Chapter 1

My own Monica Bellucci, that was Angelina.

Insanely passionate, with a genius-level IQ; hot-tempered and highly competitive yet also as sweet as could be, she was F. Lee Bailey reincarnated as a dazzling Italian mistress.

She could get away with it. Always a moment-by-moment adventure, she was to emotional stability what Katrina was to New Orleans.

My Monica Bellucci.

Angelina had the same raven hair, which she might wear silky straight and runway model sexy, or maybe she'd leave it loose, wild, and bedroom brazen. She could achieve anything she wanted with that glorious mane.

She had the same hourglass figure, her tiny waist framed by flared, arrogant hips and a delta-shaped torso crowned with just the most incredible breasts.

Christ, those breasts. Fuck. They were stick-a-fork-in-your-forehead perfect. Depending on her mood they could be thirty-six C's or even fuller D's; perfectly pouting, heavy and firm, with lightly tanned and absolutely blemish-free olive skin. Her areolas were inspired works of art, each a perfect symmetry of well-defined two-inch moons; sometimes coral pink, sometimes a deeper brown-tinted rouge ... chocolate-covered cherries. Her nipples were riotous, and so much fun. She always said they had a mind of their own, but the truth is they were just very obedient to their proud owner. There was seemingly no filter between her thoughts and her nipples.

She was in love with her breasts. She loved the notion of onlookers dying over them, and she took the utmost delight in making sure her bare, erect nipples served as her seemingly innocent calling card.

Her lush, heart-shaped ass, with its temptingly deep divide; her dancer's long, lithe legs; her miracle of a pussy - everything flowed together into sexual perfection. From her unadorned slit of a navel all the way to the ever-present golden chain she wore on her slender right ankle, she was spellbinding ... a veritable fuck-goddess come to life.

No matter what she did, regardless of what she wore, once a person could somehow manage to move past her breasts to continue the visual journey down her body, she was pure siren's song cunt. Fragrant browns and pinks, she was delectably smooth from the peak of her taut, tanned ass to her mischievous little pucker, all the way through her succulent flower with its festive, provocatively hooded clit. She kept only a small, neatly trimmed rectangle of pubic hair, well above her perfect slit.

Shaving it off completely just wouldn't do, as that would mitigate the dramatic effect. Traffic lights don't work once they're removed, and by the same principle she knew her pussy couldn't capture the attention of admiring eyes nearly as well without that forbidden visual contrast showing through her sheer panties or flitting in and out of view beneath her tiny skirts.

There was also her moist Cupid's-bow mouth with its enticingly rich, full lips and shining white teeth. Her smile was disarming ... unnerving. A ballerina's arched neck, mysterious in its message, inviting to the eye, and to the touch; the significance of the elegant black silk choker she always wore, a mystery to ponder.

Her voice was smooth and musical, a woman's warm, thick Les Paul blues compared to so many girls' cacophonous metal screeching.

It was always her eyes, though. Her eyes truly set her apart.

Smoky brown windows on her soul, they could burn with fiery intensity and desire, or melt with profound longing and sadness. They were brilliant in their eloquence, without a spoken word. Jesus, the pain in those eyes, and the revelations of joy were heartbreaking. More than anything, it was the sheer power of her eyes. She could do anything, be anything, and all one could do was worship there. The majesty in her gaze was absolute.

When something important needed to be expressed, she spoke with her eyes. There was no running away there, no lame obfuscations, and she trusted me enough to not even bother trying. She allowed her truths to come through her eyes.

It's not as if she really had much of a choice.

See, we literally grew up together, having met at the age of eleven. Though we sampled other people, we were each other's constant companion. We were the other's first goofy experiments partner. We were co-conspirators. We were archenemies. We saw everything, all through the awkward teen years. We did unconscionably stupid things to each other. We knew each other's history and each other's weaknesses; we knew the hot buttons and insecurities. We hurt each other, often fighting like crazy, going totally apeshit, yet we also always stood up for each other.

We were each other's first love, and we fucking earned it. By the time we were into our twenties and finally married, she simply couldn't hide from me ... not if I could see her eyes.

Starting in high school I had a best friend, Steve. Together with Angelina we always hung out, doing most everything as a threesome. Steve had a pulse, so he was crazy in love with Angelina too.

The problem there was the girl he wanted was already taken by his best friend. Though Steve was a good-looking guy - he easily could have passed for Angelina's tall, blue-eyed brother - he was also very shy.

Funny thing, that. Though I was far more athletic and assertive, Steve was actually better-looking. Fortunately for me, Angelina was already my girlfriend by the time I first met him during our freshman year of high school. Because of her, he never really even tried to get together with any other girls. During our senior year he finally managed to land himself a girlfriend, but the fact remained that she just wasn't Angelina.

The interesting twist there was that I knew about Steve's love and lust for Angelina, while she was always in the dark about it. They had great chemistry together, and she loved his company, but he was so shy around her that she was unaware of how deeply he wanted her. For the longest time she was also unaware that I knew how badly Steve wanted her.

Steve simply wasn't the type of guy to come right out and say to me, "Dude, seriously, I'd kill to fuck her!"

No, it was more a case of serious talks late into the night over games of pool or chess or whatever, when he'd let me know in various small ways that he thought she was really pretty, and wished he could find someone like her. Though it was like pulling teeth, he grudgingly admitted that he loved seeing her in her skimpy tops.

Once that cat was finally out of the bag, he became a little more comfortable with letting me know whenever he thought she looked particularly hot in something. It became a bit of a game to us, the anticipation of waiting to see what she would wear next.

Though our group friendship initially blinded Angelina to what was happening right in front of her, she eventually did gather that Steve really enjoyed seeing her in her sexy outfits.

That was about as far as it went with her, however, in terms of understanding his sexual feelings for her. Such a realization had little impact on Angelina because she had long since become accustomed to men of all ages lusting after her.

She didn't realize that it was different with Steve. He got to hang around her most every day, morning, noon and night, affording him endless opportunities to grow ever more obsessed with her. She was his fantasy woman, yet she just thought of him as a cute friend, and my best friend. She loved his attention, and would have done anything in the world for him; still, she had no idea as to the effect she was having on him.

Eventually I had to tell her. We both had to tell her.

Having spent another night out together before returning to the house, we were all watching an old Elvis flick in the living room. Steve said he was fine with crashing on the couch, and we were getting ready to call it an evening. After joking that our couch was probably his favorite spot in the whole world to watch a movie, he gave Angelina a nervous grin and gamely tried to tell her how he felt about her. As it turned out, he was barely able to bring himself to admit to her that he loved the way she dressed. His 'earth-shattering' admission included a final sheepish bit about how he wouldn't mind if she wanted to tuck him into bed a little later. Oh, and if she did decide to come back and tuck him in, could she maybe wear her pink robe, too?

Beaming gorgeously, she gave him a playful punch in the chest, then a long, warm hug. She was wearing low-riding, unbuttoned 501's and a wickedly sexy top. When she leaned over to hug him, her outrageously skimpy, thoroughly threadbare cropped top gaped wide open. I saw the entire bottom third of her bare breasts swaying beneath the shortened hem, and her very erect nipple briefly peeked out through the enormous arm hole on my side.

He easily saw down the front of her top, past her belly button, though I don't think he actually saw her nipples since they were vividly extending into the thin material. He may not have gotten a clear look at her mouthwatering tips, but he sure got a great shot of the rest of her bare breasts, which he acknowledged with a furtive glance my way.