Courtesan

by S. C. Daiko

  I obey, completely under his control. Proud Veronica Franco subservient to a man. If I weren’t living the experience, I would never have believed it.

  He lifts me to my feet and carries me to the bed. ‘Spread your legs!’

  Lying next to me, Marco moves his hands up to my nipples and pinches, hard. He bites my earlobe, slips a finger down to my quim, and squeezes my pearl. I gasp and my tummy contracts. He cups my arse and pulls me against him. ‘Do you want me?’

  I will not plead with him.

  He laughs and pushes the tip of his thumb into my culo, then swirls it in circles. I whimper and roll my hips.

  ‘Shall I stop?’ I do not answer. ‘Do you want my tongue inside you? I could put my face between your legs. All you have to do is beg.’

  I remain silent, motionless. His teeth are nipping at my earlobe again, one hand pinching my nipple and the other a fist at my sheath, twisting all the way in. ‘Oh, Dio mio!’ My breath is ragged. I can’t help myself: I’m close to my climax.

  Marco moves away from me, leaving me bereft. He rummages in my nightstand and pulls out four cords. I spread my hands and feet wide as he ties them to the bedposts.

  His hands snake up from my knees to my thighs, kneading them. Then he drags his thumb down, firmly, from my belly-button to my pearl. I shut my eyes and pretend indifference. A single push, one finger. I buck. Two fingers, curling up. My wetness makes a popping sound, and I let out a whimper. Two fingers together with his tongue, biting my folds and licking my nub. I jerk against the cords. Joy rising, rising, rising. Marco groans, but keeps on nipping and sucking. I’m nearly there. Still, I do not beg. Marco flicks, and bites, and licks me over the brink. I moan in spite of myself as exquisite pleasure cascades through me once more.

  Every part of my body is tingling, sensitive to his touch. He kneels between my legs, his prick probing the entrance to my quim, crushing my pearl. A sharp thrust, and he pulls away. His teeth find one breast, and his fingers the other. My rosy areola harden as he pinches and sucks.

  He thrusts his prick into me, to the hilt. I gasp and strain against the ties. His mouth is on my stiffened nipples, sucking hard as he withdraws. Oh, how I want his shaft to pierce me to the core. His eyes meet mine, burning into me, and I’m lost to him. Marco thrusts again, then stays still. I’ve reached my joy twice without his prick inside me. I want to feel him deep, to feel him move, to feel his hotness spill into me. About to beg at last, I open my mouth. But my plea is silenced as Marco’s weight comes down on me, his lips on mine in bruising, rough, ravenous kisses.

  Finally! Grazie a Dio! He fucks me properly, deep and slow. I want to wrap my legs around him, dig my fingernails into his arse, and hold him as he thrusts into me, faster now. I pull at the ties, jerk my legs, and kick out wildly. ‘Madonna santissima!’

  The fiery liquid of his seed fills me, and the hardness of his prick pushes against the lemon cupped inside me, and I can’t stop myself from shouting his name as I climax, ‘Marco!’

  He rolls off and unties me. Rubbing my wrists, where the cord has left marks, he kisses my forehead. Then, stretched out next to me, he recites:

  ‘My repayment from you has been

  not only to soar but to fly so high

  that my hopes have matched my desires.

  And your charms, which I never tire of praising,

  you’ve used for my delight;

  sweetly lying beside me,

  you’ve made me taste the joys of love

  and doing this, you’ve given me such pleasure

  that I could say I am fully happy,

  and at once have fallen more deeply in love.’

  How has he remembered, word-perfect, my verses? How has he adapted them so effortlessly? Truly the Magnifico Marco Venier is a god. I turn on my side to face him and trace my finger down his cheek. His powerful loving has made me his, but I know I have also made him mine.

  10

  ‘They say there’s sickness in the ghetto.’ Giulia is back from the market and is unloading vegetables from her basket onto the kitchen table while Anna checks them, lips pursed. I’m helping Lena give the boys their lunch, and trying to ignore the sweatiness that’s making my neck itch and my hair stick to my scalp. Flies buzz at the glass in our windows, sparking my irritation even more. ‘There’s always sickness in the ghetto,’ I snap. ‘Conditions are far too crowded there.’

  Lena takes the boys for their afternoon siesta, and, desperate to escape from the cloying warmth of the house for some fresh air, I call Maurizio to take me for a ride in our gondola. ’Tis late August now, and the days have been remorselessly hot for weeks. I can’t remember the last time it rained. Shrunken and sluggish, the canals fester with effluent, and the stink of myriad chamber pots hangs heavy in the air.

  I sit in the covered section at the centre of the boat, my mask in place, and soon Maurizio has sculled us towards the relative cool of the basin in front of the Doge’s Palace. Trailing my fingers in the sea, deep here and clean, I think about Marco, the hard line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the breadth of his shoulders, and my chest squeezes. His dominion over me has continued in the bedroom on a twice weekly basis; truly our love is like no other. He’s learnt there’s no need for exclusivity for when I’m with him, I belong to him alone. Marco has even consented to wearing the French sheaths provided by Ludovico, for our mutual protection.

  Lena was horrified when she saw my rosy backside and wrung from me details of Marco’s inclinations; she wanted me to give him up. Now she’s resigned to it, dear darling Lena. She even rubs arnica onto my buttocks, although Marco’s slaps only ever make them red for a short time and his bites never draw blood. He’s a master of the art of dominion and my subservience to him only happens in bed. When we talk before and after lovemaking, I sharpen my razor tongue against his and we duel as equals.

  My gaze lifts towards the blackened windows of the palace. Restoration work is already underway, I’ve heard. Apparently, the rooms are being redecorated in sumptuous style with stuccoes, sculptures and wood carvings. The authorities have commissioned work from our great painters, Tintoretto and Veronese, sparing no expense to show off the glory of the Serenissima.

  There’s movement on the quay below: six figures clad in black cloaks and cowls that make them appear like monks. I squint to get a better view. Oh Dio! They’re wearing masks with bone-white curving beaks and they stalk like a flock of gigantic birds along the jetty. My heart practically thuds out of my chest. Medici della Peste! Plague doctors! One for each of the six sestieri, the neighbourhoods of Venice. They look like vultures, their red crystal eyepieces catching the sun and glittering ravenously as if they’re about to peck the very flesh from our bones. ‘Take me home, Maurizio! It seems the city is assailed by pestilence.’

  Back at the house, once I’ve told of what I saw, Giulia, Anna and Domisilla whisper of boils and black skin, of buboes that split and ooze blood and pus, and a stench like no other. A cold sweat breaks out all over my body. Surely it won’t come to that?

  ‘Ha, those doctors with their beaks stuffed full of herbs and spices. They don’t know anything,’ Lena says. ‘It might help counteract bad smells but that won’t protect them. Only cleanliness will do that.’

  Later, there’s a rap at the door, and I go to answer. ’Tis Ludovico, and behind him stand Andrew and Marco. My three lovers here together. Things must be grim…

  ‘We want you to leave Venice,’ Ludovico announces. ‘I can go with you. My dear friend Giovanni della Torre, the Canon at the cathedral in Verona, has given me an open invitation to stay at his country villa. I’ll send a messenger in advance to advise him of our arrival.’

  ‘What about my household?’

  ‘The boys and Lena can come too, of course. But I’m afraid your staff will need to stay here. If they keep indoors they should be safe enough.’

  ‘If they’ll be safe, then we should be too.’

  ‘Veronica,’ Andrew interjects in a plead
ing tone. ‘Pray, take my son away until the sickness has run its course. I’m already making arrangements for my wife and daughters to stay near Treviso.’

  ‘And you will not go with them?’

  ‘I’ll be away on naval exercises, soon enough.’

  ‘And you, Marco?’

  ‘As Commissioner for Public Health, I need to stay and see this through. But I’m also sending my wife and sons to safety. They’ll go to our villa near Vicenza.’

  ‘Perhaps this is merely a minor outbreak,’ I say. ‘Could be it will pass us by, the way it has since the last great epidemic.’

  Marco’s eyes meet mine. ‘Then you can return to Venice shortly, and all will be well.’

  I wish I felt more optimistic, but that sense of foreboding is back, tenfold.

  Only once have I ever set foot outside the city of my birth and that was more than eight years ago, when I went on a pilgrimage to Rome. I found it unsettling to be away from the sea, and do not look forward to this impending exile. But I’ve listened to my lovers and have made my preparations. Not Lena, though. She says she won’t leave. ‘If I do, who’ll look after the others should they succumb to the disease?’

  We’re lying in bed, arms around each other. This night our lovemaking has been intense, yet at the same time terribly sad. The boys and I leave on the morrow. Ludovico’s boat will take us upriver as far as Padova, and from there we’ll travel overland by horse and carriage.

  ‘I wish you would reconsider, cara.’

  ‘Veronica, I’ve never been to the mainland. The thought of it terrifies me. No, ’tis better I remain here.’

  ‘Does it terrify you more than the plague?’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  I hold her close and kiss her deeply. ‘I’ll miss you, dearest.’

  ‘And I you.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll stay well.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good.’ I try to interject a note of optimism into my voice. ‘I shall leave you with enough funds, and send more if you need it. Now, let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

  Giovanni della Torre’s villa is perched on a hill at Fumane above Verona, surrounded by woodlands and a park. We arrived a week ago after travelling for three days, stopping off at taverns along the way. Achiletto and Enea wearied my patience towards the end of the journey, for their constant questioning, ‘How much farther, Mamma?’

  When Giovanni bounded down the steps and Ludovico swept him up in his arms, I understood straight away their bond to each other. Ludovico’s friend is a beautiful man, fair, blue-eyed, with a sway to his hips when he walks that’s unmistakable. And, sure enough, there’s been no riding of my arse since we arrived. I can’t help worrying about Ludovico. The Venetian Inquisitors have a large network of spies and informants – their tentacles might even reach as far as Verona – and sodomites risk execution by burning.

  This morning I’m standing on the white marble balcony outside the room that has been placed at my disposal. ’Tis a large chamber, and I share it with Achiletto and Enea. They’re outside already, playing chase on the lawn below. At Giovanni’s suggestion, I’ve hired a tutor for them: Rodolfo Vannitelli, a scrawny-looking tall young man, who comes highly recommended and is due to start in an hour’s time. He had to give up his legal studies at the University of Padova for lack of money. There’s something about the man that makes my flesh crawl, however. ’Tis the way he looks at me, as if I’m a piece of meat he’d like to devour. Ha! There isn’t a chance in Hell I would let him touch me.

  I go indoors. A desk has been placed at my disposal, with quill, parchment and ink. I take a seat and start a letter to Marco:

  This is your faithful Veronica who writes to you, she who lives in misery far away, her face turned pale and bathed in tears. Life is cruel death to me without you, and pleasures to me are torments and woes. I lament the hour and the day I was taken from my home and my beloved, for whom my bones now crumble into ash. Alas, how I curse my departure from you, although, dear soul, in all my thoughts, you are still tightly united with me.

  I almost jump out of my skin when the door crashes open. Enea jumps up and down. ‘Mamma, Mamma, come quick! We saw a deer in the park.’

  He and his brother tug at my hands and pull me through the opulence of the villa, Achiletto taking the lead, thankfully, or I would get lost. Everywhere I look, there’s a treasure trove of fine ornaments, polished porphyries, cornices, arches, columns, carvings, and friezes. The silver and gold are of such fine quality that it would be unmatched by the palaces built by ancient emperors and kings. We stride through a gallery hung with the portraits of Giovanni’s ancestors, across a long piano nobile, into a portico crowned by a gable, and finally down wide steps leading into the lush gardens, at the centre of which we come upon an emerald pool teeming with golden carp.

  Truly, I never realised there could be so many shades of the colour green: from the grass, to the trees, and the plants to the turf. We walk towards a field where sheep are grazing. Enea stops dead. ‘Mamma, why is that man eating that lady’s titty?’

  Dio mio! A shepherd is locked in an ardent embrace with a shepherdess under a shady tree to the left of us. The sound of hunting horns and he springs back from her taut brown nipple. She pulls up her chemise and they run towards the flock to move it out of the way of the hounds and horses, galloping towards the woods in pursuit of a stag.

  ‘Come, boys, let’s return to the villa. Your tutor will be here soon and you need to eat something first. I expect you can’t wait to start your lessons.’

  Enea drags his feet, but Achiletto runs on ahead. He’s the brighter of the two, always eager to learn new things. Jacomo has never acknowledged him as his son. No matter, for Ludovico has left Achiletto property in his will, and is more a father to him than his real one will ever be.

  Ludovico joins us at the breakfast table. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t visited your bed this past week, tesoro,’ he whispers, stroking my cheek. ‘I expect you can guess why.’

  I kiss his hand. ‘My dearest friend, I’m happy for you, but I’m also worried. Please be discreet!’

  ‘Of course. Here we are far away from prying eyes, but I’ll be careful all the same.’

  ‘What news from Venice?’

  ‘None yet. I expect we shall hear soon enough how the epidemic is progressing.’

  ‘You think ’tis bad?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  Fear squeezes my gut. Fear for Lena. Fear for Marco. Fear for my servants. I’m torn between relief that my boys and I are safe in this haven of health and tranquillity, and a terrible, terrible regret that I’ve left behind those I love to face such danger without me.

  At last, a month later, a letter comes from Marco: Lady, your absence has been to me, your faithful and devoted lover, a death as cruel as it was unexpected. The number of mortalities from the plague has been increasing with every day that passes. We hope the approaching winter will decrease the contagion. I have been to check on your children’s nanny and the rest of you household. All is well. ’Tis my greatest wish that I could come and visit you in Verona, sweet lady, but I expect the situation will stabilise in the New Year and soon you will be returned to me in Venice.

  I kiss his signature and put the letter away with my own papers. The morning stretches before me, with nothing to do but my writing. A thunderstorm last night has cleared the air, and outdoors beckons. I shall go for a walk before I start work. My boys are with their tutor, so I’ll go alone. Perhaps I’ll bump into Ludovico and Giovanni and we can enjoy a stroll the three of us. I’m not jealous of Giovanni, for Ludovico never makes me feel excluded, insisting I sit with them in the evenings to play the card game, Trappola, with one or other of them usually managing to take most of the tricks and winning, much to my pretended vexation. We play for small stakes, though. The government prohibits this game, for they frown on gambling, but, as long as we keep the activity behind closed doors, how will they find out?<
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  I enjoy the company of Ludovico and Giovanni, and the experience of friendship with two men without any sexual tension between us. How I long for a world where men and women can live together on an equal footing, the way I am living here, and for men who love each other to do so freely.

  A path leads to the woods at the summit of the hill. The scent of damp vegetation permeates the air; all around me birdsong echoes, crickets chirrup and sheep baa in the fields beyond. Truly the countryside is noisy, but my feet make no sound on the carpet of dead leaves below them. There’s a coppice up ahead, where I came to pick mushrooms with Achiletto and Enea when their tutor had his day off yesterday. I walk with determined steps towards it. The sound of voices stops me in my tracks. Who can be here? My heart thuds. Perhaps ’tis bandits? No, Veronica! Don’t be silly! Even so, I hide behind a thicket of bushy trees.

  Maria santissima! There are Ludovico and Giovanni. Naked as the day they were born. Stretched out next to each other on the small patch of grass in the middle of the clearing. I peer through the dark green foliage in front of me. Ludovico has the body of a Greek god: broad shoulders, well-muscled torso and sturdy thighs. Giovanni is taller than Ludovico, but only slightly, and my breath catches at the sight of his lean figure: strong-looking arms, sculpted legs, and muscular hips.

  Ludovico has Giovanni’s long thick prick in his hand, and he’s stroking it slowly with a full-handed grip while Giovanni, risen up on his elbows, watches himself being touched. My quim twitches and fills with moisture. The men kiss hard and deep. I unlace my cod (I dress in masculine attire all the time here), slip my hand between my cunny lips, and cover it with wetness. I feel empty inside, empty and hungry and intensely aroused. With the other hand I reach under my doublet and roll a nipple between my fingers and thumb, biting down hard on my lips.