by S. C. Daiko
‘Such harmony,’ I murmur. My legs are clamped to his hips, holding him exactly where I want him. He thrusts back. ‘Reach your joy with me,’ I command.
A low growl escapes his throat as he plunges into me one last time. I let out a squeal, my quim throbbing as his pulsating prick pushes me over the brink.
Collapsing on top of him, I feel his fingers brush gently through my damp hair and I press a kiss to his lips.
‘You truly are more delightful than Venus,’ he whispers against my neck.
‘So you concede defeat?’
‘Not yet.’ He picks up the flex, and with one deft movement, ties my hands together. ‘Have you another cord?’ He slides from the bed and rummages in my night-stand. ‘What, pray, is this?’
Dio mio! ’Tis the Murano glass phallus Ludovico uses to pleasure my sheath when he rides my arse. Lena likes to wield it too. ‘A toy,’ I say.
‘Intriguing.’ He twirls the tip around each of my nipples. They stiffen once again and my quim responds.
‘Does that delight you?’
‘Oh yes,’ I nod.
He moves the cool glass down my belly and presses it against my hot labia.
I purr softly. He gently inserts it, then pulls it out with infinite slowness. Finding my nub, he rubs the tip against it. My thighs shake, and I spread my legs wide.
‘My lord!’
‘Beg me, sweet lady, beg me for more!’
‘No!’
‘You will not beg?’
‘Yes! No! Yes! Don’t stop!’
‘I’ll take that as a plea, then,’ he chuckles.
I feel helpless, wanton, yet infinitely desirable. My quim milks the glass as he pushes it in. His strokes are deft, and, too soon, ripples of joy are spreading through me, and now, Marco is inside me, pressing his prick into my centre, and the frenzy grows and grows, and he’s loving me and I’m loving him and ’tis so, so perfect, and we arrive together a second time. Truly we are made for each other…
He kisses me. ‘Do you concede defeat?’
‘No. No more challenges. We are equally matched.’
‘Indeed.’
We lie in each other’s arms, sometimes stroking, sometimes kissing, and murmuring sweet nothings, languid with love.
On the cusp of sleep, I whisper. ‘Tonight, I will not charge you.’
He grunts. ‘I wish I were free to marry you. For I would.’
I’m fully awake now. ‘I’m not suited to marriage.’
‘I would have you in exclusivity.’
I sit up, shocked. ‘You would not, sir!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No man will ever own me again.’
‘My dear, I can give you security.’
I’m crestfallen, undone. ‘You must know I cannot gratify you in this. Cannot means will not.’
‘Your household can continue as before. The only change will be that I shall have exclusivity. What say you?’
‘I say no. Sir, I will not be your possession.’
He frowns. ‘I cannot believe that you are refusing me, cruel lady.’
‘If you truly loved me you would not ask me this.’
‘I ask because I love you. How can it be, in the most tender part of your body, that your fair, fine, white breast can enclose a heart so hard and pitiless?’
‘Courtly language again. Well, two can play the same game. I do not love you,’ I lie. ‘You want to fly without wings and rise too high all at once.’
‘You are tearing me apart. Pray, give me some hope that you might reconsider.’
‘The pathway of hope is not direct, for more often than not, it corrupts with lies and false pretence,’ I quote from one of my verses.
‘Veronica, though you’re young now and fresh as a flower, the years fly past so swiftly. Beauty is born and is wiped out in a moment, like the rose that blooms and withers all at once.’
He too has almost certainly quoted from one of his poems. ‘I tell you again,’ I sigh. ‘If you truly loved me, you would not ask this. I have no more to say. Pray, go in peace.’
After I’ve seen him to the door, I walk with heavy limbs up the stairs, slip off my robe, and stretch out under my blankets. If only Marco could be more like Andrew, who would share me with the world. Dear, generous Andrew. But, perhaps if Marco were like Andrew I would not desire him as much. They are like night and day: Marco, dark and brooding; Andrew, full of light and laughter. Oh, how I would like to have them both! ’Tis not to be, however, and I must resign myself. Desire is what I create in my lovers; I must not give in to it myself. Thank God I had the strength to refuse Marco, even though it breaks my heart. Yet my heart would break even more if I gave up my freedom. I curl in on myself, hot tears of regret wetting my pillow.
8
There’s great excitement in Venice today: Henri III of Valois, the twenty-two year-old King of Poland, is visiting the city on his way to France to assume the kingship after the death of his brother, Charles IX. The King is accompanied by his cousin, Alfonso II, Duke of Ferrara. There have been balls, theatrical presentations, musical performances, attended by Henri and Alfonso. I’ve even joined in a poetic masque, where the King was praised as the most valiant Roman Catholic leader fighting the Protestant Hapsburg menace.
More than two years have passed since I last saw Marco, and I believe I’m finally cured of my longing for him. Perhaps God has deemed me greedy, and has withheld my heart’s desire as punishment for my pride. I confess my sins all the time, so the good Lord knows about me. There’s a new priest in the parish, an earnest youth, and it must be hard for him to hear the repeated confessions of a woman whose activities probably seem shocking to him. Yet he absolves me each time.
Lovers have come and gone since that mournful night when I refused Marco, but I still have my two faithful regulars, Ludovico and Andrew, and ’tis thanks to Andrew that I’ve been invited to take my place on the Doge’s enormous state barge, the Bucintoro, for a regatta in honour of the visiting monarch. I’ve reached the pinnacle of success to have been placed among the nobility of the Republic. Their wives are in mixed company for once, such is the occasion, and I’m not the only courtesan present. But I am the only one who’ll be sitting with the ruling crow class. I can’t help feeling pleased.
Perspiration prickles my armpits as Andrew holds my hand and leads me up the ramp to take my seat. His wife is lying-in at home after the birth of their fifth daughter, which is why he’s asked me to be his escort. And the Doge has given his approval, wishing to show-off not just the beauty of the city but also her women. None of us is wearing masks; we are all on show. The late-afternoon sun is fierce, for ’tis high summer, and the blue sky is cloudless. Fifteen galleys and hundreds of boats are out on the water, ready to follow behind us like a team of ducklings. The barge is resplendent, having been recently re-gilded from top to bottom to impress Henri of Valois.
The sound of trumpets, and we get to our feet. The King has arrived. He’s small and slight, his dark hair cropped short under a plumed hat, and he wears a black doublet studded with rubies. So young, six years younger than me.
Below deck, the 350 man crew dip their oars, and we set out into the lagoon. Happily, I’m seated under an awning, otherwise I would suffer from sunstroke. I feel the heat of a gaze upon me, and turn around. My hand flies to my throat. Maffio Venier!
He smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling in his pudgy face. ‘I see you are engaged, like the rest of the courtesans, in showing your delightful nipples to our visitor.’
I glance down at my neckline. Indeed, they are fully on show. I pull down my bodice to make them even more visible. ‘Sir, I am not like the rest of the courtesans. Don’t you remember that you, yourself, once called me “unique”? And I don’t need to show anything. Men come to me; I do not go to them.’
‘I see you are still most humble, Madonna Veronica.’
‘And I see you are as vile as ever.’
‘I’m as innocuous as an angel.
My knife is my tongue… against which you struggle to defend yourself.’
‘If you had been here two years ago, I would have fought a duel of words with you.’
‘Which you would have lost.’
‘That, I very much doubt.’
I decide to ignore the cuckold of a cur for the remainder of the evening, and I’m relieved to have learnt that Marco has been seconded to Constantinople, as a diplomatic envoy to the Sultan, for the sight of him would quite undo me, in spite of my telling myself that I’ve forgotten him.
Soon night falls and the fireworks display starts. The Doge’s Palace is lit up with tallow candles, the illuminated figures of stars and coats of arms placed around the outside of the building. On a gun signal, artificers on smaller barges shoot up fireballs that burst into stars. Oh, ’tis a wondrous spectacle! I quite forget who is curled on his seat like a snake behind me, and I grasp Andrew’s arm in delight. For the finale, the men launch a great volley of flying fire-lances, constructed so that, once in the firmament, their long tails trailing, they explode and send forth even more fiery spears. A giant detonation of flames and noise and smoke, truly as if the heavens are falling to the earth or the fires of Hell have risen up to consume us.
A thunderous round of applause at the end, and the Bucintoro takes us back to the palace for a sumptuous banquet. Dish after dish after dish. I catch the young monarch studying me, his eyes hooded, and I smile at him with a fluttering stomach. Sitting next to Doge Alvise Mocenigo, Henri whispers into the old man’s ear. My heart thuds. Has the young King asked about me? It would truly be an honour to bed the future King of France. You aim too high, Veronica! Verily unique you are, yes, but even so…
He does ask for me, heavily encouraged by his entourage I’m told. It seems they are concerned he might still be a virgin, for he’s never been seen with a woman. Who better than Veronica Franco, the most sought-after courtesan in Venice, to deflower him?
This evening, he’s at a banquet in the Fondaco dei Turchi, following which Andrew will bring him here. In the meantime, I’m preparing myself. The King’s night of love must be truly memorable.
Lena is helping me. This afternoon she bathed me in rose-scented water then plucked my quim free of hair. She curled my tresses and threaded them with strands of silver and gold, my only adornments. My breath has been fragranced with mint, and I’ve rubbed honey on my pearl in anticipation. If ’tis true that the King has never bedded a woman before, I shall teach him where to put his tongue and find my sweetness. My nipples, rouged ready for the King, stiffen in expectation.
Lena takes a roll of scarlet silk ribbon, wide as the width of my hand, and flicks it across the bed. Then, from the chest by the window, she lifts the bolt of fabric we bought yesterday, and pulls the entire length off its roll. She flaps it all out, as if she were shaking out a freshly laundered sheet. The material is sheer and golden – almost transparent – and it shimmers in the candlelight.
Naked, except for a carnival mask, with feathers at the side for allure, I lie down in the middle of the bed, both ribbon and gauze stretching out flat on either side of me. I fold my arms under my breasts. Lena stretches across me and lifts the fabric back towards her, letting it fall so that it completely covers my body. She gently tucks it under, all down my side, then goes around the bed and repeats the process. I feel her tying the ribbon, and now I’m neatly wrapped like a gift. This is Andrew’s idea. He said Cleopatra had been delivered to Julius Caesar rolled up in a carpet. I’m grateful he’s devised a more comfortable way for me to be presented to the King, even though I’m trussed up like a chicken ready for the pot.
Lena pats my arm. ‘How fare you, Veronica?’
‘Well, grazie.’ My words sound muffled, as if they’re coming from a long way away.
‘I’ll wait downstairs,’ she says.
My breath is steamy inside my silken sheath, and sweat beads my brow under the mask. I hope Henri of Valois will arrive soon, for his “chicken” will surely roast before too long. I bite my lips to redden them, and wish I could move my hands to pinch my cheeks and bring even more colour than Lena has applied. Will he find me to his liking? Of course he will. Why am I panicking? I’m skilled at what I do and will go above and beyond to win this conquest, for it will be the making of me. I think about the sonnets I’ve written for him. Perhaps ’tis presumptuous of me, yet I hope he will accept them along with the miniature painting I’ve commissioned of myself.
Male laughter echoes, and heavy footsteps thud on the staircase. I wriggle, feeling an itch in my right foot. And then the door crashes open, making me jump as it bangs against the wall.
Men’s voices, speaking in French. Their indecipherable conversation reverberates for a moment. An order is barked out, footsteps retreat, and the door slams shut. Somebody strides across the room. A high-pitched voice says, ‘Is this for me? I wonder what it can possibly be…’ His Italian is breathy and heavily accented, and my heart is beating madly.
A faint tug near my middle pulls me slightly to one side as he undoes the ribbon. Taking his time, he peels back the fabric. His breathing rattles in his nose.
‘Well, well, well,’ he says, his dark eyes flashing, ‘the finest whore in Venice, laid on to delight me.’
I roll off the bed and drop down into a deep curtsey, not liking his reference to “whore”. Perhaps they don’t have courtesans in France? I straighten up. We’re much the same height, the King and I. His beard and moustache are so thin, they make him appear even younger than his years. He has a sensuous mouth, however: a bow-shaped upper lip and a full lower one. Should I kiss it?
‘Pray, put on some clothes,’ he says in a frosty tone. ‘Your nakedness disgusts me.’
My heart skips a beat. ‘Do I not please you, your Majesty? I don’t understand.’
He gives a hollow laugh. ‘You will, soon enough.’
I go to my chest and open it. He’s right behind me, peering at my dresses. I catch the scent of garlic and cologne. ‘Madonna Franco, such finery!’
Henri points to my dressmaker’s latest masterpiece, an extravagant creation in pink cotton damask, threaded with silver and intricately embroidered with flowers and bows on the sleeves. ‘Truly ’tis the prettiest frock.’ The King holds it up. ‘I would like to try this on.’
I cannot stop my mouth from falling open. A man dressing like a woman? Never before have I come across such a thing. So slight and small is he that we are the same size. I shall have to agree. ‘Of course, your Majesty, if such is your pleasure.’
He strips off his doublet, pantaloons and hose. At the same time, I take off my mask and put on my boys’ attire. Now I know what might delight the King, I hope to salvage the situation. For if I do not bed him, my reputation will be in tatters, and all my hopes of this assignation being the making of me will be dashed.
‘Pray, help me,’ he says, indicating that I should tie the bodice. ‘Swear to me on your life that this shall be our secret!’
‘I do. And, if it pleases you, sire, you may ride my arse.’
He sighs. ‘’Tis not my wont, signora. I do not ride arses. I prefer that others ride mine, and I do not think you have the tackle to fulfil that task, in spite of the way you are dressed.’ He giggles like a girl and twirls around in my dress.
What to do? An idea has taken root. I think of the double-headed Murano glass phallus in the drawer of my nightstand. Lena’s and my latest toy. Will it work? It has to work, or I’m done for.
I reach under the King’s skirts and find his prick. He jumps like a startled rabbit. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I think I have the solution to our predicament, sire.’
‘What predicament?’
‘Your entourage expect me to deflower you. If I do not, then suspicions will arise about your penchants.’
‘But I do not desire you...’
‘Wait. I am a professional seductress. I can create such desire in you, if you will allow me.’
‘How?’
>
I reach into my nightstand, extract the phallus, and wave it in front of his face.
He lets out a delighted whinny. ‘Oh, such an ingenious implement!’
‘What say you, sire? I can ride your arse with this and bring you such joy you’ll fair swoon with the pleasure of it.’
‘’Tis worth a try, I suppose.’ His lips pucker. ‘Pray, commence!’
I untie the bodice of the dress, disrobe him, and place the phallus in his mouth. Then I proceed to wash his prick and arse with soap and warm water, while he sucks on the glass. His member grows long and hard. There’s a slight bend in it, which makes me giggle to myself. ‘Does that please you, your Majesty?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he pants.
‘Pray move to the bed, sire. Lean on your forearms and push your arse up for me.’ I pause as he meekly does as he’s told. Who’d believe it? A monarch taking orders from me, Veronica Franco!
‘That’s good.’ I have to bite my tongue before saying, good boy! ‘Spread your legs further, sire!’
I climb onto the bed, behind him, and run my hands over his smooth buttocks, round, small and taut, a fine arse. Reaching under him to fondle his balls, I take a deep breath and lick his culo, round and round his ring, pushing my tongue into him. He squeaks.
Spreading goose fat around his arsehole, I sensuously run my fingers back and forth. He moans as I push a finger inside and his culo contracts. Slowly, I finger-fuck the future King of France, first with one finger, and, when I sense him relaxing, with two. I add more goose fat until it begins to drip from his anus.
‘Are you ready, sire?’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’
I rub the tip of the phallus in more goose fat, then bring it to his opening before gently pushing it inside. Just past the head, I stop until his breathing slows, then push until half the length of the double-headed prick is inside the panting King. ‘Do you like that, sire?’
‘Fuck me, please,’ he says, between gritted teeth. I slowly withdraw the glass and then more slowly push it back in. He groans. I speed up my thrusts until he grinds back against me, spurring me to fuck him harder. Arse in the air, chest on the bed, arms over his head, hands gripping the slats in the headboard to keep his body from sliding forward, the young King shrieks as I fuck him. I remember how Andrew does it to me: I withdraw slowly, until only the very tip of the phallus is left inside him, and I hesitate there before plunging back into him. Again, and again, slow out, fast in. Deep thrusts. Hard into him.
