Roman Holidays, Part 2

 

Later that day, they went to a restaurant. It was one tucked down a side street, the kind of place that didn't have a menu in English and didn't want one. Gianna had found it on her phone, scrolling through some influencer app with a practiced thumb, and now she sat across from Max. 

Gianna had to change her pants after she dropped half of her gelato on them. The sight of her licking her cone was one that sent Max to a spiral of arousal and guilt. Before dinner she also took a sweater with her, but if the idea was to use it to hide a bit her curves it failed miserably. Her breasts rested on the table like they had a right to be there, two perfect curves that menaced to pop out of their place whenever she shifted in her seat.

"Allora," Gianna said, leaning back and caressing her long and luscious hair, a far cry from her previously balding head. She said that untranslatable Italian filler that meant so, well, let's see without a hint of accent, like she has been saying all her life. "I've been thinking."

"About?"

"About whether I should cut my hair. Short, you know? Like alla maschietta." She made a scissoring motion near her chin. "Every girl in Milan has it. Very chic."

"This is what's bothering you?" an exasperated Max reacted to her remark "A magical pizza slice transformed you into a big-titted girl and you're thinking about hairstyle?"

Gianna's smile flickered, just for a moment. She looked down at her body.

"Honestly?" she said, quieter now. "I don't know. I should be freaking out. Some part of me is freaking out, like, deep down. But every time I try to really think about it, my brain just...slides off it. Like it's too big to hold onto."

She looked up at him, and for a second her eyes were raw, vulnerable. Then she laughed, shaking it off. She cupped her own breasts, bouncing them slightly, and a man at the next table nearly choked on his risotto. 

"Surely bigger than holding onto my tits. I'm going to live in the moment, Max. What else can I do? Cry about it?"

"I guess not."

"Esattamente." 

They ate in relative silence for a few minutes, relative, because Gianna hummed happily with every bite, little murmurs of "Mmm, che buono" that seemed to delight the waiter every time he passed. She was swirling the pasta like she has been doing that her whole life, like any other Italian in the restaurant. Max focused on his carbonara and tried very hard not to notice her pouty lips when she sucked in the spaghetti.

Then she giggled, a sound so light and feminine that Max still couldn't reconcile it with the man who used to clear his throat before making Dad Jokes at Thanksgiving. 

"Guarda," she whispered, trying to not look directly at him or in the room. "Table by the window. Three men. They haven't looked away from my tette since we sat down."

Max didn't look. He didn't need to. "Maybe they're just enjoying the ambiance."

"Oh, tesoro." Gianna laughed, throwing her head back, and the sound drew every eye in the room. She patted his hand across the table. "You're so sweet. No, they're staring at my tits. And you know what? I don't even blame them. Look at these things." She gestured down at her own chest, her palms hovering just above the fabric. "They're magnifiche. I'd stare too."

Then Gianna set down her fork and declared: "I need to pee." 

She dabbed her lips with her napkin, then made a face. "You know, if there's one thing that always make me dreadful it's that. I never appreciated how easy it was before. Stand up, aim, shake it off, done. Now? Every time it's a whole produzione. Sit down, wipe, make sure everything's... you know." She gestured vaguely downward. "Dry. It's exhausting. And don't even get me started on aiming. There's no aiming. It's just... chaos."

Max nearly inhaled his wine. "Dad."

"Gianna."

"Whatever. That is way too much information."

"Why? I'm still your dad." She crossed her arms under her breasts, which only made them more pronounced, and gave him a look that was pure Jack Romano, stubborn, unimpressed, and faintly amused. "I changed your diapers, Max. I taught you how to shave. I can tell you about my pussy if I want to."

"Oh my God."

"Oh my God," she mimicked, pitching her voice higher. "Mio Dio, my dad said the word pussy. Grow up." She stood up from their table, smoothing her top down. "I'm going to the bathroom. Order me another glass of wine. The white one, not the red. Red stains my lips and makes me look like a vampira."

She strutted off toward the back of the restaurant, hips swaying, and every man at the bar turned to watch her go. Max buried his face in his hands and wondered if there was enough wine in Rome to get him through this. 

To be concluded

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The idea for this story was given to me by gmbcw on Deviantart. Follow me there too!