by S. C. Daiko
With my left hand, I reach around to his front and take his prick between my fingers, using more goose fat to move faster and faster, up and down. Henri shrills, ‘Milk me! Milk me! Milk me!’
I have to use all my coordination, one hand pushing, one hand pulling, I’m fair worn out by the exertion. Will the King ever reach his joy?
‘Mon Dieu,’ he cries out. His body jerks and he shoots his seed onto the bed, finally squealing his release. Then he rolls over and smiles at me. ‘Truly, you are a delight, Madame.’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ I can’t help feeling proud of myself.
‘Your excellence is to be commended.’
‘Grazie. Would you like some wine, sire?’
Not waiting for an answer, I carry the phallus to the bowl to wash both it and my hands, then take it to the table, resting it there while I pour two goblets of malmsey. The King thanks me, and downs the drink in one gulp. ‘Pray, help me dress,’ he says. ‘For my cousin and Count Tron will be here shortly. I shall sing your praises, my dear. I am completely satisfied.’
I smile. ‘In that case, your Majesty, would you do me the honour of accepting two sonnets I’ve written for you, and a miniature portrait for you to remember me by?’ I pause. ‘It would add credence to our encounter.’ And I’ll be able to publish them as having been received by the King of France.
‘With pleasure, signora. I almost regret I could not desire and please you like you have done me. Pray, hand me your verses and the painting.’
I pick up the parchment from the table and hand it to him. He reads,
‘As if he were Jove taking mortal form and descending to us here below
so to my humble dwelling came Henri, discarding royal pomp and circumstance
and, assured of the depth of my affection,
he took my image, in enamel and paint,
away with him in a gracious, open spirit.’
‘How charming! I shall read the rest of it later. If matters hadn’t proceeded in the way that you’d planned, signora, would you have kept these keepsakes from me?’
I dip a curtsey and hand him the miniature of myself. ‘Only God knows the answer to that question, sire.’
Lena comes to help me get ready for bed. I do not tell her what transpired between the King and I, and she doesn’t ask. We never discuss my clients. ‘Pray, stay with me tonight,’ I say. I feel unsettled by the singularity of my experience with Henri.
She giggles. ‘To lie with the woman who lay with a king. ’Twould truly be a pleasure.’
If only you knew!
Lena strips the sheets and replaces them with fresh ones. We lie down and kiss, my arms around her shoulders, our bodies fused from lip to ankle. There’s a pounding from our hearts where we’re joined at the breast, and I can feel the pulse and heat from where we are pressed one against the other at the hips. Lena’s tongue runs over my teeth, then she sucks at my lips, and I catch the scent of my fruity arousal. ‘I do love you, my dearest,’ I say to her. And I do. She’s my truest friend, accepting me for who I am, never asking for more than I can give. I really don’t know what I’d do without her.
In the warm night air, our slippery bodies coil together. I reach for Lena’s breast, take the hard nipple in my mouth, and bite down on the bud until she yelps. She does the same to me, and the agony is at once excruciating and intoxicating, so intense that tears sting my eyes. I nip her neck, lick the entire surface of her ear, and we kiss again.
We swivel our bodies until we are head to tail. Moving my tongue down between Lena’s breasts, I sip at the small cup of her belly-button, and down into her sopping wet quim. Her cunny lips open and her taste on my tongue is honey and lemon. Her own tongue starts exploring my quim, pushing in and out, in and out, and I do the same to her, bathing my face in her aroma, gorging on her bittersweet juices.
There’ve been knots in my tummy ever since the King departed, and those knots are now unravelling, the feeling of relief spreading like syrup down my throat, through my breasts, my heart, my flaming innards. I grip Lena’s soft thighs in my palms and lap at her, her fluids sticky and warm on my face. Lena’s tongue is flicking my pearl and I flick at hers too.
A sprinkle of her pre-joy, soft as dew. Lena lifts her backside up from the bed, and, as she climaxes, my own release spirals from me like one of the fireworks I saw last night. I press my quim against her mouth until I’ve emptied every last drop of my joy down her throat. I gasp for air, then run my tongue through the crack in her arse, tasting her, wanting every part of her, giving every part of myself to her.
Lena’s tongue wriggles into my culo, the pressure reaching my swollen nub. Oh, such enchantment! I arrive at my joy again, more softly this time. I pull her up my body, tasting apples and musk in her mouth as I kiss her. ‘Grazie, cara.’
We lie languid in each other’s arms, talking of domestic trifles. Enea has a wiggly front tooth, and Achiletto has learnt to write his own name. I stifle a yawn, and get up to use the chamber pot. As I pass the table by the window, I see the Murano glass phallus. I collect it up to return to my night-stand, but, slippery from the soaping, it slides from my grasp and shatters into pieces on the marble floor.
Lena is by my side within moments. ‘Here, let me pick up the pieces. You might cut yourself.’
I help her, and soon we are back in bed again, my cheek against hers. I can’t help worrying. The shattered glass is an omen, I’m sure of it. A shiver prickles my spine.
9
A month after the King’s visit, and I’m with Domenico Venier on the terrace at the back of his house, under a pergola of vines bearing bright green grapes. The sun has yet to heat up the day, and ’tis pleasant here in the freshness of the morning. Domenico removes his spectacles and stares at me. ‘You’ve done well, my dear. These poems are a credit to you.’
‘Grazie, caro. I work so hard at my writing; I long to reveal my soul in my verses.’ I pause. Dare I ask? ‘Forgive me pestering you, my friend, but would you have time to look at my book of letters? They’re only in rough form. I would have brought them to you sooner, but both my sons have had measles and I’ve been occupied nursing them.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I hope your boys are recovered.’
‘They are well, grazie. Very excited because this afternoon Signor Ludovico Ramberti is taking us for a sail to Malamocco.’
‘Ah! I envy you getting out on the open water in this hot weather. I shall be pleased to read your letters, Veronica.’
‘There are two sonnets at the front of the book that his gracious Majesty Henri III accepted from me before he left my house.’
‘He did you an honour.’
‘That he did.’ And well he should have after the service I gave him. ‘But I hope you might compensate my imperfections with your wisdom. Pray, strip my words down as you would strip off your doublet. Then correct my work; otherwise, just sitting there undressed and unoccupied, you might catch cold.’
He laughs. ‘My dear, your wit knows no bounds.’
I smile. ‘And your graciousness no limits.’
We chat about his illness. Domenico grows more and more crippled with each passing year. I haven’t seen him out of his wheelchair in a good while. ‘Marco, was asking after you yesterday. He has returned to Venice.’ Domenico looks me in the eye (he knows all about my refusal of his nephew). ‘He adores you, you know.’
My heart pounds against my ribs. ‘I’m still pained by his error and stubbornness. Yet, for my part, I neither can, nor want, to make up my mind not to love him.’
‘Reason and love are contrary to each other, and whoever expects to predict love’s course is deprived of reason,’ Domenico sighs.
‘Why not bring Marco to dinner at my house tomorrow evening? We can partake of whatever food there will be, without pomp and ceremony. Perhaps he and I can still be friends. And I’d be grateful if you’d be so kind as to bring some of that excellent wine of yours.’
‘Your wish is my command.�
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‘Grazie.’
I chew my lip. Dio mio! What have I done? Asking Domenico to bring Marco to dinner is a foolish move. I was far too impetuous. But, perhaps he won’t come? After all, his pride is even more stubborn than mine and it might not have recovered from my refusing him.
‘I worry about you, Veronica,’ Ludovico says on the way back to St Mark’s basin, after a glorious few hours stretched out on the deck of his boat. Painted in bright pastel colours, with guardian angels depicted on each side of the prow, the vessel’s sails have caught the wind all afternoon. Crewed by two boatmen, we’ve tacked to and fro between the long, thin, sandy lido islands separating the lagoon from the open sea. How liberating it has been to strip off my dress and just wear a chemise and breeches. Achiletto and Enea are quite used to seeing their mamma dressed like a man, thankfully. They’re with Lena at the bow, shouting at the seagulls and jumping up and down as we crest the waves.
I stroke Ludovico’s hand. ‘Why are you worried, caro?’
‘I see more and more cases of the French disease in my apothecary. The pox, they call it. And the whores of the city are afflicted most. ’Tis spread through fucking, I fear.’
A shudder passes through me. I’m aware of the malady, of course I am. A terrible affliction with pustules covering the body from head to toe, flesh falling from faces and death within months. But I’ve never worried about it. ‘I’m clean and so are my patrons,’ I say.
‘Cleanliness is no protection, I’ve heard. But those ingenious Frenchies have come up with something. I found out about it when their King was here. A linen sheath, soaked in a special solution and tied around the head of the prick. I’ll procure you some, and you can use them with your clients.’
‘Grazie, dear friend. You always think of me. I’m so grateful to you.’
I glance at him, except he isn’t looking at me. Something has caught his attention on the main island. A plume of black smoke is rising from the Doge’s Palace. Madonna santissima!
‘Make haste,’ Ludovico shouts to the crew as if he could control the power of the wind. But, thankfully, a stiff breeze has blown up and soon we reach landfall.
‘Pray, take the boys home,’ I say to Lena once we’ve hurriedly disembarked. ‘I’ll stay here and help.’
‘Are you sure? ’Tis dangerous.’
‘I’ll be careful. Every hand is needed.’
A sour stench fills my nose. Above us the white and rose bricks of the palace are blackening rapidly. Truly fire is a noisy beast: flames roar, timbers scream as they crash down, and glass shrieks in melting anguish. The whole of the second floor is ablaze, and, unless ’tis stopped, the entire building will perish.
Floating cinders sting my eyes. Ludovico and I jostle to the lagoon’s edge to join the rapidly forming bucket chain passing saltwater from the sea to pour on the conflagration. Hundreds of citizens have flocked here from all parts of Venice with one aim: to save the seat of our government.
Ludovico is in front of me, and behind me a fat man who stinks of fried onions. My arm muscles ache as I pass the containers through my tired hands: pails, ewers, even chamber pots, cold against my sweaty palms. Night falls, and on we battle, hour after hour, passing the buckets, never slowing in our rhythm. Will we succeed?
Finally, word comes down the line that the fire has dwindled to a few pockets of flame, then that it has stopped altogether. I shield my eyes from the smoke. A large portion of the palace is black as death.
‘We’d best go home, Veronica,’ Ludovico says, taking my hand. ‘We’ve done what we can. Goodness, your fingers are cold. What ails you?’
‘A premonition. The fire is an omen, I’m sure of it: a harbinger of doom.’ A shudder passes through me, and my teeth chatter.
‘No, my dear. You are mistaken. ’Tis tiredness talking.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
We walk the rest of the way in silence. Ludovico leaves me to Lena’s ministrations. I take a warm bath, then clamber into bed where, with a heavy heart, I fall into an exhausted sleep.
I wake refreshed, my mood lightened. Excitement bubbles through me. Domenico has sent word that Marco will accompany him this evening. He won’t have changed his stance on wanting exclusivity, so why has he agreed to come with his uncle? I nibble the corner of my thumbnail; an idea is forming in my mind.
What to wear? I go to my chest and sort through my dresses. The green silk brings out the emerald in my eyes. I shall put lace under the bodice to cover my nipples. Much as I’d like to, I don’t want the Magnifico to think I’m baiting him. I shall be far more subtle…
‘What brings you back to Venice, my lord?’ I ask him after we’ve exchanged polite greetings and I’ve served him and his uncle with goblets of Domenico’s delicious wine from Tuscany.
Marco’s brooding gaze burns into me. ‘I’ve been appointed Commissioner of Public Health.’ He gives a wry laugh. ‘All I need now is an outbreak of the plague to keep me busy.’
‘Don’t jest about such matters!’ A shiver passes through me. ‘Come, my lords, dinner is ready.’
After we’ve eaten, Domenico pushes back his chair and lets out a satisfied belch. ‘Excellent fare, my dear. The rice pie was delicious, the chicken succulent, and the fruit salad perfect.’
‘Grazie, caro.’
All through the meal we’ve talked of nothing but the fire last night. How it started no one knows, but the damage has been limited to the surface and hasn’t affected the structure of the building. That feeling of foreboding has returned, however, and my gut clenches. I shake it off. ‘Come, my lords, the portego is cool at this time of the evening. We can sit there and finish the wine. I shall play the lute for you both.’
I perch on a chair by the window, the breeze lifting the curls on my forehead, soothing my troubled brow. Dare I sing the verse I wrote for Marco and set to music? Yes, I do. Damn him, he must hear it.
‘If you’ll offer me what, though in my belief
it has great worth, costs you nothing;
your repayment from me will be
not only to soar but to fly so high
that your hopes will match your desires.
And my charms, which you never tire of praising,
I’ll then use for your delight;
sweetly lying beside you,
I will make you taste the joys of love.
And doing this, I would give you such pleasure
that you could say you were fully happy,
and at once fall more deeply in love.’
I strum the last note then put my lute down. Domenico has fallen fast asleep, but Marco’s eyes are on me. ‘You know I cannot give you what you desire. As you once said to me: cannot means will not.’
‘Your pride, sir, is an impediment to your happiness.’
‘And yours, fair lady.’
‘Your stubbornness knows no bounds.’
‘You speak of stubbornness from a stance of experience.’
‘There is one resolution to our dilemma,’ I say, getting to my feet.
‘Pray, enlighten me.’
‘I grant you complete dominion over me in bed.’
‘In return for?’
‘My freedom at all other times.’
‘Truly, Veronica, you steal the prize from all others.’
‘What say you?’
‘I say you might regret this.’
‘One only regrets what one has not tried.’
He indicates towards the sleeping Domenico, snoring softly in his wheelchair. ‘And my uncle?’
‘I shall call Lena, my children’s nanny. She’ll sit with him.’
‘Complete dominion?’ Marco faces me. ‘No holds barred?’
‘Only in bed.’
‘Disrobe,’ he commands, already undressing.
He watches, eyebrow raised, while I slice a lemon. Lena always buys them the right size, and I know how far down to cut. I pull out the pith and seeds, lift my leg, and tuck it up inside me. ‘To pr
event pregnancy,’ I tell him, taking off my clothes to stand naked before him.
Before I can register the movement, he brings his hand down sharply across my arse. I yelp, flinging my hands behind me to shield myself. What have I let myself in for? Too late to back down now. ’Tis different to my experience with Paolo Panizza, though, for Marco makes my whole body quiver and my heartrate quicken.
He grasps my arms and holds my wrists at the small of my back with one hand. Then, without a word, he spanks me, striking my backside again and again and again. I bite back a whimper. I will not struggle, even though the slaps sting. I will not cry, even though the pain is sharp, I will not ask him to stop for now a warm wetness is spreading between my legs. How can that be?
The pain washes over me in waves, bright and sharp, soft and sweet. Relinquishing control to this man is so, so liberating. He can do with me what he wishes, and I don’t need to come up with ploys to please him. Tiny spasms of delight are building in my sheath. Unbelievable. My joy is approaching. Oh no! Unaccountably, I find myself suddenly weeping.
He stops hitting me. ‘Shush, tesoro, shush.’ He strokes my bruised buttocks as I sob my release and writhe against him, my body hungry for his.
Marco’s hands slip between my arse-cheeks and up to my hot wet quim. He presses his fingers against my swollen labia and begins to massage, alternately pinching and stroking my nub. It only takes a few seconds. Joy explodes within me like a fire-lance and my body leaps and bucks with the force of it. He holds me still, wringing every last jolt of sensation from me until I hang limp, my face soaked with tears. Then he lets me down to my knees on the floor. ‘Look at me,’ he commands.