Seductive Erotica
"The Exile," a Vanilla short story by N. Vasco
Marco felt cold despite his layers of clothing. The endless horizon of gray sea under gray, early morning sky was before him, and the drone of the ship’s engines and the sound of the prow cutting through the sea filled his ears.
For the past two days, he had remained in his cabin, refusing to go topside lest he catch the sight of the distant coasts of the Mediterranean. The mere thought of seeing waters that would eventually lap the coasts of his native Italy threw him into a deep misery.
When the ship rounded Gibraltar he only went to the port side, facing the great expanse of the Atlantic, which allowed him to avoid the receding coasts of Portugal and Spain. The ship was on its way to England for a quick layover before making its final journey to America, two places he had never visited and never dreamed he would flee to.
I’ll never see home again, he thought while gripping the iron railing, the cold of the metal’s surface penetrating his skin.
His mind floated back to that afternoon almost a year ago. He had been in his first year at the distinguished College of Arts in Padova. Some of his friends had urged him to visit a particular gallery and the “special display” in the back rooms. By the tone of their voices, he could guess they were talking about the notorious erotic sketches and paintings that were known to pop up at museums and private galleries from time to time.
He wore his best suit that afternoon, the straw boater on his head cocked jauntily, but when he arrived at the museum he decided to comport himself with all the dignity and class a young man of his station was expected to follow. Instead of paintings, he viewed the latest trend in the art world: large photographs depicting rural and metropolitan life all over Europe. The large framed photographs and the detail they offered instantly fascinated him.
He was so amazed at a series of the construction of the Eiffel Tower, he almost missed a sign reading “Artistic Section” propped on a table by a small doorway that was covered with a velvet curtain.
An old man sat on a chair next to the door. After shooing a couple young boys away, he nodded at Marco to enter.
Must be interesting in there, Marco thought while parting the curtain and entering a large, dimly lit room. Each photograph on display was illuminated by an overhead light. As he gazed at the images, Marco felt a lump in his throat and another grow in his trousers. All displayed women in various states of undress, their demur poses enhancing the charm of their nearly naked bodies. He stopped for a while at a large photo of a creamy-skinned beauty, her back to the camera, pose slightly bent, raven tresses spilling down a taut back to lush, rounded buttocks.
It was only after he turned to another photo that he noticed other people in the gallery. Most were men, but to his surprise a few women were there as well, dressed in finery complete with bustled gowns, silk gloves, and wide hats sporting ostrich feathers.
As he walked down to the end of the gallery, he noticed the photographs became more explicit, and the female models were not always alone. Some showed pairs of women on couches or a Persian rug, each looking into the other’s eyes, a hand resting on a bare arm or naked thigh, while others displayed erotically charged, Sapphic embraces, their bodies twined around each other, their lips touching.
Embrace 2, by Mike Crawley (available at ObsessionArt.com)
“A lovely study.”
Marco barely heard those words through the rush in his ears and glanced at a man standing a few paces to his left; a fashionably dressed woman stood with him.
“It took a while to get the right pose,” the woman responded, her voice tinged with a Neapolitan accent, her tight dress enhancing her generous figure.
“Sylva did take some convincing but, in the end, she seemed very ... amiable,” the man said.
The woman responded with a low giggle. “Yes, you could almost say enthusiastically. She wants to pose again, this time with two friends and her husband.”
The man chuckled. “To think, I almost joined the bar like my father wanted.”
“Photography does have its ... advantages.” The woman purred.
This came as a shock to Marco – that someone could actually pursue a career taking erotic pictures. He saw the couple move down a few paces, allowing him to examine the photographs they had admired.
This series featured two women; one was voluptuous, dark-haired, and, by the look of her profile, the same woman who accompanied the lucky bastard Marco overheard. The other was a curvy, golden-haired beauty with a cool, sophisticated face. Both women wore short, diaphanous gowns that clung to their bodies. In the first photo, they sat on an ornate day bed, their hands resting on each other’s bare thighs, and exchanged provocative looks. The next picture showed them sharing a deep kiss while undressing. As the series progressed, they fell into a naked embrace, their hands and mouths exploring each other’s bodies.
It was then that Marco heard a low voice and glanced to his side. A tall man in a long coat and top hat had joined the couple he had listened to.
“Another success, my dears,” the tall man said. “Every piece is sold and a book deal is in the works.”
“Excellent,” the man said.
“There may be one problem though,” the tall man added. “The publisher wants to offer you a two-volume set. You don’t have enough to fill the second.”
“Not a problem,” the photographer replied. “I’m sure Alfonso has extra ones in his inventory. He would be most glad to work out a licensing deal...”
The three of them walked away before Marco could catch the rest of the sentence, but the name Alfonso struck a chord, and when he looked at the next series, he noticed something familiar. These images featured a naked, dark-haired woman in black stockings and high-heeled shoes, a pearl choker around her neck. She was making love to a muscular fellow with a very prominent erection. But there was a certain detail that caught Marco’s eye. Through the window of their room, a familiar sight—the remains of an old Roman temple.
As a boy, Marco often snuck off with his schoolmates to the property of a nearby villa to play gladiator around a funny old building. The building, Marco later discovered, had been a Roman ruin, consisting of ten columns arranged in a circle around a raised stone platform. Three of the columns were broken in half, the middle one shorter than the rest.
It was the same structure he now saw through the window of the erotic photographs.
There, he thought, now more excited at seeing the ruins than at the erotic scenes themselves, There’s the piece of broken column I almost cracked my head against.
Sure enough, he recognized the source of the scar on his forehead, a chunk of carved stone lying on the ground right in front of the shorter column. Then he remembered the name the photographer mentioned.
“Alfonso,” Marco muttered when he saw a small letter “A” etched onto the bottom of the photograph. He recalled his father saying a certain Spaniard named Alfonso had bought the villa with the old temple on its grounds. He also remembered hearing his father say the old Spaniard “dabbled” in photography.
It didn’t take much to put two and two together. When Marco arrived at the family estate later that summer, he convinced his father to persuade Alfonso to take him on as an apprentice. It seemed the old Spaniard rather enjoyed the wine Marco’s family was known for all over northern Italy, and Marco’s father was all too happy to ensure a steady supply of bottles for the Spaniard’s pantry.
“You’ll learn many things,” Alfonso told him while they took lunch on his villa’s terrace overlooking the green hills of the Venetto. “Watch and learn. I use many different kinds of techniques and have the complete trust of my clients.”
Days turned into weeks, and as time went on, Marco learned the intricacies of portrait photography; from setting up the large bellows cameras to developing negatives and mixing the right chemicals in the confines of a dark room.
Then the day came during a session in the dark room when Marco finally found out everything about the old Spaniard’s “techniques” and the “trust” he gained from his clients.
“Observe,” Alfonso said.
Alfonso dipped a print in different solutions to reveal a beautiful, dark-haired woman, her rich mane of curly black hair coiffed and adorned with tiny flowers and pearls, her seductively classic face complete with a high forehead, dark, soulful eyes and tiny lips. She wore only a pearl choker around her long, elegant neck and a flimsy veil that barely concealed her pale, hourglass body. The way she sat, her legs crossed at the knees and back straight, enhanced the beauty of her lush figure. As the picture developed, Marco could better appreciate her full thighs, round, beckoning hips, tiny waist, and nicely shaped breasts tipped by large nipples.
The next photo revealed another woman joining the first. She was slightly older but with the tiniest waist and highest bosom he had ever seen. The following pictures showed them caressing, kissing, and eventually making love on the divan until the shock of recognition hit him between the eyes.
He knew who the older woman was.
Alfonso must have seen the expression on his face.
“The Contessa Lazzaro is a beauty. Yes?”
Marco nodded after clearing his throat. The widowed countess owned a lavish estate just outside Vicenza and had a reputation for throwing extravagant parties that boasted guests from all over Europe.
“She’s that rare type who gets more beautiful with each day,” Alfonso said while working on another print that showed the women lying on the couch, their heads buried between each other’s thighs.
“I have clients with varied tastes who pay well for my work. The one thing they demand is discretion. Understand?”
Two weeks later, around midnight, Marco found himself hiding in a covered wagon loaded with wine barrels, his insides filled with the cold grip of fear.
It all started when Don Alfonso came down with a cold the day before he was scheduled to do a family portrait, a job Marco could easily perform by himself.
“The Bianco family, make sure you do a good job,” Alfonso told him from his sick bed.
“Mind the governess, Signora Catherine. Can’t tell now, but in her youth she was the most willing nude model anyone could wish for. What a body! She had one of the best and most willing backsides any woman could have. Must’ve fucked her way through every studio and salon in Europe. Had a wild life and a reputation. Suspects everyone’s doing the same. Old bitch has eyes all over her head and a loose tongue. Now go.”
The Bianco estate was just south of the city, and the large, almost palatial sitting room Marco found himself in while setting up his camera boasted fine furniture, expensive paintings, and a large Persian rug in front of a marble fireplace.
He thought about Alfonso’s warning when Signor Alberto Bianco, a tall, sandy-haired man who dressed well but smelled like alcohol, entered the room.
Marco was about to give his patron a polite greeting when a dour, gray-haired woman in a plain black dress entered with three boys in tow, all wearing their Sunday best, the oldest the spitting image of Signor Bianco.
“Catherine! Where’s my wife?” Alberto Bianco asked without looking at his children.
“She had to freshen up.” The old woman gave Marco a sour look while sitting the children on the couch and slapping the oldest boy’s hand when he began picking his nose.
“I’m a busy man, damn it,” Alberto grumbled before drinking from a flask he kept in his vest. He paced around the room. “I have many responsibilities to this family. Oldest in the region. Not like those mongrel clans who buy their pedigrees. My ancestors were Normans. Fought in the Crusades. Liberated the Holy Land from wogs and Jews.” He pulled out an expensive gold watch from his vest pocket.
“This will only take a minute,” Marco responded in his most professional voice while checking the camera.
He pulled the cloth over his head before catching the tap of high- heeled shoes. He loaded the first negative and heard another woman’s voice. It was younger, but with a deep, sensuous tone. “You speak of those mongrel families, but you certainly enjoy spending time with their dark little hussies, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Insolent woman!”
As he worked, Marco couldn’t help but hear the disdain in Alberto’s voice. When he was finished with his preparations, he ducked from under the cloth and reached for the flash pan. He almost dropped it when he got a full look at the other woman.
It wasn’t the low-cut, corseted dress she wore that caught him by surprise, or her generous cleavage partially hidden by the big, ostrich feather fan in her hand. It was the high forehead, dark eyes, and pearl choker around her throat – this was the same woman he had seen making love to the Contessa.
“The things I endure!” she said while sitting between her two eldest boys, her tight dress hugging her shapely body. She looked at Alberto. “Are you going to introduce me to the photographer?”
“My wife, Helen.”
Marco cleared his throat as he approached to give her a quick, gentlemanly kiss on her knuckle. He almost choked when she dipped her fan and straightened her back, enhancing the curves of her ample bosom, her smile telling him she was pleased he noticed.
“Let’s get on with this,” an oblivious Alberto said before taking another sip from his flask.
Marco spun around and quickly ducked under the camera cloth, grateful the tripod hid the obvious bulge in his pants. He took the photograph and was glad the bright flash momentarily blinded everyone.
“That’s enough. I’m off for my meeting,” Alberto said.
Marco wanted to break down quickly and leave, but he lost hope when Helen said, “I want another picture of the children to send to Mamma. And one of myself.”
Marco turned to see Alberto leaving, waving his arms and muttering, “Fine. Fine.”
The sitting took another two hours, and it would’ve been worse except for the times Helen bent to adjust a lock of hair or a collar, which allowed brief glimpses of her magnificent breasts that almost oozed out of her dress.
She even insisted on being allowed to look through the viewfinder. When Marco tried to make room for her, he felt her grab his leg, keeping him in place as she bent under the hood.
She directed her children and nanny from under the camera. “Antonio’s hat is crooked. Nunzio’s collar isn’t straight. Fix that, Catherine.”
He felt her hand quickly stroke the bulge in his pants.
“Make sure the lapels are even! Mamma will be very displeased if this picture isn’t perfect!”
Helen’s touch was incredible, but she suddenly stopped and pushed him away just before Catherine turned in their direction, her sour, flustered expression telling him she didn’t suspect a thing.
“Perfect,” Helen said while stepping aside, motioning him to take the picture.
He took a deep breath, picked up the flash and took the picture. He thought everything was over until Helen turned to Catherine.
“Get the children to bed while I have my picture taken.”
“Signora!” Catherine said, giving Marco a suspicious look.
“I must have this portrait done in time for Mamma’s birthday,” Helen said while hustling them out of the room.
“But, Signora!”
Marco watched her shut the doors, not knowing what to say or do until she turned to fix him with her dark eyes, the air now charged with electricity.
“Light a fire. I don’t want to catch a chill.”
Marco obliged. His hands shook as he moved the kindling and fumbled for a match.
“You must forgive my husband.” She sighed while sauntering around the room in a slow, languid manner.
“His family is very old and rich but also has quite a sordid reputation. There’s a rumor of a distant aunt who ran a brothel for the Medicis. She was known to collect bronze statues of nude men and women with incredibly detailed bodies. It was even said if one of her
male patrons tried to cheat her out of the fees they owed she would get them drunk and trick them into having sex with one of the statues, male for female. You see, each statue had a hollow belly where a few coals could be kept to keep the skin nice and warm. But too many coals would cause every part of the statue to heat up slowly until merely touching it would cause a severe burn. Something a sober man would avoid, but a drunken one would find out only after it was too late.”
She leaned against a couch, a Cheshire smile on her face.
“But then again, that’s only a rumor, of course.”
She caressed her bare shoulders with her fan.
“Being Alfonso’s apprentice, you must know about me and the Contessa.” She dropped the fan before undoing the four large buttons on the side of her dress. “She designed this dress.”
When she undid the last button, her dress fell to the floor, leaving her naked except for a pair of black silk stockings and black French heels, the firelight dancing on her tiny waist, beckoning hips, and generous breasts tipped by large, dark nipples.
“Did Alfonso say anything about ... me?” she asked.
By now the erection Marco had been nursing felt like a lead weight. He licked the sweat that had accumulated on his upper lip before swallowing the dry lump in his throat.
He watched her caress her hips and finger a generous, brown, erect nipple before responding, “He advised me to be ... discreet.”
She sauntered towards him with a languid, hip-swaying stride, her curvaceous form undulating with each step, an intense, almost hungry expression on her face. Before Marco could react, she knelt in front of him and pulled out his throbbing penis.
“Excellent advice,” she responded, her tongue treating his shaft to a long, wet lick before taking his entire length down her throat with a loud gulp, her technique alternating between deep mouthings and teasing licks. The pleasure instantly made him want to gush in her mouth.
“Not yet,” she said after pulling him out, a gossamer trail of saliva, briefly connecting her mouth to his knob. She stood, turned, and walked to the middle of the carpet, allowing him the sight of her lovely backside bathed by the fireplace’s dancing light. He admired
those smooth arches of muscle bunching and relaxing with each step and the tiny dimples above her rounded cheeks. She stopped by the nearby couch, grabbed a few cushions, and tossed them onto the carpeted floor. She crouched on all fours. The look she threw over shoulders as she arranged the cushions under her was as enticing as the sight of her rounded flanks.
“Are you going to stand there all night?”
Instantly, he knelt behind her as she reached back and took his erect shaft in her dainty hands, massaging her wet, swollen loins with the head of his cock before grasping his hip and pulling him deep inside, all the while gasping and moaning.
“Fuck me!” she said as her hips moved back and forth.
Marco obliged, thrusting vigorously against her buttocks while reaching between her legs and massaging her engorged clitoris.
“Oh yes!” she moaned as he made love to her voluptuous body, his eyes on the round magnificence of her buttocks jiggling with each thrust. He massaged the rim of her beckoning anus with his other finger before slipping it inside the tight opening. She swayed her hips back and forth, her moans getting louder and louder.
The sight of her lovely backside moving side to side and the way he could feel his finger stimulate the top part of his cock as he thrust away broke through Marco’s resistance. Just as he felt the first rush of pleasure, Helen dipped her body, allowing him a final, deep thrust, his orgasm gushing into her loamy loins as she moaned into a cushion.
They heard a knock on the door. He saw a frightened look in Helen’s eyes as she got up, grabbed her dress, and rushed out the other door. He hurried to the camera and hoped the tripod would block anyone’s view as the door opened and Catherine entered.
“I heard some yelling,” she said while fixing him with a suspicious look.
“I ... tripped on something,” Marco responded as he stood behind the camera and finished buttoning his trousers.
“Where is the signora?”
Marco began breaking down his equipment and gathering his supplies—anything to avoid the accusation in her eyes.
“We finished ... I mean ... she left a few minutes before you entered.”
He gathered the last of the equipment, threw it in the small cart he had brought, gave Catherine a quick bow, and rolled it to the door.
“What are these cushions doing on the floor?”
He responded with a shrug and left.
When he got back to Alfonso’s villa just before midnight, he collapsed in his bed without changing, falling into a deep slumber. He wanted to sleep late, but was awakened before dawn by a worried Don Alfonso, who was still in his dressing gown.
“Get up, boy. You have to leave.”
“What do you mean?” Marco mumbled as Alfonso rummaged through his drawers and piled clothes at the foot of the bed.
“My fault. Conniving Bitch. Young man. Couldn’t help himself.”
“What’s going on?” Marco asked.
Alfonso fixed him with a dour expression.
“Plain and simple, boy. You fucked or were accused of fucking the wife of one of the most influential men in this city, a man who can make the rest of your life very short and very painful!”
Marco felt his heart sink.
“What will I do?”
“Leave,” Don Alfonso said, still packing Marco’s clothes.
“Leave Vicenza?”
The old man took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes.
“You must go to America.”
Three hours later Marco found himself with a boat ticket, crouching in a wagon filled with empty wine caskets heading for Naples, a deed to some property in California and a small fortune in gold coins sewn into the lining of his coat.
Catherine had accused him of sleeping with Helen, and as a result Alberto had sworn to castrate him with one of the family swords. One of the Bianco’s servants, who was also another of Signora Lazzaro’s “companions,” had rushed to inform Don Alfonso, who in turn had convinced Catherine to retract the accusation. Alberto took back his threat, but Alfonso and Marco’s father knew the suspicion of dishonoring the Bianco household was enough to earn him an early grave. A family servant had delivered the deed and a brief note from his father with instructions to use the money wisely and set up a family vineyard in America.
The ship’s horn blasted through the empty morning air, startling Marco out of his reverie, his cheeks numb from the biting air, the expanse of steel, gray ocean before him dappled with morning light. A sudden weariness overcame him, and when he reached his cabin, Marco stripped out of his clothes and went to bed, the persistent drone of the engines mixed with the sound of the ocean lulling him to sleep.
He dreamt. The Bianco estate, the great room, Helen naked and crouched as he pumped against her rounded bottom, his hands cupping her hard-tipped pillows, her moans filling the air as she reached back to clutch his hips, drawing him deeper, her nails digging into his skin...
Just as the first shuddering of pleasure seized him, the floor vibrated with a steady cadence, his ears catching the sound of galloping hooves. The doors burst open before a giant, armored warhorse mounted by a ferocious looking Alberto, in crusaders’ armor complete with sword and shield, crashed into the room.
Marco tried to get up but felt a pair of strong hands grip his backside, keeping him pressed against Signora Bianco’s body, which had now turned to bronze, her loins now a metallic tube. He could hear the creak of Alberto’s armor coming closer when an intense, burning sensation surrounded his shaft, turning his penis into a shriveled, burned husk, the pain making him look up as Alberto’s sword sliced the air towards his neck.
Marco awoke with a shout, his cabin’s dark interior illuminated by the pearly moonlight flowing through the curtains of his porthole.
After several breaths, he sat up, admiring the full moon wafting through dark clouds, the edges dancing with pearly luminescence. His pulse slowed. The sweat on his naked skin chilled in the night air. He looked down at the passing ocean and realized for the first time that his cabin faced east, the distant outline of the French coast dimly visible.
“Goodbye.”
He was glad to be alive. Glad to have the opportunity to live and set off on an adventure. Not one of his choosing, but an adventure, nonetheless.
Originally published January 2010
