Silver & Gold

1 • Greenwich Village, New York, Present Day

The letter arrived unexpectedly, early on an Autumn Tuesday in New York City. The postman recorded Henry's signature, seeming to give it more than the usual cursory glance before handing the heavy-weight, heavily sealed parcel over to the twenty-seven year-old, bachelor and post-graduate student before going about his way.

The young man watched the letter carrier as he made his way to the aged, creaky birdcage lift, pulling the door aside before entering and, with the push of a button, slowly descending out of sight and, finally, sound.

And so out of Henry Rosenthal's life, after delivering the letter which would forever change it.

Which missive went unopened until midmorning of the following Sunday. Research, writing, editing and re-editing his thesis, as well as time visiting his advisor at Columbia, where he had studied since his Freshman year, majoring in Anthropology and Archaeology with a minor in Linguistics, following up on the Greek and Latin he'd learned at an exclusive private school.

Of course, his week hadn't been spent entirely on his studies. Henry was attractive in the tall, blonde and blue-eyed way, with a fit, toned swimmer's build and an easy, even cocky confidence that many women found hard to resist.

That he lived alone in a Greenwich loft certainly didn't hurt when it came to bringing dates home, either. Sparsely but tastefully furnished in Arts & Crafts style, hardwood floors laid with silk hand-knotted Tibetan rugs, brick walls hung with framed prints, mostly his own work, either portraits or architectural studies. He'd picked up photography during his Senior year.

Friday night had been spent at the Village's currently trendy cocktail bar The Up & Up in the company of a handful of schoolmates, catching up and pulling girls, mostly co-eds, with the waitresses also being fair game.

Henry hadn't been disappointed, his looks and casual, assertive manner coupling with his stylish attire, favouring as he did casual Italian designers, accented by carefully-chosen shoes and Rolex Submariner watch, having learned that doormen and staff alike checked these things first, serving to attract the flirty attention of a vivacious, more than a little bit over-served Italian tourist who'd gotten separated from her friends and proved amenable, after the usual social dance, to joining him for a pleasantly memorable night.

Henry had worn her out after the initial kissing, caressing and foreplay, first enjoying her talented mouth as she knelt over him in his king-sized bed, finishing by swallowing most of, and wearing the rest of his copious pearls, then fucking her, first from behind, a favourite of his, watching her pert ass bounce with each thrust of his hips as she looked back over her shoulder at him, flushed and lovely, her cum face soon blossoming for him, in time for him to join her, filling her untrimmed little pussy, even spanking her, causing Isabella to squeal as her firm round bottom showed his red handprints.

Not typically one to go that way, Henry had been surprised at how arousing the sight, as well as the dynamic between them then, had been.

Finally he relaxed and lay back as she rode him, his hands on her modest but perky breasts as she threw her head back, moaning heatedly in Italian, of which he understood only a little, just enough to feel quite thoroughly appreciated as they came together and she collapsed, sweaty and glowing, atop him and they slept, arms around her, hands cupping her ass, her face buried in the curve where his shoulder met his neck.

The following Saturday morning had been spent lazing abed with her until they'd shared a shower and dressed before a stroll down the block to a favourite café, where a breakfast of eggs benedict and rich, dark French roast had left them pleasantly sated, and served as an ideal place to part. Numbers and email exchanged, promises to keep in touch...