to split shifts with him and the professional bartender during the crowded high season.
My parents agreed to this, even though they were a little worried about letting me go 500 km away from home. Knowing that I would be staying at my uncle’s hotel and under his watch reassured and comforted them.
So, towards the end of June, I left home to start my summer job and my first summer away from my family, hoping to have some fun as well.
When we arrived at my uncle’s hotel, I greeted my aunt and my cousin. I hadn’t seen them for a long time, and I suppose they were quite surprised by how much I’d grown since the last time we met.
At sixteen, I was fully grown. I used to play different sports: mostly football (soccer, for American readers), swimming, and athletics. I was (and still am) five-foot-eleven, with broad shoulders, narrow hips (well, at sixty-five now, my hips aren’t quite so narrow), and the beginnings of a moustache and facial hair that I shaved every other week. Many people assumed I was closer to twenty than sixteen.
My aunt was in her mid-fifties, a little on the chubby side. The passage of time was leaving its mark on her, but she was a lovely redheaded woman, always smiling and joking around, and a fantastic cook. Everyone was happy around her.
My cousin was in her mid-twenties, five-foot-three, a redhead taking after her mother, skinny, with a good C-cup, and a toned bottom.
She was the single mother of a five-year-old child, after her boyfriend dumped her as soon as she became pregnant. She lived with her parents and ran a small gift shop in the town centre near the hotel.
Times were not easy for a single mother back then, even for one who was still young and beautiful.
In Italy, there was still a heavy social stigma surrounding single mothers. Divorce had been introduced into Italian law only three years before my stay, following the historic 1974 referendum that confirmed the legalisation enacted in 1970. Abortion rights would be approved the year after my stay, in 1978, followed by three more years of intense political struggle before being upheld in another national referendum in 1981. The fiercest opponent of both divorce and abortion was, of course, the Roman Catholic Church.
Another infamous law, the ‘matrimonio riparatore’ (rehabilitative marriage), was also abolished in 1981. Enacted during the Fascist era, this law allowed a man guilty of rape to have his criminal record entirely cleared simply by marrying his victim. It was a brave young Sicilian woman, Franca Viola, who changed history in 1965 by defying societal expectations and standing up to her own family to refuse to marry the man who had kidnapped and raped her, leading to his criminal conviction. Even so, it took another sixteen years for Italian lawmakers to finally cancel that outrageous law.
I grew close to my cousin during those two months, and maybe I’ll write more about it in a future story.
My aunt and uncle also had a son, but my other cousin was already married and lived far from his family’s hometown with his wife and children.
My job consisted of a seven-and-a-half-hour shift, six days a week, starting at 7:00 AM for the hotel guests’ breakfast and ending at 2:30 PM after lunch. During the morning shift, it mostly involved serving coffee, cappuccinos, soft drinks, and fruit juices to the children, as well as clearing and cleaning tables, cups, glasses, and cutlery. When my shift ended, I had the entire afternoon and evening free. Monday was my day off.
Now, how do you think a young boy, far from his parents’ eyes, with the whole afternoon ahead of him and cash in his pocket, would spend his time in a charming seaside town? Exactly! At the beach, hanging out, making new friends, and chatting up girls.
After a few days, I had already made a group of friends, both boys and girls, all about my age. Most of them were on holiday, so there was a constant turnover. Every week (usually on Saturdays), new faces would show up on the beach while others headed home.
I met my best mate for that summer, Valerio, who lived in the town. He was two years my senior and had just turned eighteen. During the summer, he helped his father at their garage in the morning. I met him on one of my first days at the beach. We shared many common interests, starting with supporting the same football team, as well as a passion for sports and girls, and we hit it off straight away.
At the end of my second week, around the middle of July, an interesting new arrival showed up at the beach: two young sisters, about our age, and their parents. They arrived on Saturday afternoon, a typical holidaying family, but the girls were real stunners, so after a couple of hours, Valerio and I went over to introduce ourselves.
Their names were Isabella, the elder, and Angela, the younger. Isabella was a year older than me, while Angela was my age, just a couple of months younger. Both had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and very pretty faces, looking more Nordic than Mediterranean.
Isabella had a magnificent, fully formed figure. Standing around five-foot-five with a C-cup, a perfectly rounded arse, and long, toned legs, she told us she also did a lot of sport, especially swimming. Her sister Angela was a bit slimmer and shorter, around five-foot-three. Her breasts looked to be barely a B-cup, and she had a narrow waist, but her bottom and legs were perfectly proportioned and just as stunning as her sister’s. She wasn’t much into sports, but she had been doing classical ballet for nearly ten years.
You know, unlike most men, I’ve got a bit of a preference for smaller breasts over larger ones. I don’t mean flat-chested; I just think a B-cup is the sweet spot, even better if it’s a champagne-cup shape.
B-cup breasts don’t always require a bra, look great in any outfit, and, to my mind, appear elegant and graceful.
Just to say, when it comes to famous top models, I’m more into Kendall Jenner’s size than Gigi Hadid’s, if you know what I mean. Mind you, that doesn’t mean if I ever had the chance to spend a night with Gigi Hadid, I’d turn her down over her chest size...
Anyway, that’s one of the reasons I took a liking to Angela straight away, but I’ll stop digressing.
Getting back to the story, we boys introduced ourselves to their parents (which was the proper thing to do back then); their names were Clara and Giorgio Rossi. We always addressed them as Mr and Mrs Rossi.
I need to provide some context here about Italian swimwear fashion in the mid-seventies.
At that time in Italy, women’s swimsuits were quite conservative. Mothers usually wore one-piece swimming costumes that almost completely covered the cleavage and bottom. Bikinis were popular, especially among younger or single women, but they, too, were mostly modest; the bottoms were high-waisted and provided full coverage, as did the tops, leaving little skin exposed. Compared to a one-piece, a bikini exposed only a bit more of the belly and back to the sun.
At the time, swimming trunks or board shorts weren’t an option for men either. Boys and men always wore tight-fitting elastic Speedos or swim briefs, usually in solid colours.
As for our new friends, they always wore stylish yet modest bikinis, slightly smaller than those worn by older women, but still nothing too revealing.
As we all realised, starting the following Monday, the real stunner was the mother. I reckon Mrs Rossi was in her early forties (I never did find out her exact age). Standing around five-foot-four, just in the middle between her two daughters, she had short blonde hair and breasts that were perhaps a little fuller than a C-cup. She had soft curves, a fantastic, firm bottom, and remarkably toned legs with barely any sign of cellulite. For a mother of two in her forties back then, she was really something.
Her husband had gone back to work in their home city, and that Monday, after wearing conservative one-piece costumes over the weekend, she showed up at the beach in a red bikini far more revealing than those worn by the other women.
Well, it was nothing like the skimpy Brazilian or G-string bikinis you see on beaches nowadays, but the bottoms were higher-cut and lower-waisted than ordinary. The top consisted of two fabric triangles joined at the front, secured by a thin strap tied behind her back, with another thin strap around her neck. It was quite a sight!
The fabric was also slightly thinner than usual, allowing her nipples to poke through from time to time, especially after a swim.
Until then, I had only ever seen bikinis like that in magazines, worn by famous models and actresses, and, like every healthy teenager, I’d jerked off to them. They were designed for more glamorous resort beaches, such as Saint-Tropez or Cannes on the Côte d’Azur, or the Costa Smeralda in Sardinia, but they were definitely uncommon on ordinary family beaches in Italy. Things changed quickly a few years later, but in 1977, seeing something like that was a total head-turner.
For a young teenager back then, getting hands on pornography was very difficult. Just know that the famous, costume-changing porn movie “Deep Throat” was released in Italy in 1979. Then, starting in the early 80s, new adult “red light” cinemas grew everywhere in the suburbs of Italian cities, playing pornographic movies all day long. A few years later, the VHS rental market emerged, followed by the DVD market. Eventually, the Internet came on personal computers and phones. Nowadays “red light” cinemas have almost completely disappeared.
So, back then in the mid-70s, for the ones of us looking older and brave enough to try buying something in kiosks and for those of us who had an older brother, the source for an healthy jerking off, were softcore magazines, like Playboy and Penthouse, or some more hardcore and in Italy illegal ones, usually coming from Northern Europe (I remember a Swedish magazine named in Italy “Caballero” where I saw for the first time, at fourteen, vivid real pictures of a cock fucking a pussy and of a woman with a cock in her mouth). When that sort of magazine wasn’t at hand, fashion and gossip magazines were a surrogate, allowing us to jerk off to models and celebrities in their lingerie or swimsuits. The last resource was just our mind and imagination.
Back to my story, every man and boy on the beach noticed her new outfit. The wives noticed her too, though mostly out of jealousy and female competition. The married men had to pretend to be oblivious to the sight; the single men were constantly trying to chat her up, making comments or catcalling as she walked past, offering to buy her drinks at the beach bar, and doing all the usual things men do when trying to get into a woman’s knickers.
As far as I could tell, she always ignored those blokes and never flirted back. She just stayed there on the beach, sunbathing in her bikini, occasionally swimming in the clear water, reading her books and newspapers, chatting warmly with nearby women and families, and keeping an eye on her daughters.
I found out that the Rossi family had rented a small two-bedroom holiday flat in a building near my uncle’s hotel, which was right on my way to the beach. Before long, I got into the habit of stopping by for them in the afternoon, ringing their doorbell and waiting outside so we could walk down to the beach together.
The first week passed quickly. I spent my time hanging out with Valerio, Isabella, Angela, and the other teenagers on the beach.
Sometimes Valerio and I would spend time alone with the sisters under their beach umbrella, playing cards or just making small talk. Angela and I began to flirt; it was clear she liked me, and I felt the same way about her. The same spark was developing between Valerio and Isabella.
Towards the end of the week, the four of us started keeping more to ourselves as a group. We spent more time together, including in the evenings, hanging out at the beach bar for an ice cream, the arcade, or just strolling along the promenade.
Still, nothing significant happened between us during that first week.
Over the weekend, Mr Rossi rejoined his family. Mrs Rossi switched back to her more conservative swimming costumes, and the weekend slipped by quickly.
On the second and final Monday of their holiday, I asked Angela out on a date. She accepted with a broad smile, and Valerio made the same move with Isabella.
When the evening arrived, after spending some time at a bar together, the four of us headed down to the beach, which was mostly deserted and dimly lit only by the streetlamps along the promenade. The two couples split up; I led Angela to a nice spot facing the nighttime sea.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, gently turned her face towards mine, and began to kiss her. She was ready and immediately kissed me back, our tongues exploring each other’s mouths. After a while, I moved down to kiss her neck, pulling her top down over her shoulders to kiss her bare skin. I felt her body shiver as she pressed herself tightly against me. I cupped her breasts through her top and bra, giving them a gentle squeeze, and could feel her melting in my arms, her breathing growing heavier.
We kissed and played for a few minutes, and I was just getting ready to take things further when Isabella, walking hand in hand with Valerio, called out to her sister, “Angela, it’s late; we have to go home, or Mum will ground us!”
The girls had a strict curfew and needed to be back by eleven o’clock.
We walked the sisters back to their flat. When we were close to the front door, I kissed Angela again, a long, passionate kiss. She wrapped her arms around my neck, while I placed my hands on her firm little arse, softly squeezing it. Our tongues met with real passion. Just as we were making out, we overheard Mrs Rossi’s voice and immediately broke apart, both of us blushing.
She was sitting outside the building with a couple of other women, likely cooling off in the mild evening breeze after a hot July afternoon, chatting and waiting for her daughters.
If she had noticed our intense kiss, she let it go, though I could swear I saw a subtle smile on her face when she greeted Valerio and me. I said goodnight to the girls and Mrs Rossi before heading back to my room at my uncle’s hotel. A very long session of jerking off was waiting for me, thinking of Angela and her body, and all the naughty things I was dreaming of doing with her.
Something changed the next day, Tuesday. In the afternoon, I headed down to the beach with the family as usual. Valerio and I were eager to spend as much time as possible with our new girlfriends, but their mother had other ideas. She insisted on playing cards with us, joining in our conversation, and asking Valerio and me for more details about our lives. She sat cross-legged near us, leaving her bikini-clad crotch in full view. She laughed at our jokes and almost seemed to be flirting with us.
I could tell the girls weren’t particularly pleased with this shift in their mother’s attitude, but for us boys, it was quite entertaining. At the first opportunity, Angela pulled me behind a sand dune and kissed me passionately. She did the same during our games in the sea when her mother wasn’t looking.
At the end of the afternoon, the girls told us they had a get-together with some family friends from back home, so they wouldn’t be coming out that evening.
The girls were far from thrilled about this gathering; there was nobody their age in attendance, as most attendees were younger children, which made it feel dull. However, it was something of an annual tradition, and it would have been considered rude for them not to attend.
Valerio and I hung out together instead, chatting endlessly about our progress with the girls and what we had planned for the days ahead.
Wednesday at the beach was, if possible, even more interesting.
Mrs Rossi usually sunbathed her back by lying face down on her towel and untying her bikini straps. Up until that day, she had been very careful to hold her top in place whenever she sat up, and she always made sure to tie the straps back up before turning over or standing.
That day, Valerio and I were playing cards with the girls. We were sitting close to Mrs Rossi, who was sunbathing facing us. The sisters were also sitting opposite us, with their backs to their mother.
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