Ballo in Maschera

Venice at Carnevale is another world. The mist lies on the canals. Away from the Grand canal, the alleys are dark and ill lit. Through this murky evening hurry two figures. Both wearing long, hooded cloaks. The first, taller figure is an eighteenth-century Cavalliere, with the mask of Casanova, and wearing a tricorn. Following him closely, her fur-trimmed hood hiding her face, his companion walks with small, bustling steps. She is glad for the warmth of the cloak, other than her shoes, it is all she wears. Her hands are tightly bound behind her back with soft rope, and all that fastens the cloak is the single clasp at her throat.

They stop at a doorway. He knocks, and the door opens to a crack, yellow light spilling from within. The door opens wide, and they are beckoned in. The doorman is similarly masked, as Pulcinello, the carnival grotesque. He embraces the man and they kiss in the Italian style. She waits quietly behind. 'Step out of your shoes and approach me,' commands Pulcinello, 'Kneel.' She obeys, silently. The two men leave, and she is alone on the tiled floor. It feels warm under her knees.

She is aware of a presence behind her. Her hood is pulled back, and the clasp unfastened. Still she casts her eyes to the floor. The cloak is drawn away, and the odalisque moves in front of her. Another mask, the full faced white mask of the carnival. The effect is of a china doll, with a feminine silhouette enhanced with a boned bodice and a full, hooped skirt. Long satin gloves cover her arms to just above the elbow, and a half-inch red ribbon is tied in a bow at her throat. She crouches slightly, and lifting her chin with a gloved hand, strokes the face of the bound woman. 'You are Maria?.' She nods. 'I am to prepare you for what is to come. You may leave now if you desire, but if you stay, there is to be no turning back. Do you understand?' Again, Maria nods, unable to take her eyes from the expressionless face.

'You are pretty, and I can see the need in your eyes.' She is not lying. Already Maria feels the tightening in her chest and the warmth in her belly. The doll reaches down, satin fingers brushing Maria's now-erect nipples, tracing her flanks to her hip, and across to her mound. Maria shudders. She has never been touched like this by a woman. She is aware that her breathing is fast and shallow, her body more alive with the slow and deliberate approach.

She twists her wrists, and the gloved hand returns to her cheek. She cannot tell where the steady gaze behind the mask is falling. 'Sssh, cara mia, there is no point in struggling.' The hand falls again, to her nipple, circling it, then pinching hard. Maria opens her mouth to breathe in before she screams, but from behind, a large and soft leather ball is pulled into her mouth and fastened behind her head with a thick strap. She whimpers and struggles. The strong hands, a man's, in soft leather gloves take her upper arms while the odalisque continues to trace circles round her nipples. She calms, and the grip relaxes. Maria feels rope being wound around her upper arms, just above the elbow and drawn tight. Her breasts are forced up and apart with the strain at her arms. A thick velvet cloth is tied across her eyes, and her helplessness is complete.

Strong hands lift her by the arms and she struggles to find her feet. The familiar voice again, 'walk.' She takes a tentative step forward, and another. The grip on her arms relaxes, but is still there. The temperature changes, and the floor surface feels like wood. A gloved hand at her chest, 'stop.' A slight creaking noise, and upwards pressure at her wrists, forcing her forward, off balance. She cries out, but a very muffled whimper is all that escapes. Again, the gloved hand at her cheek, and a whispered 'ssh, quiet, cara mia. You will not fall.'

She is now bent over, her head down. More rope, this time around her ankles, which are spread around shoulder-width apart and attached, to cold iron, which she feels against her skin. The feeling of openness accentuated by the satin gloved hand which traces the round globes of her buttocks and reaches inward, brushing her sex. The touch is electrifying, but again her cries are mere whimpers and her struggles bring only more tension at her wrists.

Silence, she is alone. Time stands still in the darkness. The unmistakable swish of a cane or swith, a crack and stifled whimpers. But no pain. She is not alone. Twice more, the terrible noise. Another woman is being beaten. Muffled whimpers and moans, shuffling noises, whispering and murmuring. The creak of rope and again the swish of a cane. This time it lands on her thighs, and the pain sears through her very being. It is her turn to feel the lash.