Liberate Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part One) (16 page)

‘You’re so pretty, Valentina,’ Rosa whispers. ‘So gamine.’

Valentina looks at her, and at the same time she can feel Celia’s hands tracing up her thighs. She freezes, unable to step away as the sensation of Celia’s touch begins to affect her. Celia tiptoes her fingers all the way to the top of Valentina’s legs, and pushes one of her hands underneath her panties. Valentina is trapped, unable to do anything, she is so rigid with anticipation. Why doesn’t she push Celia’s hand away?

‘I think she wants to join us, Rosa,’ Celia says. ‘I can feel it.’

The two girls wriggle out of Valentina’s lace scarf, and make space for her between them.

‘Come on,’ Rosa cajoles her. ‘Why not?’ She takes a blindfold from behind one of the cushions on the daybed. ‘If you prefer, you can wear this, and we will make your dreams come true.’

‘No,’ says Valentina, yet still she doesn’t move. Celia’s hand is massaging her gently, and she can feel herself beginning
to throb inside, despite the fact that she has never wanted to make love to a woman before.

She looks at the two girls and everything is in soft focus, just like one of her dreams. She sees three spirits of sensuality weaving together like divine ether. And so Valentina steps forward. She cannot help herself.

SIGNOR R. WRAPS BELLE’S LACE SCARF AROUND HER TORSO
, pulling it tighter and tighter so that her breasts are almost flattened. It is a little itchy on her nipples, and Belle wishes she had suggested something else with which to bind her, but it is too late now. Signor R. has turned his back on her and picked up the bottle of oil on the dressing table. Belle reaches out for his trousers, which he left on the back of the chair, and pulls them on. The first time she played this game with Signor R., she was surprised at how much she enjoyed it. For once she was wearing the trousers. She was amazed at how different an item of clothing could make you feel. Certainly her client changed completely once he attired himself in his costume.

Signor R. is a wealthy and well-connected young banker in Venice. One can always hear him a mile off at social gatherings, his booming voice and rather uncouth manner. Yet he’s not an unpleasant man. Belle knows that he has set up a philanthropic organisation to help the unfortunates of Venice. He has a heart,
that is for sure. He is obviously desperately in love with his tiny little mouse of a wife, who is as shy as he is confident. You can’t say a word to her but she blushes crimson. So it is quite clear to Belle that in his household Signor R. rules the roost, just like her own husband. However, unlike Signor Brzezinski, her banker friend has a need to reverse the roles sometimes. Something he could
never
ask his fragile little wife to do.

Signor R. swings around to reveal his transformation. Belle has to admit that he looks every inch her love slave. He has lathered his hairless, muscle-bound chest with one of the aromatic oils Belle purchased from the Abyssinian traders down at Ponte di Rialto. Signor R. has the most perfect physique, and as he stands before her, she takes in the symmetrical triangle of his bare chest, following the contours of his body across his firm stomach and down to his hips. He is wearing part of her Egyptian costume. Just the silk overskirt, which hangs low on his hips so that she can see his pelvic bones provocatively exposed. The silk skirt clings to his firm, powerful legs. The fine slinky cloth does nothing to conceal what lies beneath, and the sight of his erect penis pushing against his feminine attire only serves to make him even more manly.

It is quite specific what Signor R. wants to do. He doesn’t want to look like or be a woman. He just wants a break from being an alpha male. He wants to be Belle’s slave, stripped down and vulnerable in her most delicate skirts. It gives him pleasure, and why not, thinks Belle as she fastens his cufflinks on to the starched shirt she has now put on. She glances at
herself in the mirror and is delighted by her reflection. With her black bob slicked back, she looks quite androgynous. It is a delicious sensation.

She walks over towards Signor R., feeling powerful and in control. She puts out her hand and massages his oily chest, watching his muscles ripple in response. She can see his erection pushing through the silk skirt, and she rubs it with her other hand, as Signor R. groans softly before speaking.

‘What would you like me to do for you today, Belle?’ His voice is unusually subdued, and husky with desire.

‘I would like you to sit down on this chair.’ Belle picks up a chair and places it in the centre of the room. ‘And pull up your skirt so I can sit on top of you.’

‘Can I please take off your trousers? Will you let me?’

She raises an eyebrow and stands over him, then nods sternly.

Signor R. leans forward eagerly and unfastens the buttons of her trousers. They slip off Belle and fall around her ankles. She steps out of them. Underneath she is completely naked. Signor R. admires her, twisting his fingers in her curly hair.

‘Touch me,’ she directs him, as she unbuttons her shirt. She imagines telling her husband to do this, and the thought of it makes her want to burst out laughing, which would be a disaster. She knows how upset Signor R. would be if she laughed at him.

Signor R. reaches forward with his fingers and begins to caress her. She feels so naughty and bold. It is wonderful to
give orders for once. She stands over him as he buries his face in her and begins to lick. She pulls her nipples out through the gaps in her lace binding, licks her fingers and touches them herself, sighing with pleasure. She lifts his head up and away from her.

‘You can stop doing that,’ she directs him. ‘I am going to sit on you now, and you are not to stop until I climax. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Belle,’ he says humbly.

She takes his penis in both hands, hovering over him, then sits down on his lap, pushing him deep inside.

Oh, it feels so good
.

She can feel herself quivering, his length reaching deep into her. She goes on to her tiptoes and rises, falls back down again. Signor R. groans, and closes his eyes.

‘Come on, harder,’ she says, her voice suddenly harsh, and she thinks that if she had a riding crop like her Russian, she would maybe use it now.

He lifts himself up against her and they are riding together, faster and faster, until she is climaxing gloriously without caring whether he is experiencing the same pleasure. Signor R. doesn’t mind. Sometimes he climaxes and some days he doesn’t. For him his visits are not about sexual gratification; they are more about escape. Today, however, he is with her all the way. As she collapses on top of him, cascading again and again, she hears him cry out and make one last dramatic thrust inside her.

After Signor R. leaves, Belle is still feeling rather manly. No doubt she will get a couple of slaps later for answering her husband back. But for now she has plenty of time to explore this sensation. And she feels like going out.

She flings open her wardrobe and flicks through her dresses, all the fantasies of her clients. Long, elegant evening gowns, along with her maid’s outfit, her virginal nightdress, an array of corsets in different colours and textures, purses and stockings, boots, boas and feathers. At last she finds what she is looking for. She pulls it out and lays it on the bed. It is a simple sailor’s outfit: flared white trousers, blue and white striped top, a red kerchief for round her neck, a long naval jacket, and a sailor’s cap to top it off. Once dressed, she looks at herself in the mirror with satisfaction. With her breasts still bound, the hem of the jacket concealing her womanly bottom, and her long legs and slender frame, she could pass for a young sailor boy. All she has to do is tuck her black bob up into the hat and remove her lipstick.

She has never actually left her apartment in these clothes, but it has always been her fantasy to do so. Today she feels like being brave. With all the new arrivals in Venice, the city is buzzing with exotic and strange faces. She will fit in perfectly.

Belle strides along Fondamenta Nuove by the side of the lagoon, whistling as she goes. It is wonderful. For once in her life she has the freedom to walk down the street without men
looking at her, measuring her up. Once she has reached the docked boats she can see from her apartment, she decides to dive into one of the local tavernas. She wants to have a drink amongst her sailor pals. Inside the crowded taverna she recognises a couple of faces, but of course they have no idea they are rubbing shoulders with Belle, the infamous Venetian courtesan. This amuses her no end.

The owner approaches her as she sits down at a small table in the corner.

‘You look a bit young to be drinking hard liquor, son,’ he says.

‘And what business is it of yours?’ Belle replies as gruffly as she can, putting some coins on the table and trying to hide her manicured hands in the process. ‘Rum, please. Your finest.’

Belle knows that if she were a real sailor, she would knock her glass of rum back in one, but it is just too strong and she doesn’t want to make a scene coughing and spluttering, so she leaves it sitting in front of her for ages, taking surreptitious sips when no one seems to be looking her way. Oh my, it makes her feel good. At first a burning sensation on her lips, but as it slides down her throat, it feels just wonderful, warming her belly. How good it is to be a man, she thinks, to enjoy such simple pleasures as choosing what you want to drink and when.

A crowd has gathered in the far corner of the taverna. Belle strains to make out what is going on, but it’s impossible to see through the throng. She finishes her drink, and after having
recovered from its powerful effects, she gets up and wanders over, pushing her way through a hubbub of sailors. Nobody minds. She is so small and lithe, they think she is a boy, and make way for her. Yet still she can’t see what is going on. All she can hear is a voice. Perfect Italian, yet with a foreign twang to it.

‘It seemed to be a hopeless situation, my friends,’ she hears the voice say. ‘Raoul and I were sure we were done for. However, luck was on our side. As we were being led away to certain death, some vicious bandits came tearing down the mountainside and attacked our guards. In the ensuing chaos Raoul and I were able to make our escape. Our hands still bound behind our backs, we ran through the rocky gorge towards the sea. Ah, we could not see the sea, but we could hear her, our darling saviour, slapping against the jagged rocks. I can tell you, it was hard work not falling down that treacherous gorge, with our hands bound, and beneath our bare feet scorpions and snakes snapping and hissing at us.

‘Well, we made it to the shore, and were able to untie each other, rather tediously, which delayed our escape somewhat. Hunting around, we spied a small boat, a tiny rust-bucket in fact, but we were not fussy, my friends . . .’ At this point everybody in the taverna laughs. ‘We sprang into that boat and rowed away at double speed, and just in time, for we were not far out from shore when some of the bandits emerged on the beach, shaking the decapitated heads of our captors at us.’
Here there are a couple of gasps from the younger sailors in the crowd. ‘Their message was quite clear. If our guards had not been such brutes, I would have felt sorry for them. As it was, I sent up a prayer, whatever good it may have done their departing souls.

‘Off Raoul and I sailed upon the endless China seas. Ah, we suffered for days, my friends, and at times we wondered if it would not have been better to have had our heads cut off, now that our tongues were swollen and our need for water was so great. Hither and thither we drifted, our hope nearly crushed, until one day we saw another boat, and after that another, and another. We had arrived in Hong Kong. We emerged in the bustling port like two newborns screaming silently for nourishment, our throats so dry we couldn’t speak. An old lady with a bucket of none too fresh water, I fear, ladled it into our parched mouths. Nothing tasted so sweet as that water in all my life.’

The gathering cheers, and congratulates the owner of the voice on his good luck. Belle cranes to see him, but the crowd is too dense. She pushes her way forward, and a large, burly docker in front of her finally lets her through. Sitting at the table in front of her, with a tankard of frothing beer, is the most devilish creature she has ever seen. She knows instinctively that it is the same tall, rangy sailor she noticed the other day as she walked home. Is it by the way he leans back on the bench, the sweep of his shoulders, or the curve of his chin? He has hair so black it makes hers look dirty brown, and his
eyes are the full range of blue, the colours of all those oceans he has explored.

‘Tell us another adventure, Santos!’ someone yells out.

‘I have no more to tell . . . that is my most recent adventure. However, my friends, here I am in Venice, the city of mystery and magic. Without fail some adventure must befall me here.’

And as he says these words his eyes alight on Belle. He looks her square in the face and a wicked grin spreads across his features. He knows, she thinks, panicking. He can see that I’m a woman.

‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘There are many secrets of Venice I would like to unveil.’

He is looking at her in such a way that her heart leaps into her breast, and she is more frightened than she has ever been in her life. She turns on her heel and flees the taverna, and doesn’t stop running until she reaches her apartment door, where she stands for a second, her head leaning against its cool wood, slowing her breath. She tries to calm down, chiding herself for being so silly, yet she knows that what has just happened is not a trivial thing. For Belle has just laid eyes on her destiny.

VALENTINA IS IN THE DARK. SHE CANNOT SEE A THING. THE
blindfold is made of dense black velvet, and not a chink of light penetrates. She is frightened and at the same time she is losing herself in the blissful sensations that are assaulting her body. One of the girls is teasing her with her tongue, while the other softly caresses her breasts. She feels a finger gently outlining her oval, and then pushing into its plushness. She gasps, all of her usual reserve abandoned. Rosa and Celia continue to play her. It seems they are masters of the art of bringing her close to the edge, and then pulling back, so that she is becoming more and more desperate for release. She imagines what kind of picture they must make. One she cannot photograph. Herself blindfolded and naked, her arms and legs bound to the bed with silk ties. The two young women entwined around her like Grecian nymphs. She is completely open to them, and she finds this risk, this trust in the unknown, enticing.