Carnem Levare

by Jaxx Summers

  Carnem Levare

  By Jaxx Summers

  Cultural Cocktails

  COPYRIGHT NOTE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permission Request,” at the address below.

  Jaxx.summers@aol.com

  © Jaxx Summers (Janice G. Ross) October 2014

  Published by Cultural Cocktails

  Smashwords Edition

  Editing and Formatting by

  Karen Perkins of LionheART Publishing House

  Cover Design by Chic Lioness

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are strictly the product of the author or used fictitiously. Any similarities between actual persons, living or dead, events, setting or locations are entirely coincidental.

  Books by the Author:

  Janice G. Ross for urban and cultural reads:

  Damaged Girls I, II & III

  Island Hopping Series (Books 1 & 2): Jumping Ship & Trinidad & Tobago

  Loving Nate

  Jezebel Jones, A Love Story

  Just Between Us – Short Story Anthology (Love Letter to Jahdai)

  Jaxx Summers for paranormal lovers:

  Samaria (Books 1 & 2): Warrior Princess & Vampire Queen

  Mysticism & Myths Collection (Carnem Levare)

  Carnem Levare is the Latin term signifying the start of the pre-Lenten celebration. In essence it means to remove the meat. This term came to be known as carnival: a celebration, a feast, a recognition of cultural differences, and a time to lose one’s self.

  Late Eighteenth Century Venice (Pre-Revolution)

  Stefano Bonaro awoke floating face down in a hidden canal. The alley appeared to be closing in on him. He gasped, swallowing a mouthful of fluid. His nostrils filled. He jolted and flipped over onto his back. Looking up, he could see a distant sparkle, letting him know that night was dipping away. The stars clung on, in hopes of providing a touch of added pleasure, Stefano reasoned. He couldn’t understand how he’d ended up this way and in this location.

  Luckily, he’d learned to swim at an early age, so he propelled around the marble foundation of a palatial structure. At first he felt lost in the once lonely lagoon but, as the edges of the waterfront came into view, Stefano relaxed. Arriving at the steps of the dock, he quickly took to dry land rung by rung. Once settled on the planks, he rummaged through his mind. He remembered drifting along with Anastasia; an argument. Or rather, emotional pain and her speaking in calm phrases. He pictured the detached manner of her rejection.

  Rejection!

  And then it all came back . . .

  Stefano dove back into the water, swimming far out into the Grand Canal and searching for anything that would confirm his thoughts. He sought to debunk what his mind confided. Tears clashed with his surroundings. He dove under, plunging further into the abyss. Forcing his legs to flash fiercer, tearing through the heavy fluids.

  “Anastasia,” he gurgled. He was barely able to make out trash that had been thrown against the sea floor, and his frustration at this unproductive search increased.

  By the time he returned to ground, he panted in exasperation. And dangled his legs from the edge of the pier, slowly manipulating the waves. He studied his limbs—the watered-down slacks that clung to muscular legs and long fingers that were pale and colorless. A dingy white shirt threatened to smother him entirely, so he loosened the top two buttons and collar. His mind raced as he considered the inward flow from the Adriatic Sea in relation to its exit. In search of true love, Stefano would brave the entire roundabout—even out to the massive entrance. He pondered its strength with slight fear. Common sense forced him to finally step onto the main road.

  As his countrymen walked along the paving, they did not take even a moment to acknowledge him. Stefano was distraught. He buried his face in his palms. His weeping was loud, yet no one comforted him. They went about their lives, oblivious to Stefano’s pain. His fingers rested at his forehead before running through the full length of his copper-brushed, curly brown coils. For one so appealing to study, his strong square jaw might as well have been caved in, since heartache so tragically robbed Stefano’s joy.

  He forced himself to stand tall, pacing slowly around. His feet shuffled. The sun was now blazing into his face. Of the few people around, Stefano was the only one not in a hurry. He turned in the direction of home, nearly being overrun by another man that was several inches taller. And as Stefano sidestepped, another overtook him. Preparing to withstand the effect, the second man passed right through him.

  Stefano was now frozen in the middle of the path. He no longer tried to dodge his peers. Instead, he allowed them all to overtake him. He coughed and spun around. For whatever reason, Stefano was no longer a part of their realm. He had lost Anastasia and at the same time, it seemed, his humanity.

  *****

  A Year Earlier

  “Stefano, I promise to love you with my very last breath,” Anastasia declared.

  They were hiding behind a set of freshly primed shrubbery. The docking area for the Soranzo home was built with lightly colored stones that were a perfect complement to thick layers of marble flooring. Water would dash against and onto the entrance. But it was ever silent and peaceful now. At times, the cinnamon-shaded gondola would brush against the concrete, though it was the seductive whistles of the breezes rushing the waves that soothed the soul.

  A leaf clung to Anastasia’s loose bun, and Stefano considered it to be the perfect opportunity to reach up and remove it. In the process, he took full advantage in trailing the back of his right hand along her lengthy lashes, powdered cheeks, perky lips and the exposure of her breasts. She shivered, but clearly fought to remain still. Stefano wanted a reaction. He needed to know that he was capable of making her lose control because, in her presence, he was irrevocably lost.

  Rather than withdraw his hand from her milky tones, he allowed it to settle between her peaks. For a moment, his eyes withdrew from their course, seeking approval from her gaze.

  His lover was smitten.

  As she sat in peaceful lust, the heaving of her pale bosoms continued to deepen. Stefano’s own chest begun pounding. His lips were suddenly dry and in need of moisture. His tongue traced along the edges, while he palmed the astonishing growth of her womanly figure. She was perfectly packaged, waiting to be unwrapped someday. Stefano envisioned that day, hoping in its fruition.

  “Anastasia, I promise to love you . . .” His tone increased. He grew nervous, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Forever Anastasia, forever. My love, I need you.”

  In all his nineteen years, Stefano had never taken a woman. He was promised to Anastasia and she to him, and so they waited to be husband and wife.

  “Must we wait forever?” Anastasia asked, peering from beneath fluttering lashes. “Stefano, you were mine before birth. I don’t need a vow to prove what is meant to be.” Their families’ bond had been solidified when their mothers, lifelong friends, had become pregnant and given birth on the same day.

  And so this day Stefano and Anastasia decided to no longer wait for family and religion to dictate what they already knew to be inevitable. Anastasia’s home was empty, save for a few servants. She dismissed their presence. Her parents had gone off to attend hours of revelries in preparation for the festivities.

  Stefano had been inside of the Soranzo hom
e many times. There was very little that he had not seen, especially since their families were engrained in each other’s lives. But today, he would venture beyond his unspoken limits.

  As they moved amongst the treasures of gold fixtures and dusty rose furnishings, he dare not stop to admire. He had done so many times before. While they climbed upwards from the lower levels, his breathing sped up and heart pounded. Today, images and shades became mere distractions on his path to manhood. Anastasia’s gown was slightly raised, revealing the backs of gleaming white shoes. Stefano advanced as she did, becoming entranced with her scurrying.

  Once they were inside Anastasia’s elaborate burnt orange room, Stefano secured the lock. His lover stood only two feet from his position. She extended her arms, giving him permission to advance. He didn’t hesitate.

  Since the time they’d been out in daylight, Stefano had wondered what it would feel like to bury his head inside Anastasia’s mountains. He dipped down to find out, first releasing unwavering kisses upon her neck. Wasting no time, he speedily freed a single breast from its restraint. He gasped at its fullness. Anastasia advanced backwards. Reaching the simplistic cradle of her nightly dreams, she spun around, encouraging him to loosen her reins.

  He panted after reaching only her petticoat and linen undergarments. It was a task, but he was successful without having to rip the brilliantly designed frock to shreds. He swiftly removed his own attire, tossing everything aside. At five foot eleven inches, his entire body was glorious and well cared for. Anastasia ran her palms against the rise and dips of his broad chest. Then she pulled away. He followed her scurry in anticipation.

  They moved in sync. Anastasia crawled backwards, her backside trailing along the richly intense bedspread. Stefano scurried as a smitten pet, his private brushing against the thick covering. When his princess’s back reached the mountains of pillows, he took advantage to dive onto her midsection. His mouth trailed against her entire body, pleasuring as only an experienced lover could do. But prior to this day, his count was null. Stefano was only doing the things that his cravings dictated. He had eagerly wanted to feel her bosoms against his tongue, so when he tipped the pink flowers, he felt his flesh increase. This reaction caused him to suckle a little more, tug a touch harder, and squeeze to gain further traction.

  “Stefano,” Anastasia exclaimed. “Inamorato . . . inamorato.”

  Her declarations drove him wild. He gripped both breasts, pushing them inward, milking their goodness. He moaned in his efforts, she continued to call out his name. And only when he received a significant fill from one toy did he move his fingers lower. Stefano’s hands shook. His limbs felt mushy, his private part firm, and his entire resolve thrilling. He was on the verge of officially entering manhood, yet that achievement was minor in comparison to the thought of solidifying his connection with his creamy princess.

  So when he used his fingers to tease at her insides, Stefano became an experienced lover. His actions reflected maturity. He instantly knew that in extending and contracting, in expanding and decreasing his fingers, he would be able to pleasure Anastasia. Although his flesh extended straight out and upward from the bedding, he need not make himself a priority. In fact, he rather enjoyed her reaction. While still engaged with her flesh, he used his free hand to travel up her thighs, resting on her breasts. No sooner was contact made with his palms, he wrapped barely visible lips around her skin and nibbled.

  Anastasia squealed. Her hips jolted back and forward against his wrists. Her hands traveled downward to encourage his entrance, demanding a deeper force. When his fingers could no longer sustain the job, she forced him away.

  In full view of his private salute, she wrapped her fingers around his growth, pushing him toward a heap of pillows.

  “Stefano,” she blushed, “perfetto.”

  Studying the glimmer of her blue pupils, he nodded. Anastasia speedily embraced his slender member. He could tell that her urges were increasing when her grip tightened and massaged.

  “Ahhhh!” he cried out. His declaration hammered at his chords. “Ahhhh!”

  He wasn’t even able to cry out again before he erupted. Anastasia pulled away, shocked. Her cheeks displayed how very inexperienced she felt.

  Lowering her head, though peering into his face, she added, “Was it satisfying?”

  He could not speak, but merely declared his love.

  “Il mio amore!”

  Stefano then repositioned himself on top of Anastasia, plunging his supreme erection deep inside fresh, untouched walls. They clung to one another’s naked flesh.

  Bliss.

  Excitement.

  Fulfillment.

  The cradling of Stefano’s growth against Anastasia’s walls became an affirmation, a promise of forever. Each movement inside her expanding tightness, the penetration developed from simple need to must have; must occupy. Stefano’s hips thrust wildly, causing the bed to shift. Their noisemaking filled the room, bouncing about the rich furnishings, seeping beneath the doorways.

  The servants gathered outside the partition, mouths hanging open. There was little need to press against the white wooden door for confirmation. Lovemaking, or rather the sound of lovemaking, was an uncommon appearance from Anastasia’s room. But they knew. No one dared disturb the mistress and her betrothed, even though madre e il padre Soranzo would explode if they were home. And so, Stefano and Anastasia shamelessly drew down scandal into the typically quiet home.

  Stefano left some four hours later. The couple was able to rejuvenate and reinvent themselves. They did the things that felt right and avoided worry. At the end of this escapade, they swore eternal love. Anastasia, at the time, meant forever. For Stefano, forever meant forever.

  *****

  When Stefano arrived home, his parents were impatiently awaiting him. Their faces, etched with lines, matched the quivering in their voices.

  “Stefano, we must have a family meeting.” His father, whom Stefano had always admired because of his calm demeanor, was now unsettled.

  “What is wrong, Papi? Is Marco here?”

  “No, we don’t need to wait for your brother.”

  Stefano’s insides began churning.

  A family meeting?

  Without my older brother?

  Then why label it as a family meeting?

  They had not advanced from the entryway, though his mother kept trying to nudge him inward. Stefano had a lurking feeling that their lives were about to be changed. This mental capability was the same one that had saved him in the past. He would be prompted to move from one position to another, and in the process had avoided accidents. From the time that he was able to understand words, he realized that his senses were enhanced. This time was no different.

  “Tell me,” he commanded of his parents. His father gripped his shoulder, pulling his son into a wide embrace. Stefano pushed away. “No! No!” He turned to exit the home.

  “Everything is different now. You must forget about Anastasia . . .”

  Those were the last words he remembered hearing that night: Forget about Anastasia.

  Stefano blacked out. As he raced away from his parents and into a flow of people, he became throttled by heartache. He screamed, cursing to the heavens. Hearing the commotion, his parents called for the servants to bring their son back into the home.

  Stefano’s rage was subdued while he was unconscious, though the minute he came to, reality embraced him as before. But this time, his mother stood off to the side of his large bed, pleading for her son’s speedy return to his senses.

  “My son.” His mama stood up to lean closer and examine his face. Her powdery foundation had begun to fade away, exposing roughly aging skin. Her lipstick had become blotchy, spreading beyond the thin lines of slender lips. The powder-blue frock that was primed neatly only an hour before was now ravaged and soiled with hints of bright red. At first glance, one would think it blood. But as Stefano studied the woman’s fatigue, he saw how very troubled she was. His heart so
ftened.

  “Why?” he asked, attempting to rise up from the oversized monstrosity. “Anastasia was promised to me.” Stefano’s voice quaked.

  Papi Bonaro lowered his head, hands rubbing at his hair.

  “Tell him,” Mama demanded. She approached her husband and removed his hands.

  “How many times must I apologize?”

  Stefano’s mother walked away. She approached her son and clasped her palms against the corners of his face, rubbing her thumbs along his ear lobes. “Forget about the Soranzo family. You will meet a more beautiful girl and fall in love much greater.”

  “Anastasia is mine,” he pled.

  “No longer, my son,” she comforted, though her voice was stern.

  “They are like family . . . they are family!” He fought back, his voice vibrating off the walls.

  “Family, Son? Family?” Mama Bonaro swung around from her son and took a hold of her husband’s wrist. “Digli!”

  “Mia moglie . . .” Senore Bonaro was determined not to tell his son of his indiscretions. He loved this woman at his side, and valued his family.

  “You call me your wife, but bedded my best friend . . . my childhood friend!” No sooner had her words rushed out, she raced out of the room.

  Stefano could not speak. He could barely breathe. His parents’ trials were not what bothered him. They had lived as he now chose to do, with love. As for his future, he knew that another could never claim his love. His heart would eternally remain with Anastasia.