The crowning glory of the small chapel that could hold eighty souls before bursting was a stained glass window, created by Emperor Lothair’s own glassmaker for this little chapel at Abbot Agostino’s bidding, in exchange for Masses said for the glassmaker’s late mother. A portrait of the Blessed Mother, holding the Infant Jesus in her arms, glowing in the light. Four small children were playing in one corner: a reprimand from their mother dampened their glee. Niccólo was a dark haired man in his mid forties wearing a ragged alb, chausible and stole over his peasant shirt and trousers, his son Boetio was dressed likewise and younger son Silvestro, wearing only an alb, held the missal ready to begin the Mass. Abbot Agostino took his place, and the twenty year old Boetio, a mirror of his father, began: ‘In nomine Patris, et Filiis, et Spiritui Sanctis. . .’ Niccólo’s wife and her spinster sister were thick, heavy set women, their short hair contained in their headscarves, their plain,. Your mouth is still at my neck. Your teeth nip at my skin. Your fingers are fiddling round my crotch. I realise you have found my jeans zip. You wouldn’t, would you? You would. I realise you have slowly pulled down the zip. I whisper your name, fearful yet not wanting you to stop. Your hand pressed against the opening, fingers slip inside, now sliding against the thin silky covering of my little cotton panties. You can feel every detail of my plump little mound, stroking it gently. Moulding it, squeezing it. I feel a tingling in my pussy; know I must be getting wet down there. Your finger finds the firm little core of my clitoris nestling in its protective folds of pink flesh, rubbing and rotating against the delicate button. Your fingers grip the front of my panties and pull the material tight. Oh god. I feel the thin strip round my crotch begin to stretch and squeeze hard against me. You pull tighter, and the material slips between my moist labia into my slit. I gasp sharply.
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