THE WAY THINGS ARE
This was my first attempt from some time ago to put a slightly different twist on an age old story in an unusual (for me) setting. A while ago I had an almost morbid fascination with the political dynamics of Machiavellian Italy 500 years ago. The corruption and deceit, with its thin veneer of acceptable appearances, reminds me of today. But -- this story does have some sex, it does involve a cheating wife, it is not a BTB, and showcases questionable morals... but hopefully in an entertaining way.
THE WAY THINGS ARE
It was the year of our Lord 1585, Renaissance Italy, Sixtus V was pope, Philip II was king of Naples, and Leo Baldarti was a wealthy merchant in Naples. Leo was currently away on one of his unfortunately frequent business trips, and his beautiful and beloved wife, Sophia, was currently naked and in bed with a comely young man who was obviously drunk with enthusiasm but short on experience.
"John, John," she sighed, "timing is everything; PACING is everything. There is a time and place for a delirious rush of passion, but there is also a time and place for savoring the intimate experience. Rushes of passion are for stolen moments in the far reaches of a garden maze or secluded corners at a gay and noisy party. Savoring the experience helps ensure that the woman derives pleasure from the union also - which increases the man's chances of future unions, and possibly an advantageous marriage with a willing partner. A man, a gentleman, should be able to fight off a band of ruffians at the drop of a hat - and take immediate and gracious advantage of the gratitude of the woman the ruffians were bothering. And he should be able to climb into the marital bed and make sweet love to every inch of his wife, like savoring a glass of fine wine. I know you are excited, but...," her patient lecture trailed off with a sigh as she realized that John was barely conscious of her words; his attention was riveted to the nipples of her gently swaying breasts as she reclined on the sheets in the candlelight. She was the mother of three, and her nipples were dark and delightfully textured. The teats were also almost painfully stiff from the arousal from her first extramarital straying - though it was turning out to be more effort than she had anticipated. It had taken nearly a week to lure him into the bedroom, and an hour to get his clothes off.
She looked at his face, which was reasonably comely - in a guileless, inexperienced way. His expression was puppy dog eager and nearly mesmerized by the sight of a naked female figure which was NOT a small classical statue in marble, but real flesh and blood lying next to him in a bed. With another sigh she chided herself for undressing too quickly; it had obviously sent the wrong signal. At least she was under the sheet from the waist down, otherwise he might be completely overwhelmed and impossible to instruct. With a sinking feeling, she realized that she might just have to let him have his way with her, and in the aftermath of his passion he might be more receptive to instruction. She had wanted to prolong the experience - explaining to him what felt good and why - and feel both accomplished and fulfilled when he crept away down the concealed back stairs to his home, and she could get back to missing her adoring - and far more experienced and satisfying husband, maybe drifting to sleep thinking of the lavish love they had made last week before he left. At least he would be back tomorrow night.
But until then, she had a commitment to John, well, really to his mother, and while it was proving a bit more tedious than she had expected, it's was still thrilling in its forbidden nature, and, so far, not unreasonably satisfying. She had once been a voluptuous, raven-haired beauty, and was still striking, in a mature and worldly way, and it was gratifying to have the nearly hypnotized attention of a prime young buck, however unsophisticated he might be. It made her feel young again - and that was worthwhile.
"I am giddy," John breathed. "I feel my heart pounding in my ears." Well at least that is coherent she thought, and a reasonably satisfying compliment.
With a sigh of resignation, she threw off the sheet. John gasped at the sight of her revealed body. She smiled at his obvious excitement; his organ was of adequate shape and size and seemed on the verge of bursting. She took the initiative and pulled him close, kissing him soundly. His hands found her breasts automatically, and she gasped a bit at his lack of control; in one way it was flattering, yet in another, uncomfortable. She would have to teach him to build up to such squeezing. With effort she got him to roll on top of her, and she wiggled until she could feel the hot hardness of his organ pressed into her bush. At this point any rationality left his eyes and she had to use a free hand to guide him into her admittedly drenched love canal. Purely instinctively he entered her and began to rut. Before she could savor the feel, he yelped, quietly, in a most peculiar fashion, and she could literally feel his sac, pressed hard against her legs, squeeze every dram of his seed into her. He pulled out with a 'pop' and gazed at her with stupefied longing. Thrusting her disappointment firmly aside, she gave him a beguiling smile and said, "For a first coupling, that was a wonderful effort. I am now the proud, but secret thief of your virginity, and you are a proud but secret non-virgin."
She was going to explain a little more of the female anatomy of pleasure when the unmistakable tread of steps came faintly through the bedroom door. At least to an unbiased bystander they were faint. To the overwhelmed young paramour, they were nothing. To Sophia they were like the tolling of funeral bells.
"Oh, my God," she whispered in horror, "It's LEO."
"Leo?" John repeated, stupidly. Then his expression distorted to match her own.
The steps grew closer and louder.
John seemed paralyzed and Sophia knew they only had seconds before the bedroom door was opened by her unsuspecting husband. God alone knew what he would do. Then she remembered he always carried his foil - and he was a renowned duelist. "Quick!" she hissed, nearly right in John's face. "Hide!"
Galvanized by her panicky whisper, John practically leapt out of bed and gathered his clothes and shoes. He darted this way and that, his jumbled mind helpless to find an exit. It was too late - the footsteps paused for a moment outside the door, and the knob began to turn. John slid like a snake under the bed, yanking his clothes in behind him.
The door opened and Leo stood there gazing in surprise at his wife.
Then he smiled. "Still awake, I see, and ready for me, my darling Sophia."
"Leo," she squeaked, "you are home early; I expected you not until tomorrow."
"I drove a quick, hard bargain and I expect they were glad to see the back of me. That was a profitable trip. Besides, I was anxious to return to our marital bed, love of my life. I sleep poorly when I am away from your welcoming arms."
He closed the door behind him, but the door did not quite latch. He did not seem to notice.
Leo was tall and stocky. He had fought his way up from obscurity to wealthy success. The muscles he had built wrestling countless goods and wares across nations had only seasoned with age, and his skin, unlike the pallor sported by many merchants, was deeply tanned from his many travels and his love of the outdoors. His long dark hair was pulled back and showed only a few streaks of grey. Despite his build, he was lightning fast, as several opponents had found to their sorrow and subsequent scarring.
Sophia found her horrified gaze drifting to his sword, which, as always, rested lightly in its belt loop. The grip was well worn, for he practiced frequently, and the metal shone brightly even in the candlelight, as he took very good care of his possessions.
He raised one eyebrow lustily. "You do not usually sleep unclothed, though I am certainly not complaining."
It took a moment to find her voice, and she made up a lie and made it up quickly. "I spilled my nightcap on my nightshirt, and it is being cleaned." She had to distract Leo and allow John to escape. She batted her eyes. "If I had known you were coming home tonight, I would have been waiting like this anyway, Leo, dear."
He smirked at her and went to his wardrobe, turning his back to the bed. He began undressing slowly. Some clothing he hung in the wardrobe and some he hung on the back of a nearby chair. It seemed to take him forever, dusting off minute specks of road debris before hanging them up, or placing things with exactitude in the hamper for the maid to clean on the morrow. His back was at all times toward the bed. To her increasing anxiety, his sword was well at hand. She ardently prayed that the dust under the bed did not provoke John into sneezing.
Leo began singing, not loudly, but certainly above a whisper.
Good, she thought, that could cover the sound of John's retreat. But to her horror, no naked body crept from under the bed bound for the unlatched door.
After several minutes, Leo sighed and closed the wardrobe. He approached her side of the bed and kissed her, which she tried to return lovingly, and he disappeared into the small curtained alcove in the back corner of the room. "Just a minute or two for my ablutions, my dear, and then I shall join you." She heard the splashing of water into the basin from the pitcher, and the then the splashing as he cleaned himself and freshened up for bed.
Sophia rolled across the bed, bent down to look underneath, right into John's petrified expression. She tried to get him out, but he kept shaking his head. The fool seemed to want to wait until Leo was asleep. NO! There was too much chance of a betraying sneeze or cough. Of Leo dropping something on the floor and bending down to pick it up. She spent at least three minutes doing everything but dragging him out. The curtain rings rattled and she practically leapt back into bed and rolled to her side, with a fixed, bright smile under dread-filled eyes.
Leo came out naked, disdaining his nightshirt. His middle-aged muscles were a sculpture most young men would have envied. He rounded the bed and climbed in. He kissed her gently and then with increasing passion. "Come to your adoring husband, glorious wife," he growled. He pulled her to him. His familiar scent flooded her nostrils and his iron-hard chest pressed her breasts tightly as he hugged her fiercely. Some guilty shade in the back of her mind compared this to the awkward fumbling of less than half an hour ago; like the ant hills in the garden to the lofty, seething crater of nearby Vesuvius.
His massive hands pulled her hips to his, while his lips never left hers. "I missed you, sorely," he growled, as she felt his growing need hot and hard against her belly. His hands slipped slowly and ever so firmly down her back, his strong fingers massaging her muscles, the action making her want to mew and stretch like a cat. He slid home - and growled in surprise. "You are very wet, o queen of my heart."
The frantic guilt in the back of her mind handed her mouth a note and then ran for cover. "I am not so old that I need the scented oils of passion, my dear, and your surprise return and obvious joy in our marital embrace are inspiring." She congratulated herself on the speech, and then moaned as he rolled over her and braced himself above her. The bed began to rock to a familiar rhythm as he built up to a mutual peak. Unlike her carefully picked ego-stroking noises for John, the sounds issuing from her came right from her gut.
Finally he could hold back no longer and she felt his release deep within her. Caring husband that he was, he kept stroking her, having sensed that she was close but had not yet achieved her own pleasure. Guilt temporarily thrust aside by blossoming passion, Sophia let the eruption wrack her body.
Then she fell back, spent, among the puffy pillows. "Oh - Leo - welcome - home - my - love!" Then she began to cry.
He curled up beside her and held her.
"I am so glad you are home."
