by Primula Bond
But Maria just puts her finger to mouth, making a dent in her plump red lips as Lucia unpins Maria’s dark hair and combs it out with her fingers. It ripples down her back. Then she unpins her own, and pulls Maria close to her again. They could be twins.
The room is cool, and the sharp air bites at Serena’s nipples through the linen, making them stiff.
‘Just do as you’re told, like your sisters,’ says the woman. ‘And call me Signora.’
She lumbers about the room, selecting various garments to hold against up against the other girls’ cheeks, pulling their hair up again, but into baroque, tumbling structures involving bows and butterflies’ wings. She swivels them this way and that, and as they are pushed together in front of the mirror their little nightgowns ride up and Serena’s eyes are drawn towards the neat triangles tucked between their legs.
Next Signora plants herself between them, trailing her hands down their throats, fingering the young swell of their breasts while Serena watches, her body prickling with the remnants of fear and a new, creeping curiosity.
The thought flashes like a trapped bird. How far removed she is from Alissia, those accountant guys, the dating agency. Even the glass-blower –
‘Come here, my lovelies.’
Maria and Lucia are drawn to Signora like chips to a big black magnet. Although she’s vast and severe, Signora’s touch seems soothing to the point of hypnosis. Their mouths fall open and they shuffle closer. She presses their dark heads into her heaving, flushed bosom, which bulges out of a corset shiny as ravens’ wings. It looks like a huge embrace, but then they nuzzle into the crack of her cleavage, eyes closed as they breathe in her heavy scent and lick at her glossy skin. Their fingers start groping under their nighties, exploring each other’s cute bodies, stroking and squeezing each other’s bottoms, fingering their pussies –
‘Oh, why does he keep you to himself? Why can’t I have a taste of you more often?’
Signora’s hands are restless, roving over the soft dent in their bent necks, smacking their hands out of the way so that she too can run her fingers down their spines to cup their high, firm buttocks. Lucia wriggles and blushes, cleaving closer to Maria, aiming quick kisses at Maria’s neck. But Serena, watching out in the cold, sees a new, sharp gleam in Maria’s eyes, which are fixed on Serena. Maria is not giggling or wriggling. While Signora is groping them both openly now, lifting up their garments to take a look at their breasts, their pussies, their bottoms, shifting her own heavy hips from side to side as if she needs to wee, Maria is very still, letting the woman touch her all over but circling one arm around Lucia’s hips so that her hand comes to rest possessively on Lucia’s crotch.
Suddenly Signora tugs at her own bodice to free the wobbling ocean of her bosoms. Her breasts roll out, velvety and brown, sheened with sweat, and her large brown teats poke out stiff as conkers. Serena’s stomach tightens with sick excitement. A new throbbing sets up in the hot place between her legs. The last person to touch her there was the glass-blower.
Lucia squeals. Maria’s eyes shift from Serena to stare at Signora’s huge offering. Serena expects her to pull away in disgust. But as Signora lifts the enormous breasts towards her face, muttering in Italian and offering them to suck, Maria’s eyes gleam again. The woman arches her back, wraps her arms round their necks, and pushes both girls’ faces in between her breasts, rotating their uncomplaining heads against the cushioned flesh until their red, wet mouths open readily.
‘Go on, now. Suck me.’
Signora’s head falls back. Her tongue comes out to swipe across her purple lips. Maria’s hand disappears under the folds of Signora’s skirt and by the flexing of her arm Serena knows that Maria is touching the woman up. Serena falls back dizzily against the glass dressing table heaped with jewels. Although the groping, touching, kissing and sucking are mostly silent, the peace of the last three weeks has been well and truly ripped away. Because all Serena wants right now is someone to suck her burning nipples.
There is a rap at the door. Not the door where they entered, but one that is concealed in a medieval tapestry on the opposite wall. Music beats from the other side.
‘Signora! Bring the girls in now!’
‘Shit. Others are waiting for you,’ Signora growls.
She pushes Maria and Lucia roughly away from her. Their mouths leave her nipples with a wet smacking sound. She sighs and hoists her breasts, nipples hard and wet from their licking, back into her corset and steps across the room to shake out two identical ice blue dresses from a rail. She tips her chin at the girls and they start to raise the lacy hems of their nightgowns, up their slim brown thighs. Lucia tries to close her legs to hide her bare pussy. Maria tips her hip like a catwalk model, brazenly thrusting her crotch out for inspection.
Serena’s head swims deliciously as if she’s drunk the perfume. Her tongue is trapped between her teeth, urging her sisters on now, off, off, off, itching to see them totally naked. As if reading her mind Signora yanks their nightdresses roughly sideways and in doing so shreds the thin fabric. She drops the torn slips to the floor, swirls round clutching the silk ball gowns, and stops.
Maria and Lucia have wound one arm round each other’s waists and are glued hip to hip once again in front of the mirror. Perhaps the perfume has intoxicated them, too, because they appear to be in a trance. Everyone stares at the apple roundness of their breasts, perched high on their rib cages. In the cool air of the room their nipples have puckered to sharp points, and each girl plays her free hand across the plump skin of the other’s breast, pinches a nipple experimentally, watches it redden and stretch. Maria smiles directly at Serena in the reflection, and her tongue slithers across her lower lip.
Serena feels as if she’s reached up inside her rib cage and started to squeeze. She can hardly breathe. Nothing like this ever happens back home in Fulham.
The harridan Signora pauses behind the two girls, eyes round with greed. They are like a marble statue of the Fates, carved from the same stone, smooth young limbs poised in identical posture. But she slaps their caressing hands away. Deftly she drops the dresses over their heads and hooks them in, so that they become fledgling duchesses. The dresses are cut so low that their young tits don’t quite fit inside the whalebone, the dark brown nipples totally exposed and popping like chocolate drops over the tight bodices. The full skirts of the dresses are slashed at intervals from the waist, so that as soon as the girls move the material falls away, revealing the jut of their hips and the shadowy dip and cleft between their legs. They sway towards the door, exaggerating the movement so that the blue silk alternates with flashes of tawny skin. They wait there for instructions, running their hands up the expensive fabric, admiring each other in their new finery.
Serena’s hands are roaming up her legs as she watches their transformation. Her fingers burrow through the sturdy linen of her shift, find the sticky warmth of her pussy, and as no one seems to care what she does she pushes the material in, scraping it up the tender crack until it touches the concealed kernel of her clit and makes it throb. The material gets damp. Her lips beneath start to open like a flower. She spreads them further and her finger probes deeper.
Suddenly Signora looms up in front of her, holding up a crimson dress.
‘Your turn now, beauty,’ she croons, then sees what Serena is doing. She traps her wrist and winches it up and down as if pulling a bell rope, so that the heel of Serena’s hand goes on rubbing frantically against her pussy and her mouth drops open at the hillock of excitement building there. Bubbles of desire pop and fuss inside and threaten to boil over. Serena squeals and Signora lets go of her wrist, clamping her hand over Serena’s soft bush to still the quivering.
‘Hold that sensation, pet,’ she murmurs, her hand big and warm. ‘You are well prepared for your initiation ahead.’
Serena is tamed. She raises her arms and Signora pulls off her nightdress, tossing it aside and making Serena stand there, naked, in the cold. Signora lets out a hiss of air.
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nbsp; Compared with the other two, Serena’s English skin is snow-white, all the more so for the weeks incarcerated in the palazzo by day and cloaked by night. Her hips are broader than Maria’s or Lucia’s, though her waist is slimmer. Her breasts are almost too large for her frame, full and ripe, swelling round to the sides as well as beneath but firm enough to lift proudly so that against the white skin the hard, berry-red nipples thrust out expectantly, impossible to ignore. Still burning to be sucked.
Signora presses up behind her, smoothing the palms of her hands up Serena’s sides, lifting her breasts higher. She pushes them together for a moment, creating a deep cleavage, allowing the nipples to scrape against each other. Sensation swoons inside Serena. Signora moulds her breasts with one large washerwoman’s hand, and pinches both nipples until they are rigid and pointing forwards like sharp missiles, sending quick tingles of pleasure to join all the other tremors making Serena’s knees knock.
When she smiles, Signora smiles back and her face lifts and is suddenly extraordinarily beautiful. Serena is lost now, happy to let the other woman arouse with her big strong fingers. Signora pushes Serena’s legs open, and there’s the moistness lining the velvet lips, and it’s throbbing in there, wet and wanting –
But then Serena’s suddenly drowned in crimson taffeta. Signora laces her up tightly in to the bodice, so tightly that she can hardly breathe, and her breasts swell desperately as she gasps for air, threatening to tumble over the edge, nipples only just covered and rubbed to aching point by the stern material.
Signora fusses with Serena’s skirts, taking every opportunity to slip her hands through the slashes in the skirt to touch her thighs and bottom. There is another loud rap at the door.
She claps her hands. ‘Now that you are excited, signorinas, you are ready for your public.’
She herds the trio, transformed from vestal virgin to sultry seductress, towards the tapestry doorway, and flings it open.
The overwhelming noise and colour and movement outside makes the quiet, mirrored dressing room full of nakedness seem womb-like. If this was some giddy secret party back home – another period, another planet – they would all be yelling surprise!
Serena is dimly aware of some kind of wild gypsy music abruptly silenced as she is shoved headlong and caught in a sea of masked faces and sumptuously dressed bodies. The mouths that are visible stretch into grins. The arms and hands, all trailing lace, rich velvets and long black gloves like so many tentacles, reach out of the crowd to wave and finger and grab and pull at the newcomers.
The ballroom beyond is dazzling with chandeliers and the shifting, searching kaleidoscope of masked figures. She spins round, but there seem to be no doors or even windows. The walls are all sealed with seamless tapestry. The air crackles with expectancy.
The crowd parts before Vivaldi’s girls. They file into the middle of the room. How different from their dark, silent midnight walks! A low murmuring starts up and people press round.
A violin tests its strings and then the orchestra swings into a mad, galloping, gypsy-style waltz. Lucia gives a little whimper. Serena is grabbed and tossed across the sea of bodies, and briefly sees that Maria and Lucia have been surrounded by a group of mainly male guests who would be like a pack of wolves were they not up on their hind legs and clothed. They spin the girls round, touching, feeling, tasting, gloved paws going up and under their dresses, scooping out their breasts for a squeeze, velvet fingers poking up into their fannies, before flinging them like tasty morsels to the next partner. People turn them round and lift their ball gowns and prod the bodies beneath as if it is some kind of meat market.
Maria’s expression is blurred as she is tossed about in the throng but Lucia is closer and her face, after some initial terror and confusion, starts to shine with excitement, then triumph, until she is actually pulling open her dress, thrusting out her breasts as the filthy reality of this scenario starts to hit home. She spins on the floor, in the air, dancing, flying, and spreads open her arms and legs to say come and get me.
Hands smother Serena now as she dances. A man covered in green feathers grasps her buttocks. His fingers scrabble up the warm crack dividing them, jabbing into the button hole of her anus which tries to squeeze shut. She jerks with shock, her leg curling round his to keep her balance, but then he vanishes, his finger sliding smoothly from her hole, and another figure in a top hat spins and rocks her from behind, scooping her bouncing breasts out of the scarlet bodice with a shout and a flourish so that everyone can see them.
His white magician’s gloves offer the ripe handfuls to the audience and everyone has a feel, then two men with cat masks advance, clawing at one tit each, drawing the dark nipples between their teeth until they are elongated and stinging with painful pleasure, then the two mouths suck hard so that spots dance before Serena’s eyes but she leans on their shoulders, thrusting her nipples further into their mouths, loving the pain, the filth of two men sucking her, other mouths and hands touching her, and all the men, oh yes, the cocks packed into their breeches, bulging against the velvet and lycra and leather, waiting to be exposed to the crowd and massaged into life.
She wants everything to hurt. She pushes the men easily down to their knees, falling on top and straddling them, her pussy opening stickily, her tits dangling over them where they can suck and chew like kittens.
Her dress is whipped up over her bottom again and huge hands grip her hips from behind. Other hands part her thighs, fiddling up and down the soft skin there, up between the sex lips which are throbbing and leaking pussy juice as electricity darts from her tortured nipples. A big thick cock nudges between her cheeks, into her wet cunt, nosing in like a battering ram, and her knees start to buckle with excitement. The cat men are still biting her nipples, now following the cock up inside her with their velvet fingers.
All around her faces push up close to see, glittering, eyeless, featureless masks peer and pry, turn to each other, slide over each other’s costumes, turn back to Serena, mouths agape with lust, elbows jostling for a turn.
The tempo alters to a wild gypsy dance. Serena’s body jerks forwards as the stiff cock enters brutally from behind, forcing its way up the centre of her body. Its hugeness fills her and as it starts to pound into her, slowly at first then faster, the people start to clap in time with her invisible lover’s thrusts.
Across the room Serena can see Maria lying on her back, legs splayed across a velvet chaise longue as a man in clinging snake skin swipes his narrow pelvis into her. A weird twinge of jealousy pierces Serena as she sees Lucia, her face ecstatic as a saint’s, hooking one bare leg over the end of the chair and lowering her pussy on to Maria’s face, holding the pale blue silk away from her legs so that everyone can get a clearer view of Maria’s tongue flicking up for a lick.
Serena allows herself to go limp, smothering the cat men as they claw at her soft breasts and feed on her nipples, lets the urges inside her drive the orgasm closer. A scream escapes her as the man behind her slams into her again, faster and harder, lifting her off her knees. The clapping and stamping has accelerated to a frenzy. She grinds her nipples into the mouths of her worshippers as the cock explodes, and although she’s not coming yet there’s an answering wave of ecstasy surging inside her. She arches wildly to lock in the sensation for a moment longer. She knows there’ll be other men. Other cocks. Any minute now it’ll be her turn to come, and the thought makes her want to scream with pleasure.
She slumps forward into the crowd. Her bare foot hooks momentarily round the ankle of her invisible lover, and as she disentangles herself, she sees that the gold buckles on his shoes are shaped like the letter C.
She tries to spin round, pushes the cat men away. Their mouths are wet from sucking her nipples and other women descend on them like birds of prey, screeching and ripping off the men’s tights and bending to suck on their swollen cocks. The tightness of her bodice has made Serena weaker than she realised. She can’t stand, let alone turn round to find the man who fu
cked her, and as she starts to collapse someone else catches her and carries her away from the jostling bodies, through corridors and archways and courtyards and outside where it is raining.
The stranger sets her on her feet and pulls her along the slippery stones until they reach the edge of a canal. There are rows of empty gondolas tilting on the water, disturbed by some faraway wash and corralled like wild horses to stop them escaping. One rocking gondola is familiar because unlike all the others it’s been stripped down to basic wooden seats. That’s where Vivaldi’s girls perch when Carlo steers them through the mist. She knows it’s theirs because a silver cross glints where it’s fallen on the planks.
So. After pacing invisibly round the city after Carlo, eyes down, he’s brought them full circle, back to Palazzo Tremelli.
The stranger pulls her onto the nearest gondola and it veers violently as they step through and over it, along to the next one, until they reach the furthest craft, a proper one with sinister dark prow and curtained canopy. He drops her into the cushions and pushes off and as he steers them up another canal and under a series of low-arched bridges, she sees that he’s wearing rich green breeches and a splendid gold-frogged jacket. His face is painted chalk white and it splits into a grin beneath an emerald-spangled mask with a long hooked nose.
‘Didn’t make you come, though, did he?’
Serena lies back, gasping for breath. Sweat trickles between her sore, exposed breasts although cold drizzle is falling.
‘They said you were staying in Venice,’ he mutters, running his hands over the rustling silk of her gown which has opened out over her legs. ‘But I didn’t have you down as a Vivaldi girl?’
‘Who said I was staying – how do you know who I am?’
‘The only woman in Venice not wearing a mask.’
The gondola rocks violently as he settles between her legs, pushing her billowing skirt up. Serena is too weak to move even if she wanted to. Fresh pleasure squirms inside her.
