nagged at me. Two weeks. I had two weeks in Venice, and then I’d have to return to the nightmare that was my real life. To the Frigidaire box under the bridge.
Sasha seemed to sense my mood. She put one hand on top of mine and squeezed. “Everything will work out,” she said. “Relax.”
I saw Lou put one hand on top of Sasha’s thigh and squeeze.
“Relax,” Sasha said again, softer.
The word must mean something different in Venice, I thought.
* * *
I don’t know what time it was when we arrived. New York time? Italian time? All I knew was that I was the walking dead. In a blur, Lou and Sasha led me through the grand entrance to the villa. I saw a tree in the foyer covered all over with small squares of white paper. We stopped here, and Lou said, “There’s a tradition.”
“A tradition?” I echoed. I could hardly make my mouth work.
“Write a wish,” Sasha said. “I’ll hang the paper on a branch for you.”
I gripped the pencil in my fist and scrawled something almost illegible on the squared. Sasha smiled, and moved us on. I caught glimpses of mirrors, dreamy-looking sofas, hanging rugs. But my eyes couldn’t focus. Sasha tucked me into a guest room and told me that my mind would be clearer in the morning. “You have both a champagne and travel hangover,” she said. “Sleep it off.”
“I haven’t even met our host,” I told her, feeling uncomfortable. I didn’t want to behave impolitely from the start. Not to someone so generous as to take me in for free.
“He’s a traveler, himself. He’ll understand.”
I stripped down to my T-shirt and boy briefs and climbed into the huge, welcoming bed. I’d been worrying for months, now. The weight of the heavy duvet lulled me. For the first time since I’d lost my last job, I felt safe. I was asleep in seconds.
But I didn’t stay asleep for long.
At some point during the night, I woke, feeling scared and alone. Was I in Joyce’s tiny, cat-smelly apartment? No. I’d never been in a bed this comfortable before. Had I landed a lover who’d taken me back to his place for a one-night fuck? No. The bed was empty except for me. Slowly, I remembered where I was, but I didn’t feel tired anymore. The excitement built with each breath.
I was in Venice! How could I sleep?
My watch read 2:00 a.m. I climbed out of bed and reached into my suitcase for my Walkman, thinking that a little Peter Gabriel might lull me back to dreamland. But when I clicked the on button, my ancient machine refused to do more than whine and sputter. The batteries had given up their alkaline ghost. Maybe Sasha had extras. Did I dare to go creeping through a house I didn’t know in order to find my friend?
Right then, I heard a noise that sounded like clapping. For a moment, I stayed still, trying to orient myself. I’d been rushed through the house to this guest room when we’d arrived. Sasha had promised me a full tour in the morning. I’d caught glimpses of canvases framed in gold, of porcelain vases taller than I was, of a central room tiled in black-and-white marble. But I didn’t have any sense of where I was in the house.
The noise didn’t stop, and I found myself compelled to investigate. Quietly, I tiptoed out of the bedroom. The scent of honeysuckle was in the air. Sasha’s favorite perfume. I strode along the hallway, doing my best to be silent. The old place was creaky. I walked on my toes down the darkened hall. I could hear the noise getting louder, and I could also hear something else: the sound of a woman crying.
When I arrived at my friend’s room, I planned to simply push on the door and walk in. But something caught my eye and I stopped. The door was open a crack. A shaft of dust-shimmered light fell on the hallway runner. I was standing on an antique rug in my bare feet. The fibers were well-worn, yet decadent at the same time. I noticed how deep and lush the colors were in the rug. Every thought in my head seemed to be moving in slow motion. Maybe I ought not to interrupt. Who was I to barge in?
Carefully, I pressed closer to the crack in the door.
What I saw was something shocking. Sasha was over a man’s lap, and her lemon-yellow nightgown was pushed up to her slim hips. She didn’t have on panties, and her long, lean legs flailed in the air. The man was spanking her naked ass with a hard-backed black hairbrush, and Sasha’s feet were kicking with each blow.
After the initial shock of the scene wore off, I took a second to stare at the man punishing my best friend. He was one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen in real life. Dark hair, dark eyes, a stern expression on his face. Not angry so much as fully focused.
The concept of what I was witnessing did not immediately compute in my mind. I’d known Sasha since freshman year of college. We’d discussed many boyfriends, dating, lovers. Kink had rarely come up before. Was I dreaming? I bit my lip hard, hoping against hope I didn’t wake up back in Joyce’s humble Brooklyn digs.
No. I was still here. In Venice. Watching my best friend receive a bottom-blistering spanking. And from what I could see, I’d missed most of the show. Sasha’s normally pale skin was cherry-hued.
“Lou’s been waiting for you,” the man said. “He wanted me to tell you that he’ll be going here tonight.”
He licked his finger and parted Sasha’s rear cheeks. Gently, he touched her asshole. Sasha shivered. So did I.
Sasha was going to fuck Lou? The man looked like a bouncer outside one of the meaner New York clubs. I crossed my legs, but kept staring through the crack in the door.
“You’re such a tease, girl. He’s been waiting since December,” the man continued, and now I watched, my mouth open, as he slowly started to push his finger into her hole. My pussy tightened as I continued to stare, as the man firmly began to finger-fuck her asshole. “And you’re going to let him, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Her response was barely audible.
“Why?”
“Because I’m a dirty little slut, sir.”
Shit. Sasha was a dirty little slut? My friend Sasha? This had never occurred to me before. The girl only dated the best-looking, wealthiest men on the market. She never slummed in Manhattan. Whenever we’d discussed sex over the years, I always got the feeling that she enjoyed the activity, but would prefer a few rounds of shopping at Bloomingdales.
Now, she was bent over a man’s lap having her most intimate regions explored, and she was telling him and the polished antique hardwood floor that she was a slut? My heart couldn’t have been pounding any harder.
“Of course,” the man said, “I’ve been waiting, too.”
I swallowed hard. Were they both going to fuck her? Where had Sasha taken me? What world had we arrived in? And why were my panties sopping wet at the center?
“Yes, Stefan,” said Sasha, shocking me even further. This was Stefan? I’d assumed the man was another employee, perhaps the major domo of the Villa. He was nothing like what I’d expected. He seemed young—not quite our age, perhaps ten years older. He had thick, dark hair and the type of face you see in magazine cologne ads. Chiseled.
While I watched, he stopped
