The Venice conspiracy

CAPITOLO XXXVI

26 dicembre 1777 Venezia When Amun wakes, he is naked.

Upright. Freezing cold.

Tied to a rough wooden crucifix.

Wind on his skin tells him he's in the biting chill outside.

A garden? A field? He's not sure. His head aches. Vision blurred.

The hood is gone. At least he can breathe.

His brain feels as though it's on fire, but the rest of his body is chilled to the bone.

A burst of noise.

Flames shoot up in front of him.

A fire.

Now he can see faces. Masks and gowns. Long, elegantly embroidered cloaks. The party in paradise that he'd been promised! A sense of relief floods through him.

'Louisa?' he shouts. His throat instantly sore.

There's no answer.

Stranger's masks move around him. Four? Six? Eight, perhaps? Or is it the same four? It's hard to tell when they keep circling.

The masks are unusual. Not characters he recognises. They seem older. Hand-made. Possibly passed down from generation to generation.

Uncertainty gives way to anger. 'Louisa!'

He tries to turn his head but can't. There's something tight around his neck.

A scarf?

No – not a scarf.

A rope.

It tightens like the coils of a snake. Starts choking him. Now another snake of cloth crawls into his mouth, gagging him. More snakes wind their way around his biceps and calves, burning as they tighten and tighten.

Through the flames he sees a man with a long, crooked staff. He's wearing a tall pointed hood and full-face silver mask. A priest of some kind. For a second there's a flash of hope: perhaps this is a monastery and nunnery where the monks and the sisters like a little fun too. He's heard of such places. Everyone has.

The priest speaks. 'We are gathered here tonight, in this precious curte, while the weak still worship the Christ child, to honour the true god. To summon his power and through this sacrifice to show our loyalty and devotion.'

Sacrifice.

The word brands itself into Amun's consciousness.

What nonsense is this? The courtesan spoke of sexual pleasures. No doubt it's all part of that. Daring, wild, different ways to heighten the senses. That's it! Fear. The ultimate aphrodisiac. Women love it. You see it on their faces when you're on top of them. Amun recalls hearing of some French marquis who swears by it – the more pain the better.

Chanting commences.

But Amun can't make out what they're saying. Either his hearing is going or they're mumbling too badly.

It could be Latin.

Two figures appear in his line of vision. Their cloaks blow open. They are women. Naked. The firelight makes their skin look golden. Amun feels a comforting twitch between his legs. They're probably going to suck him. The dirty bitches will suck him until he's hard and then take turns fucking him. Fine. He can do that. No Badawi has never been shy of an audience.

One of the acolytes tugs the ligature around his left bicep. He can feel her pubic hair, bristling divinely against his hip.

Best tie me tight, you little whore, because I'm going to ride you so hard these puny timbers will snap like firewood.

He can't see the other woman but he can sense her closeness – his animal instincts are more alive than they've ever been.

Amun flinches.

She's cutting him.

Not a nick. Nothing sexual or provocative. A real cut.

Deep and painful.

A blade is slicing into the skin below his muscle, fashioning a wound all the way down his elbow.

Amun's cries are dammed in the gag. Only his bulging eyes and kicking legs register his terror.

The chanting grows louder. Dominus something.

Now they're holding bowls beneath his wound. Catching his blood.

More pain in the other arm.

Dominus Satanus.

He can hear the words clearly now.

Two more women are cutting him.

More blood. More bowls. More chanting.

He can feel the wind on the wet blood. Feel it drizzling in shivers out of his veins.

His vision is limited but he sees them approaching. Taking turns to come up to him. To lick his weeping wounds and then disappear again.

Another burst of noise.

Another eruption of fire.

This time behind him. Close enough for him to feel the heat.

Thankfully not near enough to burn him.

He relaxes a little. Adrenalin is killing the pain. The fire is comforting.

Another mask in his face.

Louisa!

He recognises her disguise. Calls to her with his eyes.

She recognises him, he can tell. A spark flickers in her dark pupils.

A warm hand cups his scrotum.

Everything will be all right now. After the pain comes the pleasure. He understands. It's strange, but he can play this game now – now that he understands.

Louisa opens her cloak and lets her skin touch him.

Heavenly.

Her nipples are hard against his heaving chest.

She wraps her fingers around the length of his cock and he feels the excitement of growing hard in the palm of her hand. She squeezes and strokes it to make him as stiff as iron.

Amun closes his eyes. Goes with the flow.

He was right. It's all bizarre. Even frightening. But it's also everything she promised.

Sexual paradise.

Louisa rubs him with both hands now. Her fingers feel as though they're oiled. He wishes he could press his mouth to hers. Explore her lips, feel her breasts, then force himself inside her and fuck a good lesson into her.

His legs buckle a little.

Anger. Excitement. Pain. Fear. Anticipation. His mind is a cocktail of emotions.

Louisa scrapes her nails up the length of his cock.

He shakes with pleasure. Shivers so much he wonders if he's going to ejaculate. He controls himself. He doesn't want to lose control in front of everyone, not before he's given this randy little courtesan the fucking of a lifetime.

But Amun needn't worry.

Another girl joins the courtesan. Something cool is placed under the length of his throbbing cock. It feels smooth and cold like a slab of stone. His senses tingle.

The second woman steps back.

There's a flash of steel.

A click of metal on marble.

Amun bites so hard he breaks his teeth.

Louisa lets the severed end of his penis drop into a bowl at his feet. A bucchero, like all the others – centuries old and reserved solely for sacrifices.