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Carnival

By: LaJan



The carnival comes to our small town only once a year and it stays around for just one week. So, if you want to go, you plan to clear some time a good ways in advance. And, if you plan to go with someone, you make sure that they cleared some time for it, too, because second chances are a whole year away. I had worked a bit of overtime to be able to really enjoy this year's carnival with Katie, earning enough extra cash to assure us of having a good time. I'd gotten the entire week off from work (which is almost completely unheard of for carnival week) and reconfirmed our time together only a couple days ago. Katie had sounded strangely hesitant even then but I didn't hear any alarm bells going off until now. And, now, it wasn't simple alarm bells; it was the whole damned bell factory!

"What's the problem? You aren't getting sick, are you?" I asked, starting to get worried. 

"No, Brent, I'm not getting sick. And, in case you're wondering, no I didn't 'miss it' this month. Something has just come up and I think I need to skip the carnival this time. I'm really sorry; I know you looked forward to it so much," she said, sounding like a liar, though I do trust her.

"But, we can go for just a few hours and I won't keep you out late." I knew when I said it that the discussion was over. Once she's made up her mind, nothing is going to change it. I tried to be as understanding as I could but I gave up on not feeling sorry for myself. Sure, I could go without her; I could even go alone. But, I wanted to be with her and I could feel us drifting further and further apart. For a few weeks, she seemed distant and, last week, she avoided me like I had the plague. I love her and I do not want to leave her, but it looks like we may have hit the end of our relationship.

So, there it was: alone for the only fun time this dinky little town can offer. I sat by the phone, half hoping she'd call me back, half hoping I'd say 'no' if she did. Saved from either decision by the phone's silence, I decided to go and have fun without her. If she didn't want to be with me, I could get along without her.

I walked the mile and a half to the old fair grounds, which were used for the carnival now and little else. Even before I was near the gate, I'd heard enough happy screaming, laughter, and shouting to get me in the mood for some fun, even if I was alone!

Wandering easily through the games, I saw a rather large crowd around one booth and walked closer. The game was a rope ladder climb that required a lot of full-body balance. A few kids almost made it to the top (they were given a big assist) but all fell before reaching the bell. The crowd was mixed but mostly guys making a lot of noise. They kept asking for a demonstration. Peering through them, I saw why: the girl in the booth was skinny and short but really cute. Her medium-short light brown hair was wavy, her breasts were too big for her size, and she had the best 'come on' smile I've ever seen a carny give a mark! I was soon hoping that she'd give a little demonstration, too, and worked my way near the front of the crowd. Two guys tried to stop me from getting any closer and I was about to give up when she yelled at me.

"You, there! Are you ready to try? These guys just want to hang around and take up my space! But, I can see that you think you can do this. It's easy as pie and all you need to do is go slow. Come on! You can't win unless you try!" All the usual hard sell you always hear at any carnival. It was just coming from her! Most of the guys started ragging on me right away; I was not known as the most athletic or the most popular guy in town. But, I was on top of the world right then and walked towards the girl and the ladder.

She smiled as I approached and some of the hoots became cheers of encouragement. The closer I got to the ladder, though, the more I thought I'd never make it. She must have seen the doubt in my eyes because she stopped me just as I was reaching for the ladder.

"The key to it is equal and opposite actions, counterbalancing you on the way," she said loudly. Then she turned directly to me and spoke just loudly enough for people close by to hear, "Would you like a demonstration?" That did it. The crowd would have elected me mayor for my answer and the noise around us made me smile like a champion boxer.

"Sure," I said and she smiled wryly at me, turning to the ladder. She explained each and every step of her way up the ladder, going so slowly that I didn't think it was possible for anyone to have so much balance control. And, if it's possible to make 'climbing a ladder' into a sexual act, she did it. I couldn't take my eyes off her tight little ass, rolling from step to step, stretching to reach for the next. Guys all around me were patting me on the back as if I had already made it to the top!

When she had, though, she rang the bell and started quickly down, to the appreciative applause of the crowd. She nodded to them then looked to me and said, "Two bucks and you're a hero!"

I coughed up the bills and reached for the rope thinking, 'this will be quick; I'll be on my ass in seconds but it was worth it'. She steadied the ladder to help me get situated and said, "Go for it!"

The crowd was pulling for me and I was going as slow and easy as I could. I was almost halfway up when I looked back and fell. There were as many laughs as cheers and everyone was clapping. I'm sure I was grinning from ear-to-ear and that must have given her the o.k. to break the most important of rules for the carny: never tease a mark. She helped me up and, pausing just long enough so that people started to listen, she said,

"Sucker!" and swatted me on the butt. She offered me a private little look and whispered, "Thanks!" And, that stupid little thing turned my day completely around! The crowd went wild and soon there were dozens of people clamoring to try the ladder. I walked away grinning and somebody swatted me! I turned to see two rather cute girls giggling and running into the crowd. I was feeling so good, it never occurred to me to give chase and maybe spend the day with them instead of alone.

It didn't matter, though. All throughout the day, guys were mimicking the carny's voice, "Sucker!" and most of their girlfriends swatted me! Being a small town, soon everybody my age knew about 'The Ladder Climb' and I was never alone! I had more fun that day than I've had in years!

I had fun but I also had the carny girl in the back of my mind. I knew that that was silly; our lives might cross once a year and, only then, if we were (correction: I was) lucky. As the carnival started to wind down for the night, I wandered back by the ladder but there was someone else working the last few disinterested marks. My heart sank and I sat across the midway from the booth for a while, starting to feel sorry for myself again.

I heard the announcement that the carnival was now closed but I didn't get up to go. I kept sitting there; mostly out of sight but still able to see the ladder. Suddenly, she was back! She walked up to the older man who'd apparently relieved her and gave him a small hug, then walked down the midway. It was easy enough for me to follow her without being seen but I had no clue why I was doing it. I couldn't walk up and introduce myself; this far after closing, she'd probably think I was a robber or worse. I had no idea what to do but I followed her to the trailers that the carnys called 'home' on the road.

She didn't use a key to enter the one that was hers (I guess carnys did not fear other carnys.) but entered and closed the door. I didn't hear it lock then, either. I sat there for about 10 minutes, knowing that if I got caught just being here, I'd never be able to explain anything.

I was trying to figure out a way to sneak out of the carnival grounds when I heard approaching footsteps. I shrunk down as low as possible and watched a guy (about my age but a little shorter) walk up to and into her trailer. I heard greetings exchanged through the open windows and decided 'Ms. Carny' was 'Mrs. Carny' and I was going to be in even bigger trouble if caught! I had actually stood up completely and was about to start running when, again, I heard footsteps. This time, they were a lot quieter and she was almost next to me when I saw her. Walking slowly, as if to read addresses, Katie walked past me without seeing me and proceeded down the path between the trailers. I was floored! What in the world was Katie, my Katie doing in the carnival after closing? What was she doing at the carnival at all? I almost moved when she apparently realized she'd gone past where she wanted to go and turned around. I was still standing and, now, starting to panic. She would not miss seeing me twice, especially if I was standing where she was going! But, she looked away and decided that the same trailer I was watching was the one she wanted. She walked to the door and knocked. She had to knock twice more before he answered the door. He greeted her as if he didn't really know her. Then, she came to the door, and even behind him, I could tell that she was mostly undressed. She greeted Katie with a big hug and kissed her sweetly (fully exposing her beautiful body to anyone who might be looking) and invited her inside, closing the door.

I shook my head thinking I thought I knew Katie. In a few moments, the lights went out in the front part of the trailer and on in the back. I slipped as quietly as possible up to the open window slats of the room I assumed they all went in to. I could easily hear Katie's voice and laughter, and the casual conversation of the others.

For a while, it sounded like friends getting together for a small party. Then, the conversation drifted off and I began to wonder what could be going on. I didn't have long to wonder! The sounds of two people making love were very discernible and it started a twin race in my heart: I wanted to see the sex, even if it was Katie; and, I was madder than I've ever been before. Between my clenched fists and a painful hard-on, I couldn't move.

I think I leaned against the side of the trailer, which caused the loud squeak from the siding. It startled me and I must have grunted as I jumped back from the window. Now, in full sight of anyone looking out, I gazed up to see Katie looking out!

"Brent?" she said, knowing exactly who she was looking at but obviously surprised.

"Katie?" I said sarcastically, noting as I said it that she sure didn't look undressed in the t-shirt I'd bought for her only last week.

"Sucker?" That, from 'Mrs. Carny', joining Katie at the window.

"Who??" The last from 'Mr. Carny', also peering out.

"SHUT UUUUPP!!" And, this little impromptu salute to Steve Martin came simultaneously from at least 5 other trailers close by, including 'Mr.' and 'Mrs. Carny', who joined them all in laughing hysterically. The only people not laughing were Katie and I. I looked at her again, slowly shook my head, and turned to walk away.

I heard her yell my name over the laughter but kept walking and I didn't turn around, even when I heard her coming up behind me. I was suddenly grabbed by the arm and swatted on the butt. Shocked that Katie would ever do something like that, I turned and saw that it was 'Mrs. Carny' who held my arm. She had found a light robe to wear before running outside but it didn't cover much. The slightest hint of a smile crossed my face and she knew she had her 'mark', again.

"Come on inside and let's all have a talk. Don't worry; nobody is mad at you (I'm thinking, 'mad at ME?!?!’) and you need to know what's going on. We all need to know what's going on!" I had every intention of leaving right then but she spoke through my hesitation:

"Come on, sucker, (and I think you and I both know that that was and still is a joke)," she whispered. Even then, I hesitated. I turned a little further and saw that Katie (fully dressed, of course) was now standing outside the trailer. She looked as though she was about to cry and that nearly brought me to tears, too. I went back to the trailer while 'Mrs. Carny' never let go of my arm until we were at the steps to the door. There, Katie came slowly to me and I hugged her tightly.

Inside, we were greeted by a completely naked 'Mr. Carny', who escorted us all to the back of the trailer. I hesitated again but Katie's eyes pleaded with me, so I went, too.

"OK, let's start with the easy part for you two: the "Shut Uuuup!" bit is just something our carnival has picked up and shared as a common joke. It had nothing to do with you guys. But, since everybody was already on 'intruder alert' (she looked at me), we were all ready to help out if there was a problem. Yeah, every carny in the place knew you never left and were following me." 'Mrs. Carny' said this with a big grin on her face so it didn't sting me as much as it stung Katie. Before I could explain to her, though, 'Mrs. Carny' went on.

"Now, let's get properly acquainted, shall we? I'm Kethrin and my boyfriend is Miguel. (He reached for my hand and we shook.) I think we all know Katie and you must be Brent, if I remember Katie correctly?" I nodded and she leaned forward and planted a big kiss on my lips. I thought I'd get a lot of grief from Katie for that but she didn't seem all that disturbed.

"Katie," Kethrin said to her, "I just saw Brent for the first time at the carnival today. I teased him when he fell off my ladder climb and called him 'Sucker'. So, both you and Miguel better get over any shit you may be thinking, allright?" More of a demand than a question but both Katie and Miguel seemed fine with it. In fact, they both looked rather sheepish and I wasn't sure that I liked that.

"Now, for the good part! I have just one question: Brent how in the world did you find Katie here? Or were you just following me?" I think I stopped breathing because I surely had no good answer. I looked at Katie when I spoke to Kethrin:

"I had no idea that Katie would be here, today or any other day. We aren't as close as we once were but I don't know why. I had a great time here today and I wanted her to share it with me. She said she couldn't so I came alone. I was miserable until I came to the ladder booth and that turned my day around. I am not sure why I stayed after closing or why I followed you, Kethrin. I guess I wasn't ready to say goodbye to a nice girl, (any nice person) and go home to be alone. I didn't mean to do anything wrong; I just..., I don't know! I guess I need to say ‘I’m really sorry’ to both of you. And, Katie, I'm really very sorry! I thought you were dumping me. And, now I see this, I don't know what to think!"

Katie started to say something but stopped when Kethrin raised her hand.

"I've learned to judge how people will act in certain circumstances and I actually do believe that 'rambling crap of an explanation' was the truth. What do you think, Miguel?"

Miguel shrugged, "He would have been challenged or dead by now if any of us thought he was dangerous. He was confused, is still confused." I smiled and looked at him evenly. He did not smile back. I felt my balls climbing up and out of harm's way. Katie didn't say anything but she saw the look on Miguel's face and I'm sure she believed him! Kethrin nodded and did return my smile.

"So, Brent, it looks like there's just one last piece of the puzzle. I'd let Katie tell it but I doubt she could. Katie?" Kethrin turned to her and she almost jumped. She shook her head vigorously and reached for my hand. She almost seemed scared of them; I know that I was!

"Brent, I met your girlfriend, and she is still your girlfriend, last year when we were in town. You both came to the carnival together one day and I approached her when she went into a restroom. I waited until there was only the two of us inside and I offered her a proposition. I told her that, if she was game, she could come to see Miguel and I. She could bring you or come alone. But, she would be free to do anything her heart desired if she came. The carnival closed and left your town without Katie coming back. This year, we open the gates and Katie is standing there. She waits until the eager crowd has entered then runs away as fast as she can! The same happens the next day and the next. On the fourth day, I wait by the gate and let her see me watching her. She stands like a deer trapped in headlights and I walk slowly to her and kiss her mouth. Katie just stands there. I kiss her again and say that we will be waiting for her if she chooses. She turns and runs away, again!

"Then, today, I see Katie again by the gates. I wait inside and she comes to me. I took her to my trailer and Miguel sat in that chair in the corner while I made very sweet and passionate love with Katie. I touched her everywhere and she touched me. We were happy but not 'complete' because she needed you, Brent. I offered her Miguel and he, as you can see, is eager, but she wanted you here, too. We had planned to invite you tomorrow, but you surprised us by staying around today. I came back to the booth to lead you here, not remembering that it was you who had been here with Katie when I met her. As I had been teased to the point of intense arousal by some of your town's boys, I was in need of Miguel soon after getting here. When Katie arrived, she felt comfortable watching us. That is where you decided to get noisy and we thought you might break a window or something. We knew what you were; and, by then, we knew who you were. 

"Brent, forgive me but I need a woman as much as I need Miguel and I desired Katie. I got her confused and that's why she's been distant to you now."

I looked at Katie but she couldn't meet my eyes. Still holding her hand, I pulled her close to me and we hugged. I didn't notice that she was crying but Miguel did. He came to her and wrapped an arm around her, too. In a moment, Kethrin did as well, so that we were all hugging her and each other.

Miguel got up and left the room and Kethrin wrapped both of us in her arms, holding me closer than I thought Miguel might approve. I tried to move a little further from her but she moved closer still! I heard Katie gasp and saw that Kethrin had put a hand on one of her small breasts, stroking it lightly, lovingly. I reached for Kethrin's hand and covered it, both our hands on Katie's breast for a moment. I tried to remove her hand but Katie stopped me with a small whispered, "No, please, Brent".

I couldn't believe it! She wanted me to see Kethrin touching her and see her liking it. I tried to stand but Kethrin maintained her tight hug on both of us and, looking to Katie, I saw that she was no longer crying. Leaning back enough to look into Kethrin's eyes, I witnessed an intoxicating combination of lust and...,what? Yearning? She returned my gaze, smiling slightly, whispering, "Relax and 'go with us'. We all want you and I know that you want to be here." Then, turning her head to the doorway, she whispered,

"Allright, Miguel." He had been standing in the doorway, watching, holding a large open bottle of tequila. For the first time, he actually seemed relaxed and comfortable. He moved slowly towards us (towards me!) and very slowly reached out and pats my shoulder twice, still smiling openly. He sat where he had before, close by Katie's other side, raised the bottle to his lips, and drank, his eyes returning to the hand on Katie's breast.

Kethrin repositioned slightly and knelt behind Katie, both hands now playing over her breasts and Katie moaned openly, laying her head on Kethrin's shoulder. Kethrin leaned to my side and I sort of supported them, as they lay side-by-side on the bed. Again, I started to stand but was grabbed firmly by a wrist and handed the bottle of tequila. Miguel, still smiling, was not going to take no for an answer. I tipped the bottle to my lips and swallowed. My first taste of straight tequila had me choking and coughing so badly that Miguel had to grab the bottle from me but he never released my wrist. When I had regained control of my torched throat, I was handed the bottle again. This time, I sipped and was able to swallow without too much difficulty. I smiled to Miguel and he took the bottle back, nodding towards the bed.


Carnival



"Really, Sidonie," I said. "I didn't come to New Orleans just so I could help you keep your kinfolk in order!"

My friend from college days grinned at me, lifting a rake through her big chestnut hair. Gavin, her husband, sat on the bed patiently channel-surfing while she finished getting gussied up for their evening out on the town. She was dressed in a red satin shirt, black leather pants and Doc Martens, and Gavin was equally street- and party-ready, although far less dramatic, in chinos and a polo shirt. He was an inch shorter than his wife but built like a tank. They both looked a little too sexy and dangerous to be a respectable couple with grown kids, which in fact they were.

I was wearing a pair of flowing harem pants and a snug-fitting top with a low, draped cowl neck. A well-designed bra pushed my breasts up to a flattering level, but now I wondered why I'd bothered. I'd assumed that we'd be spending the evening together, and now she had sprung this on me.

"It's not like I was asking you to baby-sit small children, Esmé. It's just I promised Drew's mom that I would spend some time with him and sort make sure he was OK while we were in town. I told Lisa that rock musicians could look after themselves, but you know how mothers are."

"Yeah." I did that.

"And I can't be in two places at once, now can I?"

"No, I don't suppose you can," I said.

"Hey, it won't be so bad," Sidonie said. "For all I know, we may decide to make it an early night. I swear, the parades in New Orleans are getting to be so damned big and unwieldy, they just aren't fun anymore. I worry more about getting trampled or caught up in a fight or getting arrested than I enjoy watching the parades. And as for catching anything, forget it! When I fight, I prefer to take on one opponent at a time, and for something important—not some piece of plastic that cost a fraction of a penny to make!"

Sidonie slicked a layer of dark pink lip gloss onto her mouth, strapped on her purse, and she and Gavin left the room. I left with them, and we went down into the lobby of our hotel and out onto Rampart St.

Sidonie handed me a piece of folded paper. "That's the name of the club where he's playing at, and how to get to it and all. When his set's over, get him to back you up at the parade, or bring him back here. We'll probably be back by then, and then we can figure out what to do next." I looked at the brochure. The place wasn't too far away. "Thanks much, Es! We'll see you in a few hours."

I had the same opinion of Mardi Gras parades as Sidonie. I felt they had gotten too big and dangerous, and preferred the funky charm of the small town celebrations. We had gone to the Spanish Town parade in Baton Rouge and I had laughed myself helpless. We might not even have gone down to N'Awlins except that Sidonie had promised this kinswoman of hers that she would do so, on account of her wandering musician son, whose band presently had a gig in the Crescent City.

The pounding rhythms of a southern rock band hit me like a wall of sound as soon as I got to the door of the place. I was a little surprised; considering that I'd heard so much jazz and blues and Zydeco since I'd arrived in Louisiana, but then I remembered that the club Drew was playing at was a southern rock type place. It occurred to me that Sidonie had forgotten to give me either Drew's last name or even a description of him. However, I had been to gatherings of her family and knew more or less what to look for.

I managed to find a table not too far away from the stage and sat down to check out the band. The most likely suspect appeared to be a broad-shouldered, dark-haired, twentysomething kid playing electric bass. His looks followed the format I'd observed in about three-quarters of the people I'd seen in the last reunion of Sidonie's family that I'd been to—thick black hair, important-looking eyebrows, and killer smiles. He had the first two attributes, but since he was playing something grandiose and turgid and dramatic, I did not expect him to smile. 

I ordered a beer and ascertained from the waiter who brought it to me that yes, the bass player was Drew and therefore the guy I was looking for. I nursed it very slowly, ignoring attempts by various men sitting at the bar to send me fresh drinks, and when the band was on a break, I gave the waiter a note to pass to the young man. He opened it briefly, looked at me, gave me a neutral look, and made his way over to my table and sat down.

"Drew, I presume?" I said. I extended a hand, and he gave me a good handshake. His hand was warm, firm, and calloused. "I'm Esmé Trent. Your…ah, cousin Sidonie sent me to look for you."

"Hey, so she's in town? That's nice. You a friend of hers?"

"Since college," I said, suddenly wishing I had lied. Now he knew exactly how to classify me—someone as old as his cousin Sidonie was, assuming that he had that info, and therefore as a person of barely human status. Now that I was close to him, I thought he was even more attractive. His hair was as thick as a seal's pelt, short and free of sticky stuff; and his arching dark eyebrows described a sudden angle over the outer third of his eyes, which were a pleasing shape and a warm, light shade of brown,. His nose was a tad too long for technical beauty, but that was as well; beauty is a liability in a profession where they don't respect you unless you look like Tom Petty. There was something Italianate about his mouth, he had a small dimple in his chin, and his ears were close-set and at certain angles, looked pointed, like a faun's. 

"Um, Ms. Trent, are you all right?" His voice was baritone, with a warm, dark quality. It sounded older than I thought he was.

"Yeah. I was just trying to…place you. Sidonie sent me haring up here with virtually no info about you, expected me to just pick you out of the bunch on the basis of family resemblance, I guess. So, are you one of the Wanzacks or from some other branch?"

"Half," he said, and then he smiled. He had a great smile. "My name is Scarpetti, Ma'am. Let me think…my great-grandpa, Victor, was Sidonie's father's uncle, which makes me—mm—" His eyebrows knit as he thought it over—"her second cousin. I think."

"I'll take your word," I said. "And don't call me ma'am."

Before Drew's break was over, we established that I would meet him after the band was through playing. Then he went back to the stage, and the band started playing again. I continued to sip my beer and look around at the band and the other patrons of the club. Most often, though, my eyes kept coming back to Drew. At one point, the lead guitarist said something to him that nobody could hear, but he did. His face got the same kind of everything-suspended look I had sometimes seen in Sidonie, and one of her kids, and then this thing happened to it when he laughed, some felicitous arrangement of lines and dimples that threw me into confusion. The house lights gleamed on his teeth. I looked down into the golden pool of beer in the bottom of my mug, and then back up at Drew. Come on, laugh again, I thought. I surreptitiously tugged my blouse down so that I had a little more tit showing.

At the end of the band's performance, I waited for him and the band to take down all their equipment, disconnect the cables from the amplifiers and coil them up, and put their instruments back in their cases. I had wondered if he was going to have to carry a case through the streets of the Quarter, but he had that covered; since he was coming back the next evening, he could keep his equipment at the club. We went out. After the close, smoky air indoors, the damp, funky air from the city seemed as cold and fresh as if it had come from the mountains. Over on Canal Street, we heard a distant roar and made our way to it.

"Jesus!" said Drew. After an hour taking in the Bacchus Parade, we were scraped up and bruised; I had a gash on my ankle from when someone had stomped on it. We had had beer splashed on us. We had been scratched with fingernails. I had one lousy short string of beads and a cup I'd probably leave behind in the hotel to show for the pushing and shoving I'd done. Drew had nothing; a boy with an old-fashioned upbringing, he had spent too much time trying to protect me to collect anything himself. However, it was the sight of a man up on a balcony, sprawled on a chair and luxuriously writhing under the oral ministrations of another man right in front of God and everybody that led him to call it quits for the night.

"Like the old song said, 'That ain't no way to have fun, son.' That's a little too rich for my blood," he said.

It seemed to me that it was an excellent way to have fun; if he objected to the gender of the people having it that could not be helped. Some of Drew and Sidonie's family had the reputation of being kind of wild, but evidently their wildness did not seem to go in that direction.

The first thing he did upon arriving at my room was to disappear into the bathroom to pee, and while he was doing that, I called the desk to see if Sidonie and Gavin had checked in—I knew they weren't in their room—and I called Room Service to order up a bottle of champagne. I thought Drew might prefer beer, but I did not, and I was buying.

My room was a bed-sitting room; my friends didn't care what was in a hotel room as long as it had a bed and bath, but I liked my comforts. The sitting area boasted a little padded brocade French provincial settee that probably purported to be a loveseat, but was limited to the love that could be made on it. Nevertheless, it put us closer together than we would be on the average sofa. That was all right; after a glass or two of champagne, we seemed like old friends. We talked about our impressions of New Orleans, other places we'd traveled, and his family. Among other things, Drew volunteered the information that he had been christened Andrea, and the first thing he had done upon reaching his eighteenth birthday was to go down to the courthouse and get it changed to Andrew, which was how he'd been signing all his documents since first grade anyway.

"I mean, girls are called Andrea," he said. "Where'd she get that?"

"Andrea del Sarto, maybe," I said. 

"Whatever," Drew said, that all-purpose retort that made people my age want to dope-slap those who uttered it. Scratch art history as a topic of discussion, I thought. 

The phone rang. It was Sidonie, calling from some very noisy, steel-girt location, on her cell phone. She kept cutting in and out. I could barely understand her.

"at—O—ien—ine," was what I heard. I extrapolated that perhaps she and Gavin might be at Pat O'Brien's in a long line. I thought she was nuts if she was. "—ew?"

"Yeah, he's here," I said. "You want to talk to him?"

"No, that's OK," she said, understandably for once. I couldn't catch what she said next. Just more crackles and vowels.

"You're breaking up, Sid," I said.

I got more unintelligible crackles. "—orning," she said, and then I heard an empty rush of air, and then a dial tone.

"Well?" said Drew.

"I think they're going to be out the rest of the night," I said.

"Oh, shit, I guess I'd better get going, then. I've got a ways to go before I get to the place we're staying at. I'm gonna have to get on the bus." He looked a little flushed and glittery-eyed from the champagne, and it occurred to me that whatever Sidonie had said about rock musicians being able to take care of themselves, I didn't like the idea of this delectable-looking young man making his way alone and slightly drink-taken through the streets of New Orleans on Mardi Gras night. I didn't think that either his mother or Sidonie would call it looking after him if I let him.

"Um, Drew, you don't have to do that," I said. "I'm sure Sidonie wouldn't mind if you stopped here."

"Yeah? And I'd sleep where?"

"The room does have two beds in it. You could sleep in one of them," I pointed out to him. "…Or not," I suddenly added, looking at him with a slow smile.

He had started to get up, but when I had spoken, he settled back down.

"Mrs. Trent," he said, squinting at me slightly, "Are you hitting on me?"

"You were calling me Esmé earlier," I said. "And I'm not hitting on you, yet. If I were, I'd be pointing out to you that you could do a hell of a lot worse." I began to count the reasons: "Disease-free, non-fertile, I'm right here and think you are hot, I won't brag to my friends, and I won't tie you down. At the same time, I will respect you in the morning."

"Wow!" he said. "Those are reasons to consider, all right. It's just that you're—I've never been with—I mean, you did say you'd gone to school with Cousin Sidonie, right? And she's—"

I slid a little closer to him on the loveseat. "Would you shoot down Bonnie Raitt, if she were here hitting on you?"

I envisioned synapses flashing like pinball lights in his young brain as he worked on the question. Finally he shrugged.

"Bonnie Raitt," I said, "is exactly two years older than me. I rest my case." And I slid closer yet, close enough to be within reach of his arm if he chose to take it off the back of the settee. I could smell his sweat and cologne and the stale smoke-and booze club fug coming from his skin and clothing. I laid closed lips on his mouth, off-center, and then, with the utmost gentleness, caught his tender lower lip between my teeth.

He took his arm off the back of the loveseat and put it around me; he opened his mouth on mine and slid a warm, champagne-flavored tongue between my lips. With a little groan, I pulled it into my mouth and sucked on it until he backed it out only to slide it in again. Our tongues slipped and danced against each other like aquatic beasts in courtship. With only that contact, I was gone already; conscious only of my supersensitive skin and avid mouth and pussy that felt as puffed and glazed as a Krispy Kreme donut. We kissed for a while longer, licking and nibbling at each other's mouths. He got one hand in my shirt and played with my nipples, and I did the same thing to him. I opened my eyes and tried to look into his, but that was no good; I had given up three years ago on getting printed material far enough away to read and started wearing bifocal contacts, and he was a lot closer than that. He opened his eyes and tried to look back; we found ourselves both getting cross-eyed, and laughed.

"What happens next?" he said. I sat up and looked at him. He was wearing a shirt in a pattern that accentuated the width of his shoulders and upper torso, and a pair of those stupid trousers young guys are currently wearing, baggy to the point of falling off and pockets everywhere. They concealed a hard-on no better than the tight bellbottoms guys wore when I was about his age, and he was making a nice teepee in them. He believed in being direct. He took my hand and laid it right on the tent-pole. It felt like a piece of steel bar, but it was warm. I refrained from giving him Mae West's line about the gun. Or John Lennon's, for that matter.

"This I gotta see," I said. I found the buckle of the woven belt that kept his trousers from going south, and tugged at it.

"I hope I'm not gonna be the only one naked around here," he said.

"No! Of course not." I hit the dimmer switch on the lights. I had always looked young for my age, but I knew what my limitations were. I had taken care of my body and was pretty fit, nevertheless, in my own house, I had taken to employing such ruses as candlelight and pink bulbs.

In a few seconds I was down to French-cut panties and bra, and he was down to far less. I realized that I must have been wondering what he looked like naked from the first time I laid eyes on him. He was gorgeous, with a wedge-shaped body, muscular arms and legs, skin marble-like where the sun had not hit it. He had less hair than I had expected on one with his Mediterranean coloring, just little rosettes under his arms, and a sleek scatter of it on his chest, tufting around his darling little pointy nipples. Fur zipper on his belly. Thick dark hair half-concealing his package like the husk of some exotic fruit.

If you think I'm going to say that he had a twelve-inch dick or anything like that, you're wrong. For one thing, I had never seen one, haven't seen one, and don't believe they exist; and if they do exist, they are of no more use than a volleyball serve that goes slamming against the opposite wall of the court and leaves your team with a side out. It was rosy, beautifully lathed and sturdy, smooth, and I knew that underneath its satiny covering, it would feel as hard as a rock. I had forgotten about how incredible it seemed that anything could be that hard and still be flesh. I had a sudden hankering to taste it.

I slid down onto the floor between his parted legs and looked up at him. I ran my hands over the delicious planes and angles of his body as if it were a piece of sculpture I had just acquired. He was slightly flushed, trembling a little; I could not tell if he were enjoying my touch or enduring it.

"That, um, sight we saw on the balcony earlier this evening," I said, lifting Drew's cock from where it lay twitching impatiently on his belly, "what about it specifically grossed you out?"

"A man doing it to him. God, Esmé! We never had anything like that go on in our family."

He wasn't 100% right, but enough right that you couldn't blame him for his assumption. It wasn't my place to tell him that the reason Sidonie had gone off with Gavin tonight and left me to honor the obligations of family was that one of the people they were possibly going to meet was Jeremy Gable, a guy both of them had known since they were kids; Gavin and Jeremy had been in the Army together. They'd had a brief thing in 'Nam—one of those wartime things that shouldn't happen but they do. It was long over, but while Sidonie trusted Gavin, she didn't trust Jeremy any further than she could spit a rat.

"But it wasn't the act itself?"

He looked down at me with an asymmetrical smile. "No. Sure wasn't."

I licked the crystalline tear from its single eye and used the broad smooth head to spread it all over my lips like gloss; then I began spiraling my tongue all around the beveled edge, drawing his cock a little bit more in my mouth with every turn. I sucked the head into my mouth and licked at the flat place below the slit. 

Drew nudged up further into my mouth. His voice deepened into a velvety growl. "Mrs. T, are you going to suck my dick already or not?"

I had the nails of my other hand pressing infinitesimally into his scrotum, and the head of his cock resting on my tongue. I grinned ferally around it. "Call me Mrs. again and I'll bite you."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, and wound his fingers in my hair. Enough with show and subtlety; it was time to get into some serious stroking. I worked on him and he met me; we came to something between me doing all the work and him fucking me in the mouth, at first anyway. Over all the suckings and slurpings, I could hear his little gasps and murmurs and groans, as he shifted and surged into my mouth and beneath my hands. And then, as his pleasure began to run him, the words he used to feed into it: Mm yes that's good suck it harder go a little deeper further down on it oh I love it when you grab it with your throat like that do it again do it some more oh yeah like that just like that don't stop

--and then I couldn't stop because he couldn't stop; he was helplessly thrusting up into my mouth, and I was caught inexorably between his strong hands wrapped in my hair and his pistoning cock—

"Oh, yeah, honey, that's good, oh take it, take all of it, just keep doing that, I'm about to—oh I can't help it, I'm—aah! Yes!"

With one final thrust he was over the top, his body pronated in ecstasy, his pungent life fluid fountaining into my mouth. I gulped it down as best I could. Spicy, wiry hair tickled my nose with no way for me to scratch. I could hear and feel the fast, heavy thudding of his heart, his accelerated, jagged breathing.




Carnival



Still panting, he relaxed his hands and let me up. His cock slid out of my mouth, glazed and somewhat deflated. I sat up and used a finger to dab excess cum out of the corners of my mouth and blinked my eyes. Drew lay sprawled on the settee with his head resting on the back. His eyes were closed and he looked completely blissed out. Then he opened his eyes and sat up, reaching for and handing me the remains of my glass of champagne. 

"Thanks," I said, drinking it down. When I had drained the glass he poured me another and filled another glass for himself.

"That felt great," he said. "That was primo!" He gave me his dazzling smile again, and I felt absurdly pleased with myself. I figured that in his line of work, blowjobs were an expected and commonplace reward, like the bouquets of red roses that conductors and soloists in the more staid musical genres received after the concert, and I was glad if he thought I'd done him good.

By unspoken agreement we moved to the nearest bed, taking the champagne with us, but not bothering about the heaps of clothing we'd left around the settee. We lay cuddled together. Drew ran his hands through my hair and kissed me from time to time. He got his hand partially stuck under the underwire of my bra, and said, "C'mon, get this off," and when I reached back and unsnapped it, he gathered up my breasts and tongue-flicked and suckled my nipples until I was panting and whimpering and moving all over the bed. I treated him the same way. His dark-rose nipples were as hard as little erasers, and when I flashed my tongue over them it made him shiver and gasp. He pressed me down on the bed and started kissing a trail from my breasts down my belly, stripping my panties off and pulling my thighs apart with his hard, warm, hands.

"Mm, you smell hot," he said, sniffing appreciatively. He grabbed one of the pillows off the head of the bed and stuffed it under my ass. He lowered his mouth to my upraised cunt and gave it a long, complicated kiss. His tongue strummed my clit and figure-eighted in my wet furrow. I shifted and nudged it against him as if it were my mouth kissing him back. My center tautened and clenched, and clenched, and I let out a gusting shout and told him don't quit yet, and he didn't. Just as if he had ignited a string of firecrackers, I went off three more times in rapid succession, something which had not happened to me in many years. We continued our interesting kiss, his mouth against the one between my legs, until I was shuddering and incoherent. He raised his head and looked at me, dazed, his mouth glazed with my juices.

I could hardly talk, except to say, "I want you to fuck me now."

He got up and leaned over me so he could kiss me. I licked my juice off his mouth. He sat back and put the tip of his cock to my slit. "Damn," he said. "And I thought it was going to be a boring evening." I gazed at him, breathing hard. I squirmed closer to him, trying to get closer, get impaled. "Talk to me. Tell me just what you want me to do to you."

"You want me to talk dirty to you?" I said.

"Yes. Yes, I do." He smiled.

"Put it in me," I said.

"Put what?"

"Your cock. Stick it all the way up my cunt. Please. Now." He did. I felt it slide against the sweet spot inside me when he did. He settled completely inside me, all the way up to the root. He leaned over me, looking down into my face.

"What happens next?"

"You fuck me. Move inside of me."

"You got it," he said. He drew back and shoved it into me, hard. I gripped his arms. He had me spread out in a slightly uncomfortable position, but it let me feel that contact with my sweet spot and watch him as he moved, see his face as he gave himself over to the sensations he was feeling. At some point, he tensed and shivered inside me and I thought he had come, but he carried on; he must have pushed himself to the very edge, felt that edge and pulled back. He kept up that almost unendurable slide and scrape against my spot, and I knew I had to have it again. His pace had picked up; I figured he was going to really do it this time.

"Damn that feels good, Drew! Keep ramming that beautiful fuckstick up my pussy. Oh, that's lovely. Mm. Yeah. Put your thumb on my clit, I want it now oh, yeah, stroke it stroke it stroke it—"

I broke around his cock like a wave, as the bifold roar of sensation took me from the inside and the outside simultaneously. This was where I always needed action and force, just brutal ball-slapping cock slamming into me and making my climax roll on the way a wave that crosses another wave extends your ride. I wrapped my legs around him and thrust against him. I wrung his cock with my cunt muscles. "Ah, God, Drew, fuck me, fuck it good! Now! Do it now! Move, honey! Fuck me till I fucking split! Unh! Right! There! Now!" And he did it now, gasping, groaning, his beautiful mouth drawing open in a rictus of ecstasy.

We fell in a sweaty, exhausted heap. I could feel waning flutters as Drew finished inside me. The roar of our hearts quieted to something we could hear over.

"You—talked me—right into it," he said. He was collapsed on top of me. He still had not got his breath back. "Wow! What a ride! That was something. I don't know what I expected, but—man, have you ever got a tight grip!"

I gave him a heartfelt Kegel. His eyes widened. "I work out," I said.

In a little while we ended up in the shower. We'd both had to go to the bathroom, and taking a shower seemed to be a logical next step. I loved an après-sex shower with a man; the way the water made the combined smells of our sex juices revivify before washing them down the drain, the way when you kissed the water that got into your mouth tasted sweet next to your saliva, the slipperiness of soap and the squeak of clean skin (unless you were showering in Baton Rouge, and then you never felt rinsed off)—the potential for further mischief you could get into…

When you contemplate mischief with someone, especially when you've only recently met them, it's as well to make sure that his idea of mischief is compatible with yours.

We were doing a half-assed job of washing each other off. He was washing my back, and had progressed to my backside. He massaged it with a soapy hand.

"You sure have a muscular butt, Esmé," he said.

"Thanks, I think," I replied. He slid a finger into the upper part of my crack.

"Tell me—is your ass as tight as your pussy? I bet it is."

"It might be," I said, "but don't go there."

He pressed up close to me, and I could tell that he had started to recover from his last climax. "Why not?"

"Because I'd rather you didn't. Isn't that enough reason?"

He was distracting me by caressing my breasts with his other hand, and licking and nibbling at my neck and my ears. "Ah, c'mon, Esmé. I bet you'd like it."

"I bet I wouldn't. Don't go there, Drew."

He was sliding his finger up and down my crack, the pad of one string-hardened finger grazing my hole with every pass. In another minute, he had his finger, well lubricated with soap, up my ass. That was OK, but I knew I didn't want anything bigger going in there.

"Now is that so bad?" He was maneuvering me so that I was caught between the tub enclosure wall and his body, which made me nervous.

"No, but that's all I want in there."

He was still finger-fucking my ass, and I was starting to get excited in spite of myself; nevertheless, that was not the part of me I wanted him in. I could feel his stiff cock nudging against my thighs and buttocks, and I nudged back against him, parting my legs, hoping that he would remember the perfectly good port of entry he'd used before; I wouldn't have minded him stallionizing me. He had stopped stroking my body with his other hand; too late, I realized what else he was doing with the soap. The finger was withdrawn, but then in one lithe movement, it was Drew's cock that entered me.

"Damn it, Drew…"

"Oops," he said. I could tell he was smiling. I could hear the smirk in his voice.

If it had just been his finger, it would have been all right for a while; or if he had been fresh. But this would be his third climax and I knew this one would take the longest, and I was going to be in pain before he was done. I was starting to be in pain already. He had me squashed up against the wall of the tub enclosure, with his hands hooked under my shoulders. He transferred one to my pussy and I concentrated on that feeling. I felt myself tighten up but it was hard to identify why. I was on a knife-edge of sensation, between the pleasure his hand was giving me and the pain his cock was giving me

After a while he said, "You really aren't enjoying this, are you?"

"Oh, honey, I'd like to enjoy it, but truth is, I—"

"All right." He slid out of me. "But you're not leaving me like this! Let me finish." He backed me to the wall, his cock poking at my pelvis.

"Let me clean that thing off before you put it anywhere else," I said, grabbing hold of it and soaping it up. I closed my fist hard around it, and he surged forward.

"Hey, that'll work," he said. He turned us around so that he was leaning against the wall instead of me. "That'll work fine. Jack me off, Esmé." I continued to slide my soapy hand up and down his cock. "Mm, that's nice. But do it harder." He stood braced, his hips jutting forward, away from the wall; his legs parted, their muscles tensed. "Harder, harder for God's sake! I don't want gentle. Come on, jack it like you mean it, I can take it, that's what it wants, that's what I need!" His voice had become an urgent snarl. "God damn it, do I have to do it myself?"

I snarled back at him. "No fucking way," I said, and hauled away at it as if it was not even made out of real flesh. His face had assumed a closed, ruthless look and I knew he was close. I stood close to him; I had my other hand, liberally soaped up, behind his balls, rubbing that hard area back there that guys probably include when they are telling you how long their dicks are. Millimeter by millimeter, I worked my hand back further. I could feel his balls tense up. Turn about is fair play, I thought.

I turned him about with a vengeance.

The water from the shower poured down on us, roaring like jungle rain, unheeded. We were both of us squashed together in the bottom of the bathtub. Drew had his knees drawn up and he was resting his head on them.

"That's interesting," I said brightly. "I'd never actually heard a man scream before. Not in real life, anyway. Only in the movies. And then, someone was hurting him."

He did not look at me.

"I'm not sure you didn't," he said.

"Uh-huh. I suppose that's why you came like you'd been thrown across the room."

"I was coming anyway. Jesus! Warn a man when you do that. And just one finger at a time, for Christ's sake."

"I warned you," I said. "I said, 'Don't go there,' didn't I? What part of 'Don't go there' did you not understand? You're a hard-fucking little bastard, aren't you?" I laughed a little. "I just wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine." I was still hurting a little but I didn't care. "A man's got a sweet spot, too, and yours just got stirred up a little. Man! The way you looked, and, mm, mmh!—that sound you made—I will remember it to the end of my days, I swear. The end. Of. My. Days."

He raised his head, and looked at me. The water fell through his hair, onto his face. Water stood in his dark-amber eyes. It gave him a drowned look, somehow.

"You'd let me in your other two holes, I thought I'd go for all three. I really thought you'd get to liking it if you just gave it a chance."

"Oh, hell, Drew," I said. "I should have communicated with you better. I didn't want to bore you with my medical issues." It was what old folks did; they bored you with their medical issues. Probably all someone like him ever had to worry about was injuries to his hands, bad food taken on the road, the odd sports injury, and STDs. "I'm OK, you'll be OK, and by the way, I pity the guy who ever tries to bugger you without an invite. He'll be lucky to get back what he put in. As it is, I'm glad I don't make my living doing microsurgery, I'd need another week of vacation before I could go back to work." I put my fist under his chin and raised his head. "We're still friends, right?" He gave me an oblique look. "Right," I said for him, and turned off the water.

We got out of the tub and dried ourselves off silently and abstractedly. I didn't know what he was thinking; I was thinking still of the way his face had looked, the way he'd reacted, when I'd entered him. It had been so unguarded, so strong, so fine. His face a mask of ecstasy/agony. That scream in a voice that was surely never meant for screaming. Every time I thought about it, it felt like something arrowing through me and it felt good.

"You hungry?" I asked him.

"Now that you ask, I am," he said. "I'm 'bout to starve."

In the mini-fridge at the wet bar that I had been avoiding using, was a quarter of a muffalotta sandwich I had been unable to finish at lunch, and a bunch of cruelly expensive, out-of-season Champagne grapes I had bought on impulse in the French market. Drew looked askance at the grapes but inhaled the muffalotta as if it had been a petit four. I looked in the folder of restaurant menus the hotel provided. It was late, and there is never any hope of getting decent New Orleans cuisine during Mardi Gras, but you can always rely on Asian food, and that's what we did. We ate seated at the small table in the sitting area, he kilted in one of the hotel towels and I in my favorite old white terry robe I'd lifted from another hotel than this one. He wolfed down an order of Kung Pao chicken, while I ate the fresh spring rolls he'd ordered with it and decided he didn't like. We didn't talk much; we were too busy eating, and Drew had found the remote and turned on the television.

It was late. Time for bed and fresh awkwardness. I wasn't quite sure what I remembered about the etiquette of spending the night in a situation like this. Drew got into the bed I had been using, and I got into a short, thin silk nightgown and considered whether I wanted to lie next to him or sleep in the other one.

He held out a hand to me, looking appealing, and said, "Come on in here, Esmé. I'll be good, I promise." So again we were like old friends, cuddled together, still watching TV, and not talking about anything much except what we were looking at. He flicked through a bunch of music video stations with the air of someone who wanted to keep on top of what was going on in the business. 

Suddenly I realized that he had quit saying anything for quite a few minutes; he was too quiet, lying warm, heavy, and inert next to me. The remote he had been holding fell from his limp fingers. It had been a long day for him; after an evening of hard work, having then been well fucked and well fed, he was down for the count. I studied his face as he lay there asleep. I noticed the translucent edges of his incisors, that I could see when mouth fell open a little; and the way the roots of his eyelashes could be seen going up into the skin of his utterly smooth eyelids. Even the beard hairs poking out through his skin looked soft, although I knew they were not. A kid, I thought; in a moment of irrational panic I wanted to sneak over to his clothes and get out his driver's license and make sure he'd been telling the truth about his birthday, that his picture wasn't a profile shot. Naah, I thought, he's not that much of a kid. Just so much more so than I. I felt a rush of tenderness for him. I leaned down and kissed the end of his slightly outsize nose. A curled hand came up, and like a baby or a kitten, he vigorously rubbed the end of it; then he turned on his side and wrapped himself in deeper slumber as if it were an extra blanket. I turned off the light.

Sometime later I woke to find that Drew had spooned himself behind me, and I could feel his cock nudging between my thighs. I stiffened, unsure of his intentions. He snuggled closer, tugged up the bottom of my nightgown, and repositioned my leg. Knowing fingers fluttered the lips of my pussy. A sleepy murmur in my ear: "Is this the right place?"

"Mm-hmm," I said, and backed up to him, snugging my ass against his thighs. He entered me, the tip of his cock sliding against my anterior wall, where the sweet spot was, his leg slipping between mine. I reached down for his hand. He found mine; he tucked my fingers between my labia, bracketing my clit, laying his hand on top. We started a sweet, sleepy ride, with him pleasuring me from the inside and the two of us pleasuring me from the outside. I felt him tense, shudder and spurt inside me. His teeth were set lightly in my shoulder. He continued to stroke me with his still-hard cock, and our fingers, and I came, profoundly, blissfully sighing and whimpering. Poleaxed, I fell asleep again. I thought there was something that I really needed to see about before I dropped off, but I couldn't remember what it was and if it involved getting up, I was too relaxed to.

Dawn, and I had to get up. I had to pee, and Drew was sleeping like the single man he was, swastika-style all over the bed, leaving very little room for the single woman that I was.

I thought about everything that had gone down last night, and felt nostalgic already. I knew that this encounter was a one-time thing. Most of this man's life was ahead of him, and too much of my life was behind me. We'd had a good time. I wondered if we might have time for another round before breakfast, but wasn't going to get my mouth set for it. It wasn't Mardi Gras anymore. It was Ash Wednesday, and soon Sidonie would be stirring us all up. Later I figured she'd want to find us a church somewhere and have ashes imposed on us. By that time, Drew would be back at work. Just as well, when I reflected on the general craziness of standing next to him in line while a preacher smudged a cross onto our foreheads, thinking, remembering…I still had to think how he'd join the rest of us for breakfast. I wondered what he'd tell his fellow musicians about his evening.

When I came out of the bathroom I remembered what it was that I should have seen about before falling asleep: I should have locked the door on my side between my suite and the suite Sidonie and Gavin were sleeping in. I had not, and now I stood, paralyzed, watching the knob turn.

The door opened and Sidonie came in, wearing a bathrobe that was a twin of the one that I was wearing; she had acquired it at the same hotel.

"I just cannot drink like I use to could," she said. Her face creased in the momentary agony of one who feels a bolus of hydrochloric acid trying to climb up into her throat. "It tears up my gut. You got an antacid?"

I went and peeled her one from the roll of Tums I kept in my purse. She took it and crunched it gratefully.

"Thanks," she said. Then, "Whoo-ee! Do you ever look like you were rode hard and put away wet!" She grinned her trademark lecher's grin. It looked like it should have hurt; her lips looked raw and blurred on the edges. There were deep shadows under her eyes. Her hair was as tangled as a witch's.

"Ha! You should talk," I said. "I suppose I shouldn't ask what you were up to!"

"I was with my husband, whatever I was up to. I'm glad you found some action last night. I see that he bites…" Her gaze had fallen on where the collar of my robe had fallen aside. Perhaps Drew's teeth had not been as light in my shoulder as I'd thought. She looked over at all our clothes, in haphazard heaps around the loveseat. "And that he's still here. Oops! Sorry. I'll leave you now. Bring him to breakfast, if it suits you. Um, by the way, what did you do with my cousin?"

While I was taking a deep breath and opening my mouth to think of a good answer, the Italian faun in my bed stirred, and stretched. A neatly made foot, not a hoof, extended from beneath the bedclothes. He rolled onto his back. His head pressed into the pillow as he stretched, and then it lolled to one side where his face could be seen, looking unbearably sweet as the sleeping young always do. His mouth fell a little open, and a beam of early morning sunlight sneaked between the curtains and fell on his face, shining on the corner of one of his incisors like a diamante.




Carnival



Sidonie looked from him to the heaps of clothing to me and back again. Her eyes bulged slightly. She clapped her hands to her face and looked between her fingers at everything she had seen, and then she went into a paroxysm of incredulous laughter.

"Holy Jesus shitfire Lord!" she exclaimed. "Esmé, you didn't! Tell me that you didn't!"

"All right, have it your way," I said blandly. "I didn't."



Carnival



The figure gave a low bow, took her gently by the waist and began to lead them in a waltz. 

"Do I know you?" she asked. The stranger gave a small nod.

"Are you going to remain silent?" Again the stranger nodded.

"Then I no longer wish to continue this dance," said Jovanna as she pushed the stranger away. "If you are Pietro I'm not amused."

The stranger pulled her close, allowing her to see the eyes through the holes in the mask. Jovanna looked at the familiar blue eyes and relaxed. Pietro had dull brown eyes; these were a clear blue like the ones she had seen in her dreams. She felt a sudden heat begin to rise between her legs. Was this the person that gave her those exquisite dreams? How was that possible?

Again they danced; it felt as if they were the only two people in the room. The strangers hand against the small of her back sent shivers up her spine. She let out a small gasp.

"I will not let you go again," said the voice in her mind, as if the stranger could read her thoughts. "I have waited too long."

"You are the one that comes to me at night aren't you?" she whispered.

"Yes." She heard the reply in her mind.

Jovanna felt her cheeks start to burn with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. She wanted to tear the mask from the stranger's face and see who her mystery lover was at last.

"This is not the time, nor the place, my Love. You must come to me freely."

"I don't understand... how can I come to you when I don't even know where to find you?"

"I'll find you."

With that, the stranger released their embrace, holding her one hand out as they bent over slightly. Pulling up the edge of their mask the person pressed cool lips onto the top of her hand, sending a shiver through Jovanna's body. Then the mysterious guest touched her lips with a gloved finger, turned away and soon vanished in the crowd of revelers.

"Hello! Anybody home?" Juno's voice broke her reverie and she felt embarrassed.

"I was just trying to think, who could have sent these beautiful flowers."

"I think you know but you don't want to say." he teased.

"They must be from Pietro." said Carlos.

Jovanna rolled her eyes. "No. Pietro only sends the same red roses over and over again. "And I've told him roses are not my favorite flower."

"Roses are a sign of love, which is why he sends them. He is a good man, Jovanna. He'll make a good life for you." Carlos motioned to the servants to serve dinner.

"I don't love him, Father."

"You will love him in time, Jovanna. You're just stubborn."

"Dad, she doesn't love him! Why do you need to keep pushing her?" interrupted Juno.

"Stay out of affairs that don't involve you, Juno. Your sister needs to stop wasting her life with that silly magazine."

"Do we have to have this conversation again, Father? I thought we were going to be able to have a nice dinner and talk about the party - not how you think my life is going to Hell."

Carlos sipped his soup as Juno downed another drink. Juno hated Pietro and would do anything to keep him from becoming part of the family. He knew him to be a devious character who intended to get his hands on not only Jovanna, but the money his father's business would entitle him to when he married Juno's sister.

"So who were dancing with last night, Vanna?"

Jovanna looked up from her soup plate that she was lazily stirring into with her spoon. "Oh, you were able to take your eyes off that virginal fairy woman long enough to spy on me?"

"She was a wood nymph and yes, I saw you. It was the only time you danced. So was it anyone I know?"

"Maybe..." she smiled, as she bit into a small piece of chicken.

"Maybe? You don't know?" he laughed.

"Maybe I know and don't want to tell you."

Juno sat back smiling at her, and his eyes narrowed. She had met someone. He could tell by the way she was acting. "Are you back in high school? Now you'll start signing your articles with a little smiley face."

"Shut up! It was just a dance, that's all; probably someone from your club that you set me up with, who wants free advertising space."

"Speaking of which, I need to send you the new formats. I have some changes. I'm trying to promote local artists."

"Get them to me by the end of the week please? I'm hoping my next interview will up sales. And..." she hesitated for a moment, "I'm interviewing your friend Phoenix tonight."

"Phoenix? How did you manage to talk her into an interview? She doesn't give interviews, in fact she rarely shows up for her own openings!"

Carlos stopped cutting into his steak for a moment. "She's that debatable artist, isn't she? The one who paints that blasphemous trash, if I remember rightly."

"It's not trash, Father. She paints from a contemporary viewpoint creating a mild shock value to raise awareness. Her story is the story everyone wants and I'm going to get it."

"This is big Vanna, really big. Do you realize what this will do for you?" Juno knew that Phoenix would do anything for Jovanna. They had discussed her on many occasions. Juno was the only person aside from her servant Bastien whom she would confide in and could trust. They were best friends and both wanted nothing but the best for Jovanna.

"It's immoral to promote such works. She's an abomination. I don't want my name tied in with hers. Why don't you interview someone respectful like the mayor's wife? She has done good work in helping to beautify the local parks and promote tourism." Carlos huffed as he cut into a rare piece of beef.

Juno laughed. "The mayor's wife is as interesting as reading a repair manual. The local papers can cover that for Christ's sake. Do you know how many people stop in at the club because Phoenix might be there? She's almost a cult figure."

"So you sell a few more magazines. How does that give you any respect? I let your mother write a few articles for the paper just to let her get it out of her system. She knew that her priorities were at home and being here for her family..."

"Mother wrote? You never told me that?"

"You're mother had her little hobby too. She kept little journals and things, nothing important."

Jovanna was bewildered. Her love of writing came from her mother and she never knew until now. "My job is not a hobby! Why do I keep thinking you will understand? You didn't understand her and you don't understand me." Jovanna rose from her chair and threw her napkin on the table.

"Dinner is not finished." said Carlos flatly.

"I have business to take care of. Good night."

Evening at an outdoor café: present day

Phoenix smiled as Jovanna dropped her bag in the chair beside her and bent to kiss Phoenix on each cheek. "Sorry I'm late. I hope I'm not keeping you from anything?"

"Not at all, the night air is refreshing and I needed to get out of the studio. Have you eaten?"

Jovanna brushed a few wisps of hair away from her face. Something that Lucia would have done. Phoenix felt a small stab at her heart. She thought back to the times her fingers twined through the cascade of Lucia's golden curls.

"Yes, thank you. I had a late supper with my father and Juno," she sighed.

Phoenix poured her a glass of wine. "I take it all is not well?"

"You know my father. He's old fashioned and pig headed." She took a sip of her wine. "He still thinks that my magazine is a hobby and that I should marry Pietro."

"That's a horror story in itself," laughed Phoenix. She lit a cigarette, taking a long drag and letting the smoke out slowly.

"Madre di Dio, he's far from being the "Italian Stallion" as the Americans would say."

"Well he does have that mustache that looks as if it should be covering a horse's ass."

Jovanna almost spit out her mouthful of wine. "Bitch," she coughed and then laughed. "You always do that to me!"

Phoenix smiled as she handed her a napkin. "You are your own person. Why do you need to please your father so much?"

Dabbing her mouth with the napkin, Jovanna thought for a moment. "I don't know, I feel it's my duty to be a good daughter, I guess."

"And?"

"And to honor my mother's memory."

The dark haired woman reached over and placed her hand atop Jovanna's. "You miss her."

Jovanna was surprised at how cold the woman's hand was against her own. She felt an energy flow from her and for a brief moment she felt as if they were somewhere else, in another time and she felt safe.

"Si. I miss her very much, especially during Carnival time. It was her favorite time of the year. I think she loved it more than Christmas. Even as we were hanging up our costumes she was planning ahead for the next season. The masks were handmade and she would go over them before they were packed away, checking to learn if they were in need of repair. I still check them for her not just to see how they are holding up but because she touched them. I feel her in them. It's all I have of her."

"I would love to see them sometime. I collect them, in fact. My collection goes back to the late 1600's."

"That's extraordinary. How did you manage to get them?"

"Family heirlooms." Phoenix took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling quickly, "My family is originally from Bassano del Grappa. They traveled to Venice as part of a pilgrimage of sorts, just for Carnival. Have you ever been there?"

"No I haven't, but I've wanted to visit. It's uncanny that you should bring that up. My family is from there as well. They left many, many years ago. There was some sort of scandal, so they came to settle in Venice."

"What family doesn't have scandal and a few skeletons in their closets?" Phoenix winked. "Look throughout past history, especially the early Egyptian dynasties. They were fraught with murder, conspiracy, incest and deception. Most family trees were mere saplings."

The blonde laughed as she reached with her hands behind her head to lift her hair off her neck. The light breeze felt good across her skin. She couldn't help but notice Phoenix watching her as if she was far away. The look was tinged with sadness and longing. "And you?" she asked. "What about your family? Are they here in Venice as well?"

"Hmm?" Jovanna's words broke her reverie and she was suddenly aware that she had dropped her guard. "Are you asking me as a reporter?" she poured more wine.

"I'm asking as a friend who wants to know you better. I only know of your artwork and that you frequent my brother's nightclub. I noticed you watching me dance."

"I like the way you dance. Does it bother you that I watch?"

Jovanna felt her face start to redden. "No, not at all."

"You dance with an abandon. I don't mean that in an outrageous sense but it's very sensual and spiritual, intense and liberating."

Vanna took a sip of her wine as she tipped her head to hide her embarrassment. She looked over the rim of her glass before speaking. "Is this your way of avoiding my questions?"

"Was I avoiding the questions? I hadn't noticed," Phoenix smiled. "Typical reporter practice of not letting the subject slip by. You are circular, a never ending cycle of bringing us back to the crux of the matter"

"And you are like a cube; a puzzle box of sorts. If my questions make you uncomfortable please tell me? I would not wish to offend you."

Taking one last drag on her cigarette, Phoenix crushed out its remains while tipping her head somewhat to one side, purposely blowing the smoke away from Jovanna. The slight change in the breeze allowed her to smell the anxiousness the blonde was feeling and she could almost hear the blood flowing through her veins. She licked her lips, feeling the sharp points of her teeth scrape against her tongue. Quickly she reminded herself of where she was and that she must be patient. She had already waited so long, surely a few days would pass by like seconds.

"I've been out of contact with my family for what seems like... generations. I left home at an early age and traveled extensively. I was rebellious and somewhat bohemian."

"That sounds exciting, but a little lonely as well. No one special in your life? Or do you have someone hidden away? I know! It's a sordid affair, which is why we only see you at night!"

The darker woman let out a deep sigh. "Yes you have figured it out. I'm really a vampire and I'm having an affair with the night watchman at your father's palazzo. Juno told on us, didn't he? He is jealous of our love and my affinity for men in uniform, who are over 40 and still live with their mothers."

They both laughed for a moment until there was a comfortable silence. The sounds of the city surrounded them: the laughter of friends, the clinking of glasses and a horn beeping off in the distant streets. But it was the sound of a horse and carriage passing by that stopped Phoenix. In her mind she could once again hear the sound of the horses galloping over the bridge, taking her away from Bassano del grappa for the last time. It was the night after she found out Lucia was dead.

Jovanna noticed the look of anguish in Phoenix's expression, and she needed to touch her. She took Phoenix's hand gently in her own and it wasn't until the darker woman looked into her eyes that there was a kind of recognition. She had seen that look before, but where? Everything was familiar, but also confusing. What was her connection with Phoenix?

"I did have a love once. A long, long time ago. The kind that is timeless and ancient." Phoenix shifted in her chair, "However, unforeseen circumstances kept that from being fulfilled. I moved away and started painting to fill the void. I became a creature of the night."

She gave Jovanna's hand a small squeeze and smiled at her. The life she felt flowing through the woman's body was electrifying. The urge to pull her onto the table and take her right there was overwhelming and she needed to stay focused.

"The night has many stories of its own. Different sounds and smells; so many lives that go unnoticed in the daytime. It has an indescribable beauty. You should stay up late nights and feed your writer's hunger."

Jovanna downed the last of her wine and tipped her head back against her chair. She wished she could see the stars tonight, but they were obscured by the haze of the city lights.

"Writer's hunger... an interesting choice of words, indicative of a passion."

"Do you feel that passion, Jovanna?" asked Phoenix as she studied the blonde woman's features. Her patterns and habits were unmistakably those of Lucia.

"I feel the passion at times, but not the motivation. Maybe I'm just fooling myself into thinking I can be a writer. I publish my scribbling in my slick looking gossip rag-mag where I make already larger than life people appear down to earth and almost humble. These beautiful people reveal their sins to me and I elevate them to a higher level of veneration. It's purely entertainment that puts money in my pocket, but it does not feed my soul. My father is right, it's just a hobby. How can this help me make it as a writer?"

The dark haired woman grabbed the arm of Jovanna's chair and with surprising strength turned the chair to face her. Her eyes narrowed and she began to speak: "You've made it when you're not only published, but when you are read, truly read. Anyone can be published. Anyone can write a book, but not everyone can 'write' a book. Yes, you want them to buy and read your words but when you lay your soul down on paper - that's when you write.

"It's not about making a bestseller list, even though that is a plausible goal. It's writing something that reaches into people so deeply that it's as if you pulled their very words right out of them. You write for you as if it's the blood that flows through your veins and the air that fills your lungs."

Phoenix settled back in her chair and stared hard at Jovanna for a moment. Her own mention of blood threw her slightly off balance.

"Why do people treasure certain books? They quote them, underline in them, share them sometimes. They covet them, devour them and metaphorically speaking, make love to them. How many people have numerous copies of that same cherished book? Dog-eared, beaten up, and barely bound sheets of script that they hold so dearly –they are extensions of their souls stuffed in purses or briefcases, lying on coffee tables or on nightstands. These tomes and their symbols give them unconditional love and comfort, asking for nothing more than to be picked up and read. If you can reach out to just one soul, just one, with your words... then you are a writer."

Jovanna was taken aback for a moment. This woman knew what was deep inside of her. She understood what passion was and how it connected to a deeper part of the soul. "If only you could make my father understand that," Jovanna sighed. "It is one of the reasons I chose to start a magazine. I could still write, but it was also a business, so we compromised. At least in his eyes we did."

"He doesn't understand you, and he never will."

Jovanna traced her finger along the edge of her wine glass as she tried to read the darker woman's expression. "How is it that you do?"

"Good evening Signorina Jovanna," said a male voice.

"Pietro! What are you doing here?"

"Your father said you were here, visiting with a friend."

"I'm conducting an interview. This is business." She turned to Phoenix, "Mi dispiace, I'm sorry. We were discussing passion, yes?"

"I must apologize for my rudeness." Pietro extended his hand to Phoenix. "I am Pietro Genova and this is my friend Angelo Furmante." He nodded to a dodgy looking man in an ill-fitting suit.

"Ciao, Signor Genova." Phoenix took the man's hand and watched his expression over the power of her hand shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Pietro appeared bewildered as he tried to rub and flex his fingers without admitting to the pain. "Allow me to buy you ladies some wine?" He motioned to the waiter, "A bottle of your finest."

"Really Signor, that's not necessary," Phoenix said sweetly. "Besides Signorina Jovanna and I were just on our way to my studio to finish the interview."

"Maybe we should come with you and we can have a little get-together?" asked Pietro. "We'll bring the wine, relax and get to know one another better."

"Pietro, this is business, not pleasure." Jovanna began to rise from her seat and gather up her bag. "If you'll excuse us."

Angelo reached around Phoenix's waist, "I think you and I would get along just fine."

Within seconds, Phoenix had taken the man's wrist and twisted his arm behind his back and pinned his face against the table. "Don't ever touch me, ever!"

Pietro stepped in between them, "Don't be so upset bellisima. Angelo e' arrapato... he's just very excited to be near such a beautiful woman. Isn't that right Angelo?"

"Stronza, cunt," Angelo muttered under his breath. "Si, I was just overcome with such beauty, that is all," he sneered.

"We really need to go now." Jovanna moved away from the table only to have Pietro block her way.

"Jovanna please don't go. I promised your father I would entertain you tonight. We can go to the club if you like?"

"Entertain me? I told him I was doing this interview tonight! Don't you people understand this is my job and not some diversion of a bored little rich girl? My magazine is in circulation worldwide. People want to read what I am writing."

"You are a strong-willed woman Jovanna. I admire that. If you want to keep your little venture going after we are married, I will allow it."

"Che cazzo vuoi, what the fuck do you want? Do you expect me to settle down and have children while I play the role of the good wife? And who said I'm going to marry you anyway? I never agreed to marry you. That is an arrangement you and my father made, not me."

"Your father is a wise man. He knows only a man like me can control a woman like you." Pietro stroked his long curled mustache. "You are not going to get a better offer than what I can give you. Look at you, almost 30 years old with no man in your life. You are probably still untouched. Probably because you hang around women such as this lesbica."




Carnival



Phoenix narrowed her eyes and spoke very slowly and distinctly, "You should think very long and hard before making any assumptions. You know nothing of me and who I really am." She then took Jovanna by the arm and led her away from the café.

They walked in silence for a while as Jovanna tried to hold back angry tears. Phoenix sensed her emotions and put her arm around the blonde's shoulders. She spoke gently and reassured her that things would be okay, but she was also aware that they were being followed. The sound of their heels echoed off the cobblestone of the alley way that lead to where Phoenix had her studio. She had found the space in an older section of town where warehouses lay empty. It wasn't the safest part of town but Phoenix feared nothing.

The lights of a car swinging quickly into the alley startled them, blinding them for a moment. In the next moment, Phoenix heard the sound of a struggle and the muffled cries of Jovanna. Suddenly she was knocked to the ground. She knew right away it was Angelo, she could tell his scent.

"Fucking bitch. I'm going to hurt you real bad."

Phoenix caught the man's wrist in midair as he tried to bring his fist down on her. The sound of his anguished cries followed the snapping of his bones as they were twisted and torn from their sockets. The clink of a knife hitting the ground irked Phoenix. The bastard was trying to kill her. Her powers allowed her to grab the man by the throat, crushing his windpipe and toss him down the alley behind the dumpsters like a rag doll.

The other man in the car was unaware that his companion was now dead. He was too busy struggling with Jovanna. He pinned her against the back seat, pressing his face to hers as he tried to kiss her. His breath came hard as he began to squeeze her breasts. One hand covered her mouth to stifle her screams as he began to slide the other up her skirt to pull down her panties.

"You are going to be mine, whether you like it or not."

Pietro didn't hear the sound of Phoenix leaping onto the hood of the car. He felt a hand reach through the sunroof of the car and pull him out by his jacket collar. She threw him into a darkened stairwell of a nearby basement entrance. Picking him up by his collar she pinned him against the wall so she could look directly into his face.

"I will not lose her again. I've waited too long"

Pietro struggled to release himself from her formidable grip, his legs kicking in the air as he hung suspended, inches above the ground. He spat in her face. She released her grip, letting him fall against the wall as she wiped her face on her jacket sleeve.

"What the fuck are you? A man? Is that it? You think you're a man?"

Phoenix glanced down, taking in his lowered pants and flaccid member, and she smirked, "Apparently I'm more man than you can ever be."

He hurriedly tucked himself in and zipped his fly. "You fucking bitch. Stay out of my business and away from my woman." He lunged forward to strike her.

"She belongs to ME!" Yelled Phoenix as she shoved him roughly back against the wall.

He rested with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. 

"What the hell do you mean by that? You have nothing between your legs to claim her. I'll fuck you too."

Within seconds he was pinned back on the ground as Phoenix moved on top of him. Her knees pressed painfully into his thighs, one hand was squeezing his neck and the other squeezed at his genitals. "I have waited centuries to find her again. I was reduced to no more than an animal having to feed off of parasites like you to survive, existing as a shadow while you were allowed to live in the light – just so I could have my Lucia back, and now that I have found her again I will not lose her. Not to you or to anyone else. Do you want to know how I will claim her?"

Pietro was frozen in fear and pain. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his long mustache stuck leechlike to his cheeks. He wet himself in terror as he saw her fangs. She lunged forward, ripping his neck open in one powerful bite. She wiped her mouth and chin carefully on his shirt and stood up. "You'll bleed slowly. Pray that death finds you before the rats do."

Jovanna pushed herself into the corner of the seat as the car door swung open. Her fright turned to relief as she saw Phoenix bending down and offering her a hand. "It's okay now, it's just me. No one can hurt you now."

Jovanna took the other woman's hand and exited the car quickly. She wrapped her arms around Phoenix's neck. Phoenix held the trembling woman in her arms and stroked her hair to soothe her. "We are at my studio; it's just up the steps. Let us go inside and I'll get you some wine."

She guided the woman up the stairway to an obscure doorway. Before they entered, she looked down to a figure standing near the car. She nodded in his direction and he nodded back, affirming the silent message sent to him. Her faithful servant Bastien would take care of the mess below.

Jovanna shivered as she waited for Phoenix to unlock the grey, steel door. Inside, they stood in a sterile looking vestibule. Phoenix guided her to another set of doors which opened into a larger room. This room was divided into smaller areas, which broke up the large open space. From all appearances the old warehouse floor was converted into an almost palatial living space. The blonde tried to get her bearings as she was steered toward a larger but more private room - the studio.

Inside, the room was warm with rich woodwork and candlelight. A fire burned in the fireplace making her feel more relaxed. Phoenix sat her down on a large black, leather sofa and then walked across the room to get Jovanna a glass of wine. Unable to speak, Jovanna, took in her surroundings. She studied the way the light filled the room and gave a feeling of warmth. It shimmered off the deep jewel tone colors of the silks and velvets that were draped over the windows and furniture. It had a romantic quality that made Jovanna smile.

She was curious as to why there were so many windows which were obscured by heavy draping. There were candles everywhere, hundreds of them. She hadn't noticed that when she first walked in but now she could see the entire room was illuminated by candlelight. Some were placed in wall sconces, some were in torchieres that filled the corners of the room and others were clustered in groups on tables or shelves. Jovanna bit her lower lip as she frowned at the candles. 

"I only paint at night. I find the daytime distracting," Phoenix said as she looked past Jovanna at the darkness which was now approaching. 

"It's a different world at night," Jovanna echoed as she studied the walls. They were covered with paintings of various sizes, along with decorations that looked as if they had come from around the globe. There were very few photographs, none which were of Phoenix. That was one thing she remembered - Phoenix was adamant about not having her picture taken. 

The dark-haired woman came over and sat beside her, and handed the shivering blonde a glass of wine before putting her arm around her shoulders. She then brushed a few strands of hair away from the woman's face and kissed her forehead.

"You are safe now. I promise. Drink some wine, you'll feel better."

"Thank you. Everything seems like such a blur. I don't want to think about it."

"Then don't think. What happened is in the past. Sit with me in the present."

Jovanna leaned back into Phoenix and sipped her wine. She felt it warm her and diminish her fears. This room enchanted her. A huge, wooden easel stood across from her, but she was unable to see what was on it. Alongside that was a tiered table loaded with paints and brushes and pencils. Leaning against the walls were canvases and paintings in different stages of progression. She found it odd that there were many pictures and symbols relating to various religious beliefs, she didn't see Phoenix as a very religious person.

"You find my studio interesting, don't you? I rarely have guests in this room. It's my sanctuary."

"It very eclectic; I like it." Jovanna sipped her wine. "Aren't you going to join me?"

"My choice of beverage is very limited. I have a 'condition' of sorts, but please drink as much as you like. I'll have something a little later."

"I have to admit, I am a little thrown by some of the spiritual decoratives you have. They seem out of place with the traditional and more contemporary pieces."

"Ah, but that is where you are mistaken. Everything has its place. This is what I choose to surround myself with; it represents Beauty, Life and Death. My choice of ornamentation is no different from the person whom hangs a picture of Jesus Christ alongside a black velvet painting of Elvis." 

"I don't understand, Jesus and velvet Elvis?"

"Jesus is the King of Kings and Elvis is the king of Rock and Roll. Both represent a belief in something bigger than what the worshippers perceive in themselves. They represent mortal men who have gone on to serve a bigger purpose. One need not step inside a church to find their spirituality, because when you believe in something, there is always a chance for redemption and immortality."

Phoenix rose from the couch and walked over to a few artifacts on the wall. She took down two statues and brought them to Jovanna. "Anubis, jackal-headed god and gate keeper of the underworld and Bast, the lioness, goddess of ointments; together they help the dead into the afterlife. Redemption, immortality and beauty joined with life and death. I adore the Egyptians. You'll see the Eye of Horus frequents my artworks in subtle ways."

She then put them back and walked over to the fireplace where an intricately carved crucifix hung. Lighting a few more candles to add to the many already burning, she turned and smiled at Jovanna. "Here we have the Christ after his death; I found this one in a little town near Budapest. The hair is the artist's actual hair and the crown of thorns is real - hand woven; the nails are real as well. What caught my attention the most was the expression on his face. This Christ is looking up to heaven, his eyes imploring, yet, the knowledge that this is his fate, is apparent."

Jovanna stood up and joined her in touching the delicately carved pieced. The wood seemed smooth as skin as her fingers traced the nail embedded in the figure's feet.

"The eyes...are they glass?"

"Yes. Kind of creepy aren't they? That's what sold me on it." She took Jovanna by the hand and showed her more of the room, "Here are some carved pieces from Bali and Africa; they help keep the evil spirits away. I have many Asian carvings as well but most are in my bedroom. Over here is the Americas, both North and South, from American Indian to Inca, Maya, Aztec... well, all the natives really."

"And this?" Jovanna held up a pointed piece of wood carved with an image of a crucifix and foreign words she could not make out. "It looks very interesting."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she held the dowel in her hand. Phoenix found herself embarrassed by her own sentiment.

"This, believe it or not, was a stake used to kill vampires. Anyone who lived in Bassano del Grappa decades ago and acted a little different was believed to be one of the undead."

"In fact..." Phoenix reached down the front of her shirt and pulled the chain of her necklace to show Jovanna. "... this picture is said to be of a woman named Francesca, who was known for being a vampire."

Jovanna watched as Phoenix showed her the hidden picture behind the tear shaped ruby.

Jovanna held the gem in her hand and felt a surge go through her body. "Oh my God!" Jovanna snapped her hand back immediately. Touching the necklace gave her a vision of that very necklace being placed around her neck. How could that be? She had never seen it before.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It just seemed very familiar all of a sudden."

Phoenix placed her hand on Jovanna's cheek and looked into her eyes. "You've had a difficult night; perhaps we should do this another time?" Something in the woman's eyes made Jovanna want to stay. It was as if she needed to be with her.

"I'm okay, really. I would love to stay, if that's okay. I'd like to see how you work."

"I normally don't let people watch me while I work, but I did agree to give you an interview, so this is only fair," Phoenix smiled.

"Thank you," Jovanna smiled back. "You go about your routine and I'll ask a few questions and observe. Will that be okay?"

"Absolutely."

Jovanna wandered around the room, looking and touching. She was amazed to see so many books, either on shelves or opened up on tables or on the floor near the easel.

"You have quite the collection of books. Have you read them all?"

Phoenix placed a CD in the stereo. The gentle, piano melody filled the studio as Jewel started singing: Inside my skin... there is this space... it twists and turns... it bleeds and aches...

"Most of them. Books are another one of my great loves. Music, Art and Literature are as important to me as blood is to most. It's my lifeline and my passion. Passion is life."

The music continued: I am wanting...I am needing you here... inside the absence of fear... Phoenix brushed her fingertips down Jovanna's arm as she passed, pausing as her fingertips reached the woman's wrist. Looking up at her, she blinked her eyes, staring seductively. "You understand all about passion, don't you?" She pressed a finger to the blonde's lips. "Wait. Don't answer that right now."

There is this hunger.... This restlessness inside of me... And it knows that you're no stranger... You're my gravity... Phoenix's touch brought back memories of the night before, when the stranger touched her arm the same way. She felt a small shiver of excitement run through her. The interview - she would focus on that and not on her desire.

"Phoenix... Is that your real name?"

"More of a description really."

"That means you're going to be abstruse. Just so you know, I'm not into mysteries, but I do like a challenge."

"I think you'll find you know more about me than you realize," Phoenix said with a smile as she walked over to the easel and began to sketch. She watched as Jovanna walked around the studio, her hand gliding along the spines of books or picking up small objects. Lucia did the same thing in Francesca's apartment. She needed to concentrate on the sketch so she could capture the emotion of the moment and not give in to the urge to sweep Jovanna up into her arms. Her desire was too strong now, and if she gave in she might lose her Love again. She would know when the time was right. It was just a matter of patience and discipline.

She muttered a curse under her breath and looked over the top of her glasses while she sketched. Jovanna watched from the shadows, as she moved around Phoenix's studio, unaware that the naked figure taking shape on the sketching pad was her. Phoenix sketched from memory. She was intimately familiar with every detail of Jovanna's body, and recalled it as if it were sacrosanct, deftly shaping the curve of her hips and the contour of her collarbone.

Jovanna explored Phoenix's paints in a desultory manner, rubbing the blue substance between her fingertips. The distinctively antiquated smell of linseed made her shiver from deep inside. She frowned as she attempted to recall the complete memory of dipping her fingers into warmth... wetness? It was in absolute contrast with the coolness of the cobalt blue paint. She looked up at Phoenix.

Phoenix lit a cigarette and stood back, eyes squinted and brow furrowed, studying the sketch pad in front of her. She tore the page from the pad and let it fall to the floor. She seized a new pencil. Any range would do for now. On the paper, Jovanna's face took shape, like a developing photograph absorbing light for the first time.

Jovanna's need for physical touch became overwhelming as she watched Phoenix caress the pencil loosely between her thumb and forefinger. I'm going to seduce her... It came as a revelation, more than a decision. It was a conscious choice; yet, her need was so overwhelming, that it felt almost obsessive.

"Finish your cigarette," Jovanna breathed, somewhere in the darkness.

"I just lit it. Could you change that music or turn it off please?" Phoenix said, oblivious to Jovanna's desires. Phoenix stared at the sketch in front of her and recognized the soft curves of Jovanna's mouth as she heard her voice again:

"Finish your cigarette, please," the voice was gentle, yet urgent.

"I will," Phoenix managed to say as she kept drawing outlines.

Jovanna walked over to the stereo and put the music off. The silence only emphasized her need. She was nervous and excited, and she was sure Phoenix could sense her slow, deliberate breathing from the other side of the room.

I'm going to seduce her, Jovanna thought again as she moved her hands to the back of her black skirt and determinedly pulled down the zipper. It slid off her body and fell to the floor. I have to feel those hands on my skin. I have to have those blue eyes possess me... Own me. I want her to own me, she thought as she stepped out of the skirt.

She started unbuttoning her shirt from the top down as she walked towards Phoenix, her heart beating out the matching symbolism of every adjective with every surge of lust: Want... Need... Desire... Fear...

She walked over to Phoenix, her heels resonating on the marble floor. Her golden curls trailed down her back, and she bit her bottom lip as her thumbs hooked into her panties. She removed them, astounded by the evidence of her arousal.

Out of the corner of her eye, Phoenix saw the silhouette moving towards her. She could hear footsteps walking towards her as she became increasingly aware of Jovanna's presence. Phoenix tried to shrug it off, as it was a distraction to her art. Yet, the thought of Jovanna's presence moved her back into that world of longing. She closed her eyes for a few moments, and when she opened them, Jovanna stood in front of her, naked.

"Paint me," Jovanna whispered.

Phoenix was spellbound. She could not move. She could not breathe. Jovanna reached out, took her hands and brought them to her naked breasts. The sound of the sketching pencil, dropping to the floor went unnoticed. With Phoenix's hands in her own, Jovanna trailed over her own skin.

"Paint me," Jovanna said again, more self assured this time.

Phoenix swallowed hard as she took in Jovanna's beauty. The contrast between the warm womanly breasts, and hard nipples against the palms of her hands, was intoxicating. Jovanna moved her own hands away, as Phoenix increased her hold on Jovanna's breasts.

Jovanna was aware of Phoenix's intense eyes on her body, as she cupped her breasts in her hands. Her stare was passionate and wanting, yet gentle. If she had doubted the sexual energy between them was mutual, that doubt was erased by the primal way Phoenix caressed her breasts.

They held eye contact, as they both wondered who would make the next move. Phoenix moved both her hands slowly from Jovanna's breasts to her arms, trailing her thumbs over her hardened nipples, which made Jovanna shiver and her knees buckle. 

Phoenix gripped her arms, and stared from Jovanna's face to the sketch on the easel behind her. It was unmistakably her. She turned the naked beauty in front of her around, and let her face the sketch. She wished she could see her eyes in that moment. She wondered if there was any recognition... any recollection at all of their past together.

Phoenix stood so close behind her, but not touching. If either one of them moved an inch, they would have been molded into each other. Jovanna found it difficult to breathe normally. She could feel Phoenix's breath on her neck. She yearned for arms to move to her sides, around her and to caress her. Phoenix felt that need too, but she did not move. Not yet.




Carnival



They stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity, with Phoenix breathing her in. Eventually, Phoenix put her arms over Jovanna's shoulders, hands out in front of her and formed a triangle with her fingers to frame a particular part of the sketch she had been working on.

"See right here? There is a subliminal sexuality linked to her femininity. She wants someone to own her; to take her - to possess her."

As she moved her head to next to Phoenix's, a soft gasp escaped Jovanna' s mouth, a result of the reality of the sketch in front of her combined with Phoenix's words.

Through the tousle of golden hair, Phoenix could see a sensual, smooth column of throat. She moved the silky blonde strands aside, and had to mentally restrain herself from claiming her lover. She could smell her blood, and it was maddening. The fire in her limbs leapt to full height as she pressed her lips to the pulse. Ecstasy... She kissed Jovanna's throat, and then her shoulders again and again.

After what seemed an eternity, she whispered into Jovanna's ear, "Look at her lips, at the way her throat is exposed. Can you see it?"

Phoenix's lips brushed Jovanna's ear. Jovanna moved her head back slowly and sensually as her cheek caressed Phoenix's. She wanted to whisper that yes, she saw it. But instead she groaned as their skin touched, and their lips hovered moments away from one another. Suspended in ecstasy and want, they paused in that moment, their breathing becoming labored, emphasizing their need.

"It's a sketch symbolizing possession..." Phoenix said, although it was hard for her to speak. "She wants to be bound to her lover forever."

Jovanna closed her eyes as Phoenix spoke into her mouth. Their lips were not touching, but barely so. Phoenix trailed a finger down Jovanna's cheekbone, down her chin, cupped it gently in her hand and then kissed her.

There was a familiarity for both of them in that kiss - recognition of taste, of essence, and of being. Jovanna returned the kiss urgently. It was hungry, yet gentle. When they finally broke away, Phoenix's mouth hovered over hers again, her hot breath stimulating and causing her to moan and become wet without touch. Jovanna's head tilted back as the caress of lips and tongue created a rush of pleasure again and again as they kissed.

The air was thick with the smell of intense desire, each of them anticipating the others next action. Their arousal increased with every touch and every movement. They were exactly aware of what they were doing to each other and how they aroused each other with the slightest touch and caress.

Jovanna whispered, "Please, let me touch you?"

Phoenix woke, as if from a dream. She smiled sweetly as she whispered back, "No, you asked me to paint you... Let's make art."

Phoenix smiled as she trailed her fingertips over Jovanna's soft ribs. She pushed Jovanna away, then smoothed her own hands over Jovanna's bare arms, pulled her hands behind her and joined them in a reverse prayer position.

"I want you to stay like this ... waiting for me."

Jovanna's nipples hardened in response. Her heart was pounding as she heard Phoenix moving elsewhere in the studio. Phoenix walked to the corner of her studio and pulled out a large canvas and rolled it out onto the floor next to Jovanna. She took four black candles, lit them, and placed them on the four corners of the canvas. She found her acrylic paints, some brushes, and glanced over to where her naked Goddess was standing, waiting for her. Her desire to own Jovanna became urgent again, and she licked her lips... "Soon," she whispered to herself, as she lit some myrrh incense. The smoky fragrance immediately filled the air, carried on the light breeze that blew through the studio.

The fragrance filled Jovanna's senses and she was carried away to another time and place... another apartment... another woman? Vaguely, as if looking through cobwebs, she remembered dark hair and a deft hand sweeping over a canvas.

The sound of footsteps brought her back to the moment and she opened her eyes. As Phoenix walked over to the canvas, she heard Jovanna say seductively, "How do you want me?"

"I want you the way you are right now."

"Would you like me to take my shoes off?" Jovanna swallowed hard as their eyes met. 

Phoenix looked down at her high, feminine heels and felt that familiar wetness between her thighs as she struggled to say, "I'll take them off." She reached down to take off her shoes, and parted her legs, as if to brace herself.

"Pick a color."

"Black," Jovanna whispered, and Phoenix dipped a brush into the black paint, and drew lines along the contours of Jovanna's body, circles around her breasts, bands around her arms and stripes down her legs.

"Pick a symbol."

Jovanna smiled as the sensation of the cold paint touched her "I'm thinking a circle and a cube?"

 "Nice. Now pick another color"

"Purple."

Phoenix picked up another brush, dipped it into the purple paint and drew a circle on her right thigh and a cube on your left thigh.

"Pick a word."

"Desire," she said as she felt the erotic sensation of the gentle brush strokes against her skin. Phoenix smiled "Good choice, Love" She took the red paint and a new brush and started writing "desire" backwards just below her navel in big letters.

"Pick another color."

"I think blue?" Johanna said as she remembered intense blue eyes staring into hers. The blue paint went on her nipples. Jovanna arched her back, and smiled.

"Spread your legs," Phoenix kneeled in front of her and painted carefully between Jovanna's legs, using slow, deliberate strokes, as Jovanna groaned softly. 

"Give me your hands and pick another color."

"White," Jovanna ignored the request, and cupped Phoenix's face with both her hands as she coaxed her into a standing position. She brushed her lips against Phoenix's forehead, still cupping her face. Phoenix kissed her lips this time and once again, time became irrelevant, as desire manifested. 

Phoenix broke away, smiling, the sweet taste of her Goddess on her lips. She picked up the white paint and a new brush, turned Jovanna's hands, palms towards her and painted her hands, her hips and her shoulders and then a band across the top of her chest.

"Pick another color."

"A lighter blue? But put down the brush first and take off your clothes..."

"Hush... this is my creation. Something darker? Green?"

"No green."

"Orange then." Phoenix took the orange paint and a thinner brush as she felt the back of Jovanna's hands brushing consciously over her breasts, making her stall for a moment. She had waited decades for this moment. Jovanna's body was begging to be taken. Her soul yearned to be owned. She could feel her need and her desire in every part of her own being. "Not yet," she whispered to herself. 

Jovanna heard her words, and looked her straight in the eyes. Intense lust met the same, as their souls mirrored each other. Phoenix took her wrists, "Models should keep their poses." She bent in enough to kiss her without smearing the paint. "You're going to like this. I want you to close your eyes."

"Only if I get another kiss..."

"Thank you, you get another kiss." Their lips met. Phoenix was about to abandon all creative expression and give in to her need to satisfy her Goddess. Yet, she took the orange paint and painted words over all the white spaces.

"What are you writing?"

"You'll see... keep your eyes closed, Love." She turned Jovanna around to face the canvas. Standing behind her, she ran her hands down Vanna's shoulders, over her back and down her sides, kissing along her spine and licking along her lower back. She started removing her own clothes as her tongue moved over the top of Jovanna's thighs and she trailed long lingering kisses down her legs. 

Naked, Phoenix stood behind her Goddess and pressed her body into Jovanna's, taking her hair into her hands, and pulling it onto of her head as she licked the nape of her neck.

"Oh God..." Jovanna whispered as she felt blood rush through her veins. 

Phoenix ground her hips against Jovanna's. "We're making... art," she whispered underneath Jovanna's ear as she kissed and licked and sucked the soft skin. She put her hands under Jovanna's arms, and guided her a few steps forward toward the canvas.

"I want you to kneel. The way I lay you is the way you have to stay."

"Yes Phoenix."

"Good girl." Phoenix watched intently as Jovanna kneeled with her back turned. She helped her lean onto the canvas and spread her arms out above her head, and then molded her own body to Jovanna's, as they moved as one. Jovanna lay flat on the canvas, with Phoenix on top of her, kissing her left cheek.

"Move only with me, Love, I don't want to smear this," Phoenix rocked against her, so the paint adhered to the canvas. She pushed her lips against Jovanna's neck, as their bodies moved together.

"Oh, God this is... I feel..." Jovanna's breath was labored and forced as Phoenix moved with her. Their harmony was passionate, yet gentle, as sighs and moans followed.

Erotic pleasure turned into urgent need and Phoenix moved her body enough to slide her hand between Jovanna's legs. 

Jovanna gasped as she felt fingers opening her up and dipping into wetness, gently rubbing her sex. She lifted her hips instinctively. 

Phoenix could feel heat, and the coolness of the paint mixed with wetness. She slid two fingers up, and then inside Jovanna's sex. It did not seem like a part of her body that was entering this woman. It felt like an extension of her soul, merging their essence of being woman. "I want you to think about your nipples pressing into the canvas and your sex painting with my fingers inside of you." Using her other hand, she pressed down against the small of Jovanna's back, so she could not move. She ran her tongue over Vanna's thighs and kissed her skin.

Jovanna had four fingers fully inside of her within moments. They paused together, and breathed each other in. Jovanna's physical need was overwhelming. She clenched tightly around Phoenix's fingers, and tried to raise her hips. Phoenix wanted much more than the ecstasy of the moment. She wanted Jovanna to give herself completely, not only her body, but also her mind, and soul and spirit.

Jovanna tried so hard to move with Phoenix's fingers - she needed to. But Phoenix was not letting her.

"Relax, Love... relax. I know what you want, and I will give it to you. But right now, just relax," Phoenix breathed into Jovanna's ear as she moved her fingers out, and then in again. Jovanna tensed again, needing release.

"No, Baby, let it go. Let me do this with you and it will be heavenly. Be open, and let me fuck you."

"God, yes," Jovanna moaned, as they found a sensual rhythm. She was wet and accepting, eager and pleading for more. And all the while their bodies moved together towards release.

"I want you... to fully feel me," Phoenix moaned, as her other hand found Jovanna's clit, and she stroked it with her thumb, while still moving inside with her fingers. Jovanna felt herself going impossibly wetter.

"You are so wet ... you're going to come for me, aren't you?" Jovanna nodded, feeling sensations of fingers deep inside of her, stroking her slowly, yet hard and intense.

"Come for me Baby," Phoenix slid another finger inside. Jovanna was right there, begging for release, and as Phoenix moved five fingers inside of her, she felt Jovanna clasping her tightly, and heard her name moaned over and over again. Her slippery hand kept stroking, bringing her lover down from the cusp of pleasure and lust. She slowed her touch, her fingers remaining deep inside of her lover.

"I... please... Phoenix..." Jovanna was incoherent with need. 

Phoenix twisted her fingers inside her, as she began to push deeper with each thrust. . "You need more... You want my hand, don't you? Phoenix entered her with the next thrust, until her hand was completely inside Jovanna, filling her. She explored every inch of Jovanna, and it felt wonderful. Her hand was soaked to the wrist.

Jovanna felt fuller than ever. Phoenix's hand on her back, held her in place, making her muscles tighten even more around the hand, unable to move more than her hips. She was clinging to the edge of the canvas and groaning, "Yes," to every stroke. The sensations were a complete mix of opposites; she felt wonderfully full, yet empty and wanting; open, yet tight and almost sealed. She wanted to laugh with abandonment and cry out in fear, plead for Phoenix to stop, and beg for her to take more. Between gasps and heavy breathing she muttered, "Oh God, please don't stop."

"I'm not going to stop. I will take care of you."

Jovanna needed to be taken care of more than she had been letting herself feel and accept. Absolute power radiated from her new Lover, and she was grateful for the level of intense control that Phoenix had over her. But she also realized that she would not have been able to submit to anyone but this strong, sexy woman. She could take it and she wanted it, because it was Her. Pleasure succeeded pleasure as Phoenix's hand moved inside of her. She let herself be open, acceptant, and owned, and stayed in that moment, with her lover, holding off release for a long, long time. 

As the moment heated their skin, she felt sharp teeth biting the nape of her neck. Tears ran down her face as she whispered, "Phoenix..." and lightning surged through their veins as hard contractions rippled through them, as they reached orgasm, together, as one.

Jovanna became aware of a profound sense of loss. She recalled the sharp teeth in the nape of her neck, and she vaguely recalled a time long ago, years ago, dimensions away, where she had felt that same sensation, and then, this same sense of absolute loss. She had fled, then, acutely aware of her fear and need and not being able to give of herself fully. I'm scared, she thought, I'm scared to death. And I don't understand any of this, but I want it. I want her to own me. I want to be bound to her forever.

Phoenix was ready. She moved slowly, to keep the spell of intense togetherness. It had been so long since she felt this alive. She ran her fingers over Jovanna's neck, and moved her chin back gently. Lost in her own instinctive desires, she murmured small noises of pleasure as she explored Jovanna's soft, inviting throat with her lips, tongue and mouth, wanting more, wanting to take more. Her teeth trailed over skin, ready for that one profound moment of immaculacy. She tasted need, desire and fear, and reveled in it, thirsting for more, as she felt Jovanna shiver. Phoenix needed her consent. She gazed at her face, trying to read her expression. Jovanna's lips trembled. Phoenix froze.

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"I'm so confused! Who are you?"

"No, no," Phoenix pleaded, "Don't! It's just me. Just let us be... together. I won't hurt you."

Jovanna wanted so much to believe her. "Every breath I take makes me more aware of who you are and who I am, and that you were meant to find me. If this is so, then why do I fear you?"

The silence was shattering. Jovanna broke their embrace and started to move away from Phoenix. Realizing how naked she was, she searched for clothes. This is crazy, she thought.

Phoenix could not breathe. Then she realized Jovanna was leaving. Leaving her. She had found her after lifetimes of searching. And now the other part of her soul was leaving.

"You're going away," she whispered helplessly. What am I going to do? she thought desperately, I cannot ask her to stay. But I cannot let her leave. She can't leave. She can't! 

As if reading her mind, she heard Jovanna's whisper through the darkness, "I don't want to go"

One Year Later 

Jovanna peered through the bedroom drapes to the street below. A gentle rain beat against the large window. She let her fingertips trail down, chasing a little drop as it ran down the pane. 

She sensed her lover's presence before she felt the arms circling her waist. She turned around and placing arms around her neck, kissed Phoenix deeply. 

"Thank you for finding me."

"Always..." 

"Has it truly been a year?"

"You say that as if it was so long ago. It's like a millisecond, compared to the time that had passed before I found you again."

As Phoenix held her in an embrace, she looked over to the painting that hung above their bed. The art they had created that night one year ago, filling the space between the bed posts. She saw the imprint of her body pressed onto the canvas by Phoenix as she lay atop her making love. She read the words that were carefully lettered by her artist lover: Desire, Eternal, Want, Need, Goddess and Love, along with their names, Phoenix and Jovanna.

The blood droplets at the edge of the canvas sent a slight shiver through her body as she remembered intense emotions. Being taken, being owned, being safe, and being in the absence of fear. Phoenix held her tighter as they reminisced:

"Will it be painful?"

"It will be a harmony of extreme pain and pleasure. But I need you to come to me, Love, willingly. It has to be your wish." 

Jovanna answered by pulling Phoenix to her and kissed her deeply. Every bit of fear she felt, melted away and she felt only a longing and desire. Phoenix lowered herself onto Jovanna, molding their bodies together. She began to kiss the corners of her mouth, and then trailed down her chin to her throat.

"It is my wish... forever."

Phoenix licked her way up to Jovanna's ear and whispered, "Forever, my Love."

Jovanna wrapped her legs around her lover's waist as they moved together in rhythm. Sharp teeth cut into Jovanna's lip and the warm taste of her own blood fueled her desires. The small epiphany was enough to give Phoenix reason to expose her fangs. She licked and kissed the spot on Jovanna's neck before her teeth broke the surface of her skin. She drank deeply.

Jovanna's cries of pain came in gasps, the mix of agony and pleasure taking over as her lover's thrusts brought her to orgasm. The raw, primal smell of blood and sex filled the room as her mortal life drained away, the elixir of immortality flowing through her veins and finding its way to her soul.

As they stood in an embrace, then as new lovers, and now in that moment, Phoenix whispered to her, once again, her vows: 

"In Andaluvian carvings that grace the walls of hidden temples, I swore my oath to you. I have lain prostrate in supplication before your altar, denying all other deities. I have echoed your name in the mountains and sought your glance in forbidden cities. I have sent messages across ancient oceans on the backs of birds to find you and bargained my soul to be in your presence. I have walked through the fires of Hell and endured the bitter cold of barren desert nights. I have prayed, bled, wept, and touched upon madness to find the love that is you. I am bound to you forever."





Carnival



I'd like to thank My girl fireinnereyes as always. She is My muse and My reason for reason. These stories are directly from her inspiration.

The carnival had come to town. There was always electricity in the air when the big trucks rolled into the empty field by the high school and started pulling out the machinery. People would gather around and watch the rides go up, the midway booths assembled and the carnies working and sweating in the hot sun. It seemed that every pretty single girl in town showed up to see their hard bodies glistening and listen to them bark at each other in an almost foreign language laced with profanity. Needless to say, there was a lot of giggling and blushing. If one looked carefully at the women gathered around the set up site they would notice that there were quite a few young wives with their diamond and gold rings flashing who seemed even hungrier than the single girls.

The man running the set up crew moved quietly and assuredly through the mayhem that is a carnival on the road. A nod here a pointed finger there and a few whispered words and like magic the rides began to grow from the ground. His men laughed and cursed and sang and posed for the pretty girls. There'd be a couple of broken hearts before they left town. They were here for a week.

A dark haired beauty with fiery hazel eyes watched from the shadow of a big elm tree. She had been coming to watch the carnival every year since she'd been in high school and just like the younger girls was constantly aroused by the strength and casual manner of the carnies. Every young girl has dreams of running away with the carnival as do most young men.

The boss scanned the crowd of girls, they'd been on the road for almost the entire season now, there wasn't much time left before they'd be back in headquarters for the winter. He'd been relatively low key this year and felt the urge to let off a little steam. He was about to turn back to the construction when he noticed the girl under the tree. She was watching the men avidly and had that look that they all recognized. She needed fucking, hard, rough and fast. She looked in his direction and their eyes met for just a second. Hers dropped to the ground and a blush beamed out from under the shade of the tree that lit up the shadows.

He chuckled under his breath, then stripped his shirt off and joined the men putting up the ticket booths at the entrance to the carnival.

She watched from under her eyelids, feeling surprisingly a twitter. Something about this man seemed to reach out and grab her and she was shocked to find her nipples hard and sensitive. She groaned as she turned and her bra dragged across them. "Good lord, I'm not a schoolgirl," she whispered to herself.

She walked slowly to her car, noticing a dampness between her legs that she hadn't felt in months. She shook her head trying to get the image of the man out of her brain, but she kept seeing his strong muscles, scarred and scored in a dozen different places. His hands were large and strong, but strangely sensitive looking. He would touch her in places she didn't know she had, she thought to herself. As she slid in behind the steering wheel she sighed. It was time to go home and fix dinner, chicken again.

The man watched her go, his eyes following her carefully as she climbed into the SUV, "nice car," he thought. She must have money; those foreign trucks didn't come cheap. His mind drifted a bit and he thought of her pinned beneath him in the back of the truck, his cock slamming in and out of her little suburban housewife cunt, listening to her moan and scream as he fucked her the way a real man should. He chuckled; the bitch would walk bowlegged for a week if he got his hands on her. As her truck pulled away from the parking lot, he too sighed, "you're a lucky little slut lady, I had some real plans for you."

That evening the crew sat around after dinner and drank whisky and swapped war stories. The boss watched his men; they were a good crew and worked hard. There were men who'd been with him on and off for the last 10 years and there was the handful of youngsters and recent additions. It was a highly transient business and there was always someone in each town they went through that wanted a job or was fleeing the local authorities or the wife. No one looked real close at carnies, they didn't do drug testing or run background checks.

Finally the man rose, "okay boys you have a good evening and don't let your party get in the way of getting up in the morning. I'm gonna turn in."

He walked to his trailer and climbed inside. He lay down and stared at the ceiling for a while but for some reason the woman who he had seen earlier kept floating across his consciousness. He rose again, went out started his Harley, and then drove into town.

On the edge of town he noticed a small saloon, wheeling into the parking lot he saw an SUV that looked familiar. His eyes narrowed, he'd probably already had too much to drink and if the woman was here it could spell trouble, "Fuckem," he thought, and pushed through the door into a comfortable little bar. The lights weren't too bright, but you could see who you were talking to and Cream's Tales of Brave Ulysses was playing on the jukebox.

He strolled over to the bar and sat on a stool at the end. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, pulled out a bowie knife he kept strapped in his boot and a piece of wood and started to whittle. His eyes searched the room slowly and methodically, but he still felt her gaze before he met her eyes. The contact was almost tangible, her eyes and his locking across the room, a crooked grin sliding over his face and her eyes turning down, lashes covering the green gems while a blush crept over her when she noticed that he knew she had been looking.

Again, her nipples were instantly hard. Her pussy heated and moistened and her breathing shortened as he kept his steady gaze on her. She saw the waitress walk over to him at the bar, her hips rocking slowly from side to side, a look on her face that said she wanted to eat this man alive. For some reason she felt angry, as if the waitress were treading on her property. When the man turned his attention to the waitress with a sideways look at her, she almost choked.

The carnie talked with the waitress for a few minutes, laughing at a joke she made, placing his hand on her hip and whispering something in her ear. She giggled and pretended to be shocked but moved closer to the man and whispered something back. His eyes widened and then strangely turned a deep, disturbing blue.

In the booth, the woman from the parking lot watched, unable to tear her eyes from the waitress and the man. She noticed how seductive he was, the way his body moved like a tiger stalking prey, the way he controlled the conversation, and the way the waitress seemed to alter from a self-assured woman of the world to a giggly young girl captivated by his charm. The woman felt jealousy gnaw at her. How dare he tease her with those eyes and then turn away to play with a flighty cocktail waitress? Finally, convincing herself that she had been slighted she rose in a huff from the booth and sped towards the door. Just before she made it across the room her heel snapped and she tumbled to the floor at the man's feet. "Oh my god, look at me, I must look like a fool," she thought to herself.

When the man reached down to help her up she shook her head angrily at first then finally accepted his aid. His hand enfolded her delicate fingers in his and pulled her easily to her feet. The touch of his hand on hers sent shock waves echoing through her body and she moaned at the heat of his touch.

"Here Miss," he said. "Let me help you out to your car so you don't hurt yourself further."

She'd always lived by the words of her mother. "Don't take candy from strangers, or nothing else girl or you'll regret it," she'd said. For some indecipherable reason she found herself nodding, wordless and embarrassed and shocked that she'd accepted. The man escorted her to the parking lot, as they passed the waitress the girl almost hissed at her. If the girl hadn't been working there would have been a knock down drag out fight over the prize of leaving with the man. A little smile curled the woman's lips as she passed the waitress and her hips swayed like a snake tempting a rat to come a little closer.

Outside he steered her to her SUV and smiled as she climbed into the cab. She started the truck and was about to drive away when he turned back around to her, signaled for her to lower her window and then leaned in. "Well Ma'am, I don't suppose you like the carnival do you?"

She smiled back at him, "yes as a matter of fact I do."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of tickets, "here ya go, come on down and visit on me anytime."

She looked at the man leaning in her window, and said something which totally shocked her. "Anytime? How about right now?"

He chuckled; well we are running the equipment tonight to make sure everything is good to go tomorrow." He thought for a moment or two, "sure, why not ... just follow me."

The two trucks drove the gloam of early evening to the carnival grounds, as they pulled up the lights went on, the machines started pumping and the whole atmosphere changed. He parked next to the carousel and she parked next to him. Out of the truck he jumped, moving slowly but purposefully to her door and helped her out.

"Well Ma'am, what would you like to do?"

She looked at him appraisingly, she had a feeling that he knew what she would like to do. She leaned up against him, crooked her arm through the bend in his elbow and the walked down the midway.

He talked to her about the carnival, stories about the rides. Tales of people eating too much candy to be on the rides, sagas about stranded Ferris wheels, runaway carousels and love stories about young men and women who fell in love on the roller coaster or in the love house. He was a fascinating conversationalist and she was swept away by the sound of his voice. He took her for a ride on the carousel; they slammed into each other on the bumper cars, took a walk through the haunted house and finally found themselves on the Ferris wheel.

It was late and she needed to go home but he talked her into one turn around the wheel. As they climbed into the car she didn't notice him nod to the operator, nor would she have cared. She felt like she had as a young girl, the only thing missing was a stuffed toy won by the beau of the moment.

Up, up, up the Ferris wheel went. She noticed that they were the only two on the wheel and that in fact it was the only machine still lit and moving. As she gazed over the side, she saw the operator walk away from the machinery to the trailers and go indoors without a glance back.

The wheel stopped. They were high above the ground, swinging gently to and fro. A bit alarmed she turned to the man. His eyes were a deep odd blue, she noticed there was no white in his eyes, and that his smiling face had been replaced by an intense leer. Even though he was a handsome man, the smile alarmed her and she spoke up. "Sir, we seem to be stuck up here, I'd like to go home now."

He laughed, a perfectly awful nasty laugh. Go home? Oh girl, your ride has just begun." His hand thrust forward and wrapped in her hair. He twisted till she cried out in pain and said, "I've got something sweet for you to suck on." With that he shoved her face into his crotch. Her nose flattened against his jeans and her lips were crushed against the hard bulge in his pants.

Terrified, she cried out. A part of her was detached. Watching the man's hand take her hair, from above seeing her face pressed into his crotch, an eerie silence rang in her ears and the only sound she heard was a long and needy moan. She gasped when she realized it was her. She wanted this, oh god, what was wrong with her.

His hands were as powerful as she had imagined, his fingers laced through her curls pushed her face inexorably into his lap, struggle was useless. The more disturbing aspect, was that she wanted this, she wanted to feel his manhood against her face, her lips, her ... drool ran down the side of her lip as she again moaned in need and shame. Her lips pursed and her nostrils flared as she kissed the bulge and smelt the man.

He watched her; he'd seen that look on women's faces before. Hunger, need, frustration, left alone too long by their husbands or their lovers, not used as they wished to be they found it elsewhere, in candy, food, drink, or other men. He pulled her head back up from his lap and stared into her eyes. His other hand unzipped his slacks and the sound was loud and biting in the quiet of the summer night. His cock sprung free and he turned her face down to see it as it slid into the open like a snake in search of prey. Her eyes widened and her tongue ran across her lips without her knowledge. He pressed down and her lips parted and accepted the warm throbbing helmet into her mouth. His hips lifted to her even as she sucked the length of him into her, causing his cock to press against the back of her throat and her eyes to water.

"That's it lady, just like that," he growled and pushed harder. His hips began to rock and the swinging seat on the Ferris wheel matched the motion. Her head bobbed up and down, juices building in her mouth and drooling out over his slacks as he picked up the tempo and began to fuck her face in earnest. "Yes, that's it, keep it up, suck it, come on!"

She moaned on his cock, sending a vibration through his balls and into his spine. His cock pulsed and swelled and precum slickened her tongue, salty, thick and viscous. She was absorbed completely in the control she had for the moment, a slash of her tongue across the slash on the head made him lurch deeper into her throat. She smiled, thinking she had the power now. Her lips suctioned his cock harder and harder, her head flying up and down. His fingers losing their grip in her hair, he crept closer and closer to the inevitable. Her little fingers cupped his full sack and squeezed gently and a growl grew from his throat and oozed from his lips. One more suck, one more good hard suck and he would fill her mouth with his juices. She caught her breath, she'd show him, he was putty in her hands. As she bent her head to finish him off she felt his fingers tighten again in her hair.

He yanked her head off of his cock, her moan telling him what he needed to know. The little bitch was so needy. Her lips were smacking and stretching, her neck was fighting his grip and she almost cried out at the loss of his cock in her mouth. Pulling her across his lap, he suddenly spanked her ass hard and sharp. She squealed at that, and began to plead with him, but he ignored her. His large hand slapped over and over again on her jean clad ass until she squirmed and cried. Then he pushed her back into the seat.

"Don't move lady, don't fucking move a hair." His voice was full of menace.

He looked over the edge of the seat down at the control booth and signaled to his man there. The wheel turned slowly then suddenly they were at the bottom. Up went the restraining bar and as he stepped to the platform he pulled her by her wrist behind him. She looked up at him then ahead and panicked when she saw him heading for the haunted house ride. He threw her into a car and climbed in behind her, hitting the button on the controls before he joined her. The two of them disappeared into the dark.

Inside the building it was pitch black, the little car moved briskly along the tracks and there were faint sounds of torment and torture from up ahead. The man had the woman by the nape of her neck. His powerful hands grasped her tightly and held her pinned to the seat. Just as she thought that she couldn't take anymore a bright light flashed, a skeleton leaped from the dark and a burst of insane laughter echoed in the dark. She shook silently when she realized that the laugh was echoed by the man in the cart next to her. His hand roved over her body as she sat paralyzed with fear. He lifted her full breasts and kissed the mounded flesh where it rose above her blouse, then his hand tore the blouse from her.

His lips closed on her nipple and she cried out in first alarm, then pain as he bit her, and finally in sheer need as he suckled her nub to a taut and sensitive state. Her legs spread of their own volition and her hand came up behind his head to hold his talented mouth close to her. She murmured, "so good, oh god, please Mister, it's so good."

Time after time some terrifying creature would leap out of the dark and scream, or whimper, or howl. Time after time, she started in panic and then succumbed to the man's sensitive touch. Her body was racked with lust, pain, adrenaline and fear which served to heighten all her nerves and increase her response to the individual stimuli. She never noticed the car swerving from the main track and entering a tunnel inside the building that no one but the carnies ever visited.

The car stopped. The man wrapped his hands in her hair and pulled her from the vehicle. There was a ramp next to the tracks that he led her along and then a door opened into a quiet room deep in the bowels of the haunted house. As her eyes adjusted to the light she cried out again in fear. It was a torture chamber, like something out of an old Vincent Price movie. Racks, iron maidens, operating tables with straps and a full wall of whips and ropes and other unnamable torture devices.

He led her to a frame with straps and hooks and with his strength was easily able to secure her spread-eagled to it. Tears streamed down her face as thoughts ran through her mind. "What if he was a serial killer? What if he was a cannibal?" Each thought seemed to get worse and worse so she was unprepared for what happened next.

The man slid slowly to his knees in front of her and reached up to her panties. He ripped them from her in one move and then pulled her lips apart with his thumbs and fingers. His face moved close to her pussy and she could feel the warmth of his breath across the sensitive clitoris, then her body arched as if hit by a taser when his tongue dragged roughly across the button. Her mouth opened and she gasped for air as his long, wiggling tongue slid deep into her recess and scooped the juices from her which had begun to pour freely at his first touch. Her hips thrust out to him and he slid his hands up her thighs, behind her buttocks, to pull her pussy tight against his face creating a seal of sorts. He feasted.

The room was quiet except for their breathing and the sounds of the carnival going to bed at night that filtered in through the walls. He fed on her cunt for what seemed days, but could only have been minutes. Her body racked by orgasm after orgasm, she wept and cried out alternately for "mercy" and "more."

He in turn was swept up by the taste of her, fresh, clean, sweet and soaking wet, she provided a succulent meal. Her body responded like a virgin, but her cries and moans were anything but virginal. As he feasted she began to curse like a sailor, "Fucking eat my pussy you bastard, lick it, that's what you wanted isn't it? You just want me to cum and cum, then eat me motherfucker!"

He grinned, she was almost ready, over the edge and maddened by sensation she was going to be a willing fucktoy.

With a final slathering of his jowls in her cunt, he growled with her clit between his teeth sending vibrations through her body and launching her into a fresh set of orgasms. His face lifted from her and she looked into insane blue eyes, his handsome face coated with her juices, her fluids sliding down his face like tears. As he rose, he ran his hand up her inner thigh and when he stood full in front of her he sunk two large fingers deep into her heat. His wrist pounded up and down, his fingers curled and the tips of them pressed against her g-spot. He shook his arm like a mixer and laughed when her toes curled up, her legs stiffened, her mouth opened in a soundless scream and then she collapsed silently in the bonds.




Carnival



He stepped away from her limp body then. His attention turned to the rack of torture devices. Glancing back at her, he quickly made selections. Setting the tools that he planned to use on the table next to the frame he whistled merrily, an old carnival song that sounded eerily like a pipe organ played by a psychotic clown.

He stepped back to her, a device in one hand, a washcloth soaked in ice water in the other. He wiped her face, and cleaned drool from her lips then gently brought her out of her stupor. As she regained consciousness he reached behind her and planted the first device. She screamed as she felt the butt plug slide into her ass. "NO, NO, NO, not there! Oh please it's so nasty! Not my aaaaaass!" She grunted as the plug squeezed past her rosebud and moaned when the vibration started. "Why are you doing this? What is wrong with you?"

His head cocked, "Why?" He chuckled, "Because I want to, and I can."

Someone knocked on the door, the boss walked to it and peeked out a slot in the door. After watching for a few seconds he turned back to the girl, and with a dazzling smile said, "Don't go anywhere now!" Then, looking at her tied securely to the frame he burst out in a huge laugh that shook his shoulders and went out the door with a mad chuckle.

The girl was alone, she started struggling against her bonds but couldn't loosen, never mind free herself from them. In fact, all she served to do was to drive the butt plug deeper into her cavity where it hummed along merrily sending chills through her entire body. She grimaced at the sensation but soon found it exciting as the vibrations spread to her cunny, causing her pelvis to thrust and roll in a suggestive manner. After a short time of that, she found herself looking at the door hoping he was coming back, anticipating all sorts of vile deeds being perpetrated on her defenseless body. It was if the fact of being bound released her from her inhibitions, anything that was done to her was beyond her control so "bring it on Mister", she found herself groaning out into the empty room.

The door reopened and the man entered the room, locking the door behind him. He turned as smiled softly at her. "Seems the police have found your car in the parking lot and wanted to search the grounds for you." He looked slyly away, then turned back to her. "Apparently someone saw you leaving a bar tonight with a stranger, rode off in his truck with him they say."

At that point she realized exactly how isolated and helpless she was. This man could and apparently would do anything he wanted to her and no one would find her. A single tear ran down her cheek. He saw the droplet and walked to her, his tongue tip finding the drop and soaking up the salty tear.

"Did you want to leave girl? Do you have something out there that you'd rather be doing? Somewhere you have to be right now? Am I holding you against your will? Or would you rather be here, embraced, used, taken, owned like the slut you know you are? Think carefully girl, you only get one chance to answer. Don't make it the wrong one."

Something inside her snapped, torn as she was at the prospect of what was happening to her she discovered deep within herself a need, a desire, a lust for what it was this man was providing. The pain in her body from being bound, from being used, was nothing compared to the anguish she felt at the thought of not staying to discover what this man could do.

"I'll stay," she whispered in a soft voice.

He leaned in close to her, "I didn't hear you, what did you say girl?"

"Please, I want to stay," she whimpered.

He leaned back away from her, a smile on his face. "Good, I was hoping you'd say that." His eyes hardened then to that ice blue that filled his orbs. "First thing, you will call me Sir or Master, you now are mine to do with as I please."

Her mind reeled, "what will you do to me?"

The crop across her inner thigh brought her out of her confusion quickly. "I said, you will call me Sir or Master. Did you think I was joking? I rarely joke, and never about training a girl. Another stroke across the inside of the other thigh and she lurched against the bonds in pain and frustration. The third blow landed square on her lips and clitoris, as did the next seven.

There was a moment when the pain turned to a deep yearning inside her, when she started to anticipate the next blow eagerly. Her hips thrust out to meet the sharp sting of the crop and she almost wept aloud when the next blow landed on her cunt. Just as she was ceding to his rhythm, he stopped. Her hips continued to thrust in lust, waiting for the blow that didn't come.

Clad still in a skirt that had been gathered at her waist and high heels the cold air from an exhaust fan chilled the sweat on her body rapidly. A bra hung half on and half off and this is where he was to assault her next. Turning back to the table behind him, he lifted a long, sharp Bowie and dragged the tip down between her heaving breasts. The sharp point created a weal in her skin without bringing blood and he lowered the blade until it was between her breasts. She held her breath when she saw the look on his face, he was staring at her flesh as if it were a canvas to be painted on. She felt the cold iron of the flat of the blade as he pressed it against her left breast and gasped when he suddenly turned the blade to slice through the bra strap. Her breasts sprung free of their restraints, the nipples erect and goose bumps surrounding the aureole. A dusting of sweat trickled between them and he leaned forward to lick the salty juice from between her breasts, nipping the flesh as he pulled his face back.

"That's gonna leave a little bruise girl," he stated matter of factly.

The knife tip continued on down her belly, across her navel to the flat of her loins before the pudenda. A quiver jerked the muscles there, and her cunt turned to mush as the blade tip stole under the skirt's waistband then sliced through that. She was left standing, bound spread eagled, in high heels on a frame in a secret room in a carnival that was apparently run by a maniac. She couldn't think of any other place she'd rather be at that moment, and the thought brought a slightly mad giggle to her lips.

He pulled the blade back and then stabbed downward hard, his muscles bunching and flexing as the blade ripped toward her, only to be sunk deep into the wood of the frame next to her head. She screamed at the sound of the knife driving into the wood inches from her face.

He turned away yet again. Rummaging through a box set next to the wall he lifted out a mahogany case which he in turn opened again. He then bent his knees and opened a door set in the cabinet to a small freezer. Pulling out an ice bucket full of ice he ran some water into it from a cooler next to the table and then placed a large stainless steel dildo in the icy liquid.

She moaned in anticipation, thinking to herself, "Oh my god, he's going to put that in me and I already have this butt plug in my ass! How did I get myself into this?"

He stepped close to her and then she noticed the little clamps with feathers in his hands, she yelped when he snapped them open and let them slam close on her nipples and her loins twitched when he tugged on them to make sure they were set.

Noticing her reaction to the clamps he said in a gruff voice, "I hope you didn't just cum girl, you had better tell me that you didn't. You will NOT cum until I tell you so, do you understand?"

The statement made her cum on the spot, juices ran freely down her thighs, she squealed in ecstasy, and her body shook massively. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh please don't hurt me, I'm sorry!"

His hand slapped her nipples across and then back, the clamps holding and bouncing freely with her tits. "Two mistakes slut. First, when I tell you not to cum, I don't care what you have to do, don't you fucking dare cum. Second, I told you that you will refer to me as Sir or Master. You have done neither." His hand batted her nipples back and forth a dozen times, the fingernails hard and sharp against the tender flesh, the clamps cutting off blood flow. "Now, let's get it right."

He turned to the bucket, grabbed the metal dildo and shoved the ice cold device straight into her sopping cunt. The pressure of the large toy almost caused the butt plug to squirt out of her ass, but she clenched sensing that would displease him greatly. His hand wrapped around the dildo and worked it rapidly in and out of her cunt until her body vibrated with need and her clitoris was chilled. Harder and deeper he stroked, faster and longer the thrusts pierced her. She was so close, she had to cum, she just had to, but what would happen. She screamed out, "Please, please let me cum, please I can't stop it, I just can't. Please Sir; whatever you want ... just let me cum!"

He growled one word, "NO!"

Tears ran down her face, her cunt hurt from the dildo it was so large. Her ass was violated by the vibrating little plug; the man had slapped her and bit her, and licked her and used her repeatedly like a fuck toy. Why wouldn't he let her cum? Why was he doing this? She started to fade from reality, her body reacting solely to the stimuli that he was providing her. Oddly at piece she found herself anticipating whatever came next.

Limp, covered in a sheen of perspiration, eyes half closed in lust, she almost didn't register when he cut her down from the frame. She felt her body being laid face down across a table, her feet on the floor and spread behind her, her arms slipped into restraints that held them above her head. Her hips were slamming up and down rapidly, repeatedly, trying to capture a moment that he would not allow her. She cringed when she felt the butt plug yanked from her ass. Curious she looked back over her shoulder and cried out in alarm when she saw his cock in his hand pointing straight at her little rosebud. "Oh no, you're not going to"..... The scream was deafening as he sunk the head of his cock into her tight ass. He grunted like a pig as he pushed inexorably deeper into her bowels. His cock counter pressured the dildo working frantically in her pussy and she suddenly found herself full, so very full.

He was amazed at how tight the woman was, her ass was overheated from the butt plug and loose enough to give him some freedom of movement, but she obviously had little or no experience with anal sex. He chuckled evilly, he loved it when the little housewives came on to him only to be shocked and embarrassed by the various ways he used them. This one was a treasure, she was extremely responsive and it was apparent that she had a submissive streak a mile wide.

His cock slowly widened her passage and his thrust grew in force and length. He soon found himself buried deep in her, her ass gyrating even as she cried out in shame. One hand slid under her belly and gripped the dildo as he pounded furiously into her from behind. He started counterthrusting the dildo in opposite strokes from the ones he was perpetrating with his cock.

They were both breathing wildly, the girl beginning to become accustomed to the dual penetration and starting once again to climb that long hill to orgasm. Her whimpers became more frequent and agonized as she fought to hold back her orgasm. His hand closed on her hair and he yanked her head back as if he were reining in a spirited steed. Bowing her back, his cock reaming her ass, the dildo counter punching her clitoris he leaned in close and whispered almost silently in her ear. "Cum NOW girl!"

If she hadn't been tied down they would have both ended up on the floor. The violence of her orgasm astounded him, yet he continued to pound her mercilessly through the spasms of her ass and cunt. She bucked like a half broken mustang, hammering back to meet every thrust and stroke of both the dildo and his cock.

He in turn fought his orgasm to a standstill. He wasn't done with her yet. As she started to calm down from her orgasm he pulled out of her ass with a discernible pop and then immediately drove his cock back into her cunt, dropping the dildo to the floor. The sound was loud and ringing and caused her to jump, which drove him deep into her with the first thrust. His hands slid down her hips and he pulled back to glance down at her pretty , plump pussy lips wrap around his cock as if caressing it.

In and out, hard and fast, violently crashing into her time and time again ... He fucked. She cried out in delight with each thrust, slammed back to meet his every move and glanced back over her shoulder to provoke him into cumming with her.

The orgasm was mighty, long, and the both of them ground and slammed at each other until there was nothing left.

He removed her from the bonds after a while. His eyes scanned her for marks or injuries and when he was satisfied he threw the remainder of her clothes to her. "Get dressed slut, and meet me out front when you're done."

Once out of the building he turned to a couple of his men and with a whispered word had her car brought to the front of the ride. The others watched and laughed knowingly, the boss didn't often use an outsider for his hungers but when he did the woman was never quite the same again.

She came out of the building clutching her clothes to her. They were literally useless but served to keep the hungry eyes of the road crew off of her. Her eyes were downcast and her voice was meek as she walked to him. "Will I see you again Sir?" she whispered.

He laughed then, a huge roaring laugh "Did you want to girl? Didn't you get enough? You want to see me again?"

Her eyes lifted to his and beseeched him, "Yes Sir, please Sir, I want to see you again very much."

He smiled at her then, "Good girl, I've a choice for you. Go home, pack your bags and be back here before midnight tomorrow evening. If you are, I'll take you with us. If not, then you'll be left alone."

She started to walk to the car when his voice reached her from behind. "Be here girl, I have been alone too long."

They say she disappeared, that when her family went looking for her they never found a trace except for a two rides for one ticket from a carnival. Funny thing was, the carnival hadn't stopped in town in over 20 years.



Carnival



The Chrystal Heights carnival was set slightly away from Chrystal Heights proper. This kept the lights and the music from bothering the residents unduly. It also allowed those who wanted to go to the carnival unobserved by others to do so. It was an ordinary carnival in many respects, with rides, screaming children and a variety of games. Of course, it was also an unusual carnival in many ways, as one might expect from a carnival that traveled between Chrystal Heights and Darkview on a regular basis.

Many of the more unusual elements could be found in the southern section of the carnival. There wasn't as much traffic here. People tended to walk here with a purpose, as opposed to aimless wandering. Proprietors waited in tents for customers, rather than hawking passers-by. The lights and the music were still present, but they simply registered as background static. One might say it was a more functional arrangement in this part of the carnival, with less eye-candy.

Still, these areas were not without their wandering entertainers. At times a man on stilts could be seen strolling about the pathways, safely above the throng. Other times a satyr could be observed, his hooves digging cloves in the dirt road. Yet other times one might spot a woman, half angel, half demon, and the reaction garnered there was dependent on which side you happen to come across.

The wandering entertainer most often seen along the dark paths, however, was the Jester. He was short- not quite a midget, but if you said he was five feet tall he would likely doff his hat and thank you for your kindness. He wore a traditional jester's outfit, with baggy pants and even the belled cap, but he wore it as one might wear a business suit. He was quick with rhyme and wit, and even occasional song, as the mood might take him. He was a jester, but not a fool. His name, when he chose to share it, was Wellington.

*****

"So, how about you donate to the cause of me and my friends having some fun today?"

This came from a dark-haired girl. She appeared to be about nineteen years old, athletically thin and wiry strong. Dangerously fast as well. That's why she was in charge.

The thin guy she was talking to tried to answer, but he couldn't. Her fist was pressing into his throat. Of course, the two girls holding his arms didn't help, either. His glasses lay on the ground, broken.

"Speak up," said the girl. "I can't hear you."

"Urrrrrrk!" said the boy. One of the girls holding his arms released him, and with his free hand he pulled out his Velcro wallet and waved it.

The dark-haired girl took the wallet with her empty hand and pulled her fist from his throat. She opened the wallet and removed the money. She glanced at the I.D., then closed the wallet.

"Thanks, Barry. Your donation is gratefully accepted," she said. She tucked the money into her bra and tossed the wallet back to the boy, who stopped massaging his throat long enough to catch it. "Now move along. And remember, if you want to say anything about this to anybody, we know where you live."

Still rubbing his throat, the guy walked away.

The dark haired girl looked at her two henchmen. "There goes another satisfied customer," she said.

The blonde henchman laughed. "Are you sure, Valarie? I think he wet himself."

The dark-haired Valarie nodded. "Of course I'm sure, Janey. I could tell by the gratitude in his eyes. Right, Desiree?"

Desiree, the henchman with the mocha skin, smirked. The tall mulatto girl was quite pretty even dressed in street clothes, but it was obvious she could be beautiful if she decided to be. "Right, Val," she said.

They made their way down the street, on the lookout for more potential victims. They preferred this part of the carnival to any other. Less potentials, granted, but less official types as well. There was an edgy atmosphere back here, a breathless anticipation of dark excitement.

Valarie looked down the dirt path running between several brightly colored tents and paused. Then she elbowed the blond Janey. "Over there," she said.

Janey looked down the dirt path. "The clown?" 

Valarie snorted. "Yes, ditz, the clown."

Desiree shifted nervously. "I don't know, Val. The carnies are really off-limits, you know?"

Valarie lifted an eyebrow. "You arguing with me, Des? You want to be boss instead of me?"

Desiree was silent for a moment, then lowered her eyes. "No. Sorry. I just meant, maybe it wasn't a great idea, that's all. If you wanna do it, though, it's fine with me."

Valarie nodded. "I'm glad we have your permission. How about you, Janey? You think it's a bad idea too?"

The blonde girl shook her head. "No, Val, if you want to do it, I'm fine with it."

Valarie looked down the path once more, then smiled. "Alright, then. Let's do it."

They moved down the dirt path towards the jester, spreading out as they did so. He appeared not to notice them until they had surrounded him. Valarie reached out and flicked one of the bells on his jaunty jester's cap.

"Hey, shortie," said Valarie. "How they hangin'?"

The jester gave a florid bow. "To the right, dear lady. Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Wellington, a teller of tales, entertainer to kings and a bard for the ages."

"Yeah?" said Valarie. "That's great. We're Moe, Larry and Curly, and we're the kicker of asses. It's gonna be kind of hard to kick your ass 'cuz it's so close to the ground and all, but we're going to give it the ol' college try, alright? Alright."

Wellington took a step back from the predatory girls. "Now, ladies, surely there is no need to resort to fisticuffs? That is rather uncivilized and a night such as this would surely be better spent engaged in other pursuits."

The three girls took a step forward. Desiree pushed Wellington's shoulder.

Valarie smirked. "Oh, come on, now, what could be more entertaining than beating on a clown? Hey, Janey, when's the last time you got to beat on a clown?"

Janey pretended to consider the question. "Hmmm. Come to think of it, not since breakfast. How about you, Desiree?"

The young mulatto girl feigned a shudder. "I don't mess with clowns. They're *scary*." Desiree gave Wellington another shove.

Wellington looked offended. "Madame, please! I am a jester, an honorable profession and a position entailing some respect! Clown, indeed!"

Valarie chuckled. "Oh, did we hurt the clown's feelings?" She shoved Wellington backwards another step.

Wellington kept his balance. "Madame, I must suggest you and your lovely comrades not pursue this action. In fact, I must insist."

"Oh, no," said Valarie. "Are you going to tell us scary stories if we don't stop?"

"Omigod," said Janey, feigning fright. "He might make balloon animals at us!"

"Or even" said Desiree, jumping in, "*honk a horn*."

Wellington looked indignant. "Ladies, please! I endeavor you to-"

Valarie said, "Shut the fuck up," and drove her fist into the jester's nose.

Wellington stumbled back a step, his arms windmilling. He finally regained his balance as the three girls moved in to begin the beating in earnest.

Desiree was the tallest, and she quickly stepped up to pin the jester's arms, but she grabbed nothing but air as the short man ducked under her grasping hands and rolled away. He came to his feet and Janey, who was now the closest, grabbed the front of his tunic with both hands. Wellington grabbed Janey's wrists and leaped up, planting both feet on Janey's chest and pushing out. Wellington fell to the ground while Janey stumbled backwards before falling onto her bottom. Wellington then shoulder-sprung to his feet. Valarie stepped in and attempted to snatch at the little man's collar, but Wellington dropped into a crouch and whirled on one foot, kicking Valarie's feet out from underneath her. Valarie landed on her back with a thud as the jester cartwheeled away.

"Please, ladies," said the jester, "I implore you to desist! Nothing good can come of this for you. You'll find no easy victim here."

Valarie rolled to her feet, humiliated and furious. "Shut the hell up. You're a dead clown walking, you know that? Dead clown walking!" There were ominous *clicks*, and switchblades appeared in the girls' fists.

Wellington looked at the advancing trio dubiously and shook his head. "A shame, young lasses. It is far better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. It is your misfortunes to have removed all doubt. Very well, then...have at thee!"

Valarie stepped in and slashed a criss-cross at the jester, but Wellington ducked to the side and then rolled past her. Wellington came to his feet, slapped Val on her bottom and then cart-wheeled away from the infuriated gang leader. Janey attempted an ineffectual stab at the nimble jester, but touched nothing but air. There was a flash of movement, and Janey suddenly realized she had been disarmed. Before she could make a move, however, Wellington was close, the blade flashing. Janey froze, closing her eyes instinctively. She held her breath for several heartbeats, then belatedly realized three things. The first was that, strangely enough, the switchblade was back in her hands. The second was that she wasn't bleeding at all. The third was that her top and bra were lying in tatters on the ground.

The blonde girl's eyes widened and she squealed at her unexpectedly topless state. Her arms crossed over her bare breasts reflexively. Wellington raised his eyebrows in a leer, then offered a florid bow. "No need to squeal, m'lady. They are lovely, indeed."

Desiree moved in, intent on stopping the jester, but the little man dropped to his hands and knees and scooted between Desiree's legs. He leaped to his feet, spun and yanked the girl's jeans straight down to her ankles. Desiree gasped as she realized she was standing in public in nothing but bright yellow panties. The mulatto girl bent over to pull her jeans up, but as soon as she was fully bent over, Wellington placed his foot on her rounded bottom and pushed. Off-balance, Desiree tumbled over, her jeans still around her ankles.

"And what light from yonder bottom breaks? It is the east, and her panties are the sun..." said Wellington, pausing for a moment to lean over and pat Desiree's pantied bottom. Then he scooted backwards as Valarie slashed at him.

Valarie's breath hissed through clenched teeth as her blade sliced through the air again and again. "Fuckin' clown. You're gonna be taking your balls home in your pocket." Her slashing blade flashed repeatedly. Then she felt a surge of exaltation as she felt her blade strike home.

Wellington looked at his forearm where the tip of Val's blade had nicked him. Blood flowed from the cut, although it did not appear to be overly deep. The jester stared for a moment, then lifted his head to look at Val.

"Ah, m'lady," said Wellington, his tone no longer as jovial. "That was the unkindest cut of all."

Val shuffled forward, holding her knife much like a key. "You haven't seen anything yet," she said. Janey and Desiree moved into flanking positions, Janey with an arm across her bare breasts.

"I died for Beauty; I died for Truth," said Wellington, "but I will not die for vile entertainment. A duel, then."

"Bring it, clown," said Valarie.

Wellington took two rapid steps forward and leaped towards Valarie. Caught by surprise, Val realized that the little jester had landed on her and he felt strangely weightless. His legs were wrapped around her waist and his hands held both her breasts firmly. She started to open her mouth to protest, but suddenly his lips were pressed firmly against hers in a heated kiss. 

Valarie felt her hands drop to her sides. The kiss lasted for perhaps five seconds, but it felt like an hour. Then Wellington breathed into her ear, "A clown, my sweet? Nay, I am a jester." And then he was rolling away from her.

Valarie appeared still unable to move, so Janey and Desiree went after Wellington. The nimble jester was too fast for them to track, however. Then Janey shuffled in and tried to drive her blade into the little jester, but Wellington did a rapid back summersault and landed on Janey's back. His legs wrapped around Janey's waist from behind and his hand slid along her knife arm. Suddenly Janey's knife was slashing at Desiree, controlled from behind by Wellington. Desiree retreated to safety, attempting to circle around Janey so as to be able to get to the jester. 

Janey was trying desperately to pull her arm free of Wellington. Too late she realized he had shifted somewhat and his hands were now cupping her bare breasts from behind. Janey gasped and dropped her blade to grasp his wrists, and that's when Wellington shifted once again and leaned over her shoulder. Janey turned her head just in time to receive a full kiss on the lips from the jester. Janey gasped yet again, and then her hands dropped to her sides, despite her topless state. Like Val, she appeared dazed. 

Wellington stepped back and patted Janey on her bottom, then turned to face the oncoming Desiree. Desiree slashed at Wellington three times in quick succession, but seemed unable to touch the nimble jester. Then Wellington leaped and appeared to spin on the axis level with his waist. Then his hand dropped to the ground and his foot shot out. One rapid movement later, Desiree was laying flat on her back, her feet kicked out from underneath her, the breath knocked from her body. A moment later Wellington was leaning over her, and Desiree felt Wellington's lips against hers. Then she too was trapped inside her body.

Wellington stood and glanced at the three enraptured girls. Then he walked to Valarie and looked her up and down. Valarie remained apparently dazed. "I know you can hear me in there, my dear," said Wellington, "and I must say that wasn't very nice." He reached out and removed Valarie's t-shirt from her body. Then he wiped the blood from his forearm. "Clown, indeed," he said.

The jester took several steps away and then turned and faced the dazed girls. He extended his hands in front of him, spreading out his fingers. Then he pointed to Desiree, who was still lying on the ground, although her eyes were open. He said, "Come, now, dear, upsie-daisy," and he lifted his hand.

Desiree got to her feet with a jerky motion, as if someone had pulled her up by puppeteer strings. Then she turned and faced Wellington. She became motionless once again, but her eyes reflected shock.

"Very good, dear," said Wellington. "Now, let's give the three of you a test run, shall we, my sweets? Excellent. I am going to make you dance like the sweet flowers you are. Not only shall you dance, you shall remove your garments and allow this poor jester the vision of your bare delights." 

Wellington began to manipulate his fingers much like a puppeteer, and then Valarie, Janey and Desiree began to dance. At first, they moved robotically, with jerky motions and little choreography. Then their movements began to smooth out and they began to take on a visible grace. They smiled and twirled on their toes. Then their hands began to slide their clothing off their bodies, until at last all three were fully naked. Wellington curled his fingers into fists and pulled them in opposite directions. "Freeze!" he said, and all three dancers stopped in mid-movement, rigid.

The jester walked around the three girls, patting their bottoms, running his hands over their rounded hips, running a finger along their jaw lines as they stood motionless on bare feet. Finally, he nodded.

"Yes, you three are lovely indeed," he said. "You will do quite well for what I have in mind. But first, some minor changes, my lovelies."

He walked to Desiree and ran his hands along the mulatto girl's bare mocha shoulders and over her bare belly. "Lovely," he murmured. Then he placed his hands over her breasts and concentrated. Her breasts began to swell under his cupped fingers. When he was apparently satisfied with their new size, Wellington reached forward and cupped the tall girl's sex. He concentrated a moment, then removed his hand. He turned his hand upside down and Desiree's dark pubic hair drifted to the ground. Then he stepped back, nodding at the girl's now smooth pussy, and walked behind the girl. The jester reached up and ran his fingers over her dark hair. "This is lovely," he said, "but we can make it even more so, can't we?" He concentrated, and Desiree's hair began to grow. It lengthened down her back to her waist before it stopped.

"Yes, you are indeed lovely," said Wellington. "In fact, I think you shall serve only me, my sweet. You shall be the mysterious dark girl with the veil, walking around with whispers of lace, your eyes pools of mystery. Your nights will be filled with the pleasures of satisfying me, young beauty. Desiree, you shall now be called Desire, the Beauty for the Beast."

Satisfied, he moved on to Janey. "Hmmm...I think I have just the thing for our golden-haired beauty," he said. Wellington cupped Janey's cheeks and concentrated once again. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then a pair of pink and yellow butterfly wings began to unfold from Janey's back. They grew and expanded until they were fully formed, flapping gently in the breeze. "They are not strong enough to let you fly," he said, "but they are quite lovely." He removed his hands from her cheeks. Janey's cheeks were now covered with glitter, and her eyelashes were long and sensual.

"And you, young nymph," said Wellington, "will be one of our lovely wanderers. You will make your way up and down our dirt roads and visit, even encourage, our customers, and you will have sweet words for the workers as well, won't you, sweet nymph? Ah, yes, Janey, you will now be called Vixen, the wandering wood nymph. You will dress in tiny outfits of forest green, dancing about on your fairy-like bare feet, and, as the forest gives freely, so shall you."

Finished with Janey, Wellington turned his attention to Valarie. The gang leader was still unable to move, but her eyes were wide with shock and anxiousness. Wellington fixed Valarie with a stern stare.

"You," said Wellington, "are not a nice girl."

Wellington walked around Valarie several times. Finally, he stopped directly in front of Valarie once again. "No, you are definitely not a nice person. But we can change that. We can make you very sweet and giving. Giving of yourself and everything. Everybody will love what a sweet, giving person you'll be, little cupcake."

The jester reached up and slid a finger into Valarie's mouth. Valarie's lips wrapped tightly around that finger, but otherwise there was no further movement. Then Wellington began to concentrate. 

At first there appeared to be no effect. Then Valarie's hair began to fade in color as it thickened and grew longer. Valarie's breasts began to swell and her waist began to shrink, even as her hips widened. Her bottom began to swell as well, and those lips wrapped tightly around Wellington's finger began to thicken into bee-stung loveliness. Her pubic hair dropped away softly and blew away with the wind. Valarie's eye color swirled and shifted to match the color of her hair, which was all colors and no color. Unthinkingly, Valarie's tightly wrapped lips began to slide up and down the jester's finger.

"And you, my sweet," said Wellington, "are now Cotton Candy, the wandering wet dream. You will also wander our dirt roads, searching for people to please. You will never turn anyone down, regardless of his or her desires, and you will offer yourself freely to everyone. As the carnival gives pleasure, so shall you."

Wellington held his hand out, then turned it over and moved it down, indicating that Valarie should bend over. To her mortification, Valarie found herself with her hands on her knees as she bent over to present her tight round ass for inspection by Wellington or anyone else who might be walking by.




Carnival



Wellington glanced at Janey and Desiree. "Desire," he said, "go taste of Vixen's nectar, my girl. Be pleasing. And when you have tasted your fill, switch and allow Vixen to taste yours, my sweet." Desiree's mouth opened to protest, but the mocha beauty found herself dropping to her knees in front of the winged Janey. She could smell Janey's- Vixen's- woodland scent, and Desiree could feel her cares and worries dissipating and floating away. Desiree leaned forward and her tongue was suddenly sliding into Janey's pussy, which tasted of forest streams and spring flowers. Janey trilled as her hips writhed helplessly from the heat of Desiree's pleasing tongue.

The jester now stepped forward to the bent over Valarie. He unzipped his pants and wiggled his puppeteer fingers, and Valarie found herself taking out Wellington's cock and wrapping her swelled, bee-stung lips around it. The jester continued to speak casually as Valarie's hair bobbed between his thighs.

"Your hair and your eyes share an interesting property, sweet Cotton Candy," said Wellington. "Their color will depend entirely on who is looking at you. If a gentleman perusing your beauty enjoys a preference for red-haired women, then you shall appear to have red hair and green eyes...to him, at least. If someone standing next to him feels that golden-haired Aphrodites are the cat's meow, then, to that person, you shall have blonde hair and blue eyes." Valarie found herself unable to answer as her pillowed lips slid up and down Wellington's thick shaft, her chin wet with drool.

The jester realized he was moments from cumming, and he assumed a jaunty stance. Valarie, already furious with herself for being unable to stop herself from giving the little man a blowjob, felt her eyes widen as she realized what was about to happen. Sure enough, Valarie felt his cock harden even more and suddenly her mouth was filling with cum. Wellington watched carefully, and when Valarie's cheeks reddened as her mouth filled with cum, the jester began to sing in a deep baritone, "Oh, come, all ye faithful...!"

Valarie's cheeks reddened even more, but she was unable to stop herself from swallowing the little jester's seed. She felt her belly filling and it registered that Wellington was cumming more than an ordinary man would, but she continued to swallow the seemingly endless flow of semen helplessly. Finally, Wellington slid his still-hard cock from Valarie's mouth and walked around behind her. Valarie, dizzy, belly full of cum, tried to catch her breath as she remained bent over. Next to her, moans could be heard from Janey and Desiree, although who was pleasing whom wasn't clear.

Valarie could no longer see the little jester. Then, suddenly, her eyes widened as she felt the little man's cock sliding into her from behind. Valarie felt Wellington's hands grabbing her hips and then he was pounding her silly from behind. The gang leader heard herself moaning, but she was unable to stop herself as that thick cock inside her seemed to hit every single hot spot she had. 

Wellington's voice droned on as Valarie gurgled helplessly. "You will all serve as concubines from time-to-time, of course," said Wellington, "because carrying carnie babies is an honorable duty for silly tramps such as yourselves. Your prime duty as wandering entertainers, however, is pleasure. Remember...always...pleasure...!" The last sentence became broken as Wellington pulled Valarie back against him, her bare ass pressed against his lower belly, and the little jester began to fill the gang leader with another seemingly unending flow of cum. Valarie shuddered and moaned as she felt waves of pleasure flowing through her, her belly muscles twitching and jumping with helpless heat, her heavy, bimbified boobs jiggling.

Apparently satiated, the little jester slid his softening cock from Valarie's well-pounded pussy. He glanced to the other two girls. Desiree was standing, with Janey on her knees in front of her. Janey's beautiful butterfly wings were flapping softly as Janey's tongue slid over and around Desiree's clit. Desiree's shudder was evidence of an approaching orgasm.

Wellington smiled a true jester's smirk and allowed Valarie to stand up straight. Valarie stood and felt her huge boobs jiggle, and sudden realization swept over her.

"You...you aren't going to leave us like this, are you?" asked Valarie, panic setting in as she began to realize the true extent of her bodily change. "You can't! I mean, I'm...I'm..."

Wellington finished the sentence for her. "You're an aroused, horny bimbo, my sweet," he said. "Your mind is no different than it was. The way you act and appear to the world, however..." His hand swept our majestically. "You are all wandering minstrels and entertainers for the carnival now, my lovely Cotton Candy," he said, as Desiree- now Desire- and Janey- now Vixen- collapsed into panting, satiated piles of sweet flesh. "You are living every child's dream, my sweet. You are running away with the carnival."

*****

Epilogue

"Pretty cool, right?" said John.

Tim shrugged. "Eh. Carnivals are kid stuff, dude."

John shook his head. "Just this part, man. I'll take you to the cool part."

Tim shrugged again. "Whatever, dude."

They walked through odd tents and a dirt road that wasn't in plain sight, and suddenly they were in a different part of the carnival.

"See?" said John. "It gets better now, bro."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure it does, dude."

Then they both stopped. In front of them was one of the hottest girls they had ever seen. John saw a blonde girl with beautiful blue eyes, while Tim saw a bald girl with a smoothly shaven head and dark smoky eyes. They both saw that she had simply huge boobs and was bootylicious as well. The girl was hot, steamy sex. The girl was a wet dream.

"Hi, guys!" she said. "Can I, you know, offer you cuties blowjobs?" For some reason, the hot chick stamped her foot, like she was mad or embarrassed. The guys didn't mind, though, because it caused her huge boobs to jiggle.

Tim said, "How much does it cost?"

The gorgeous girl giggled. "Cost? It doesn't cost anything. I mean, you could, like, tip me if you want, but it doesn't cost ya anything!"

Tim looked at John. "Dude...this carnival rocks!"

THE END 



Carnival



You got volunteered for the school carnival. You freaking hate this.

Here you are working in a ticket booth. Really just a plywood shack shaped like an outhouse. There's a door in the back which latches from the inside and a window in the front for selling ride tickets. The window is small and just about chest level to discourage customers from grabbing tickets when you are not looking.

Since you didn't leave the house this morning expecting to be pulled into this, you are not dressed for a carnival. We had originally planned on a sexy date, so you're wearing a clingy top and a sheer bra. There are no pantyhose underneath your skirt, just the thongs I love so much. 

As you sell tickets, you realize that the moron who built this booth set the counter height just high enough that when you lean forward to hand change and tickets to your customers, your nipples flick across the edge of the counter. Normally, you enjoy having rock hard nipples, but this environment isn't exactly proper. There are crowds of people just outside your booth. 

They can't get a good look at your nipples straining at your blouse, but you are pretty sure they can see your blushing face.

Once I got your voice-mail about canceling, I became curious and decided to show up at the carnival. I looked all over the place before deciding to buy some tickets and play some of the games to kill time.

There you are! Selling tickets to me, you almost don't recognize me because you are so focused on your task and so pissed off about missing your date.

You motion for me to go around to the back and you let me in. Taking a seat Just to your left I try not to interfere with your work. You are quite busy since there aren't enough ticket booths tonight. 

It isn't long before the devil in me takes over and I slide my right palm up the inside of your left leg. Starting at your ankle, I slide smoothly upward until my hand is grasping the inside of your thigh just beyond the reach of your pantie covered mound.

You grip the counter between transactions to steady yourself and hiss at me. "You are such a fucking bastard." Another customer is in the window now, as I allow my fingertips to brush back and forth against your sex through your panties. 

After several minutes of this, I slide both hands up the outside of your hips and pull your thong down to the floor. Getting on my knees behind you, I lift your right foot and place it in the chair to your right before returning to my own chair to your left.

Now I have good access to your entire crotch and I can smell the flavor of your arousal on the evening air. I slide my fingertips back and forth through your sopping lips while staying just beyond the drooling mouth of your cavern. 

My fingernails scratch playfully at your perineum and all over the globes of your delightful bottom before delving into your crack. I gently draw my fingernails across the sensitive skin just outside the wrinkled perimeter of your winking bottom.

At this point I am facing you as you continue to count change and issue tickets for the rides. You are beyond being friendly and polite. You are having trouble enough just counting change without trying to form words with your mouth. 

Continuing my assault on your backside, I slide my left hand up inside the front of your skirt until I am literally petting your pubic patch. My palm hovering just at the tips of your hairs so you can feel my presence, but yearn for the heat of my palm. 

I get just a bit closer on each stroke until you feel my flat palm pressing firmly against you. Unfortunately, I am just above your clit, and you start trying to maneuver your hips to make contact.

As you continue to mechanically perform your ticket selling task, my left hand leaves you. You want to tell me not to stop, but the fucking customers will simply not stop asking for more tickets. 

There is a constant stream of people and you cannot imagine how they can be unaware of the sexual energy threatening to burst this little plywood shack at the seams.

Now a lady walks up to the booth with a fist full of money. My right hand is still toying with your entire backside. Kneading your buns and dragging my nails across the skin when you feel my left return to your vulva. 

But wait, that isn't my hand after all. What is it? Something firm but soft. Something blunt and... FUCK! Now it is vibrating. Not a steady vibration, but jumping into different strengths and speeds every second or so. 

The bitch at your window can't make up her mind about how many tickets to buy. She keeps asking stupid questions and you want to just say, "Look lady, read the sign. All the prices are right there."

Of course you cannot say any such thing. If you do, she is going to be suspicious enough to wonder what the aroma is that is now so pervasive around you that it overwhelms the smells of the carnival foods being prepared around the grounds.

As the limber jelly vibrator slips into your hot wet sheath, you realize it doesn't matter what this lady thinks. It doesn't matter what anybody thinks because the cum you are about to enjoy will probably split the earth in half. 

You smile at the lady and start moving around so your nipples flick back and forth on the edge of the counter. 

You are silently inviting her to notice what you are doing, but she is lost in the world of a penny pinching mother who is trying to get the most bang for the buck.

Speaking of bang, there it goes. You collapse against the counter and just hang there gasping for breath as I slide the toy out of you.

"Are you OK in there?" The woman has a look of concern. You see she is finally offering you the money and realize she has made her decision.

You somehow make change and give her the correct number of tickets while you watch me out of the corner of your eyes. 

I am sitting calmly on your left licking your juices off the vibrating dong. When it is clean, I bend down and retrieve your thong from the floor and walk out of the booth without a word or a backward glance.



Carnival and Masque



"Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth."

-Oscar Wilde, "The Critic as Artist"

***

"In truth, I often wonder what people look like under their masks." 

As she said it Portia pushed her hand against her own mask, as if to assure herself it was still there. Her skirts brushed the nave's marble floor and she kept her eyes on it as she walked. The masks of the gods stared down at her from the cathedral walls. 

"Do you? Well, there's little enough sin in that," said Father Marlowe, walking beside her.

"But isn't it lust?" said Portia. "The gods say that to want to see someone's unmasked face is the same as actually trying to see it."

"The gods also say that to deny our human failings is to try to supplant them," said Father Marlowe. His mask was a chubby, smiling face of gold, with curling hair at the temples. She noticed that, as he'd gained weight with age, he'd taken to masks that portrayed chubby cheeks and double chins to match his girth. The observation made her uncomfortable for some reason. The cathedral was empty except for they two, always the last ones to leave after mass.

"The gods give us sin to remind us of our place," Father Marlowe continued. "When you wish to see your husband without his mask, that is a lesson from the gods, and you should heed it."

Portia's steps faltered. "How did you know it was my husband's face I was thinking of?" she said. 

Father Marlowe's belly shook with laughter. "Any woman would wonder about her husband's face after so many years of marriage. When my beloved Helen was alive I sometimes found myself dreaming about what her unmasked face might look like. Quite wicked of me; but I am as human as anyone else."

They were outside now, with the statues of the masked gods in the courtyard, the spires and masked gargoyles of the cathedral looming behind them.

"All the same Father, I wish I could rid myself of these thoughts," Portia said.

"There are times we are fortunate to have our human failings," said Father Marlowe. "Tomorrow is the Hallowmas Carnival, for example. What would we do at carnival time if not sin?" It seemed he winked at her from behind his mask, but Portia could have been imagining it. "Carnivals used to be very different when I was a boy. Back then we still practiced animal sacrifice."

Portia gasped. "No!"

Father Marlowe nodded. "It was a different time." He patted her arm, once. The crowd on the street flowed in two directions around them. Father Marlowe's grinning mask glittered in the late-noon sun. "I always enjoy our discussions, Portia. I look forward to seeing you again. Meanwhile, try to forget about your doubts tomorrow. And try to forget about your guilt too, if you can."

"Yes, Father," said Portia, bowing her head again. They parted.

Throngs of people moved around Portia, as if she were a stone in a stream. There was an endless procession of gaudy masks and expensive clothes. Bright colors were in fashion in the high quarter this year, and a kaleidoscope of scarlets, azures, violets, beryls, golds and tangerines fluttered by, the men in their short robes and long capes, the women in their long dresses and shawls. Masks were of gold and silver and ivory, accented by jewels and pearls and gilding, as if the members of the upper crust were trying to outdo the gilt framework of the city's soaring towers and graceful bridges. Portia straightened her plain dress and simple white mask. How could these people dare flout such excess in the eyes of the gods, she thought? Then she reminded herself that it was the gods' place to assess people's sins, and muttered an apologetic prayer. 

The Great Bridge was full of peddler's carts and wealthy merchants meeting for the day's last business. Little enough surprise to see that the maskwrights were all out with their wares, in anticipation of the post-Hallowmas buying spree. It seemed that animal masks would be back in fashion this year. Portia lingered over a gold one in the shape of a dove. It was too showy to be proper, of course, but she couldn't help but look at it, and even to reach out for it, just for a moment, wondering if—

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" said the woman next to her. Portia snatched her hand back. It was Beatrice, the count's wife; Portia recognized her blue and purple mask. No two masks ever sold could be exactly alike, of course. That was why maskwrighting was such a demanding trade. "I was looking at the very same one," Beatrice continued, touching the dove mask with a satin-gloved hand. 

"I suppose it's nice," Portia said, trying not to sound too interested.

"It would suit you," said Beatrice. "It's high time I got rid of this old thing." She gestured to her face. "If only we were permitted more than one..."

"That would be a sin," said Portia, automatically.

"Yes, yes," said Beatrice, much more lightly than Portia liked. "Imagine if someone had more than one mask: No one would ever know who they were. They could just put the new mask on and—"

"Become a different person entirely."

"Yes," Beatrice said, and then silence stretched between them. Portia started to squirm. "Well, it really doesn't matter. The eyes of the gods are on us at all times, except on Hallowmas. They would know if we tried to cheat them by changing masks. That's what Father Marlowe says."

"Quite right," said Portia.

"I do wonder sometimes what he gets up to when the gods eyes are off him. Don't you?"

Beatrice bought the dove mask and then invited Portia to dinner with the count after the carnival. "And bring Cassius too, of course," she said. Portia accepted, chiefly to be gracious, and regretted dawdling near the vendor the whole way home.

She arrived just as the gardening staff were leaving, to escape the chiding she had been meaning to give them all week about the rose bushes. The kitchen staff had delayed dinner twice while waiting for her, and the maids were late leaving because they had to wait for her to come home so they could receive their wages early, as they would not be on duty during the carnival. After she set the house in order Portia went to the east sitting room, where she found Alexander on the chaise lounge with his books spread in front of him. He bowed to her and said "Hello, Mother," before consenting to be embraced. His eyes were bright blue behind his mask; he almost never seemed to blink.

"Hello, darling. Where is your sister?" said Portia.

"Here, Mummy!" said Octavia. Her voice came from behind the curtains at the bay windows, where she sat on the window ledge and looked out over the gardens.

"Treasure, what are you doing in there?" Portia. Octavia ran to her side, pigtails and curls bobbing around her peach-colored mask, speckled with stars.

"I was watching the gardeners, Mummy," Octavia said. "And I was listening to them. They were talking about the carnival. It's tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Yes darling," said Portia. Secretly, she frowned. She hoped Octavia hadn't overheard anything off-color. She would have to tell the gardeners to watch their tongues. Just another thing to get after them about. Portia relaxed on the chaise lounge opposite Alexander, supposedly working on her embroidery but rather just letting it sit in her lap while she looked out the windows. Octavia curled up around her knees, lightly napping. Portia watched Alexander study, wanting to tell him how proud she was of him and but afraid to break his concentration. With as hard as he'd been studying the texts, she had hopes he'd be a priest one day. It would do well to finally have one in the family. But she had not yet asked Alexander what his intentions were, and he had not yet volunteered anything. The unblinking blue eyes behind his mask seemed always to be watching her. 

It was another hour before Cassius arrived home. Octavia threw her arms around her father's knees and Cassius picked her up and bounced her before handing her back to Portia. Alexander brushed the lint off his robes and greeted Cassius with a respectful half-bow. Portia shifted Octavia in his arms so that they could embrace, laying his brow against hers for just one second before pulling away.

"Darling," said Portia, "it's so wonderful that you're home."

"It's the last day of the tenth month, Daddy," said Octavia. "Tomorrow is Hallowmas!"

"Is it?" said Cassius, feigning surprise. "Do you know anything about this?" he said to Portia, shaking his head as if bewildered. Octavia giggled. "And what would a very little girl like you know about carnivals?" he continued, his tone halfway between teasing and chiding.

"Alexander told me about it," said Octavia.

"Did he?" said Cassius, turning to his son. Cassius' mask was slate-grey and bearded, with great black holes for his eyes. The set of the mouth was passive but often appeared to be frowning when his voice and body language made his displeasure clear.

"She asked," said Alexander, not flinching from his father's gaze. "It's one of our most important holy days and it wouldn't do to keep her ignorant of it."

"I suppose," said Cassius.

"We can discuss this after dinner," said Portia. She had just noticed one of the wait staff standing in the doorway. They sat in the dining hall, each of the four of them secured in their own chair back to back to back, facing a different wall to ensure that they could not accidentally glimpse one another's faces while eating. The staff laid out dinner and then beat a hasty retreat. Once alone and safely looking away, each family member raised his or her mask high enough to dine comfortably. Portia inhaled the scent of roast duck and realized she had no eaten all day, and that she was famished.

Cassius talked a bit about his day in the Senate, and then Octavia would not stop asking questions about Hallowmas. "Mummy, why do we go unmasked on Hallowmas when to take off your mask is the greatest sin?"

"Because to go unmasked for a day is to remember why we must be masked on all other days," said Portia. She heard Alexander mouthing the words along with her.

"Why is it such an important holy day?" asked Octavia.

"Because it's when we conduct our most important rites and mysteries," said Portia.

"What are the rites and mysteries?" said Octavia.

"Mostly drinking and fornicating," said Alexander.

"Alexander!" said Cassius.

Portia heard Alexander shrug his shoulders. "That's what the help said."

"Which of them?" said Cassius. Alexander shrugged again.

"I can't remember now."

Portia frowned, and her appetite died. 

That night the children went to their separate beds, and Portia shared a quiet moment with Cassius in the hall before they parted to their own rooms. He laid his brow on hers and she felt the hard line of his body through his clothes. A flicker of heat flared inside of her, but she tamped it down. The night before Hallowmas was a night for discipline and self-control. "I'll be at the North Gate tomorrow," Cassius said.

"And I'll be at the Great Bridge," she replied. If they knew where one another would be they would not end up meeting by accident. In theory, one would never recognize an unmasked loved one, but of course, she knew every single part of Cassius' body except his face. Everyone knew horror stories about wives who accidentally recognized their husband's birthmarks or scars during Hallowmas, after seeing their faces. How awful, she thought, to look on your husband's mask every day after and know what the real face underneath was like. 

They parted. Portia paused by Alexander's door, wondering if he was still awake and if he had overheard them. They had stopped by his door and spoken loudly on purpose, so that he too would know to avoid the places they would be. Teenagers were not allowed to take part in the festivities, but Portia was not so naïve as to think a boy Alexander's age wouldn't sneak out anyway. And what of Octavia, Portia wondered? How many more years until she's out in the streets, face naked for all to see, drinking the gods' wine and inviting men (or women?) to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh in the wayside gardens?

Portia closed her door and locked it. She undressed in the dark and laid her mask on the nightstand. She ran her fingers over her exposed face, feeling the lines of her cheekbones, her nose, her brow, her lips. Her natural face was so unlike her. She lay on her thin mattress and recited orisons to herself until she fell asleep. It didn't take long.

***

She woke with a feeling of unease. She reached for her mask, but no, not today, she reminded herself. Instead she sat up and ran her hands over her horribly bare face again. She listened: The house was completely silent. No children, no servants, no Cassius. She was the last one up and the last one out. Good. 

Just walking down the halls unmasked made her feel ill. She was terrified at the thought of some stray, late-rising servant appearing, but there was no one. She went to the window and peeked through the curtains: There were people on the streets. Not many, as the crowds would gather in the public squares and the feast halls, but still she could see them. They were drinking and laughing and some even danced, all of them dressed in costumes and all of them, of course, unmasked. How awful people's faces are, Portia thought, how terrible the way they move. She watched as a couple of girls, barely out of their teens, stole grapes off the vines on her walls and ate them, laughing. 

She wanted to lock herself in, but of course, she could not. Dressing herself (she had no clothes garish enough to constitute a costume, but had made a wreath of flowers from the garden to wear as a crown), she covered her face with a wrapped scarf so that no dawdling neighbors would see her leave the house barefaced. This was permitted (indeed, resolutely necessary,) so long as she removed it once she was away from her own home. She walked the empty streets for a few blocks. 

All the shops were closed except for the taverns, but even the taverns did no real business; everything was free, paid for by the church, and in each of the ale and wine houses you could find revelers dressed as monks and friars handing out libations, the Priests of Misrule. A great many of the people Portia passed were drunk, and even those who were not seemed surreally giddy, lost in some strange other world in their minds. 

She came to the bridge. It was a cool day, and bright. The public buildings were decorated with hanging vines, ripe gourds, cornstalks, and out-of-season flowers. Here on the bridge, a great wooden idol in the shape of a sacred bull, hammered together from old planks and table legs and broken carts, was the centerpiece of the festivities. Surrounded by celebratory fires, the bull was the ultimate symbol of virility, and countless flagons of sacred wine were broken over its horns, to the delight of the pious revelers. 

Portia did away with her scarf, letting the harsh morning light scathe her naked cheeks. She uncoiled her hair from its braid as well, letting it hang free about her shoulders. A girl nearby, who a moment ago had been lost in divine ecstasy, gasped at the sight of Portia revealed. Indeed, her presence seemed to snap many out of their trance. Some of the bolder men made eyes at her, but she ignored them. Marital indiscretions were hardly unheard of at Hallowmas, but she wanted nothing of these half-naked people and their lurid faces. Instead she went to the idol and picked up an empty chalice, letting a monk pour the sacred wine until it sloshed over the sides. She drank as much as she could in one go and when her head spun and her knees weakened she allowed herself to fall.

To her surprise, someone caught her. Two strong hands supported her in her swoon and, half-leading and half-carrying, took her to the railing. She leaned on it, looking down at the churning blue waters. The wine of the Priests of Misrule was particularly potent this year. Her mysterious rescuer fanned her until she was recouped, then showed her that he had rescued her cup as well. She thanked him for it with a mute whisper and, slowly this time, took a draught. The cold, cold wine soothed her insides. 

It was only now that she looked at the man who was with her, and when she did her breath caught in her throat. He was gorgeous! Portia had never seen such a beautiful unmasked man before. The stranger was naked to the waist, and around his head was a crown of grapevines that trailed down his body. His fingers were stained with crushed grapes, and his skin was dark, like someone who had spent long hours in the sun without covering of any kind. His hair was fair and his teeth were so white his smile almost blinded her. 

"May I share this cup?" he said. Portia stammered her consent, and he took the chalice. His fingers were very hot and she spilled a few stray drops. She wanted to stick her fingers in her mouth right then, but she didn't. The strange man drank the entire cop and tossed it aside, letting it clamor on the stones of the street. Then he took both of her hands in his and held them up in a sign of thanks. Portia muttered a brief prayer along with him, but for once she was not thinking about the gods.

What am I doing, she thought as she let this stranger put his arm around her and walk with her across the span of the bridge. She could not take her eyes off of him. She should have been disgusted, repulsed by this man's shameful, unabashed physicality, but somehow this strange, nameless, divine man, was as beautiful as painted silk, even, as he was, unmasked and half-dressed. She felt a fire inside of her, a heat she thought long extinguished.

He pulled her aside, out of the thoroughfare and the mob. Her foot slipped and she let herself fall against him, running her hands down his body. She realized she was blushing, openly, nakedly blushing for all the world to see, but she didn't care. The strange man touched her cheek. "I see you're very much in the spirit of the day," he said. Portia swallowed, realizing she hadn't said anything to him yet.

"To be honest, I don't think I've ever really understood the meaning of the Hallowmas carnival until now."

"I hear that so often," said the strange man. The reply made Portia feel merely common, but there was gentleness about his voice that smoothed the rough edges. Perhaps everyone was common next to a man like this? She almost asked his name but closed her mouth at the last moment. To save herself from blurting it out she stood as tall as she could, threw her arms around the strange man's neck, and kissed him. At first it terrified her; she felt as if she were treading on a priest's robes. But the man, whoever he was, caught her up and pressed her to him, crushing her like a grape in a press. Her heart leapt up and her head swam, and when the kiss was done she felt as if she'd bathed in sacred wine. She was not, she knew, really so drunk as she felt, but there was more to this feeling than just what went into the cups. 

The stranger pulled into an out-of-the-way garden at the edge of some estate, so open to the street and yet so tucked away and private that she had to guess it was designed for this very purpose. He pulled her in for another hot kiss and his strong hands ran up and down her body. She kissed the stranger back, and then she kissed his neck, and then the hard muscles and sinews of his chest, her wine-cooled lips gliding across his burning skin. And then she went lower...

Portia dropped to her knees, cushioned on a soft bed of grass and clover. The stranger wore only loose white trousers, which she pulled down over his calves and knees. The sight of his turgid, swollen prick shocked her. She was used to quiet, respectful lovemaking, in the dark, where such things remain partially hidden. To see it in broad daylight was unreal. She kissed it tentatively at first, unsure of herself, but soon she wrapped her mouth around the tip of the stranger's erection and, taking it slowly so as not to overwhelm herself, drew it in, letting her lips massage it on the way down. The stranger leaned against the garden wall, looking at her with half-lidded eyes. She went down until she choked and then eased off. The stranger brushed a strand of her hair off of her forehead. His fingers were strong but soft. She flushed all over. 




Carnival and Masque



Portia slid her tongue along the underside of his shaft, trailing wetness, then slid it out just far enough to tickle the head with the tip of her tongue. He seemed to enjoy that, or at least be amused by it, so she did it again, sliding her tongue around the ridge and teasing the spot behind it. His flesh tasted divine, a sweet and holy sensation that she could not place. She lapped at him, eager for more of it, and she opened her mouth wider, pushing him to the entrance of her throat, even allowing his fingers to fold themselves in her hair and push down, feeding himself to her. She moaned, sending the vibrations up and down him. Her mouth watered. She tried to pull even more of the stranger in, but there was nothing more. She had the entirety of him now. 

She heard, for a moment, footsteps on the stones behind her, and surprised voices, and even laughter, and opening her eyes for a moment she saw the stranger smile and wink, not at her but evidently at someone behind her. They were being watched. Perhaps there was even a crowd? She didn't care. She would not be interrupted. She slid her hands up his taut thighs and around back, gripping his hips and all but forcing him, with as much power as her tiny body could summon, to go faster as he rocked back and forth, in and out of her gaping mouth.

His climax took her by surprise. There was no indication, no verbalization, no change in his body language or breathing. All of a sudden there was a sensation of pressure being released and something wet and thick spreading across her tongue, filling her mouth. Portia's eyes snapped open, shocked, and for a second she had the urge to expel him, but she came to her senses and accepted it. The hot, wet flow spilled inside of her and she observed the gulping motion of her throat with a combination of fascination and horror. She imagined the stranger's seed mixing with the holy wine in her stomach. Is this the largesse of the gods too, she thought? And then she had to pull away because she was laughing, taken with a fit of merry madness.

The stranger pulled her up by her wrist, so fast that she nearly swooned again. She was gaping, red-faced, breathless. The stranger petted her like a kitten. "I hope you haven't worn yourself out already?" he said, "Come." He started to drag her along. She could barely keep one foot in front of the other. "There are people you should meet."

He pulled into a nearby prayer house, although by the sounds of things there was anything but prayer going on today. The statues and holy icons all had sheets and towels flung over their heads to symbolize gods' blindness to humanity's actions today, and there were many half-empty casks of wine scattered about, and in the dark corners of the room there were many undressed people doing very many things that made Portia's insides quiver even as her head throbbed. The stranger presented her hand, very cordially, to a woman who was there, standing apart from the others, observing. This woman was pale but vibrant, with golden hair and long, exquisitely formed limbs. Her lips were such a deep red that they were almost purple, like the grapes that make the sacred wine. 

"I'd like you to meet my wife," said the stranger.

Portia's mouth fell open. "But you can't be here! Unmasked...you've seen each other!"

"So?" said the woman, still holding Portia's hand.

"It's a sin. It's monstrous!" Portia almost babbling now.

"According to whom?" said the stranger. Both of them towering over Portia. "This is our house. We will decide what is sacred and what is profane. Who will tell us that it's wrong? You?"

"I—I—" said Portia. She felt confused, her head throbbing. 

"There, there," said the woman. They took her to a pew and sat her down. The woman began undressing Portia, who did not object. The feeling of her clothes gliding across her bare flesh was very gratifying. Her half-focused eyes fixated on three people in the corner who were very, very busy at something. Suddenly her vision was obscured by the stranger's wife, who leaned over Portia and kissed her with an open mouth. It was a fleeting thing, but Portia raised her head to chase after the woman's retreating lips. The stranger swooped in and caught Portia's face in one hand, turning it toward him and giving her a matching kiss. 

"I sense that you're feeling in the spirit of the season," said the stranger's wife. Portia nodded, since speaking was too difficult in her state. She was aware of the stranger's hands on her hips, guiding her into a dark corner of the room, and of the strange woman walking in front of her, beckoning her along. Suddenly Portia was in the midst of a mass of people, half-glimpsed in the dark, a mass of writhing naked bodies and twining limbs. The stranger gave her a little push and almost sent her barreling into the midst of them, but someone (Portia had no idea who?) caught her and helped ease her down.

Portia lay on the cool floor tiles. A sea of flesh moved around her. She discovered another body pressed against hers, some anonymous woman lost in the drunken ecstasy of the moment, and when they came together (so soft, thought Portia) their lips joined in a long kiss. The nameless woman's hands moved across Portia, tracing the outline of her hips and her thighs, and Portia raked her fingers up the other woman's back, outlining in the curve of her spine. How remarkable, she thought, that this woman should be composed of all the same parts as I have, and yet we should look nothing alike. She set about testing the theory, examining, with her hot lips and soft hands, the various delicate parts of her unseen partner, tasting the slope of her neck and the angle of her shoulders, feeling the firmness and the ripeness of her breasts, testing the degree of her backside and the plane of her thighs. Portia anatomized the other woman one inch at a time, oblivious to their surroundings.

Suddenly hands tugged at Portia's hair, and she was turned to greet another kissing mouth, another pair of exploring hands. A woman again, by the feel of her. Portia accepted the attention without complaint. Then she was pulled in a different direction and the hard, lean body of a man lay against her, his kisses hard and insistent. Someone else was behind her now and she felt the distinct throb of an erection against her backside. Unseen hands pulled her hair, arching her neck and back, pressing her breasts forward into the waiting molestation of the man in front of her. One of the women insinuated herself into the group, kissing her way up the exposed flank of Portia's thigh as she was pressed between the two men. None of these strangers, though, was the golden-haired couple who had brought Portia here. This she knew, because now and then she caught sight of them elsewhere in the shadows, always watching her, sometimes together and sometimes individually. But eventually she was buried underneath the huddle of competing bodies and lost sight of them entirely.

There was no telling how long this went on before the others dropped away, exhausted, bored, drunk. By that time Portia was wrung-out and spent, but something about the burning ache of the wine she'd consumed wouldn't let her rest. People slept in two and threes on the floor around her and she picked her way between them. Finding one man still alert and at attention, she went to all fours in front of him and sucked his prick in the dark until he contributed to the growing communion in her body, and then he too fell away, uselessly slumbering. Portia groped her way across the floor, blind and helpless, until familiar hands found her. Her strange host and his equally strange wife, still here or perhaps returned from an absence, had come to retrieve her. They stood her up, cleaned her off as best they could, covered her with some bare semblance of modesty, and took her from the house.

"Have you been enjoying your rites today?" said the strange man.

"Mmm, yes..." Portia said.

"We have more for you," said the strange woman, as they bore her along between them. More, thought Portia? What else could there possibly be? The sun was getting low. Portia found her feet and began to walk of her own accord, staying between the couple, comfortable in their presence now, indeed, thirsty for it. She slipped an arm around each of their waists and accepted theirs in return. She became fascinated by the movement of their legs, particularly the way their ankles flexed. For some time she was so distracted by this that she didn't pay any attention to where they were going. Only when she saw the cathedral spires did her feet drag. "We're going there?" she said.

"Where else on this most sacred day?" said the woman.

"It's forbidden," said Portia.

"You say that so often," said the stranger. They approached the gilded gates.

"We can't get in," Portia insisted. "There's no one there." But no sooner did she say it than the gates creaked open. The stranger and his wife entered, greeted formally by whoever was doing the admitting. When Portia, after a moment's hesitation, followed, she was stunned to see Father Marlowe. Yes, Father Marlowe, in his robes and wearing his mask, against all custom and holy law, wearing a mask on Hallowmas. Portia gasped, as did he when he saw her.

"Portia!" he said. "But what are you doing here child? No, not you, not you of all—"

"I followed them," said Portia. "They insisted that—wait, how did you know me? How do you know my face?"

Father Marlowe seemed about to answer but the stranger gave him a dark look, and he bowed his head. "Well," he muttered, "you are here. There is nothing to be done about it now. Come along."

He took them into the cathedral. Portia was at a loss to keep up, and she had no idea what was going on. It wasn't just the wine now. In fact she felt almost completely sober again. The high arches of the cathedral, always so comforting to her, seemed sinister now. She tried to stay close to Father Marlowe, although in truth his presence was disturbing. How could a priest of all people dare to wear his mask today? And yet the strange couple did not seem bothered by it. Portia began to feel ill. Who were these people? How could they so casually stomach such sins? Even on Hallowmas there were lines that should never be crossed. But Father Marlowe made a sign for silence, and the eyes behind his mask seemed desperate and pleading.

To Portia's surprise, the sanctuary was full of lights and people. No, she realized, not people at all, but merely a line of dressing dummies wearing priest's robes and sacred golden masks in the likeness of bulls, a convocation of masks without faces behind them. Ceremonial torches burned on all sides and the smell of incense filled the air. What in the world was going on? Up to the altar they all went, but here Father Marlowe warned her back and made suppliant gestures to the couple.

"We greet you today, most holy and divine of personages," said Father Marlowe. "And we greet the witness you've brought." Portia started a little when she realized he was talking about her. "In your name, in your honor, shall we initiate the sacrifice?"

The stranger was about to speak but his wife cut him off: "Let her do it," she said. Again, Portia knew they were talking about her, and a hard feeling formed in the pit of her stomach, though she could not imagine what "it" could be. Father Marlowe paused for only a fraction of a second.

"Of course, my lady," he said. 

He went to Portia. She stood face to face with the priest, and his eyes looked sad. Portia had no idea what was expected of her. He patted her hand once, reassuring her, and then he turned away and, to her horror, removed his mask, dropping it. Then he shed his robe as well, and for a moment Portia felt as if she were going blind, or perhaps that the world was going out of focus, and when the moment passed Father Marlowe was gone and where he had been, and indeed, still standing over the remains of his robes and mask, was a sacred white bull, lowing and snorting. It was huge and vibrant and alive. Sweat dappled its flanks in the torchlight, and when it turned to her its breath warmed her skin. Is it real, Portia thought, half wanting to touch it but half afraid to as well.

The stranger and his wife came to her, he guiding her forward and she placing a dagger in Portia's hand. The bull did not seem afraid. Indeed, it took a few steps toward her, a friendly gesture. Only when the act was already done did Portia realized that, in one swift motion, she had cut the bull's throat! Her hands had moved entirely of their own accord. She gasped and dropped the knife, but though a red stain spread across the great bull's white hide and its blood flowed over the tiled floor the animal did not cry out or stagger or fall. It remained calm, peaceful, letting its blood flow in streams, making no sign of pain. The stranger caught some of the blood in a sacred chalice. Portia shook her head. "What's going on?" she said, but the stranger hushed her. 

Minutes passed and the stream of blood diminished to a dribble, but somehow the bull still lived. It shook its ears and flicked its tail, and that was all. The stranger put one bronzed hand on the bull's flank and his wife touched it on the forehead, and then the huge animal turned and trotted away, heading toward the altar, and then the world went out of focus again and the beast was gone, vanished, and if not for the blood on the floor Portia would not have believed it had been there in the first place. "What...what was that?" she said.

"A farewell to the flesh," said the stranger. "Now Hallowmas is done: The most sacred rite has been observed, and you are our witness."

"Not yet," said the woman. She took the blood-filled chalice and, from the altar, retrieved a flagon of wine, which she mixed with the blood in the cup. Then she presented the cup to Portia. "Drink." It was not a request. Portia gagged, shaking her head, but the woman pushed the cup forward. "Drink!" she said again. "It's important. It's the covenant."

"But why?" said Portia. "What does it mean? What's going on here? Who are you?"

"Don't you know?" said the stranger. "Isn't it obvious who we are? Haven't you said your prayers to us every day? And we heard them. Now, the covenant."

Portia began to cry. The woman pushed the cup to her lips, almost choking her, and she drank. It tasted bitter and it burned her throat, but she drank. The alcoholic haze overtook her again and she did not resist as the stranger carried her to the altar, laying her naked across it. The two stood over her, the man on one side, the woman on the other, hands joined. Portia saw the masks of the gods on the wall. Worse, she knew that they saw her. She wanted to cry out but no words came.

"Accept us back into the world now," said one of them (either the man or his wife, she could not tell which). "Accept us into your hearts, your minds, and your bodies."

Portia was burning up inside; her limbs were on fire.

"Accept us," said the man, kissing her. 

"Accept us," repeated the woman, kissing her again. Portia's lips burned with divine fire. Her body was floating away, or perhaps was being consumed. The stranger, she realized, was on top of her now, taking her across the altar, right there in front of the eyes of the gods, and his wife was leaning over, presenting her breasts to Portia's mouth, and Portia's skin burned, and her body became lighter and lighter, until it seemed she was not there at all. In the midst of her delirium, she thought she saw the images of the gods remove their masks. She thought she saw the naked faces of the gods. And—how horrifying to realize!—she saw that the gods looked just like anyone else. 

She couldn't bear it. So instead, she slept.

***

She woke the next day in her own home again. She did not remember returning. She did not remember anything after that moment on the altar. And how much of what happened before that was memory and how much simply a mad dream? She did not know. She thought she might never know.

She was sore all over and her hands were still stained with wine. Wine, and perhaps something else. She tried to wipe them on her bedclothes before realizing what she was doing. She dressed herself with aching limbs, pausing only briefly before putting her mask on. It settled against her face, and when she opened her eyes everything about the world seemed to make sense again. Yes, everything was all right. 

She went to the east sitting room, where the family was already awake and waiting for her. Cassius embraced her, setting his brow against hers, while Octavia chattered with bright greetings and Alexander, at his books as always, gave her a nod. It was a beautiful day outside, and the entire city was rising to greet the open air and the bright sun. With Hallowmas come and gone they had their entire lives to get back to. 

"Good morning, Mummy," said Octavia.

"Good morning, Mother," said Alexander.

"Good morning, darlings," said Portia. She frowned. Was there something wrong with her voice? It seemed to echo inside her mask. But no one else noticed. Cassius sat with her on a couch, talking about dinner with the count that evening. Portia found herself staring at Cassius' bare hands, comparing them to those of the stranger, and even to those of the stranger's wife. 

The stranger...

She was seized with a kind of spasm, almost a seizure, at the memory of that bizarre, blasphemous couple. She wondered who they were, where they were today, what they were doing, and the thought set a ringing in her mind, as if the bells of every church had split. Cassius just kept talking: "Did you know," he said, "Father Marlowe died yesterday?"

"He did?" said Alexander.

"Oh yes. In his sleep, in the sanctuary, apparently. They found him this morning. Quite a thing, dying on a holy day. Seems appropriate. I wonder how we'll ever replace him? Anybody who came along would think he had always—"

Octavia noticed first; her screams alerted the others. They all started, then looked at Portia, and then cried out as well. Cassius tried to look away, but it was too late. Portia had taken her mask off. Right there, in front of everyone, she took it off and broke it into pieces, and now the pieces were sifting through her fingers, falling away, going to dust, and then even the dust was gone. 

Octavia would not stop screaming. Eventually she took a needle from her mother's sewing basket and, in a fit, tried to blind herself, but Alexander stopped her. Not that it mattered hat they had seen could not be unseen. Portia looked at her husband and children with her naked face for the first time. "Accept us," she remembered the strangers saying the previous night. "Accept us," they'd said, again and again.

Cassius took her by her shoulders, shaking her, trying to get her to speak, trying to reason with her. Alexander shielded Octavia's eyes, hugging her, trying to comfort her. Portia said nothing. Minutes passed before Cassius could get her to say anything, and when she did all she said was: "Accept us. Accept us." He stared, helpless, horrified, not understanding. But Portia could not explain. 

When she opened her eyes she did not see her family anymore. Without her mask on, she saw the faces of gods. And the gods saw her. And it was good.



Carnival at Viareggio



 All characters are over 18.

*****

"I've never looked out on the Tyrrhenian Sea before. All in all the beaches of Viareggio surpass those we have visited in Venice. Perhaps we should just stay here longer."

"I couldn't help but overhear you, sir," a well-dressed young gentleman, complete with white suit, vest, and white bowler hat and shoes called over from under a nearby beach umbrella. "You said Tyrrhenian Sea. That, I am afraid is a common misconception of the tourist to Italy. That's actually the Ligurian Sea out there. But it's just a natural mistake. I would agree that the beaches here are better than those in Venice, though."

Hugo Von Stoben had been talking to a different, younger man sitting with him under a beach umbrella, who stood as Von Stoben's attention went to the nattily dressed—and quite incongruently attired for the beach, he thought—young man who had just corrected him on the body of water they were facing. The younger man stretched and sauntered down to the sea.

He was dressed for the seaside as any well-formed young man of the 1920s would be—in a one-piece, form-fitting, short-legged woolen costume topped by an athletic shirt adhering to the young man's muscular chest and with deep arm slits and neckline. Such bathing suits apparently had been meant for modesty but had neglected to provide anything that hid the obvious line of the young man's left-dressed cock and the curve of his balls. To most young women and a certain kind of man, the young man was breathtaking in his innocent beauty.

Both Von Stoben and the formally attired young man watched him walk down to the surf—the view from behind of the pert, but bulbous buttocks being as interesting as the frontal view—and start stretching his body. Within minutes he walked into the surf up to his knees, executed a beautifully arced surface dive, and started swimming out to sea in strong, sure strokes.

"You have a handsome son, sir. You should be proud of him."

"I am quite proud of Eric, yes."

"He's a strong, elegant swimmer."

The young man had swum out some distance from the beach and was swimming laps parallel to the beach between the wave-breaking rock walls at either end of the beach. He kept his curly mop of platinum blond hair above the water, as he did the pert bulbs of his buttocks, and his arm strokes were regular and pulled him a long distance with each stroke. In the water, he looked much taller than he did on land.

On the beach, Von Stoben and the young man he was talking with weren't the only ones watching Eric swim. On the other side of Von Stoben, a canvas chair under an umbrella was just now being occupied by a German doctor, Gerhard Mueller, from Hamburg, who was large-boned, a bit on the heavy side, and had a florid, redheaded complexion. He was perhaps in his forties. He, and the man sitting on the other side of him, an older French Catholic priest, fully clothed in black clerical garb and a high, white collar, Father Jacques, had met the Von Stobens here on the beach the previous day.

"Not the Von Stobens of Munich?" Mueller had asked when they were introduced, and when they allowed as how they were, indeed, those Von Stobens, Mueller had attached himself to them like glue.

To that point he had been staying close to the fifth man in the little bunch in canvas chairs under five beach umbrellas. The Englishman, Sir Reginald Chamberlain, a man appearing to be in his fifties, was tall and rugged looking, almost cadaverous in appearance, but with piercing black eyes. There had been a hint at the introductions that he was in Tuscany convalescing from some wasting disease, but the discussion had not yet delved deeper into that topic. Nor had it explored the depths of what the French priest, a professor at the Faculté Notre-Dame Catholic seminary, in Paris, was doing on the western coast of Italy in March of 1924 beyond that his order had determined he needed to take a sabbatical.

All four men sitting with Von Stoben, even Dr. Mueller, as he arrived on the beach, being the only one of the group who said he came to the beaches on Tuscany's Riviera della Versilia every spring, were scrutinizing the young man swimming in the sea. Only Von Stoben was looking at the men he was talking to during their disjointed chatting.

The only one of the group who wasn't watching the swimmer, and the only woman present, was Ingrid, who sat immediately to Hugo Von Stoben's left, but set back behind him under a separate umbrella. Like the young gentleman in the white suit, she was fully dressed in a somber, long-sleeved dress that ran up to a choke collar, pinned with a large cameo broach, and down to the ground, with the points of black leather boots peeking out from under her multiple petticoats. She paid little attention to the men, keeping her nose in a series of Victorian Romance novels. The impression given was that vacationing at a Mediterranean beach hadn't been her idea, and that she didn't wish for Hugo to forget that.

"We've been in Viareggio for three days now, and the architecture hasn't ceased to amaze me," Hugo said to the young man sitting to his right. "I was led to believe it was an ancient town, but I don't think I've ever seen a larger collection of Art Noveau-style buildings."

"Ah, that would be explained by the fire we had seven years ago that leveled much of this area of the city. Only the Grand Hotel Principé di Piemonte survived. Perhaps you've seen the hotel?"

"We are staying there."

"A good choice." The young man raised his eyebrows. Only the very rich stayed there. "I have one of the Art Noveau buildings myself."

"You? You live here? I took you for a fellow tourist," Hugo said. "Your accent. I thought—"

"That I was an American, right?"

"Yes, I confess I did think that."

"I am, as a matter of fact. But a displaced one. I am Martin Biddle, and I have an antique store here on the Piazza Puccini, not far from the Grand Hotel." He briefly looked away from Eric swimming in the sea to shake Hugo's hand and then looked back. "My family thought it safer for their reputation for me to live abroad," he added.

Hugo didn't pursue this point, but he did register it in his mind. He turned his head and took another look at the young man. He was quite handsome. Trim, but with good musculature. And obviously sophisticated and refined—and well to do, as he was expensively dressed, if overdressed for the seaside. And perhaps knowing now that he lived in Viareggio explained why he was fully dressed. It was unusually warm for the beginning of March in Tuscany, but that was all relative. It was warm enough for bathing wear for the likes of Hugo and Dr. Mueller and the English nobleman at this time of year—and even for the sixty-year-old, gaunt French priest, who was, to use a pun, sticking to his habit—but it likely would still be too cold for the beach for a local inhabitant.

Eric came out of the water but remained on the hard sand at the water's edge. He was, indeed, a beautiful young man. Short, but trim with a boyish body that, nonetheless, had good torso definition and strong looking arms and legs, as he would have to have to have been swimming as strongly and expertly as he had been. He was Germanic, light blond, with striking blue eyes, and a dazzling smile when he wasn't looking shy and withdrawn into himself—or aloof to the scrutiny he obviously knew he was being given from the line of umbrellas.

A sigh went up from the cluster of men sitting around the Von Stobens as Eric unbuttoned the straps on the shoulder of his form-fitting one-piece swim suit and let the top of the suit drop to reveal his smooth, both boyish and well-muscled torso. Seemingly entirely blind to the multiple sets of eyes capturing and mentally caressing his form from the line of umbrellas, he started doing stretch exercises again to step down from the vigorous swim in the sea—and then a few mild calisthenics.

"Did I overhear right, that this is your first visit to the Riviera della Versilia?" Biddle asked Hugo—although his eyes were glued to Eric.

"Yes, we are doing the rounds of beach resorts this year. January was the Turkish beaches, the island of Cyprus in February. Italy was reserved for March and April. We will go to Venice, where we have gone before, after our visit here. And later in the spring we'll take in the French Riviera. Eric wants to swim in the sea, and I love to spoil Eric."

"I can well see why," Biddle murmured. In fact he could only wonder at the effort Von Stoben must have to make to keep men's hands off the young man. His own hands were twitching at the prospect, which he hoped to be able to pursue. The young man must know the effect he was having here on the beach. In a louder voice, though, he said, "But how can your young son be out of school for such a long time?"

"He's not as young as he looks," Hugo said, with a small laugh. "He finished his basic schooling last year. He wanted to take this year off to perfect his swimming skills. He enters the Universitat at Heidelberg in the fall—a year older than most entering students—but the difference certainly won't be seen in his visage; he still look years younger than the others. He wants to swim competitively for the Universitat, but he believes, because of his size, that he will have to convince the coaches with his skill. They invariably will say he is too small just from looking at him."

"Ah, I see," Biddle said, giving a little smile and slitting his eyes as he peered at the young man. His interest was diminished in one respect, but the lessening of the risk involved compensated—almost. And the young man did look quite young. "He does swim like a fish, and so elegantly."

Eric returned to the chairs, with the eyes of at least four men following him, but only long enough to gather a towel, which he took out to the sand between the watchers and the sea, and then reclined, his torso raised a bit by the set of his elbows in the sand—his beautiful small body pointed at the line of umbrellas—and flopped his curly haired blond head back so that his face and torso and legs were exposed to the best advantage to the rays of the sun.

"Do you and your family plan to join with the Carnival of Viareggio festivities tomorrow, Herr Von Stoben?" Biddle asked in a low, gravelly voice.

"The carnival? They have a carnival here?"

"Yes, of course. Tomorrow is Shrove Tuesday—we also have a Mardi Gras parade. It's been celebrated for nearly fifty years here every year and rivals the one in Venice in enthusiasm if not in expense. It's a time for our people to let loose and show their true selves. There's a parade and dancing in the streets and partying in the wine shops. Partying in the streets too, for that matter, before the celebration is finished."

"Show their true selves?" Hugo asked. "That's an interesting way to put it."

"Yes, it's a time that they can wear real masks but act as themselves, rather than showing their faces and masking their needs, desires, and deepest sins."

Hugo looked at Biddle with interest, but Biddle was looking at Eric.

"I hadn't known about the carnival. And we have no costumes or masks."

"I could quickly fix that," Biddle said, turning a dazzling smile on Hugo. "There are many Mardi Gras costumes in my antique store. And masks aplenty. I would be happy to let you and your wife and son borrow what you need. Your family really must not lose out on our carnival."

Hugo laughed. "I'm afraid that Ingrid would rather walk on burning coals than go out into the street in a mask and a gaudy costume."

"Then you and your son. You must visit my shop this afternoon and pick something out. Here, here's my card. I won't take no for an answer."

* * * *

Hugo explored Biddle's antique store with fascination after Biddle had picked out costumes and masks for them. Hugo would go as a Roman senator.

"I think perhaps a young sailor—or cabin boy—for young Eric here," Biddle had said, carefully helping the young man try out several costumes. He certainly did look arresting in the sailor suit, with a white tunic that came down only to his midriff and tight, white trousers with a square buttoned codpiece. A blue and white scarf tied around his neck and a sailor's hat set at a jaunty angle on his blond curls completed a look that, yes, was arresting, although sensual might have been a better term for it.

The choices completed and Eric changed back into his clothes, the young man joined Hugo at a case that had drawn Von Stoben's admiring attention. The showcase gleamed with gold and contained an array of expensive-looking gold chains and watch fobs. Von Stoben pointed to a fob with three deep-red rubies inlaid in it that he particularly admired.

"Let me show you something over here," Martin Biddle said, as he put an arm around Eric's shoulders and guided him to another part of the shop. They had their heads together in conversation as they leaned over another case. Hugo was aware of them but devoted most of his attention to admiring the gold chains and watch fobs in the case in front of him.

All three men were smiling when Eric and Hugo left the shop.

* * * *

The parade and the Carnival of Viareggio raucous celebration in the streets lived up to its billing. The Torre di Via Regia seaside promenade and Viareggio Avenue and the blocks off this parade-route were teeming with boisterous, mostly drunken revelers in every conceivable costume and, as the festivities chugged on, lack of costume that one could imagine.

Hugo and Eric were parted by a stream of revelers meeting a counterstream of revelers, all shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, moving in no discernible direction in the streets as the last of the parade floated by. The serious partying was starting now and wine was flowing on the promenade.

Eric could hear the noise of the celebration from only a short distance away from where he was suspended off the ground and pressed up against the wall of a shop in an alley off Viareggio Avenue behind a stack of wine casks. The sounds closer to hand were the grunts and heavy breathing of the devil pressing him to the wall and his own moans and groans as the buried cock of the man in the devil suit slid Eric's back up and down on the rough shop wall with the strength of the cruel upward thrusts in Eric's channel. The front flap of Eric's sailor trousers was open and slapping back against the wall between his raised and parted legs. His knees were hooked on the devil's hips, and his hands tightly grasped and then released their grip on the devil's biceps through the red velvet of the devil's suit, matching the rhythm of thrusts of the devil's cock up into his channel.

His head was thrown back against the rough bricks of the wall, and his mouth was open as he gulped for breath and moaned deeply.

The devil's hands were under the half tunic of the white sailor shirt and gripping the sides of Eric's torso as he lifted the small body and slammed it down on the up-thrusting cock. Lifted and slammed. Lifted and slammed.

The devil was muttering what a nice little piece Eric was, how tight his passage was, while Eric whimpered, "Yes, deeper, harder. Fuck me hard."

The noise of the crowd beyond the alley ebbed and flowed, but the pace of the cock thrusts steadily increased as did the intensity of the two coupling bodies in a mutual effort to explode, which Eric did first, with a little scream in unintelligible German, whereupon he collapsed in sighs and groans as the devil fucked on for several more minutes before realizing his own shuddered release.

When he was finished, the devil swirled away, leaving Eric in a sighing heap at the base of the wall, where two nearly drunk Italian fishermen revelers found him and each took their turn with him before staggering off, surprised as the fine little piece of tail had held his own with them rather than struggling.

When Hugo and Eric somehow managed to reunite in the milling crowd, slowly wearing down from the height of its partying, nothing was said about the short interval they had been parted.

Late in the night, when Martin Biddle had finished his inventory and redisplaying in the antique store downstairs, locked the front door to the shop, and mounted the stairs to his flat above the shop, he found Eric standing at the open wardrobe in his bedroom, fingering the velvet material of the devil's costume hanging therein.

"Where? How?" a shocked and confused Biddle asked.

"You were in the back of the shop and I just walked in and came up here without you seeing me," Eric said. "But do you really want to have a discussion at this moment?" He opened his other hand to reveal that he had found Biddle's stash of Sheik lambskins.

Biddle didn't see the need to discuss anything. He enveloped Eric in his arms, and while they were kissing deeply, he unbuckled Eric's belt, unbuttoned his fly, and pushed the young man's trousers down to his ankles. He went down on his knees and buried his face in Eric's belly, kissing and tonguing the young man's navel.

Eric placed his hands on the back of Biddle's head to hold the man, not much older than he was, to his belly. He gave a little laugh and murmured, "Eat me out, suck me. Fuck me."

With a low moan, Biddle palmed Eric's buttocks and closed his mouth over the small blond's cock. After a while, he turned Eric and stroked Eric's cock with both of his hands, encircling the young man's hips with his arms, and snaked his tongue into Eric's asshole.

The first fucking was on the bed, with Biddle sitting on the foot of the bed and holding Eric's wrists, as Eric's legs streamed out around and behind Biddle's hips, and his torso cantilevered out over the floor beyond the foot of the bed, giving him the aspect of a thrusting figurehead on the prow of a boat. Eric used the leverage of his feet to fuck himself on Biddle's cock, remarking that it was just like barebacking.

Biddle used lambskins precisely for that effect, but he wondered—with wonder—how the young man knew what barebacking felt like.

After a rest, their bodies entwined on the bed, Biddle pushed Eric over on his belly, wrapped an arm around his waist to bring him up onto his knees, mounted his hips from above, and fucked him deep and rapidly like a dog.

Eric demonstrated in no uncertain terms that he was getting exactly the attention he wanted.

As they cooled down afterward, Eric said, "I'd better go before I'm missed."

"How can you not have been missed?" Biddle asked.

"I have a separate room at the Grand," he said.

"Ah, then, it's still early," Biddle murmured, as he pulled Eric's rump into his groin, raised Eric's leg to give himself a better angle, and entered him strongly and deeply again.

* * * *

The little group fell into a set pattern over the next several days. They would all be out on the beach in the late morning, with Eric doing his swimming exercise ritual, and four sets of eyes—those of Biddle, of course; Sir Reginald; Dr. Mueller; and Father Jacques—watching Eric closely and somewhat greedily, if guardedly. Both Hugo and Ingrid were buried in books most of the time.

All would go back to their respective abodes in the mid afternoon for siestas but would be back on the beach for a second round of swimming exercises and sighing gawking in the late afternoon.

Then during the night, Eric would slip out of the hotel and lie under the young, sexy American antique dealer in the flat above his shop, expending lambskins at an alarming rate.

On the fourth afternoon, though, Eric came out of the surf holding his arm and nearly close to tears. Hugo rose from his canvas chair and came down to the surf to meet him.

"He's scraped his arm on rocks," Hugo explained to the others when the two came back to the line of umbrellas. "He swam too close to the rock breaker wall out there to the north of the beach."