He took my hand. He took my fingers and put them to his lips, and drew my fingers inside his mouth, caressing them with his tongue. His eyes moved so that he was looking up at me.
Quite enough, said his eyes. I feel quite enough.
"I'd give you anything," I said imploringly. I put my hand between his legs. Oh, he was wonderfully hard. That was not uncommon, but he must let me take him further; he must trust me.
"Amadeo," he said.
With his unaccountable strength he drew me back with him to the bed. You could hardly say he'd risen from the chair. It seemed we were there one moment and now fallen amongst our familiar pillows. I blinked. It seemed the curtains closed around us without his touching them, some trick of the breeze from the open windows. Yes, listen to the voices from the canal below. How voices sing out and up the walls in Venice, the city of palaces.
"Amadeo," he said, his lips on my throat as they'd come a thousand times, only this time there came a sting, sharp, swift and gone. A thread stitched into my heart was jerked all of a sudden. I had become the thing between my legs, and was nothing but that. His mouth nestled against me, and again that thread snapped and again.
I dreamed. I think I saw another place. I think I saw the revelations of my sleeping hours which never stayed for me when I awoke. I think I trod a road into those bursting fantasies I knew in sleep and sleep alone.
This is what I want of you.
"And you must have it," I said, words propelled to the near forgotten present as I floated against him, feeling him tremble, feeling him thrill to it, feeling him shudder, feeling him whip these threads from inside me, quickening my heart and making me nearly cry out, feeling him love it, and stiffen his back and let his fingers tremble and dance as he writhed against me. Drink it, drink it, drink it.
He broke loose and lay to the side.
I smiled as I lay with closed eyes. I felt my lips. I felt the barest bit of that nectar still gathered on my lower lip, and my tongue took it up and I dreamed.
His breathing was heavy and he was somber. He shivered still, and when his hand found me it was unsteady.
"Ah," I said smiling still, and kissing his shoulder.
"I hurt you!" he said.
"No, no, not at all, sweet Master," I answered. "But I hurt you! I have you, now!"
"Amadeo, you play the devil. "
"Don't you want me to, Master? Didn't you like it? You took my blood and it made you my slave!"
He laughed. "So that's the twist you put on it, isn't it?"
"Hmmm. Love me. What does it matter?" I asked.
"Never tell the others," he said. There was no fear or weakness or shame in it.
I turned over and drew up on my elbows and looked at him, at his quiet profile turned away from me.
"What would they do?"
"Nothing," he answered. "It's what they would think and feel that matters. And I have no time or place for it. " He looked at me. "Be merciful and wise, Amadeo. "
For a long time I said nothing. I merely looked at him. Only gradually did I realize I was frightened. For one moment it seemed that fear would obliterate the warmth of the moment, the soft glory of the radiant light swelling in the curtains, of the polished planes of his ivory face, the sweetness of his smile. Then some higher graver concern overruled the fear.
"You're not my slave at all, are you?" I whispered.
"Yes," he said, almost laughing again. "I am, if you must know. "
"What happened, what did you do, what was it that-. "
He laid his finger on my lips.
"Do you
think me like other men?" he asked.