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One Winter Night in Venice
© 2003 by William Dean

Snow fell in Venice. Snow fell in softened pale drifts before his footsteps along the Ponto del Diavolo. Though he knew it was impossible, still he felt the vibration of each step shake the ancient stone bridge beneath him. The impossible dogged him, following or preceding him like a faithful hound he could neither drive away nor cajole closer. He could, through the thin cottony puffs in the air, see the Hotel Priuli ahead. More ancientness. It is inescapable in Venice. The oldness surrounds, accusing across the old squares, pointing-finger spires, rounded domes like the pedestals of question marks, sluggish canals that lead nowhere and everywhere. Hurd Paginate breathed in the frosted air and knew he had been blind, deaf, and foolish to follow her to a city of dead-ends and memory.

Closing his eyes against the wind's cold sting, he allowed himself a step, two, three of reverie. A walk in the might have been. Dangerous; if one slipped there was the cold abyss of nothingness waiting. Yet, sweet and strange as a tune on some odd instrument, the caress of a unseen hand in the night's darkness, was the moment's imagining. He swayed his head, capturing and captured in the pause between the flex of fingers and the piano chord, the hesitation before the bow strikes the cell's strings. It was what he had. It was a frozen stillness before the actuality came crashing through his heart and made it a ruin.

Love in Venice; wasn't that a joke; a romantic folly that only sentimental writers and lunatic poets dared to even write about. Like the floating sargasso in the canals, here the arteries clogged with fantasies; dark trysts where gauzy curtains parted to reveal naked lovers entwined in rapture. His nose dripped, splattering on his already damp gloves. He wiped at it and felt the crust of his sleet tears on his chilled skin. He staggered against the wide railing and wanted to be sick over the side. Heartsick; lovesick; he felt ridiculous. A spark of rage, at least, ought to boil up inside him; nothing but air struggled up from his throat. He belched loudly and laughed at the absurdity of himself.

Standing at the window of her room, hidden by the slanting curtain, she watched him lean against the bridge post, a sullen dark shadow, slightly bent, and wondered who he was, alone, out in the snow and cold. She parted her legs a little wider and moved forward, resting her cheek against the cool window pane. She rolled her face upward and sighed as the flat pane pressed her forehead and the thrust came again. Her hand rose and filled her mouth to stifle the cry. Christ, Stefano was thick! She felt the bulbous head of his cock slide wetly between her cunt lips again; felt it spreading her open as his forefinger rubbed her clit roughly. She gritted her teeth and thought "More, damn you, more!"

As if he had heard her mind's shout, Stefano wrapped his other hand in her long hair and yanked her back from the window. Her feet tangled in the curtain edges and she fell backward, impaling herself deeper on his shaft. Stefano growled in pleasure as they tumbled to the thick blood-red carpet. She turned, raising up on her knees, straddling his hips, and slapped at his face.

Stefano smiled and his eyes gleamed. "Again, bella mia!"

Quick slaps, four, six, and with each pair of slaps—right, then left hand—she felt his spine arch up from the floor and his cock probe deeper before sinking back.


She bit his right nipple until she felt the hot iron and salt taste of his blood. It was enough. Licking the two droplets of red from his wound, she felt the shudder of her own climax envelope Stefano's spurting come inside her. She squeezed her thighs tighter around him, the muscles of her cunt working up and down his shaft to drain it. She hugged her arms around herself and rolled off him, laughing softly.

Stefano rubbed a finger over his torn nipple and smiled at her. He licked the blood from his finger, eyes rolling back in his head. "Bitch!" he whispered at the ceiling.

Down on the bridge, his head hanging over the bridge railing, Hurd Paginate finally found the remains of his dinner and brought them up in a retch. Watching them spew down into the chilled canal and slowly sink, he wiped a glove across his mouth. He looked up at the lit window in the Hotel Priuli.

"Bitch," he cried softly into the swirling snow of the night.

© 2003 William S. Dean. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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