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Remarkable restraint, particularly when contrasted against Fiore’s own wanton display. For Fiore knew what he liked. And better still, he knew how to perform.
Fiore bit his lip as he smeared the first few drops of seed across the head of his prick with the pad of his thumb. His stomach rippled as he thrust his hips up to meet his own fist. He let his throat unleash the moans the gentleman reined in. His free hand roamed wildly, smoothing over the tops of his trembling thighs and flying up to feel the pulse fluttering in his collar. And throughout all this, Fiore looked up to meet the bauta’s masked gaze, then back down at himself, his lashes fluttering with each glance.
The gentleman said nothing. Nor moved, save to clench those strong hands against the wood. But his breathing grew ragged, musical to Fiore’s ears, and each catch in his throat made Fiore’s cock twitch.
Something about the gentleman’s seething desire paired with his impeccable restraint—the thought of the lustful tides surging just behind the flood-wall of his mask—stirred Fiore’s imagination. His fist moved faster and faster of its own accord. He envisioned what it might be like to lift the mask from the face and kiss whatever lips lay beneath. To slip his hands beneath the tabarro cloak and delve into the silken breeches to grasp what surely by now must be an iron rod to rival his own. To cross their blades until sparks flew behind both their eyes. To bend the gentleman’s great height over the boat’s bow and fuck him into oblivion.
And then his cock pulsed in his fist, and torrents of seed spilled over his knuckles as waves of pleasure wracked his body. Instinct bid him curl in on himself, all muscles tautly convulsed. But that would block the splendid view the gentleman had paid for. So instead he fell back against his mattress and let the last burst of his seed spray across his own chest.
The gloved hands clenched again. But this time the whole frame stiffened, and a choked-off gasp echoed from beneath the mask. Unless Fiore very much mistook the matter, it seemed the gentleman had spent likewise—and all without a single touch.
Satisfaction with both his own pleasure and with a job well done sent a slow smile creeping over Fiore’s lips. He raised his seed-spattered hand to his mouth to lick it clean.
The gentleman’s eyes widened behind the mask’s shadows.
Fiore swept up the seed from his heaving chest with his thumb and sucked it off for good measure.
A low sigh escaped the gentleman.
“Was that to your liking, signore?” Fiore murmured, breathless.
In a haggard and harrowed voice, the gentleman replied, “Quite.”
Fiore grinned.
The gentleman released his drowning hold on the bowsprit at last. A steadying breath trembled though his long frame. Then he bowed and strode from the chamber, pausing just long enough to set down a few coins on Fiore’s nightstand. The door thudded shut behind him.
Fiore listened to the heels clicking away down the corridor with more than professional interest. When they ceased, he roused himself from his ecstatic stupor and rolled over to his nightstand to inspect his earnings.
His set price for a solo performance was one silver ducat.
The bauta had left six gold zecchini.
Fiore stared at the coins as his mind executed rapid calculations. There was his room and board for the next few months, certainly. He’d set aside half against whatever infirmity might befall him, but even so, he’d still have enough to indulge in several small luxuries. More chalk, charcoal, and drawing paper. Proper pencils, perhaps. A new zibaldone bound in leather. He could almost taste the Crooked Anchor’s chocolate even now. His head lightly spun with the windfall, as if he’d already drunk too much of it. He went to his window. A breath of fresh air only increased his giddy thrill.
Still, he retained the presence of mind to enact the proper rite.
He didn’t bother untying the strings of his domino mask. It slipped off over his head with ease. Its paper construction felt light as a fallen leaf in his hands. He gave it a fond brush of his fingertips, almost wishing he could keep it as a memento of what had proved a strange but no less delightful evening.
Then he flung out his arm and cast it into the canal to join its brethren in tonight’s final sacrifice to Saturn.
“Io Saturnalia,” he murmured with another stolen smile.
~
Enzo had done worse things on impulse.
He’d never hired a courtesan before. On the whole he considered the experience much less sordid than others had led him to believe. Indeed, as he departed the berth, he felt more light-hearted than he had in many months. Not even the sight of Carlotta awaiting him above the hatch could sour his good mood.
Not that he blamed Carlotta in the least. She was merely doing her duty, as implied by the livery she wore—black woolen waistcoat, frock-coat, and breeches, with the embroidered crest in black thread over the waistcoat’s left breast the only hint to her loyalties, and this further hidden by the frock coat’s lapel. Nor did she seem to blame him for his indulgence, for the look she cast down on him from the top of the ladder appeared mild verging on indifferent. This quickly became a look she cast up at him as he ascended, for he towered over her on even ground, as he towered over most people. She fell into step behind him as he passed her. He set a course not toward the bar or the whirling dance but instead carved a path through the crowd to the gangplank leading off the ship altogether and to the gondola waiting below.
His family’s gondola fleet were all shellacked a uniform shade of gleaming beetle-black which gave off the merest glinting hint of the entwined serpent carvings running down their lengths. His own particular gondola awaited him tonight, marked out by its gondolier, Ippolito, rather than by any peculiarity of its own appearance. Carlotta held the felze’s heavy woolen drape open for him to enter, then followed him in. Once they’d both settled onto opposite ends of the black-leather-upholstered interior—he facing the fore of the gondola, and she facing the aft—she rapped her knuckles against the black walnut ribs overhead, and Ippolito smoothly slid the craft out to join the current of the canal. Carlotta cast her dispassionate gaze out through the latticework window. Enzo did the same on the opposing side, though his thoughts turned inward rather than toward the city still cavorting in the throes of Saturnalia’s final hours.
Carlotta would of course ensure that Lucrezia heard all about Enzo’s little adventure. Enzo didn’t mind. Again, it was only her duty, and besides, he’d done nothing that his eldest sister or any other member of his family might disapprove of. He’d remained masked, given no one his name, and gone on his way as quietly as he’d arrived.
Most importantly, he’d carried no sword, nor had he started—or finished—any other sort of fight.
And the long, silent, lonesome gondola voyage back to his family’s palazzo provided him with ample opportunity for reflection on the evening’s unexpected delights.
