Raine: The Lords of Satyr (6 page)

Nimble hands groped under his coat, pinching at him and poking for his crotch with hard knuckles. He turned so she couldn’t reach her goal.

“Hold, I say.”

She only squirmed in response. Was she Faerie or merely a comely prostitute? Or both?

“Let go of me.” Her voice was cultured. Throaty. Sexy.

His cock swelled. “Who are you?”

“Who are
you
?” she countered, trying to yank herself away.

He grabbed both of her forearms. Bacchus! Though she wasn’t aware of it, the cloak shifted and he caught a fleeting glimpse of a breast. Underneath, she was naked.

She tried to knee him. He angled away, causing her to tumble forward and grab at his hips for balance. Her hand lodged in his pocket by accident, ripping it.

Abruptly she stopped struggling against him. She was staring at the ground now, transfixed.

What the devil? Raine glanced down and saw that the ribbons he’d stuffed into his pockets earlier that day had tumbled free onto the tiled street.

The woman shook off his hold, knelt, and picked them up. She stood again, holding them cupped in her palms and studying them as though they were priceless treasures.

When he automatically reached for them, she closed her hands into fists and snatched them back. He caught the straggling ends of several ribbons. Winding the strands crossways around his palm until he had a firm grip, he used them to pull her against him.

The woman held on to her prize, refusing to let go. And for a moment they were linked, tethered by rainbow threads of satin. He stared into the black pools of her eyes and saw they were flecked with gold. Her lashes were cobwebby, casting shadows on the bronze cheeks of her mask. Her breasts were soft against him. His desire for her ratcheted higher.

“How old are you?” he demanded in a level tone.

She wriggled, trying to look around him, first to one side, then the other. She frowned, obviously not finding whatever it was she wanted. “Where’s violet?”

“What?” Was she simple?

“You only have six ribbons,” she explained, gazing at him with brittle patience as though he were the simple one. “You have only six colors of the rainbow here. Where’s violet? It’s missing.”

“I don’t know. Who the hell cares? I bought them for my sister-in-law and her younger sister,” he explained needlessly, then felt annoyed that he’d revealed even that small bit of himself.

He gave the ribbons a jerk and repeated his earlier question. “How old are you?”

She shrugged, irritated. “Nineteen. What does it matter?”

Relief filled him, but he was careful. “Don’t lie. I won’t seek my pleasure with girls not yet become women.”

“Pleasure?” She stilled, lifting her eyes to search his. “I’m nineteen,” she said slowly.

He looked skeptical.

“I’m quite sure of it because today is my birthday. And how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven, as if it matters a whit. What’s your price?”

Dark eyes studied him, weighing. They were beautiful, as deep and unfathomable as the lagoon. He could drown in such eyes, lose his head.

He let go of the ribbons and stepped back, feeling ridiculous. The only thing he wished to drown in her was his cock.

“Never mind,” he told her. “I’ll meet any price. Come if you’re willing. Otherwise—keep the damned ribbons, and I’ll find another woman.”

With that, he wheeled around and stalked toward the docks, hoping she’d follow. Otherwise, he’d have to go back for her.

Jordan blinked, watching his tall, erect form move away.

He’d called her a woman! It was the first time in her life anyone had ever done so with such certainty.

In spite of her unfashionably short hair, and though he’d seen nothing of her body under Salerno’s cloak, this beautiful man had assumed she was female. And he was seeking to engage her in some sort of carnal encounter for which he actually planned to pay her. A giddy thrill coursed through her.

She glanced to her left. From beneath the bridge, the hollow eyes of the beggars and whores pierced her. Some were sad, some greedy. All were desperate. Once the man departed, would they do her harm? The cloak she wore was obviously costly and could be sold. If they took it and her mask, she’d be left naked. Defenseless. Even if she escaped them, she could encounter all manner of dangers as she continued to make her way home alone at this hour.

Ahead, she watched the man hail a boatman on the gondola she’d seen earlier.

“I’m coming,” she called, skipping after him. She quickly reached his side, tucking her hand in his.

He halted midstride, jerking away from her hold. His silver eyes were wary now. Why, she wasn’t sure.

What sort of encounter did he envision between them if he didn’t want her touching him? She toyed anxiously with the ribbons, wrapping them around her palm until their ends were caught under her folded fingers.

When she noticed him observing the action, she sheepishly tucked the ribbon-wrapped hand in the pocket of her cloak. Though they were his, she refused to part with them. They somehow made her feel safe.

“I’m sorry. I won’t take such liberties again,” she said.

He didn’t comment, only nodded and turned to lead the way to the single elongated gondola at the quay. It was graceful and slender, with a gondolier on either end and a boxlike cabin in the center that enclosed the passenger seats.

Called a felze, the enclosure was decorated with ornately carved gilding. With their convenient doors and windows on every side, such compartments were used either to display or conceal as the occasion required.

In the spring, their doors and windows would be flung wide for happy brides seated within, fresh from their weddings, in order that they might display their finery to well-wishers along the canal. Jordan had observed many such brides with envy, noting their sparkling eyes, and splendid lacy gowns. Paulo and Gani had studied them as well, offering ribald speculations about the wedding night each bride’s husband would soon enjoy.

At times, a felze proved a useful setting for those intent on crimes of kidnapping or even homicide. With its doors safely secured, appointments and meetings between members of the nobility also took place there.

But more often, as tonight, the privacy such a cabin offered was used for another sort of assignation. A carnal one. The sort this man was offering.

“Back to my lodgings,” he instructed the boatmen.

They took his orders and paid her no attention, no doubt assuming he’d take his pleasure with her inside the felze during the ride. They were accustomed to the peccadilloes of the wealthy customers who rode in their conveyances, especially those wandering Venice at night.

The fact that there were two oarsmen meant they were in for the long journey across the lagoon. That meant he didn’t reside in Venice proper. All the better.

He turned and offered a hand to her, to assist her onto the boat. It was a commonplace gesture any gentleman would unthinkingly offer to a lady. But no man had ever offered her his hand before. How delightful.

She smiled brilliantly at him and placed her fingers in his, softness slipping into strength.

Somewhere behind them in the piazza, she heard the tap of footsteps. Salerno? She took no time to further savor the signore’s gesture.

The gondola rocked awkwardly under her weight as she hopped aboard, scurried past him, and ducked into the felze.

He followed her and the door shut behind him, cloistering them both in near darkness.

B
ack on land, a lone figure scampered to teeter on the edge of the quay. Nearly dancing with frantic anxiety, the bishop watched Raine’s gondola glide under the bridge. And away. There were no other boats to be had at this hour and his quarry was escaping!

His prick tortured him with thoughts of what Satyr and the one he’d procured along the canal might do together. Had he chosen a man or a woman? He hadn’t gotten close enough to see, but the manner in which Satyr had handed his acquisition into the gondola indicated she was probably female.

If it was a quick fuck Satyr wanted, he’d have been only too glad to provide his own backside for his use. More than glad. He dreamed almost daily of such an event occurring between them. Had imagined playing mate to Satyr with every fuck he administered to another less-deserving body. Until he found his chance with Satyr, he would let no one else’s flesh violate his own ass with fleshly instruments. His pristine rectum—defiled only by the occasional dildo or other handy object—would one day be his gift to Raine Satyr’s cock.

He spied something lying on the dock below his foot and picked it up, fingering it. A ribbon. Violet colored. It was precisely the color of his zucchetto, the bishop’s cap. Earlier, he’d noticed such ribbons peeking from the pocket of Satyr’s trousers.

He held the two ends of the ribbon, one in each hand. Stretching it taut, he sawed the rain-dampened satin lengthwise along his lower lip. It was an omen, a tease. It must have been left behind for him, as a sign not to give up his chase.

The gondola was lost from sight now, in the mist. No telling where Satyr was lodging tonight.

Picturing him entangled in a carnal embrace with another body was nothing short of torture. He’d give anything to be near him, to join with him, lie with him. To fuck his mouth, his ass. Lick every inch of his muscled body. To touch his lips to his. To take his cock and his jism down his throat and up his own ass until he nearly strangled on them. He would welcome all Satyr had to give and plead for more.

Frustration welled up in him, sending the sting of bile into his throat. He grabbed his prick through the robes. It was rigid and hurting. Burning as though seized by a thousand vile demons. Syphilis was his affliction, a doctor had told him several years ago when he’d examined the small painless red spots that had appeared on the bishop’s rod. Those and the rash on his palms and the soles of his feet had been his only trifling symptoms back then.

What had begun as minor sores a year ago had become irritated lesions, then tumors. Now his case had advanced far beyond his cock to addle other parts of him as well. A few months ago, the doctor had said the sickness was beginning to pollute his mind as well as his body. But it seemed to the bishop it was actually elucidating a great many things. Bringing greater clarity, day by day.

Suddenly, it came to him what he must do. With Satyr lost to him for tonight, he would find another in whom he could vent his frustration.

He turned back and made his way toward the alleys, where sex of every kind was cheap, easy, and anonymous.

The hermaphrodite had made him hard, but he’d been unable to ejaculate in the theater using only his hand. His cock required another sort of stroke. But he must go carefully. No one in the Church must learn of his cravings.

The cries of the impoverished throngs who dwelled beneath the bridge reached his ears, luring him like the devil’s disciples they were. The hermaphrodite undoubtedly sprang from among the ranks of such malingerers. It was its fault—their fault—he now craved relief.

He located a fellow of Satyr’s general stature and build from among them, and with a jerk of his head herded him toward a deserted, twisting alley. His maniacal stare warned others away as he followed the tall man he’d selected into the darkness.

Murmurs of “Faggot!” pelted him from behind. But the insults bounced off his robes. He was no faggot. He was one of the successors of the apostles with thirty priests under his direction. A humble worker in God’s vineyard. One of the most respected men in all of Tuscany.

“What’s your pleasure?” the man he’d chosen asked. His voice was dead, hopeless. The bishop liked that.

The man’s face was handsome enough, and intelligent, though somewhat haggard. His trousers were fine quality, but worn and dirty. He probably cheapened himself in this way to provide for a family who’d once lived in high style. Yes, the bishop likely had Napoleon to thank for this particular piece of ass. He’d left Venice in tatters. Patrician families had sold off paintings, furnishings, and jewels at a fraction of their worth to make ends meet. Now some even sold their bodies.

“My cock. Your ass,” the bishop told him.

The man nodded tiredly.

The bishop found a sequestered place in the alley that would allow him to keep his eyes peeled for trouble while he took what he needed. With the man’s assistance, he shoved an old wooden barrel he found there into the position he desired. Then he slipped the cincture cord from his waist.

He strung the cord through a metal ring secured in the wall on the far side of the barrel. It had been used to hold horse reins at an earlier time in history but was now rusty from disuse. The bishop snapped the ends of the cord tight, testing the sturdiness of the ring.

“Give me your wrists. I’ll use this to tie you.”

The man regarded him, dubious. As well he should be. But the bishop kept his expression bland and unthreatening. His easy manner combined with the dignity of the vestments he wore never failed to woo the fearful to his way of thinking.

“I seek to bind you only enough to keep you from mischief. You’ll be able to get loose when I’m done with you, but I’m not taking any chances you plan to thieve in the meantime.”

“I’ll have your coin first,” the man hedged.

The bishop held his money out. A brief flare of interest lit the man’s eyes at the sight of it.

“Half now. More if you please me,” the bishop lied smoothly.

The flicker of life in the man’s eyes died as he took the coin, tucking it in his shoe. Unceremoniously he shoved his trousers to his ankles, bent forward over the barrel, and allowed the bishop to tie his hands to the metal ring in the wall.

When all was arranged to his satisfaction, the bishop stood back to enjoy the debasement of his victim. His cock twitched under his robes as he eyed the rump offered up to him. It was sleek and blatantly masculine, its flesh glistening dully. He ran his hands over it again and again.

Then he dipped his fingers through the man’s legs to squeeze his ballocks and soft prick. The man jerked and let out an anguished moan. Here in the shadows it was easy for the bishop to pretend he caressed another man. A beautiful man with eyes of silver. One who had escaped him tonight.

Thoughts of Satyr lifted the bishop’s rod ever higher. He fumbled under his robes and pulled it out. The sores that riddled it stung and burned, inflamed.

His hand found Satyr’s violet ribbon, and he grinned, tying it around the root of his shaft in a lovely bow. He stood for a second, admiring his stumpy, infected cock and his own twisted sense of humor.

“I’ve got a nicely wrapped present for you, Satyr,” he crooned. Sliding a finger up the man’s crack, he located the dark crimped hole he’d purchased use of for a single coin. It screwed itself tight under the pad of his forefinger.

With the thumb side of his palms he stretched the skin on either side of the vertical cleft, forcing the ring wide. A forward flip of his hips slung his cock high to flop in the crease. He pulled back until his tip poked at the ring. The man’s hands clenched on the cord that held them, and he braced his legs for what was to come.

“Beg me,” the bishop murmured, squeezing a buttock cheek in each hand. “I want you to beg.”

The man hesitated, then, “Fuck me,” he muttered halfheartedly.

The bishop savored the man’s shame. “Again. Say it again. Over and over.”

“Fuck me! Fuck me!”

With an unholy curse, the bishop rammed his fat, ungreased meat between the man’s buns.

Under him, his victim yelped.

The sound pleased him. “Beg me for more, my darling. Say, ‘Fuck me harder.’ Say ‘It’s good.’”

“Fuck me harder. It’s good,” the man gasped.

He slapped the man’s rump, hard with the flat of his hand as though he were on horseback and whipping a recalcitrant mount. “Say it like you mean it. Make me believe you want it and there’ll be even more coin than we bargained.”

“Oh God,” the man said, groaning with humiliation and pain. Injecting reluctant enthusiasm into his voice, he complied. “It’s good. You’re so big. Fucker.”

The bishop widened his legs. For leverage he grabbed the edges of the barrel on either side of the body under him. His balls slapped and flopped between his beefy legs as he bucked harder and harder.

The man’s back arched and he tried to dance away. “Give it to me hard. Si, that’s it. It’s good. Oh God.”

“That’s it, my love,” the bishop soothed. “You want it, don’t you, Satyr?”

“Yes!” the man cried, almost hysterical now.

“You want me. You want me fucking you. You want my cum spurting deep inside you. Say it. Beg.”

“Yes, fuck me harder. Give it to me. I want you. Ram it up my ass, you godless animal. Just fucking finish for pity’s sake.”

“No! That’s not right. You must want it!” the bishop raged. He felt the painful ball of cum struggle its way through his diseased cock. “Sss! Fuck!” His bellow of agony echoed in the alley as he deposited his poison up the man’s rectum.

The pulses were staccato dribbles that scorched him like hellfire. Spilling was not the treat it had once been. The bishop’s displeasure fell on the flagging substitute beneath him. His hands slid up the naked back and found the man’s throat. And squeezed.

“No! I have a family!” the man protested, yanking at his bindings. But he was tethered well enough to give the bishop an advantage. The man’s flailing lessened, growing fainter as plump hands squeezed tighter, wringing the life out of him.

Moments later the bishop withdrew, shocked at what he’d done. Before him the man’s limp body listed to one side of the barrel, his hands still tied to the ring.

An insistent drizzle began, dampening his robes and his spirits. “No one must know,” he breathed, hurriedly straightening his clothing. “No one.”

He fled, frightened. A gust of wind whipped his violet-colored zucchetto from his head. But he ran on, distancing himself from what had happened. The cap tumbled into a puddle. It would lie there unnoticed until morning when rumors of a cleric murderer would begin to circulate among those unfortunates that frequented the alleys and docks.

Just blocks from his hotel, the bishop fell to his knees to beg forgiveness. The downpour began again in earnest, soaking him. Taking it to be an omen that this sin had been washed away, he staggered to his feet and scurried on.

By morning he had convinced himself that the devil had entered him through that degenerate in the alley. Yes, all his actions had been the man’s fault. But he dared not linger in the city. He would take himself back to Tuscany and do penance for days or perhaps weeks.

Until the urges rose again and the cycle repeated itself.