by Noelle Mack
“Ahh…ahhh…” Sarah began to moan. She couldn’t help it. She rose up on her elbows, pressing her hips down into the bed, taking it in the ass from a woman.
“Blindfold her,” one said softly. “She will feel everything much more strongly.”
The fleeting fantasy she’d had in the museum was about to happen. Sarah felt a soft cloth placed over her eyes, and someone tied it firmly in back of her head.
One of the women pleasured her behind while the other two stroked her. The sensation was exquisitely strong. To be blindfolded at this moment took her into yet another world, a world of pure touch, where fantasies of every kind could unfold in her mind while her body gave in to sexual bliss.
She rose up on all fours, wanting more, wanting to be touched all over—breasts, belly, thighs. The women understood, taking out the dildo and caressing her ardently—until a much larger pair of hands pushed theirs away.
Marco.
She pushed back the blindfold to see. Naked, erect, he stood by the bed. The women had vanished.
“How…how did you get here?”
“Through the mirror.”
He put his hands on his hips. The tight muscles in his groin throbbed, making his cock throb too. So much for Sapphic bliss. The second she saw a real cock—his cock—she wanted it.
“Where did the women go?”
“Back inside your mind.” He pushed the blindfold down. She stayed on all fours. “What do you want now, Sarah?”
“I…I want you to be as firm with me as she was.”
“Ah, yes. The jeweled lady. A beautiful woman without mercy where men are concerned. She wants all the women to herself. And every woman who sees her desires what only she can give.”
He steadied Sarah with a hand on her back. She knew what was coming, he had already spanked her once. When the first tingling slap connected, she raised her ass to meet it. He gave her more pleasure-punishment, making her cheeks glow with excitement.
Sarah cried out and asked for more. He soothed and stroked her quivering buttocks.
“That’s enough. Turn around.”
He didn’t lift the blindfold when she turned to him. But he let her sit up and then touched the head of his cock to her lips. Sarah teased him with the tip of her tongue, probing, tasting the first clear drops of ejaculate.
When she couldn’t see, she was much more aware of how he responded. She slid her tongue around his shaft and held him in her lips. She sucked him hard, as hard as she had sucked her mistress’s long nipples, but the feeling was so different. His big cock completely filled her mouth.
He rocked into her mouth, taking care not to gag her, then pulled out so suddenly she gasped.
“Turn around again,” he said, his voice rough. “The way you were.”
She got on all fours and he scrambled behind her, thrust in, and began to fuck, slow and hard, fast and hard, gripping her hips tightly.
She knew it was Marco, but he could have been anyone, a fantasy man from the past or present, ready to satisfy her whenever he was summoned.
The deep thrusts came faster, and he dropped his body over hers, holding himself up with one strong arm and reaching around to her pussy with the other. He slapped it, making her buck with pleasure underneath him. Then he curved his hand around her pussy, making the tingling last. She knew he was feeling his big, thick rod slide in and out of her juicy flesh, hard and ready.
He moaned and ejaculated, come spurting between his fingers, onto her belly above and over the sheets beneath her. She stayed on all fours, crying his name when his fingers touched her clit at last, bringing her expertly to orgasm…
Shuddering with pleasure, he let his full weight rest on her back, then rose up. Sarah took off the blindfold and looked over her shoulder. He was dripping with hot sweat, his black hair tangled but still beautiful. His eyes were closed.
Sarah moved so she could lie on her back and look at all that magnificent maleness. He grabbed his cock when it came out of her and stripped the last drops out of it, then came to lie down beside her.
She scrambled to the edge of the bed. She could just reach the bath if she really stretched out—Marco’s hand clasped her ankle.
“Where are you going?”
Sarah grabbed the wet cloth she’d been washed with in her fantasy, and she swished it in the warm water, squeezing it out with one hand.
“You’re a mess,” she said lovingly. “Ready for a whore’s bath?”
“Ah. Certainly.”
He submitted to her ministrations, and she did the same for herself, then nestled under the arm that curved around her, pulling her to his chest.
“So how did you make that happen?”
“I fell asleep. I don’t know. When I woke up you had gone through the mirror and I followed. In a little while we will go back.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
He dropped a lazy kiss on the top of her head, playing with a strand of hair. “We cannot stay here indefinitely. The farther away we go from our own time, the harder it will be to return.”
“Oh right. Thanks for the reality check. But you still haven’t told me how you made that fantasy happen.”
He waited a few seconds before replying and she could feel him smile into her hair. “I didn’t. That fantasy was all yours. Venice has changed you, Sarah.”
3
The next day dawned bright and sunny. A maid brought them breakfast on a tray, kept her eyes down, and disappeared without saying a word.
Sarah looked at the food. Definitely, those were croissants of some kind, served with apricots and figs, fresh cheese, and coffee that smelled absolutely heavenly.
It was too weird to think about, but she felt oddly at home. They were back in the room with the canopy bed and the mirror was in the corner. Its glass seemed solid enough, but something about it had changed during the transforming process. Sarah looked harder. Then she saw it. Small flowers of clear glass had appeared among the mirrored leaves.
Oh my. Everything was blooming. Including her. She glanced around, just in case she’d missed anything else.
The mirror was wonderful, and so was the palatial bed, but the rest of the décor was somewhat over the top, even though she knew the citizens of the serene republic of Venice were famously given to excess. The opulent room was filled with statues, paintings, vases, and exotic bric-a-brac everywhere. Lustrous silks embroidered with Chinese motifs draped the windows and Persian carpets gave warmth to terrazzo floors.
Maybe it was Marco’s sleeping presence—he was curled up in the white linen sheet and maroon velvet comforter, covered all the way up to his tousled black hair—or maybe it was an effect of the spell, but she was determined to enjoy the fantasy while it lasted.
She poked him and got only an incoherent protest in reply. OK. The hell with him. She could easily drink all the coffee. The urn wasn’t that big. It certainly was unique. The incised enamel decoration on it looked Arabian, and so did its snakelike spout. The coffee was probably really strong, but she liked it that way. And the maid had brought a small pitcher of very thick cream.
Sarah put the tray to one side and eased out of bed, looking for—this part of the past wasn’t so great—the chamber pot. She managed and then wondered what the hell to do.
“Toss it out the window,” Marco murmured.
“You watched,” she said indignantly.
The man-shaped lump of maroon velvet laughed under the covers. “No. But I heard.”
“I can’t just toss a pot of piss out the window.”
The lump shrugged and Marco’s head popped out of the velvet. “Everybody else does. Leave it for the chambermaid then.”
Sarah frowned as she climbed back into bed. “I feel guilty.”
“Don’t.”
He rolled over and embraced her, sliding his strong thigh between hers. His skin was hot to the touch, and he smelled wonderful—a mix of musky male and the linen sheets that they’d made love on.
“What n
ow?”
“When in Venice, do as the Venetians do. Sleep all day and carouse all night. There is always a ball to go to or some such thing.”
Sarah pressed a kiss to the middle of his chest. She could just feel his heart beating, slow and steady. “You said you had an invitation to balls in—in our century. Will we be back in time?”
He reached around and grabbed her ass. “Who cares?”
“Marco, I’m serious.”
His warm breath ruffled her hair as he let out a sigh. “We will have to find the book. It is somewhere in Venice. Fortunately the city was—is—somewhat smaller. I will find it.”
“I’m a little nervous. I should be a lot nervous. How come I’m not?”
He chuckled. “Because you have had what every woman needs. A good fuck.”
She stiffened, ready to make an obligatory protest, then relaxed. He was right. She felt deliciously wanton and lazy, willing to let destiny take her anywhere. It had already brought her into his arms.
“Want another one?” he inquired when she didn’t say anything. “I love fucking you. You are indeed a civetta—wilder than a cat in heat.”
“Which means I’m right up your alley, ha ha. But I’m not sure I appreciate the comparison. Not very romantic.”
To his credit, he looked chagrined. Italian men really did pride themselves on being suave. She patted his cheek.
He caught her hand and kissed the center of her palm. “Ah, bellissima, allow me to cover you with rose petals and make love to you while I sing my joy.”
“Mmm. Maybe later, thanks. A real bath would be great right now, though.”
“The servants will take care of that too.” He yawned and held her tighter.
“So…who are we? The same people we were?”
Marco pulled back and looked at her. “You seem the same to me. But your hair is longer. Very nice. You look very pretty.”
“Skip the compliments. I need to know.”
He stroked her hair and took a soothing tone. “I cannot say. We can be anyone we want. I…I am Signor Maschera, a notorious rake, and you…well, you are a courtesan.”
“I am?”
“Yes, of course. We are lovers, obviously. A married couple in old Venice would not be likely to share such passion. They had sex as a duty, to have children.”
She pushed at his chest. “Yikes—I didn’t even think of that. Does time cause brain freeze? But I do have a patch. Holy cow. I hope it works in this century.”
Marco snorted rather rudely. “There is a saying that the best carpenters make the fewest chips.”
“And what the hell does that mean?”
He stroked her hair again and pressed a kiss to her forehead, magically smoothing away the worry wrinkles she knew were there. “Courtesans were seldom troubled by unwanted pregnancies. They knew all the tricks.”
“Gotcha.” She wasn’t entirely reassured, though. Sarah touched the patch as if it were an amulet against that happening. “Hey, how do you know you’re not married?”
“I just don’t feel married. I feel free.”
“Huh.” Another thought crossed her mind. “Men and women were not equals, right? I can’t go where I please and say what I want or—”
He grabbed her ass again. “As a courtesan you can. There are all sorts of laws governing your conduct outside this house, but the guardians of public decency don’t seem to be able to enforce them. My servants will be at your service if you want to go out. A man of my rank has two gondoliers—and two gondolas, of course—and minions to do all the dirty work. How do you like that?”
She wondered if he had planned this. But he couldn’t have known which spell she would pick. And as far as that was concerned, she hadn’t known either. The strangest part was that once the shock had worn off, being in another time felt perfectly normal. Getting the wish she’d made in the museum, to become a courtesan…she wasn’t so sure about that.
Wishes usually got granted the second they were blurted out, for one thing. Then the fine print in the two-year contract you hadn’t read kicked in. A wish could be worse than being locked into a cell-phone service agreement, a lot worse. However, she would have to trust him to get them back to the mundane world of the twenty-first century for the very simple reason that there wasn’t anyone else she could ask.
“So long as you’re my only, uh, client, I can handle being a courtesan. Jewels, gowns, attention—bring it on. But I’m not sure I can get used to other people doing everything for me.”
“Sarah, you must. You are not in your own world or time. Otherwise, you risk being taken for a spy, or worse, a witch, and interrogated by the secret agents who serve the Council of Ten. Many have been denounced and crossed the Bridge of Sighs into the prisons, and they seldom return. No, you must behave as a Venetian would and emulate the manners of a lady. When you are alone with me you can be entirely yourself. Otherwise, listen and learn. You cannot ask questions.”
“But I—”
“If they think you are a foreigner you will be safe enough. Venice has always been overrun with people from other places.”
“Thank you very much,” she said indignantly.
He put a finger to her lips. “When you venture from this house, wear a moretta. No one will expect you to talk.”
She remembered the black velvet mask for women and how he’d said that the wearer kept it on by holding a button between her teeth.
“What about when I attend a ball with you?” Now that would be fascinating. She wanted to take a walk on the wild side in a time long past. The decadence of Venetian society was legendary.
Marco looked delighted. “Have you decided to go?”
“To one in this century, yes.” No cameras, digital or video. No tabloid reporters. No embarrassing downloads popping up online of her in a borrowed couture gown, looking lost and unsure of herself in glittering company.
“Then we will visit the revendigola today.”
“The what?”
“He rents and sells gowns for those who wish to cut a fine figure on the cheap.”
Sarah scrambled to a sitting position on the bed. He reached up and fondled her breasts, propping himself up on an elbow to draw a nipple into his mouth, but she pushed him down, and the nipple came out with a pop. She dried it with a corner of the linen sheet. “Not so fast. I’m not renting a gown. I don’t want to catch eighteenth-century cooties. You get a dressmaker over to this palazzo and you pay for a new one.” Her imperious tone surprised her. “Or I withhold my favors.” Her what? Had she really just said that?
Marco laughed out loud. “Spoken like a true courtesan. You play the part well, Sarah.”
She gave him a haughty look. He took her in his arms and began to make love to her again. She decided not to resist.
Later, bathed and dressed by a silent maid, she surveyed herself in a mirror. Amazing. She had become a Venetian.
The servants and everyone else treated her and Marco as if they had always lived there, another aspect of this magic carpet ride that disconcerted her. He said they would take her for a foreigner and him for a native son, but just how she and Marco had stepped into the identities of people who’d lived so long ago was not clear to her. Unless this was also a hallucination for two. Or he’d morphed into one of his ancestors. So what did that make her? She didn’t even want to think about it.
Sarah took her gloves from the maid and walked down the stairs, lifting the skirts of her gown as if she had been wearing things like that all her life.
Politely ignored by his servants, many of whom probably had to scrub floors and boil laundry all day long—she still felt guilty about that—she waited on the first floor of Marco’s palazzo. The same opulence prevailed. If anything, the furniture was more ornate down here. Of course, Venice hadn’t flooded as often back then. The thought of the fabled city sinking into the lagoon was depressing. She was glad she had a chance to see Venice as it was, the way it was: a powerful city that flaunted its wealth no matter h
ow many laws were passed. Marco had explained a few: gondolas had to be black, married women were not permitted to dress as daringly as courtesans, and so forth.
But to go out with him, he insisted that she dress like an upper-class noblewoman. He found her a sedate-looking gown and the necessary undergarments in one of the armadi that stood on every floor of the palazzo, jampacked with clothes and household goods. In a hidden compartment, he’d also found a cache of gold ducats and scudi, and called out to her.
“Aha! My father told me that money was hidden here. In our time it was empty. But look at this!” He opened the neck of one of the small bags and she saw the gold coins gleaming softly inside. “All that we will need.”
“Hmm. Are there more dresses in my size?”
“We can have a seamstress in to fit them to you. A good thing there were so many female cousins in the family, eh?”
Just so long as the dress hadn’t been left behind by a mistress in a hurry to get back to her own erring husband, Sarah thought crossly.
Marco had not answered when she asked him which cousin had worn the dress. Maybe he didn’t know.
But Sarah had read enough about Venetian customs to understand that men, single or married, kept as many mistresses as they could afford. However, since they had just arrived in the era, he wouldn’t have had time to acquire even one.
Sarah intended to keep it that way. As a courtesan, she could keep him enthralled with her sexual magnetism and erotic tricks and stuff like that. She might have to pick up a few books and read up on the subject. Was it possible to be a one-man courtesan? She sure as hell was a one-man woman.
Anyway, covered with a black cloak, her wonderfully long hair swept up and hidden under a veil, she was nothing if not respectable. Per his advice, she didn’t want to invite attention when they went out in his gondola, even if she was a little annoyed that he got to decide what she wore. But she was eager to sightsee, and Marco had promised to be her guide. Finding the book that would get them back to where they’d been and who they really were could wait a little while.