collapse into a heap of arms and legs. Candlelight casts a glow on our sweat-covered bodies, the air filled with the scent of musk, apples, honey and lemon.
Andrew spoons himself around my back. ‘That was incredible.’ He nuzzles my earlobe.
Maddalena curves around my belly, facing me. She lifts a hand and strokes my cheek. ‘ Bella Veronica. You are like Venus. A goddess.’
A chuckle from Andrew. ‘Shall we partake again?’
I catch Maddalena’s smile. ‘What say you?’
She laughs. ‘Only if this time you will let me taste you. ’
‘Just watching you makes me hard,’ Andrew says.
Maddalena goes to the basin by the window and wrings out a cloth. She comes back to the bed and washes all traces of Andrew from my figa . As she wipes, she massages my labia. I whimper and push my hips up. The feeling is delicious.
Maddalena pulls my legs forwards so that they hang over the side of the bed. Down on her knees, she spreads my thighs apart and slips her tongue in, licking in slow, wide circles. She draws my nub between her teeth, sucking while she pushes two fingers inside. I lie back, and Andrew stretches himself next to me, his mouth at my breast. My nipples pucker and stiffen as he pinches one and licks the other. Maddalena’s fingers are pushing in and out while she increases the pressure on my pearl. My joy is coming; I can feel it. No yet, I hope. ’Tis too soon.
Andrew straddles my face now, on all fours so his weight doesn’t squash me. His prick is hard and I take it in my mouth, swallowing the length right down. He pulls out and in again and again, picking up the rhythm of Maddalena’s fingers as she fucks me from below. Andrew and I reach our joy together, crying out in unison. His hot salty seed slips down my gullet.
‘Come here,’ I say to Maddalena, my voice throaty. She straddles me, her hips undulating as she pushes herself against my mouth and squeals her release.
The babe moves in my womb. I feel a sharp jab. Dio mio! I get to my feet and water gushes out of me onto the marble tiles.
Tight knots of love
6
’Tis November, but the severe cold of winter has yet to arrive. I remember how the canals froze the year my son, Achiletto, was born. Maddalena said his arrival was one of the fastest deliveries she’d seen, and put it down to our antics beforehand. I need not have worried about dying. Maddalena made sure she washed her hands; she didn’t know why, but keeping them clean increased the survival rate among her clients.
More than six years have gone by since. I’m a woman of twenty-five summers, highly successful in my profession. Mamma registered me in a new catalogue, The Principal and Most Honoured Courtesans of Venice , listing our address and the fees we charged. Patrons have kept me busy, yet I’m proud to have maintained a balance between my sense of self-worth and the need to win and keep the support of men. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve courted the cultural élite of my city for fame and fortune.
My second son, Enea, Andrew’s boy, arrived three years after Achiletto. Barely a week later, Andrew married the Venetian noblewoman Beatrice da Lezze; it was a marriage of convenience, arranged by his parents, and, happily for me, Andrew is still my lover. He does not say whether his wife is unhappy with the arrangement, and I do not ask.
Tragedy struck two summers ago: Mamma died suddenly in her sleep. Maddalena said it was her heart. Her own mother then passed away during the terrible typhus epidemic that killed thousands, including my husband Paolo Panizza, (I have retrieved my dowry), and my own father. I asked Lena, as I now call her, to move in with me. She’s become my dearest friend and confidante, my go-between with new clients, my children’s nanny, and my housekeeper. Life should be perfect. Yet there’s an ache in my soul, and a longing for…
Laughter echoes from the piano nobile , and the door bursts open. ’Tis my boys, my wonderful boys.
Andrew spoons himself around my back. ‘That was incredible.’ He nuzzles my earlobe.
Maddalena curves around my belly, facing me. She lifts a hand and strokes my cheek. ‘ Bella Veronica. You are like Venus. A goddess.’
A chuckle from Andrew. ‘Shall we partake again?’
I catch Maddalena’s smile. ‘What say you?’
She laughs. ‘Only if this time you will let me taste you. ’
‘Just watching you makes me hard,’ Andrew says.
Maddalena goes to the basin by the window and wrings out a cloth. She comes back to the bed and washes all traces of Andrew from my figa . As she wipes, she massages my labia. I whimper and push my hips up. The feeling is delicious.
Maddalena pulls my legs forwards so that they hang over the side of the bed. Down on her knees, she spreads my thighs apart and slips her tongue in, licking in slow, wide circles. She draws my nub between her teeth, sucking while she pushes two fingers inside. I lie back, and Andrew stretches himself next to me, his mouth at my breast. My nipples pucker and stiffen as he pinches one and licks the other. Maddalena’s fingers are pushing in and out while she increases the pressure on my pearl. My joy is coming; I can feel it. No yet, I hope. ’Tis too soon.
Andrew straddles my face now, on all fours so his weight doesn’t squash me. His prick is hard and I take it in my mouth, swallowing the length right down. He pulls out and in again and again, picking up the rhythm of Maddalena’s fingers as she fucks me from below. Andrew and I reach our joy together, crying out in unison. His hot salty seed slips down my gullet.
‘Come here,’ I say to Maddalena, my voice throaty. She straddles me, her hips undulating as she pushes herself against my mouth and squeals her release.
The babe moves in my womb. I feel a sharp jab. Dio mio! I get to my feet and water gushes out of me onto the marble tiles.
Tight knots of love
6
’Tis November, but the severe cold of winter has yet to arrive. I remember how the canals froze the year my son, Achiletto, was born. Maddalena said his arrival was one of the fastest deliveries she’d seen, and put it down to our antics beforehand. I need not have worried about dying. Maddalena made sure she washed her hands; she didn’t know why, but keeping them clean increased the survival rate among her clients.
More than six years have gone by since. I’m a woman of twenty-five summers, highly successful in my profession. Mamma registered me in a new catalogue, The Principal and Most Honoured Courtesans of Venice , listing our address and the fees we charged. Patrons have kept me busy, yet I’m proud to have maintained a balance between my sense of self-worth and the need to win and keep the support of men. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve courted the cultural élite of my city for fame and fortune.
My second son, Enea, Andrew’s boy, arrived three years after Achiletto. Barely a week later, Andrew married the Venetian noblewoman Beatrice da Lezze; it was a marriage of convenience, arranged by his parents, and, happily for me, Andrew is still my lover. He does not say whether his wife is unhappy with the arrangement, and I do not ask.
Tragedy struck two summers ago: Mamma died suddenly in her sleep. Maddalena said it was her heart. Her own mother then passed away during the terrible typhus epidemic that killed thousands, including my husband Paolo Panizza, (I have retrieved my dowry), and my own father. I asked Lena, as I now call her, to move in with me. She’s become my dearest friend and confidante, my go-between with new clients, my children’s nanny, and my housekeeper. Life should be perfect. Yet there’s an ache in my soul, and a longing for…
Laughter echoes from the piano nobile , and the door bursts open. ’Tis my boys, my wonderful boys.
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