Random Acts of Lust

by Primula Bond

  She was already being pumped to bursting point by the dildo, what the fuck was he doing, Christ, he was ramming himself between her cheeks, penetrating that tight resisting ring and making it melt open for him.

  And now Ali kicked off his trousers and came to kneel over Mona’s face so that she was forced to fondle his balls and stick her fingers up his backside, spreading his buttocks so she could lift her strong neck and lick his arse hole with that amazing tongue of hers, and as Salome gaped at what they were doing and bounced on the dildo, Ali aimed his cock, straight and hard, at Salome’s face and with no word, and at the same moment as Khaled penetrated her bottom, Ali pushed his cock into Salome’s mouth.

  ‘At last. She’s silent,’ he grunted. Salome’s every orifice was brutally forced, and filled, bursting and burning with pain, shame, and a dark, dark desire.

  All three of them possessed her, a perfect team. Khaled’s breath was hot on her neck. Mona was strong as an ox, no sign of stopping. Ali fucked her face and mouth. She couldn’t stop bucking and grinding, chasing her pleasure and grunting like the animal she’d become.

  The nipple clamps were like terrier’s teeth, worrying at her, the exquisite pain now real agony, somehow numb and acute at the same time, shivering down to every nerve end, making her lift and plunge on to the dildo, grind harder onto Khaled, bite and suck on Ali’s cock.

  Mona in particular gripped her like a limpet, long sharp nails digging into her skin, the phallus pushing further and faster, loosening her for Khaled, too, so that each time he went up her backside, the dildo went up more easily, everything lubricated by her juices. As she rocked forwards she was shafted up her cunt, as she rocked backwards it was up her arse, so her insides were melting too, she was opening her legs and buttocks as wide as she could, Mona and Khaled had her wide open, using her like a toy. Her jaw was cracking with the effort of taking the length of Ali’s urgent cock.

  The boat bumped hard, as if it was coming alongside. What if the police were here? What if the tour group were about to storm the store room to rescue her from terror and torture, only to find her loving it, impaled by not two but three huge cocks, pinning her as if she was on some kind of rack.

  The thought of them watching her made her arch wildly with pleasure as her climax crashed through her. She was feverish with the madness and danger of it all and let her body grip and slacken, fast and slow, until the men were moaning and grunting and spurting up her arse, down her throat, using every part for punishment and pleasure.

  The heat and silence in the bare cabin was total, time stretching like frayed rope. The boat swayed and rocked under them, making Salome sick, dizzy and delirious at the same time. She thought, through the window, she could see a fluffy cloud in the sky, just like England.

  And in the corner a hard black shape, about the size of an avocado, flickered in the basket, dislodging the fruit, and one of the figs rolled out.

  Ali’s mobile phone rang, and he answered it, his cock still in Salome’s breathless mouth.

  ‘Money’s here,’ he drawled, snapping it shut. ‘But it seems the group won’t be going back to the States for a while. They’re all holed up in the Winter Palace. Gone down with some kind of poisoning.’

  He kicked Salome out of the way and laid Mona out beneath him like a feast. He wrenched the buckles and straps undone, and threw her skirt up so that it floated down over her body like a parachute. Mona squealed and squirmed with pleasure.

  ‘Your turn, habibti. You’ve earned yourself a good fucking.’ He took his cock and nudged it up into the thick black bush covering Mona’s pussy. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Still here, bitch?’

  Salome sat back on her haunches. The metal ring had warmed to blood heat round her ankle and fitted like another bone. Out of the basket of figs the shape scuttled onto the floor, its tail curved over its back like a question mark.

  ‘Yes,’ said Salome, fingers trailing up her hot, sticky thighs as she settled down to watch. ‘I’m still here.’

  Vivaldi’s Girls

  IT’S USUAL FOR SERENA and the other novices to be guided across Venice in the dark, shielded from the glare of daylight and men’s stares. They are always taken to instruction or singing practice in the middle of the night. But she has no idea why. Their regulation grey cloaks conceal every lovely hint of burgeoning breast or hip as completely as any yashmak, so who’s to know they’re female?

  After all, the girls were out, sans chaperone, when they first drew her under their wings.

  But she knows she shouldn’t question. The very reason she allowed, no, yearned for them to entice her into their silent, incense-flavoured world was to stop all the questioning.

  So here they are, creeping obediently through the streets. They’ve fastened the drooping cowl hoods over their hair, not yet shaved off but pulled into viciously tight ballerina buns. Like so many Grey Riding Hoods they glide one behind the other in a delicate crocodile. The lit-up shop fronts glitter with glass trinkets, or glow with expensive leather. Trattorias and bars flash music and voices as they pass, then fade behind them. Eyes down, watching the tips of their bare toes kicking out from their heavy skirts, growing stiff and cold.

  Tonight feels different, though. It’s Carnivale and she can smell spice and madness in the air.

  Their minder, Carlo, plucked just three of them from the dormitory tonight, rousing them from their wooden beds high up in the attics of the Palazzo Tremelli. As they step through the cobweb of alleyways, they seem to be skirting dangerously close to the Rialto Bridge and the louche revelry spreading through the city. They have been told that if they ever venture out unaccompanied, Carlo will treat them to one of his infamous, prolonged floggings.

  Serena hasn’t dared disobey, but others frequently do, because she’s heard the lashings. The rush of the whip through the air and the reverberating slap hitting naked flesh. The initial gasps and screams of shock and pain behind the wooden door, choking into what she imagines must be the low, shivering moans of exhaustion and surrender. Carlo’s low curses, his rhythmic grunts of effort as the lash rises and falls, answered by the victim’s moans, makes him sound like a man fucking. All that is behind her now. But it still makes her fidgety and hot as she listens.

  But of course he’s not fucking them – he’s there to punish them. She’s seen the stripes of shame across the bare bottoms of her sisters when they’ve returned, swaying wide-legged like cowgirls, a weird smile playing on their zipped lips. She assumes they’re smiles of gratitude because the punishment has made them purer. Eyes bright with secrets. Then they’ve silently lifted their grey skirts, making her recoil with prickly embarrassment as they’ve bent over to make their bottoms open slightly, showing the lavender crack, and shown everyone the hot red welts.

  So there’s no danger of Serena wandering anywhere. In any case, she’s totally lost. She may as well be playing blind man’s buff.

  And that’s just the way she likes it.

  Earlier, Carlo marched them down the back stairs of the palazzo, through the little garden permeated with lemon scents, across the slippery jetty and onto to the gondola which rocks temptingly on the green water, rippling very slightly beneath their shuttered windows, promising adventure.

  But you don’t want adventure, Serena tells herself, getting sweaty under the cloak even though her bare feet are freezing on the paving stones. That’s why you’re here.

  In the Bar Florian, three weeks ago, her friend Alissia picked up her bags and stared at Serena as if she was deranged.

  ‘You paid a fortune for this dating weekend, you’ve got guys all over you like a rash, and you’re letting us go home without you? Vince is livid, you know. Christ, you even had that horny glass-blower up against the wall like a hooker!’ Alissia tapped the side of her head. ‘And now you want contemplation and solitude?’

  ‘Button it! People are staring!’ Serena pressed her finger to her lips. ‘Scoot. You’ll miss the plane.’

  ‘I don’t get it �
��‘

  ‘It’s not yours to get. I just want my life to change.’

  When Alissia and the others had gone, Serena closed her tired eyes to bathe in the muted gold lamplight. She breathed in the aroma of hot chocolate mixed with sweet Marsala and wondered what the fuck she was going to do next.

  A soft noise made her open them again. A group of women appeared beside her banquette, emerging from a mirrored panel. They pulled soft grey hoods over their faces as they glided through the crowd across the marble floor.

  They all looked incredibly young. A glimpse of severely pinned hair made their long necks look swan like and vulnerable. As Serena drained her gut-simmering sambucca the door kissed shut behind them. A weird panic gripped her. The tendons at the top of her thighs twanged as she stumbled out after them.

  To her right the golden façade of the basilica San Marco gleamed through the winter mist. She could almost see the ghost of herself with the glass-blower last night, running hand in hand across the deserted piazza. He’d pulled her into the shadows behind the church, deep into a creepy dank alcove which was pitch dark and dripping wet from the recent floods. As he slammed her against the wall the bricks seemed to vibrate with loud remembered organ music.

  The glass-blower stared at her for a moment. He had slanted sea-green eyes. She grabbed his head to kiss him and tangled her fingers in his long silky hair.

  His buckle jabbed at her flimsy skirt as he ground against her and she wriggled into him. After hours of drinking and flirting she was wired. She let him prize her mouth open with his tongue, sucked on his tongue, opened her legs to rub herself on the bulge of his cock.

  Shafts of excitement shot up the back of her legs just remembering it. Alissia was so wrong. Last night she was hungrier and hornier than any cynical old hooker.

  Her head had banged against the wall as he kissed her harder, if you could call it kissing. More like devouring. Her knees started to buckle as he tugged her silky dress up. He ran his fingers underneath and sank them into the soft flesh of her butt, lifting her quickly so that she was forced to wrap her legs round him. Her pussy slicked open, sticking to the lacy knickers as her dress floated up round her waist and her thighs strained to grip him.

  He bent his knees slightly to balance them both against the wall and then his fingers were ripping off her knickers and diving deep into the damp crack between her cheeks, searching and sliding inside her tender flesh. She couldn’t tell whether it was sweat, wetness from the wall, or cream from her pussy, but she was seething with excitement now, opening wider for his fingers, to grip him, grinding her cunt against his jeans, wetting them with her pussy juices.

  He groaned unevenly as his fingers slid in and out of her, releasing her urgent, musky scent into the cold air, driving her wild with wanting. She slid her hand down to scrabble at his belt, grinning at the sexy wet noises they were making, their ragged gasping, as her legs parted and his hot cock thumped into her hand.

  There were footsteps, echoing off the walls, whispers skidding across the khaki water of the narrow canal beside them.

  The glass-blower lifted his head, lips wet with saliva, and they stared at each other like babes in the wood, eyes glittering in the freezing gloom as watchful silence closed in again. Serena was quivering violently now, with the cold and the desire and the effort of gripping him. His tongue pushed hungrily in again and he hoisted her so that she was tilted backwards into the alcove, then with a sexy jerk of his hips he pushed his cock smoothly inside and started to fuck her.

  Serena’s pussy pulsed just to remember it. She had barely felt the scratch of rough bricks against her back as he pulled her towards him and away, thrust his cock harder inside her, faster and faster, so that the wicked excitement of the cold, wet open air rushed over her and she came far too quickly, clinging and shivering behind the church on the last night of her holiday. She didn’t even know his name. Just, yes, just like a last-chance hooker.

  A grey swirl caught her eye as she hovered outside Florian, remembering. To her left there was a copse of marble colonnades, and she started walking towards the group of nuns or whatever they were. They looked as if they were playing hopscotch, but she now knows they were skipping on the spot while they waited for her, because of the cold on their bare feet.

  ‘You look lost.’ One of them touched her arm. Serena looked at the strong, olive-skinned fingers resting on her red suede jacket, then up at the calm face shrouded by the hood. At the base of the girl’s throat was a silver cross, jumping lightly with her pulse.

  ‘Do you have somewhere to go?’ She had huge brown eyes. The others gathered behind her and gazed at Serena, inclining their heads stiffly like sombre birds.

  ‘No, sister. Nowhere.’

  ‘Why don’t you let us take care of you tonight? We always love a visitor.’

  Their breeze wafted Serena in their wake, out of the square and into the knitted maze of streets.

  ‘What were you doing in the cafe Florian?’ she asked the brown-eyed girl as they walked.

  ‘Singing for the Vivaldi choir.’

  ‘It still exists? I thought that was for the abandoned daughters of courtesans. And centuries ago. Not for nuns?’

  ‘People can call us what they like. We’re Vivaldi’s girls.’

  She took Serena’s hand and they hurried through the city. Serena was just wishing she could unwind a skein of thread to find her way back when one by one the nuns popped through a tiny arched door, like doves into a dove cote, and led her into a dark garden peopled with lemon trees.

  ‘Where are we?’ Serena watched their shadows on the wall as they climbed some stairs and passed into a formal drawing room which smelt of sherry and peppermints. The others drifted away through doors and up other staircases. ‘Is it a convent?’

  ‘I guess you could call it a place of retreat.’ The girl untied her cloak and dropped it on to a huge velvet sofa. She smoothed a coil of black hair off her forehead. ‘Just what you’re looking for, no?’

  She gave Serena a huge goblet of dark red liquid and as she fell into a hazy sleep it made all the sense in the world to let the girl with the brown eyes lay her down and take off all her clothes.

  Their senses are battered now by violent revelry. Masked figures, jerking like puppets or deathly as corpses, parade across the water and over the spindly bridges. Even Carlo is dressed strangely tonight. He has on his customary leather mask, the one that makes him look like an executioner. The girls secretly giggle, when he’s locked them into their dormitory at night and thumped away down the stairs, that underneath it he must look like Shrek.

  But tonight beneath his long cloak they can see he’s wearing elaborate patent dancing shoes with gold buckles beaten into the letter C.

  When they stumble across a shadowy, ill lit campo, leopards, witches and eagles lunge at them and fall away, cackling.

  Serena’s heart is pounding and she grabs the brown-eyed girl’s hand. Her name is Maria. Carlo doesn’t see them touching, otherwise he would take both girls aside into a corner, there and then, for a quick punishment. As Maria tucks her hand up under her sleeve and strokes her wrist, Serena wonders when her time for that will come. He seems distracted and rushed tonight. He pushes them all up a wide dark stairway, much like the one at the Palazzo Tremelli, marshals them into a row, then vanishes.

  A door in front of them creaks open. They are sucked in to a room where jewel-red bulbs splinter their seductive light through cracked glass shades. Ball gowns hang from rails, gilded mirrors endlessly reflect the walls. A heady perfume lies like mist across the ceiling, and it fills their skulls.

  ‘Ah! Vivaldi’s girls!’

  A vast woman with black hair coiled in a tower bears down on them, licking her thick purple lips. She rips their cloaks off as they stand around, blinking like a bunch of Bambis, eyes huge in the bright light. They stagger in their little herd towards a vast mirror propped against the French blue painted panelled wall.

  ‘And those hideous d
resses! Off!’

  ‘Maria? What do we do now?’ Serena looks round. Maria is their leader. Their Sister Superior. But she and Lucia have weirdly gone into little girl mode, wrapping their arms round each other’s waists for comfort. They whisper and shake their heads at their reflected themselves.

  ‘We can’t take them off. We’re, you know, protected.’ Serena speaks quietly. Her voice is a hiss in the huge room. ‘We’re not even supposed to speak, let alone be seen. We’re trying to live the holy life.’

  ‘Oh, is that what they’re calling it now?’ The woman cackles, from somewhere down in her belly, and her bosoms shake like huge jellies. ‘I’ll go along with that, just makes it all the kinkier.’

  The woman takes hold of Serena, who has been abandoned by the others, looks at her, and reaches round to unpin her hair. Serena snatches her head back. ‘Carlo will be back, and if he sees us talking, let alone undressing –’

  ‘He’ll get a massive boner, if I know Carlo!’

  Serena’s mouth drops open. She manages to croak ‘– we’ll all be in massive trouble.’

  At that the woman laughs all the louder. Maria and Lucia giggle behind their hands, geisha style, and start to unbutton each other. Fingers of fear crawl up Serena’s spine.

  ‘Carlo brought you here as the entertainment. Didn’t you know? He promised me the best.’ The woman twists Serena round, and swiftly unbuttons her dress. ‘And he never disappoints. Eh, Maria?’

  Maria smiles, head bowed, and steps out of her dress. Instead of the plain white linen shifts they usually wear, day and night, she and Lucia are wearing diaphanous see-through baby dolls.

  ‘Maria?’ Serena pleads across the misty room. ‘Say something!’