by Dee Palmer
“Molto eletti.” Signore Canovaccio compliments, still I’m not convinced. “Here, the finishing touches.” He holds out the full-length cloak, tricorn hat and cane. Well, the cane I can at least use. I give a curt nod, because as much as I might think I look ridiculous, if I know one thing about Gabriel’s Gatherings, I won’t be the only one.
I arrange for the costume to be sent to the hotel, and since I have a few hours to kill, I decide to wander over to the Palazzo Cavalli among other places. My feet seem to know where they are going as I stride purposefully toward the civic building where civil wedding ceremonies are performed. I’m clearly feeling more optimistic since sorting my costume.
The Palazzo Cavalli is just one of the several stunning palaces in Venice. It’s typical of the gothic architecture with its heavily framed ornate windows and decorative balconies, perfect for that once-in-a-lifetime photo opportunity on that special day. Perfect and popular. Unfortunately.
I couldn’t believe I actually had all the information and documentation to pull off another last minute wedding, thanks to Sofia being ultra organised. I didn’t factor in the notion that Venice is a top wedding destination, and this place is booked up years in advance. Damn it. I leave, having been cheeky enough to put my name down for any really last minute cancellations. The old lady gave me a scowl that could burn me to ash when I said, only partially serious, fingers crossed for some cold feet.
I can’t deny that would be the ultimate outcome and definitely worth the price of dressing up like a complete ponce. Anything would be worth it, if I got to leave Venice with Sam by my side, as my wife.
I’m restless, wandering the streets and even when the narrow walkways open up into stunning squares and piazzas, it’s still too crowded for me. I can’t take in any of the splendour or unique and crumbling beauty of the buildings. I admit defeat at the pointless attempt to distract myself and make my way back to my hotel and the rooftop bar.
I nurse my beer and pick at my late lunch, a massive plate of fried seafood and no salad or greenery to speak of. A slice of lemon is the only concession to anything remotely healthy; it’s fresh and tastes fabulous. The view is stunning. I have the same from my room, and on a clear day like today, it’s easy to pick out most of the historical landmarks and even some of the larger hotels on the Lido across the lagoon. But that’s not where my eyes are focused. I didn’t bring the binoculars up with me, because honestly, I don’t need them. I can see clearly that the crew of Gabriel’s boat are preparing for an evening to remember.
I give up my prime position as the sun starts to dip into the Mediterranean Sea and decide I may as well get ready. I have to be unfashionably early if I’m to work my magic on the Master of Ceremonies—and by magic, I mean bribe. I need to be the winning bid on the auction of Mistress Selina, and I don’t have to assume Gabriel wants the same, I just know he does.
I take one last look at my reflection. In this penthouse room, surrounded by sixteenth century art and opulence, dressed as I am, I could easily belong in another time. I tug the hat into place and button the cloak at my neck. I have my invitation, wallet, and mask. That’s all I need and all that is allowed inside the Basilica venue for the Gathering. No phones, no cameras, no electronic devices whatsoever, except those provided in-house for sexual play and torture, that is.
Many of the gondolas have been reserved for this evening’s private use, and I step into mine. We slip into an erotically charged and somewhat serene covey of floating theatre. The odd bemused tourist-laden gondola filters in along the voyage only to drift back out as we near the destination. The gondolier deftly manoeuvres the thirty-foot iconic Venetian boat into a narrow channel that seems to be a dead end. Nearing our final destination, I secure my mask, and as we approach the iron-barred archway beneath the ancient Basilica, the gates draw slowly open, allowing us to glide smoothly alongside the sunken steps and vaulted underbelly of the building.
Sconces with candles and lanterns holding large flames make shadows dance over the cavernous room, up a wide staircase and beyond. I alight from the gondola and cast a backward glance at the stream of guests waiting their turn to gain entrance, dressed for decadence in bygone finery. It may be a little overdramatic for my taste, even so, I can’t deny the atmosphere sizzles with anticipation and excitement. I’m escorted by a woman wearing a full, plain, white mask and Domino cloak, I know she’s female from the soft lilt of her voice not from the androgynous garb. She leads me up the flagstone stairway and to a second flight of stairs covered in a thick red carpet, which softens the sounds of footsteps and dulls the echo on the thick stone walls.
The greeting room is filled with similarly dressed assistants and others dressed as Arlecchino, with thick patchwork costumes and plain black half masks. From the size and build, I’m guessing these are the male assistants. There aren’t many guests, but then, I’m on time, and only first-timers would be this keen or desperate, I freely admit I’m the latter.
I present my invitation to the large man dressed as Captain Fraccasa. I honestly don’t know how I’m recalling all these names, they clearly sunk in from my fitting this afternoon. The shop owner busied himself gathering my garments all the while giving me a detailed account of all the varieties of costume that I might see tonight. The Captain is wearing red and yellow velveteen trousers and jacket, a large white ruff, bright, feathered hat and a mask similar in shape to mine, only black.
“Your identification, Mr Stone?” His thick Russian accent is sharp and stony, a stark contrast to the jovial Italian character he is dressed as.
“Really, is that necessary?” I hand him my invitation, my fingers twitch against my wallet and my borrowed identification for this evening.
“You will not proceed without it, so the decision as to whether it’s necessary is entirely yours, Mr Stone.” The female voice is clipped and obscured by the body mass of the Captain, until she swiftly steps aside to reveal herself. Those sharp emerald eyes and that commanding, yet sultry voice I would recognise blindfolded. My memory is so ingrained with my own final training session with Mistress Eve that I can’t help the tug at my lips from the flash of recollection.
I may have trained under the finest Dom in London at the time, but the most memorable part of my education came under the expert tutelage of this Lady. I spent five days of hell at the wrong end of her little black crop in her Paris dungeon, where I learnt the very strength needed to become a submissive. She helped me to understand what it is to submit and why I will always be a Dom.
I don’t speak; it’s too risky to reveal myself until I know for sure she’s here to work not play. She certainly looks the part, wearing a stunning creamy white and gold flared skirt with a tight-fitted bodice. Fine lace sleeves are gathered at the cuff, and her waistcoat nips to an impossibly trim waist. Her trademark fiery red hair is curled and piled high on her head, and in lieu of any hat, she seems to have hidden gems woven through the strands that sparkle whenever she moves. Her gold mask is simple but for the intricate metal filigree that extends from above the brow and around the corners, perfectly framing her penetrating eyes.
I pull Daniel’s driving license from my wallet and silently thank the knowing bastard for always being right. The Captain inspects the invitation and license, scanning for authenticity, and I briefly wonder if there will be fingerprints and mug shots, but then that would kind of defeat the object of the masks.
“Very good, Mr Stone. You may leave your cloak here. Drinks are being served in the great room where you will be summoned to the banquet.” He sweeps his meaty hand out toward a heavy, dark red curtain that is subsequently pulled apart by two strapping Arlecchino’s characters. I start to walk and look down to see the slender arm, gloved in gold and belonging to Mistress Eve thread through mine.
“Allow me, Jason.” Her voice is a whisper, yet my body snaps to attention. Fuck. “Any particular reason you are needing an extra disguise, or are you going for a method actor’s approach to tonight’s activitie
s?” Her light laugh I’m sure is entirely at my expense. This could be very bad.
“Excuse me?” My voice is flat, even as I stifle a telltale cough in the back of my throat.
“Well, you have picked Zanni, not known for his smarts, and you are anything but stupid, Jason, so why Mr Stone tonight? Or does this have anything to do with why we are having to double-check every guest this evening?” She steps in front of me as soon as we reach the great room. I grab two glasses of champagne from a passing Domino waitress and hand one to Eve. Her lips tweak yet the upward curl is barely noticeable when she takes a sip.
“It’s possible.” I fail to keep my tone causal, and my jaw is twitching with tension.
“Oh please, Jason, Gabriel has me all but giving rectal exams for the guests this year. He’s not going to be pleased you got in.” She holds my gaze with a seriousness that makes my stomach drop.
“He told you?” I drop my voice to a low grumble and in lieu of an arched brow I wouldn’t be able to detect she drops her hip and places her hand on the one jutting out.
“I’m Mistress of Ceremonies, Jason. Of course he told me.” Her words are filled equally with sass and attitude.
“I thought you had retired?” I counter, effectively changing the subject of my gatecrashing.
“I am, but this is special, so I don’t mind presiding over the festivities. It’s hardly a chore.” She sweeps her hand out dramatically, taking in the stunning room with its enormous gilt mirrors casting abundant light from the many chandeliers. Rich oil paintings portraying dramatic biblical events hang from the walls, and swaths of golden material hide enormous stained glass windows. The ancient building has been lovingly brought to life, if only for tonight. Looking up, there is a balcony edging the perimeter of the room, with numerous discreet doors leading to private and not so private rooms, for later.
“Good, I’m going to need your help.” I take her elbow and lead her to the edge of the room. The guests are starting to fill the room now, and personal space and privacy aren’t really considerations at these events.
“And why would I do that exactly?” She sniffs derisively, and I draw in a confident breath and let my best smile fill my face before I speak.
“How are Bianca and the baby?”
“Jason,” she almost gasps in shock, only she is too restrained to let any emotion escape her lips unchecked. “That is a little underhanded for you, don’t you think?” I happen to agree but shrug her comment off and offer a half-arsed apology.
“I apologise, still desperate times, Eve. Very desperate times.”
“So it would seem.” She purses her lips and draws the bottom one fully into her mouth, like she is actually contemplating her options, when I already know she’s going to help me.
It took a surprisingly long time to get ready, and I was grateful Gabriel had arranged for someone to help. Not that I needed help with the stockings, invisible bra and heels, however, the full-length dress weighed an absolute tonne, and the bodice part had a million tiny buttons up the back that I neither had the flexibility nor the patience for. I kept my makeup simple, plain even, with only my red lipstick visible. Wearing layers of eye shadow and blush under the mask seemed slightly fruitless. Having secured me into the dress, my helper, Bibiana, silently and diligently curled and pinned my hair so it would hang softly around the mask and not detract from the elaborate plumage fanning the headpiece. She is an elderly woman, dressed impeccably in black with her grey hair pulled tight into a severe bun. I pondered to myself that her stern exterior wouldn’t be out of place at the Dommes’ table tonight. She had no understanding of English so I simply moved and responded to her varying hand and eye gestures.
She was thorough and meticulous, and when I stood in front of the oversized mirror in my room, I was completely awestruck. Wow.
Predominantly black velvet with vibrant slashes of red lace and thick, gorgeous brocade stitched at the edges, the dress fit perfectly. The cape clips to the intricate shoulder piece, which fastens flush against the tall, stiff collar at my neck. I take little comfort from the fact that I don’t recognise myself in all this opulent splendour because that’s irrelevant. Arriving on Gabriel’s arm with the auction of my final ‘show’ very much the main attraction, every single person attending will know I’m Mistress Selina.
“Oh my,” Gabriel declares with breathless wonder when I step up on the lower deck. “Mistress, you look like royalty.”
“I feel a little constricted.” I peek down at my considerable bust, which is poised and ready to burst from the boned and velvety confines of the bodice Bibana trussed me into. “I’m not sure eating will be an option, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to perform. This dress is hardly conducive to whip wielding, Gabe.” I move at a glacial pace toward him and have to hold on to the railing, backs of chairs, anything that will aid stability.
“You lose the waistcoat and the skirt. It all unclips.” He points to the row of buttons at my hips and at the base of the bodice.
“You might’ve wanted to share that information.” I look to where he indicates, and sure enough, I can see how the whole garment can be detached and easily removed.
“I am sharing it.” His droll lilt is accompanied with a slow roll of his eyes.
“I meant before. I have to go back and put some panties on now.” I mumble.
“Oh not on my account.” He teases and it’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“You’re funny. My whipping skills are the only thing I intend on showcasing tonight. I’m funny about knowing the identity of anyone likely to catch a sneak peek of my tush, and that is not what’s up for auction.” I pull a deep frown as I contemplate the arduous trek back to my cabin to get my underwear. “If you would just give me a few minutes or hours I’ll rectify the situation.” I turn slowly, and he chuckles.
“It’s not that bad.” His rumbling laughter is low and he shakes his head with obvious amusement.
“Says you, in basically golf pants, a lady’s fancy blouse, and a house coat. This dress is almost as wide as I am tall. I need one of those ‘vehicle is reversing’ warning beeps or a ‘caution wide load’ sign on my arse. That would work.” I snort.
“Very amusing. And tonight, I’m simply the blank canvas for you to shine against. This is your night, my Mistress.” He dips for a low bow, and when he stands, he opens his arms wide.
“Gabriel.” I sigh and take his offered hand, and he pulls me into a protective hug, or as close to a hug as my dress will allow. “I’m only doing this because, for some reason, this pregnancy has affected my ability to assert myself, but honestly, I’d rather stay on your boat.”
“Yacht,” he corrects with a childish huffing sound, and I compress my lips to hide the smirk. “We can eat here if you would prefer. Just turn up for the auction; you can then beguile us mere mortals with your incomparable whipping skills, and then I can arrange for the gondolier to bring you back.” His kind offer is music to my ears.
“You don’t mind?” I’m so grateful for everything he’s done, I want to make sure his offer is genuine.
“Why would I mind? I know you have no intention in indulging tonight, and this means I won’t have to share you until the very last minute, and not even then.” He flashes a wicked, knowing grin and his eyes seem to dance with mischief.
“Gabe, what have you done?” I lean back, but he still has a strong arm around my waist, and I have to tilt my head back so he can see my suspicious glare.
“Mistress, you didn’t really think your very last performance would be for anyone other than myself. Surely you are not that naïve?” He chuckles, and I exhale dramatically.
“You’re completely insane, Gabe.” I push lightly out of his hold, still shaking my head with astonishment. I’m not naïve, still I didn’t think he was that crazy.
“No, insanity would be to let this opportunity slip through my fingers.” He says this without a hint of irony.
“So, you’ve rigged the auction, is that
what you’re telling me?” I cross my arms, but if I’m honest, I’m relieved. At least I know Gabe, and more than that, with my niggling concern that Jason will somehow get in tonight, at the very least I know he won’t ‘win’ me either.
“I have ensured mine will be the winning bid, yes.” He gives a curt, self-satisfied nod.
“If that’s the case, we could just do a scene right here, and I can get out of going altogether.” My voice sounds expectant and hopeful.
“Now where would be the fun if I didn’t get to flaunt my prize.” With a regal swipe of his hand, he dismisses my suggestions like a puff of smoke.
“You’re impossible, you know that?”
“It has been mentioned.” He sniffs derisively. “Now, shall we eat here or—”
“Here please, and nothing fancy. My stomach is in knots as it is.” I grimace as it rolls loudly as if on cue.
“Your wish is my command, Mistress.” He drops his gaze and peeks through long lashes. He deftly balances on the fine edge of adorable and hugely obnoxious.
“You know, I used to believe that.” I let out a flat, humourless laugh. “I can’t believe you had me fooled all these years.”
“No pouting, my Queen, it’s most unbecoming.” He doesn’t deny my assessment, and his smile spreads a little wider before his attention is once again diverted. “What would you like to eat?”
“Honestly, I feel a little queasy, and the only thing that isn’t making me want to retch when I think about food is cheese on toast and a glass of milk.” I give a tentative smile and lightly and apologetically shrug. “Don’t wrinkle your nose, Gabe. I can’t help it. My baby is clearly craving dairy.” I pat the stiff bone of the bodice flattening my stomach, still I can feel the tiny rounded mound resisting the pressure, and that brings a wide and wonderful smile to my face. I haven’t smiled like that in so long my face twitches with the unfamiliar stretch of muscles.