Jutta was overwhelmed with feelings she did not understand. She was breathing so fast she became light-headed.  She struggled her way down the ladder and then fled the library without thinking. Her silk robe was left crumpled on the wood floor of the mezzanine.  She raced through the hallways and up the stairs of the villa not realizing she was only in her Venetian heeled slippers. The crash of silver and china hitting limestone, the result of a shocked male servant dropping a tray at the site of the beautiful blonde striding naked through the house, caused Jutta to realize her state. She tried to cover herself with her hands and run all at the same time, failing at both. 

Jutta flung herself on her bed and curled into a ball. Sometimes crying. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes writhing in what she would later come to realize was sexual longing. A servant told her that Maria had called for her, but Jutta told her to go away.  Not ready to talk to Maria or the Count, but not wanting to be trapped in her apartment with her odd feelings, Jutta resolved to get out of the villa.  She had the servants dress her in a demure white frock and she set off to get lost in Venice. 

She wandered the streets, alleyways, and bridges, ducking into small squares, churches, and galleries along the way. She wandered through the Jewish quarter where an old woman took pity on the young, tired, and hungry beauty and gave her tea and fried pastry.  She strolled along the docks until the hungry gazes of the sailors made her flee.  She wandered near the Rialto Bridge, where no decent woman should go, but a sweet young harlot shared some fried pork while encouraging her at the same time to leave quickly. 

Eventually, Jutta became hopelessly lost, and she feared she was now just going in circles. She followed a narrow alleyway from which there was a pleasant breeze, indicating she might find her way to a major canal and there find a point of reference that would point her to something familiar.  It proved to be its own labyrinth, leading to a narrow intersection.  At a loss, she turned randomly to the right.  It led to an apparent dead end, a lovely tiny atrium with a fountain. 

She sat in the shade, wet her lips, and rested, not sure what she would do next.  She was about to set out to find her way once more when a tiny door opened.  An elderly but well-dressed woman ducked through the small threshold. 

“I saw you sitting here, my dear,” said the old woman. “Are you here to see the paintings?” 

Jutta had no idea what she was talking about. “I’m afraid I’m lost. I need to find my way back to Count Nero’s villa. Do you know it?” Jutta asked. 

The old woman looked at her curiously. “My, you really are lost. But I can help you. Come inside.”

Jutta nervously did as the old woman asked and ducked through the short and narrow opening as the woman pulled the wooden door behind her. When Jutta stood she found herself in a large, ornate entryway.  The woman clapped her hands and a male servant appeared.  “Wine,” she said, dismissively. 

“You must be very thirsty. Have some wine and rest, and then I will have a servant get you home.” Jutta nodded, too tired to resist the help.  When the wine arrived, the woman handed Jutta a cold goblet and said, “As long as you are here … you might as well see my paintings.”

Jutta followed the woman into a salon.  On the walls on each side were several large paintings. They were all essentially the same in subject and style.  In each, there was a nude woman with long flowing red hair in front of a landscape or seascape background.  In most, the woman was stretched out on a sofa, her hands, or a crossed leg, or a scarf covering her genitals, while her feet, legs, fertile tummy, and small breasts were on full display. In one, the woman was stepping from a fountain, like Venus rising from the sea. 

Jutta was no prude, and she was aware of the Venetian style from her studies.  But such paintings were seldom shown in public, and it was assumed the Church had most of them destroyed.

“Are these all the same woman?” Jutta asked.  The old woman laughed. 

“But of course… they are me!”  I am Veronica. “This is me, in my glory, forty years ago when I was the favorite courtesan of more than one Doge. I gather you’ve never heard of me?”  Veronica looked disappointed when Jutta shook her head. “That might explain why my visitors have dwindled. It wasn’t that long ago that handsome men of the court still came to visit… and not just to look at the paintings,” she said with a look of mischievous pride. 

“You were -- they are so beautiful,” Jutta stammered.  Veronica put a hand on the young woman’s shoulder, indicating she took no offense.  

“Yes, in my time I was a great beauty. As you are, my dear.  I was also very influential. And not only because of my form, or my face, or my long red hair, or because I knew how to please a man. Or a woman.  Pretty, sexual things do not influence. They are desired, until they are not. I was influential because I was well-read, and smart, and passionate, and charming when I needed to be.” Veronica said, appraising the tall, blonde beauty in front of her. 

“Are you just pretty? Or are you influential?” Veronica asked. 

Jutta looked back and forth between the nudes on the wall and the wrinkled, wise face of Veronica.  At last she said, “I think I could be.”  

“That’s a start,” Veronica smiled. “Now let’s get you home.”

Veronica held Jutta’s hand and walked her through the house until they got to a grand entryway on the other side of the villa.  It was on the Grand Canal, and with a wave of an arthritic hand, Veronica summoned her private gondola. Veronica sat in the cool curtained cabin as the gondolier poled her back to the Count. 

Jutta arrived at dusk, and the entire house was a flurry, relieved for her return. She rushed to her apartment, not wanting to see or talk to the Count or Maria, despite the servants’ protests. She refused dinner, stripped, and flung herself into bed.  She slept lightly, moving in and out of a shallow dream in which a confusing mix of a naked Maria, the young Veronica, and the turgid Count all came and went.  In one moment she would be lying on a grand sofa, a la Veronica’s Venus paintings, and the others would be stroking her. In the next dream cycle, she would be leaning against the Count’s grand marble fountain, nude, watching the Count being pleasured by Maria, or the young Veronica, or both.  In another phase of the dream, she was naked in a gondola, with both the young and old Veronicas lying with her, sucking her breasts.  The last image she remembered took place in the library, with Maria on all fours, and the Count moving in her from behind, as they both spoke to her about what she was reading, and as if nothing else was going on. 

She awoke early, confused, but aroused.  The sweat from the previous day now lay in a salty layer against her skin. Her favorite servants, Fatima and Samira, arrived with breakfast.  And after nourishment, coffee, and her toilet, Jutta asked to be bathed. She asked for a cool sponge bath, anticipating the heat of Venice. 

Jutta stood in the basin holding her long hair above her, as two servants dripped rose water over her body. She thought of the picture of Veronica stepping from the fountain and imagined herself in Veronica’s place.  She thought of her dreams.  She thought of what she had witnessed through the library window … the Count’s sinewy naked body … the lewd image of Maria’s mouth on his thick black member … the pleasure on Maria’s face as the Count thrust into her. 

The cool water ran over Jutta’s back, full breasts, and firm torso, down between the cleavage of her bottom and the softness of her vulva, and along the firm muscles of her thighs and calves.  Her nipples hardened with the contrasting temperature of air and water, but also with the thoughts that ran through her head.  

Samira rose on a small stool to pour water over Jutta’s head, while Fatima sponged her skin directly.  Fatima was from North Africa and a fairly recent arrival. She was young, with cappuccino-colored skin and long dark hair.  She would have been exceptionally beautiful, were it not for a scar that ran across both cheeks and through her mouth.  She had apparently offended her lord and paid a permanent price with a swing of his sword.  Samira was Macedonian and much older.  She had been with the Count for a long time. But like Fatima, she was flawed, in that she only had one hand. Once a talented seamstress, she had been accused of theft by a disgruntled customer, and rightly or wrongly, faced immediate “justice.”  Indeed, nearly all of Count Nero’s servants had some injury or flaw, for he had gathered up the misfitting and misfortunate such as himself from all over the Mediterranean, and brought them back to Venice for his safekeeping.  

Am I misfitting and misfortunate? Jutta asked herself as Maria knocked at the door. Unlike the nun’s usual assumptive ways, she peeked through the double doors and knocked tentatively.

“Entrare,” Jutta uttered. 

“We were worried about you, Signorina,” Maria began. 

“You needn’t be. I am a strong woman,” was Jutta’s quick retort. 

“This is true.  Yes, this is true.  Are you angry with me?” Maria asked. Jutta said no. 

“Did the Count and I … frighten you?” Maria asked.  Jutta looked into the young nun’s big brown eyes and pretty face. 

“Fright would be the wrong word.” She lacked the nuance in Venetian Italian to express her feelings. Maria offered another phrase, something that landed between startled and excited.  Jutta nodded. 

“Samira, leave us now,” Maria said as she picked up a sponge. Fatima spoke little Italian, but she seemed to understand a change in the interaction.  She and Maria now both sponged Jutta more sensually. They lingered longer on her sensitive nipples. They parted her buttocks to press the rose water in deeply against her most sensitive skin. And they stroked Jutta’s inner thighs with both sponge and hands. Jutta looked down at the lovely Fatima, dressed in a simple frock that, when she knelt and bent before Jutta, revealed her own alluring breasts. And she looked at Maria, dressed as she normally was in a conservative lace habit, but nevertheless wearing that full, sensual body no matter what covered it.  Jutta broke out in goose flesh and she could feel the blood rushing between her legs as swiftly and surely as the dripping rosewater.  Maria looked up and their eyes met once more. 

“That is enough, Fatima. Please leave us alone.” Maria said. With what seemed like disappointment, Fatima nodded and left. Maria took Jutta by the hand as she stepped from the bath.  She toweled Maria briefly then pulled her out onto the small balcony of Jutta’s apartment.  Jutta sat on the wooden bench and enjoyed the pressure of the warm sun against her. Maria sat next to her, dabbing the towel against Jutta’s warming skin. She then dropped the towel and replaced it with her hand. She stroked with just the fingertips, slowly, up and down Jutta’s taut torso.  Jutta’s goose flesh returned. 

“When you were with the Count…“ Jutta stammered. “At the end… you… you seemed to be in pain… and you shook.  Does it hurt?”  Maria smiled.  

“You are a virgin?” Maria asked. 

Jutta shook her head, no.  “But, my experience is limited. I was with a man a couple of times. It was very quick. We kept our clothes on. He was… smaller… than the Count.”  Jutta continued. 

Maria smiled once more. “Yes, the Count is, well, better than other men.  And not just in that way. But no, it does not hurt. Quite the opposite. What you saw was in fact absolute pleasure.  A rapture of sorts.”

Jutta swallowed hard. “Rapture?” 

“Yes. Like nothing else. I can show you... if you like.” 

Jutta looked at her with confusion. 

“Well, I can almost show you,” Maria said as she kissed and gently sucked Jutta’s breasts and stomach until she sank to her knees between Jutta’s legs. Jutta’s pussy was lightly covered in sparse, straight, blonde pubic hair. Maria had never seen such a thing before, on man or woman. She found herself excited by the novelty.  She pulled Jutta to the edge of the bench and nuzzled at Jutta’s warm center, breathing in her fresh aroma.  Then Maria lightly licked, ever so slightly prying Jutta’s wet lips apart, enjoying her salty, savory taste.

Jutta gasped. “Won’t the Count be angry?” she asked as she involuntarily grabbed Maria’s thick, black hair. Maria pressed on indicating he would not. 

“Isn’t this a sin?” Jutta moaned as she wrapped her strong legs around Maria’s back.  With an insertion of a finger, Maria silently indicated that her interpretation of mortal sin was different from either the Catholic priests or Jutta’s Calvinist minister back home.  Jutta found herself pressing her blonde mound against Maria’s increasingly fervent mouth.  Noises escaped Jutta’s mouth that she had never uttered before. Indeed, that she had never heard before. 

Maria found herself enjoying this even more than she might have anticipated. Jutta was a natural sensual spirit. To combine that spirit with her great beauty and her sharp intellect, would make her formidable, indeed.  And very attractive to the Count.  As well as those the Count needed to influence. And attractive to herself, right in that moment, as Jutta became increasingly animated in her reactions to Maria’s efforts.  

Jutta’s fluids flowed freely, and her member poked out from the smooth wet hood that covered it. It was larger than Maria had previously encountered and stuck out like a miniature penis. Maria treated it as such, sucking gently, then licking, then sucking, all the while curling two fingers into her tight, smooth hole. The inevitable then occurred, as Jutta began to convulse, her vulva gripping Maria’s fingers and her thighs gripping her head.  

Jutta babbled in her language, “Oh mijn god, bevallen, bevallen! Ja! Ja! Ja!” 

Maria expertly guided Jutta through a crest of contractions. Part of her wanted to keep on. She loved Jutta’s passion and physicality, and she enjoyed the power of bringing this young beauty to pleasure. She could have kept going.  She could have taken her to the same heights as the Count, she was sure of it. But, she knew her place, and as Jutta’s first round of spasms ended, she pulled away. 

Maria took the privilege of kissing Jutta, enjoying that Jutta’s own juices still graced her lips and chin. 

“Dinner with the Count?” Maria asked as she stood.  

Jutta laughed.  “Yes.  Yes.  Dinner with the Count.”

(to be continued...)