I step off the tender and stride towards the black van. My guest and my new computer are waiting inside. The windows are tinted, so I can’t see who’s inside. I nod to the driver, who opens the van door, and there she is, Ninfetta. The girl hops out gracefully, gives me a quick look, and jumps on me: ” Hey, you are not so old! You are young! “. She continues, kissing me: “you are pretty!“. And she covers me with kisses.
Me: “Pretty?! Just Pretty? I am gorgeous! ” I reply, kissing her. I continue: “You had very low expectations if you say so“.
“No, it’s the first time I’m with an older man, I didn’t know what to expect“. She’s 19, the oldest man she’s been with was 30. I’m pushing 44.
“What the hell,” I think. Surely, a brave girl to fly 1,500 km just to meet a guy who might be too old for her.
I’ll find out later that she also suffers from occasional panic attacks: fascinating how she still manages to push herself beyond her comfort zone, refusing to let her condition hold her back.
I watch her closely:
Nymphette has an incredibly fair complexion with a rosy undertone, delicate features capable of making one fall in love instantly. With a Greek father and a Ukrainian mother, plus a quarter Italian from her paternal grandmother, she embodies the finest blend of Western civilization in a sweet and bewitching appearance.
Imagine a sea of golden honey, whose shimmering reflections invite you to dive in: you already know you’ll drown, sinking into this syrup that fills your mouth and steals your breath… and yet you decide to dive in anyway.
That’s what she is.
What makes Nymphette irresistible are her eyes: a pure distillation of youth, innocence, tenderness, and love. Their color is unique—like Maldivian waters merging with a uniform grey sky, streaked with golden-honey reflections.
“No, not another honey-eyed girl,” I think!
She’s a young girl, 19 as we said, whose skin expresses all the youth and naivety of that age. A lip filler adds a note of sensuality to this 100% natural picture, a touch of seductress that further amplifies the power of this irresistible mix. On her left arm, the tattoo of a fierce animal, in the center the word “ART” and to the right, in red, a phrase about divine feminine energy.
The spider has woven its web: 20 seconds have passed since the first glance and I’m already lost and trapped. My dick strikes noon like the statues of Dina and Clarenza in the cathedral of Messina.
I’m already in love. Lella will cynically comment later: “Wow, you broke the 5-minute record🤭”.
Interesting story: she had a comfortable life in Ukraine until the war broke out. From there, the family splits: she, her sister, and mother can leave the country as women. The father manages to leave thanks to his Greek passport. The brother, however, cannot, he’s still there on the front lines, in the most dangerous area (near Donbass). All her male friends stayed in Ukraine. They live in Kyiv: many enlisted, others risk being drafted at the first opportunity. She tells me that a friend of hers from Kyiv went grocery shopping, was stopped by the gendarmes, and sent straight to Donbass.
The war splits the family not only physically but also emotionally: the father is pro-Russian, the mother is Ukrainian and… they can only separate. She lives with her mother in Germany, the father returns to Greece. Only now, after many years of war, does it seem they are trying to reunite.
I belong to the generation born in the ’80s that lived most of their life without contact with war. For this girl, who lived a few kilometers from me, war is drama. For her brother, it’s the possibility of dying every day.
Okay, back to the important stuff, the juicy bits.
It’s been 20 days since I last had sex: in the past five years, I haven’t gone this long without. On the boat, her presence ignites me. Youth is an intoxicating aphrodisiac. She’s very physical, just like me. We spend all our time in constant contact: Ninfetta holds my hand, I caress her thighs, she rests her head on my shoulder, I kiss her forehead. We’re with other people, so we try to hold back, but the contact is continuous. She’s very, very affectionate: something I wouldn’t have expected from someone I just met. Every now and then I reach out, being careful not to be seen by others, but I keep a low profile given her young age. While waiting for dinner, we go up to the flybridge, the roof of the catamaran where the boat is steered. I wrap my hand around her neck – yes, she had confessed she likes being choked – I kiss her, slowly slide my fingers into her panties. She’s wet, I tease, play, then pull back and continue the conversation.
We have dinner and at the first chance, we say goodnight to everyone. It’s 9:00 PM, never said goodnight so early but… I’m too eager to have sex with her.
I take her down to the cabin, quick shower, and here we are naked on the bed.
She’s very young, I reassure her: “it’s the first night we’re together, we need to get to know each other, let’s just spend some time cuddling and if something happens, great, if not, oh wellDuring the day I told her several times that my goal is for her to feel good, that she can tell me anything, and that she should never be afraid of disappointing me.
PiccoLina, the other very young girl I’m seeing, has told me some awful things about how many men over forty (even in their fifties) often treat girls like her. Under the excuse of “inexperience,” of “you need to learn,” they handle them with a kind of violence I deeply dislike. Like that fifty-year-old bastard who, while penetrating PiccoLina for the first time, ignored her cries of pain and her plea to stop, and instead began slapping her, saying: “This way you won’t feel the pain down there, but on your face.” How disgusting! If it’s true that every intimate moment is a moment of responsibility, with a very young girl it is even more so. I try to show them how a real man should behave and often afterwards I explain what they should expect when they’re with a man. They’re puppies.
Alright, after this public service announcement on the social function of my romps, let’s get back to us.
I gently lay her on the bed, pull off her panties, look into her eyes: never seen anything more tender and sweet. I spend about ten minutes next to her, talking to her, licking her breasts, making her feel as comfortable as possible. Finally, I get on top of her, kiss her, slowly move down her stomach. I skirt the navel, pass – like a new Magellan – the mound of Venus and get a few centimeters from the clitoris… then I move to the left, moving away along the inner thigh. I descend again, almost reaching the clitoris… I hover over it, brushing it only with my breath, land next to it, and move away along the inner thigh of the other leg. Finally, I descend, reach the clitoris. I look into her eyes: “Old, you said?”… wicked smile and I start licking and sucking her.
She shudders, flinches, jumps.
She vibrates, trembles, spasms.
She writhes, surrenders, contorts.
She struggles, wiggles, radiates.
She falls apart, gets disheveled, boils.
She gets excited, inflamed, galvanized.
She arrives, comes, finally enjoys.
Between one adverb and another, my gaze peeks out politely inquiring about the absence of pain or discomfort… and I get as the only response her hands pushing me down to lick, suck, and denettarize.
It seems, and I say this with the improbable but real modesty of a character from the book Cuore, that I am an excellent licker. It always amazes me: I have very little practice, I never lick anyone except under 23-year-olds and a few exceptions.
My ex-wife sometimes said “you’re only good at making a mess“. Was it an unappreciated compliment?
Alright, now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to please my August Augello, strictly condomized.
Let’s skip the sexual descriptions, as some itchy over-30 reader accuses me of low-grade erotica, a poor man’s Mr. Gray.
I’ll just tell you, my dear friends, that nothing is more beautiful than looking into her eyes while I penetrate her. Her sweet little face radiates genuine purity, expressing that sublime that every artist seeks to recreate.
After 50 minutes, she begs for a break.
“eh eh, who’s the old man now?”
She apologizes, says that with her ex in his thirties they did it at most a couple of times a week and with a tenth of the intensity.
Okay, I grant her mercy.
I cuddle her gently until she falls asleep. She stays constantly in contact with me: legs crossed, face resting on my chest.
I really want to sleep.
But I can’t.
I haven’t come.
Her marble-like ass calls me.
I behave.
I resist.
I remember I have to behave.
I re-resist.
Finally, after two hours, I wake her up.
And so I do it again after two hours.
The next day she complains “hey, we said 4 times a day max”.
I look at her, smile, and my smiling gaze turns to infinity, like one of those old men who admire construction sites with satisfaction.
The Old Man had his revenge!
Cold reflections.
What I love about Ninfetta is her sweetness, her innocence, her sweetness. Today is the first day without her, and I miss her cuddles, her firm butt, and that sincere, passionate gaze.
I generally don’t have a special connection with Ukrainian women. As you saw in the Cicisbeo story, I find their view on male/female relationships a bit outdated, where the man provides everything and the woman focuses solely on being beautiful and taking care of the home and family. But with Ninfetta, I clicked right away. Unlike other Ukrainian girls, Ninfetta doesn’t want to rely on a man for her future. She wants to bring home the bacon herself, without being any man’s slave. Her dream is to open her own aesthetic medicine clinic within 5 years of graduating. To pursue it, she’ll study with the best doctors, moving to another country. I like that she’s ambitious. One of the reasons she wanted to meet me is because… she wants business advice. Basically, she’s looking for a mentor who can give her the right tips at the right time.
These are the things that make an old, romantic, maniac like me shine!
