Florentine Enchantment

by Judith B. Glad

  With infinite tenderness, he kissed my cheeks, my forehead, my eyelids. His tongue laved my chin, the cords of my neck. His teeth nipped my earlobe and grazed the edge of my jaw.

  My legs threatened to give way and I sagged against him. With one sweep of his strong arms, he picked me up and carried me the two short steps to his narrow cot.

  "If I lay you down there, mio amore, you will be mine. Stop me now, or accept what I am, what I will do."

  I covered his mouth. "Say no more," I told him. "Just make me yours."

  "Ah, mia Lucia, you unman me."

  "I hope not. It is your manhood I want. Oh, Vido, how I want you."

  His knees bent. He laid me on the rumpled bed and fell atop me. I gloried in the weight of him. Drank in the male scent of him.

  One of his legs was hooked around mine, holding me in place. He reared up on his elbows and attacked the tiny buttons of my bodice. "Ah, what a puzzle," he said, as he clumsily worked each loose from its loop. "Designed, no doubt, by a conscientious duenna."

  I laughed. "No, by a modista who thought me a rich English tourist."

  As the last button gave way, he pushed the fabric aside, revealing my camisole. "Lace. So delicate. So soft." It was not the lace trim he stroked a rough forefinger across, but the skin just above it. I felt that touch all the way to my nether lips.

  Once again he attacked buttons, this time the small pearl ones that held my camisole closed. They yielded to his impatient fingers easily. His mouth followed his fingers. Kissing, licking, nibbling across the top of my corset, where my breasts all but spilled out. His whiskers prickled, a small almost-pain on the tender skin.

  I shivered, and pulled his face tight against me. "You will need to remove my outer clothing before going any farther," I told him. "The corset opens in the back." I could hardly wait until my body was bare to him. After so long of pretending to be a man, the very thought of having someone appreciate my female shape, my woman's body, was arousing. That Vido was so enthusiastic made the thrill all the greater.

  "I have a better idea," he said, just before rolling to his back and taking me with him. I squealed as he teetered on the edge of the narrow cot, then relaxed—a small bit—when he scooted toward its center.

  I was atop his body. My skirt hiked above my knees, my lower legs tangled with his. Both petticoats frothed about his legs, snowy white contrast to the dark serge of his trousers and the navy broadcloth of my skirt.

  "Sit astride me," he commanded.

  I obeyed, resting between his knees and hips. It felt strange to be there, certainly in a more intimate position than I had ever been upon my father's lap.

  When he raised his knees, I fell forward, barely catching myself on my outstretched hands. "Vido!"

  "Come closer. Sit...here." his hand lightly touched the elongated bulge in his trousers.

  I raised on my knees and moved forward, half-crawl, half-walk. But I did not sit where he'd indicated. I wanted to explore, for I'd never seen a fully aroused man before. My understanding of the effects desire had on the male body was drawn from conversations overheard when men talked of their conquests. Thinking me one of themselves, they had never hesitated to describe graphically what they had done to the puttane they patronized, or to the innocent maidens they'd seduced.

  I knew a man's penis grew large and hard, but until now I'd no idea how large and how hard. As I settled myself astride Vido's hips, I laid both hands, fingers outstretched, across his pelvis.

  He gasped when my thumbs pressed across that long shape. "I have buttons too," he said, his voice strained.

  I toyed with one. "I see you do. And what am I to do with them?"

  "What one usually does with buttons, dulce Lucia. Undo them."

  I looked into his dark eyes. Desire burned there. My body responded with a gush of fluid, one that left my petticoats damp. I reached for the fall of his trousers and undid the buttons along one side. Three of them. Before opening the other three, I traced again the long shape elevating the front of his trousers.

  "Lucia!" The word was a plea.

  I opened the other side and laid the flap back. His penis sprang free.

  I thought back for an instant to my visions of David's penis engorged and erect. How paltry my imagination had been. This was the magnificent spear of a warrior, when I'd imagined a lad's toy.

  Taking it between my palms, I squeezed lightly, wondering at the contrast of satiny skin and steely core.

  Breath hissed between Vido's clenched teeth. "Be careful," he gasped.

  I traced a finger across the swollen tip of him, where a narrow slit oozed a glistening droplet. It was hot to my touch. "Careful? Why should I be?"

  "Because if you are not, you may find yourself surprised."

  I slid my hand experimentally down his shaft, back up again. Another droplet had formed at the tip. Without thought, I leaned forward and touched my tongue to it.

  "You are salty."

  "You are reckless," he replied. His hands grasped my wrists again, but this time they pulled me to him, instead of pushing me away.

  He pulled me higher on his body, until I sat directly over his penis. Transferring both my wrists to one of his hands, he reached down with the other and pulled my skirts from between us. I felt the rough serge of his trousers against my intimate parts.

  Embarrassed, I tried to move back. It was one thing for me to dampen my own clothing, quite another for me to soak his. Despite my belief that such a secretion was a natural thing for a woman, it still struck me as somehow...impolite.

  Not so Vido. "I feel your wetness," he whispered hoarsely, a moment after I was firmly seated astride his belly. "You are ready for me." An expression of wonder filled his face. "You truly desire me as I do you."

  "Of course," I told him. "Why else would I be here?" Leaning forward I kissed him, boldly pushing my tongue into his mouth. A faint memory of the wine he'd drunk earlier remained, adding piquancy to his unique taste.

  I ran the tip of my tongue across the edges of his teeth. His tongue came to meet mine, to spar with it. A soft humming vibrated his chest as he sucked my tongue even deeper, held it prisoner.

  By the time he let me go, I was weak with wanting him and he was breathing in deep gasps, as if he'd just run a long race.

  "It is time, Vido. Let there be no more play between us."

  His lips firmed before parting in a flashing smile. "You will not allow me to be noble, will you, cara mia? I was about to offer you one last chance to—"

  "To be a fool," I snapped. "Or is it you who is the fool? Do you not realize that I have already made my choice? I will not renege." Two deep breaths calmed me. "Vido, we have something special between us. I have never felt...never wanted...oh, I haven't the words. Just believe me when I say that I have no doubts, no hesitations."

  I held my arms out to him. "Love me. Now!"

  As if released from bondage, he moved. His strong arms lifted me away from him and he rolled to his feet. In the next instant I was standing, my back to him, as he stripped me of my outer garments. Before his nimble fingers attacked the laces of my corset, he paused to lay a line of kisses along each shoulder, to lick my nape, and then chill it with the heat of his breath.

  Now that the sun was lower in the sky, a golden beam drew a narrow path across the floor. He pulled me into it, so that my body seemed magically gilded. His hands at my waist turned me, until the sunlight washed my entire body.

  I felt no embarrassment, was entirely without modesty as he gazed at me, a gaze so intense, so palpable that I felt it like a ghostly caress.

  "Mia Lucia," he breathed, awe clear in the sound, "you are beautiful."

  I am not, at least not by the local standards. I am too thin, too angular. My skin is pale and freckled, my hands and feet large. I make a far better lad than lass. But when I shook my head, he caught it between his big hands.

  "You are beautiful. To me you are the most beautiful woman in the universe. I have waited for you for..
.for a long time." Slowly he bent and kissed me, not with passion this time, but with tenderness.

  His hands cupped my breasts then. I started in surprise. I have sometimes imagined a man's hands upon me, have touched my own body, but my hands are small in comparison to his, lacking the hard callus of his palms.

  My nipples flowered and he caught them between his fingers, rolling them, plucking them, until I was ready to scream with pleasure. I sagged, and immediately he caught me up in his strong arms. Once again he laid me on the bed, but remained standing beside it.

  "You are still clothed," I said, rising onto one elbow. "Let me—"

  "Not this time." His hands pulled his shirt from his trousers. "I daren't let you touch me." In the space of two breaths he stood naked before me.

  I stared, wondering why unclothed he seemed familiar. Since I had never before seen a living man without his clothes, I put the thought aside as mere fancy. Instead I reached up with open arms. "Come to me now."

  He knelt beside the bed. "First I will pleasure you." His hand cupped my mound, pressed.

  I reared against him, wanting more. "No, let me—"

  "It will pleasure me as well," he said, as his fingers stroked the thick, curly hair that concealed my woman's parts. "Seeing you, touching you, knowing I can pleasure you, make you scream with pleasure."

  One finger dipped deeper, parting my nether lips, touching, briefly, the small bud that lay hidden there.

  "Ah, you like that?" He dipped again, then slid his whole hand between my legs. I felt a finger at the entrance to my vagina, spread my legs to encourage it to enter.

  But he only teased, running the finger back and forth, back and forth, until I was sobbing with anticipation, with need. "Please," I gasped, "please...please!"

  "So impatient, so eager" His smile told me how I pleased him with my impatience.

  His hands moved higher, eliciting a sob of disappointment as they left my oh, so sensitive tissues. Before I knew what he was doing, he had rotated me on the cot, placing me so that my lower legs hung over the edge. My toes brushed the floor, my calves hung on either side of his thighs. I rubbed my ankles against him, felt the slight rasp of coarse hair against the skin on the inside of my knees.

  Once again he cupped me, but his hand lingered only briefly as he came even closer to the edge of the cot. His hands stroked my legs, from knees to ankles, but instead of returning to my knees, he encircled my ankles with his long fingers and lifted them to his shoulder.

  "No—" Hot blood flooded my face and chest. Even in the dim light, what must he be seeing?

  Turning his head, he kissed the inner part of my thigh, then nipped, catching a small fold of skin between sharp teeth. Although there was pain, there was infinitely more pleasure, particularly when his raspy tongue laved the small injury. "I must taste you," he murmured, "as you did me."

  He bent to me.

  How can I describe the sensations as his mouth opened over me? At last I understood the ecstasy of Santo Teresa, pierced by an angel's golden arrows. His tongue, hot and agile, circled my sensitive bud, bringing it to plump turgidity, awakening it to every sensation, sending waves of heat through my body. A tingle began in my toes, hovered there, and rushed up my legs. It met the inferno burning from my belly, and the two exploded as Vido's mouth closed over me. He drew me between his lips and suckled.

  I screamed as I bucked against his face. My legs locked around his head. I held him imprisoned against me as waves of sensation swept again and again through me.

  An eternity later, he pulled free and sat back on his haunches, smiling. "You liked that."

  It was not a question.

  I nodded slowly, unable to move anything but my head. Perhaps next week I would regain my strength. Or the week after.

  Vido removed my legs from his shoulders and let them slide to the floor. He bent over me and lifted, his hands raising me as if I weighed no more than a feather. Once more I lay lengthwise on the hard, lumpy cot. I could have been on a bed of nails, for all I cared.

  He lay down beside me, the two of us only just fitting on the narrow cot. The sunbeam had moved across the room and now illuminated the white plaster wall behind the bed, so brightly that the entire room was alight with a golden glow.

  I raised my self on an elbow and looked across his supine body, curious about the place where he lived. Beyond a chair and the bed, there was nothing. Three shelves were hung on the wall to the left of the door. They held books and a few other items whose identity I could not discern. Two pegs, on which hung dark clothing, protruded from the wall to the right of the door. There was no cupboard for food, no chest for personal items or treasures. "How do you live here?" I wondered aloud.

  Because I had glanced at his face when I spoke, I saw the swift grimace of—pain?—that passed across his face. "I have few needs," he said. "This is only a place to sleep."

  His tone told me I was trespassing on forbidden ground. I let my temper get the best of my common sense. "And a place to bring foolish young women who cannot resist your manly wiles." How many, I wondered. How many women had he brought here, had he pleasured beyond belief?

  He was silent a long time. Long enough to give me time to regret my words. After all, he had made no promises, had not disguised his intentions.

  "There have been others," he said at last, his voice little more than a husky whisper, his words halting. "I have lived here many years, and in that time there have been women who shared themselves with me for a day or a week. None have ever chosen to remain for long." Raising his arm, he laid it across his eyes. "I have been lonely more often than not."

  How could this be? Even with his face mostly covered, I could see the beauty of it. His mouth, sensuous enough to tempt a saint to damnation, his eyes, deep-set and darkly mysterious, his chin, strong and determined. Not a pretty face, but a memorable one, masculine. Good.

  Before I could stop the words, they spilled out, forced from my mouth by the hope in my heart. "Have you ever asked a woman to stay?"

  "I cannot." A deep breath shuddered from his body. "It is...not permitted."

  I lay back down, wondering about his words. Was he a criminal, confined to a certain area? Or was there something...wrong...with him? I had heard of men who behaved in bizarre fashion, had listened as the old women in the marketplace smacked their lips and related horrible tales about rapists and robbers and murderers. Of course I knew there are dangers in the world—my mother's fate was ample evidence of that—but somehow I never thought of myself being in danger. I am a cautious person. I never take chances, never step off of the narrow path of prudent behavior.

  So? Giving yourself to a man whom you've known for mere hours is prudent?

  A long, shuddering sigh from Vido broke into my dark self-reproach. It brought me to my senses. "I must go. It will be dark soon."

  He pushed himself upright. "Yes," he said on a sigh, "I suppose you must." With that sinuous grace I so admired, he rose to his feet and reached for his clothing.

  Most men, when pulling on their trousers, are ungainly. Or at least I always feel as if I am, when I don mine, along with my male persona. I should have been dressing, but instead I simply watched him.

  Vido's every gesture, every motion was smooth, as if he was totally at home in his body, as if he personally commanded every muscle, every tendon to perform perfectly. His flesh gleamed in the last rays of sunlight, making him seem more gilded sculpture than flesh-and-blood man. I did not quite drool like a nursling, but saliva gathered in my mouth as I watched him. Had he but glanced my way, spoken one kind word, I might have promised then and there to stay with him forever.

  He turned toward me, still stuffing the tail of his shirt into his trousers. "I will walk you to the edge of the piazza." For a long, heart-stopping moment he stared at me, still naked, still lying in his bed, my skin marked with love bites, my hair tousled, my lips—both sets—swollen and tender.

  "Yes, all right. I will...just let me... Please!" I c
ould not rise and clothe myself with him watching me. I fluttered my hands at him. "Go away, please. Outside."

  With a curt nod, he opened the door just wide enough to allow his body to slip through. Once alone, I made short work of clothing myself, pulling the strings of my corset just tight enough that I might fasten the petticoat strings. I stuffed my stockings into my pocket and slipped bare feet into my half-boots. There was no mirror, so I ran shaking fingers through my hair before covering it with my bonnet. When I was dressed, I pulled the door open. He was standing just outside. "I'm going now," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. "But there is no need—"

  "There is every need, cara mia. Come, take my arm." Instead of waiting for me to obey, he caught my hand and laid it across his forearm.

  "Where are you taking me?" I asked when his grip pulled me toward the fountain. "This is not the route to my home."

  "I want you to see something," he said. "You might understand." There was a curious emphasis on you, as if I were somehow special. He urged me forward. "Come."

  We walked past the fountain of Neptune and along the front of the palazzo. Since I had always approached my David from across the piazza, I saw a different side of him, with his face turned away and his penis concealed by the hand that hung against his thigh.

  Vido pulled me to a halt not six feet from the base of the sculpture. "Look," he commanded. "Tell me what you see."

  "What am I supposed to see? It is a sculpture, the most beautiful sculpture in the world. I have seen it a thousand times, and each time it is new and wonderful." I had begun speaking in irritation, but as I gazed upon splendor, I was soothed, and my last words came out almost a croon.

  "Look again. Do you see anything...familiar?"

  He was trying to tell me something. What? I looked again. I walked all around David, staring intently, mentally tallying the features that make the marble seem almost alive—muscles, tendons, flesh and hair, all carved by a master's hand, yet somehow seeming so vital, so alive that David should be able to breathe, to move. To step off his pedestal and walk the streets of Firenze like any native.