The early morning tram across the Via della Liberta was nearly empty that Saturday morning. Eleanora

The early morning tram across the Via della Liberta was nearly empty that Saturday morning. Eleanora settled into her seat, her canvases draped across her knees, ignoring the steady rattle and the odd screeching complaints of metal on metal as she stared off through the passenger window. She lay her head against the glass, slowly being rocked to sleep the gentle motion of the train. The sun was just beginning to rise along the sleepy Adriatic when she left the house and she loved the way its warmth seeped into her now as she dozed under its watchful eye. There were only a few other passengers in the car. Each of them coming to and from work, a few staring down at their cellphones, others settling back to rest yet afraid to close their weary eyes for fear that one of the other passengers might be a thief or a gypsy in disguise. Eleanora had settled back into a corner seat, her things spread out along the bench at her side with one arm draped over them protectively.  One eye closed, the other open and watching.The radio had promised her a beautiful morning and for once in a hundred years it spoke the truth. She crossed her arms across her chest and took in a long breath of air, finding a thin smile to wear along her lips as she basked in the sweetness of the moment. Of simply being. For that lovely moment having no duties or work or cares. All of her thoughts and worries placed somewhere in a cardboard box down in a dusty basement at the back of her mind. One lonely gull, a graceful streak of white and grey, soared by the train window as it sped along, as if in the mood for a race. Eleanora watched it, admiring not only the beauty but the freedom of those lovely wings wishing she could simply leap from her seat and join it as it so blithely rode the morning breeze. She blew it a small kiss as it glided off, suddenly bored of a race it might have so easily won. It was barely past six in the morning as she strode blissfully along the canal down the Fundamenta de Canaregio. It was a long walk from the station to the end of the quay but one she needed. Luckily at this hour all of the tourists were still in their beds instead of wandering around the avenues. Like all natives, Eleanora detested tourists. If they weren’t standing around gaping at the sky stupidly blocking the roads, then they were flooding the markets stupidly buying Italian souvenirs – all of them made in China. Her Beni had always complained of them, although his brother Giorgio made a fortune overcharging them for espresso on the main plaza near the old Arsenal building. As he put it, they were a necessary evil, the tourist industry being the only one with any hope to grow under the disaster of the last few governments. Eleanora had sat quietly, pouring the coffee and listening to the men talk, enduring the stink of their cigarette smoke as the evening wore on. Giorgio was nearly a twin to her Beni. Average of height but stout and rotund, his hairy body nearly always sweating. She had caught him whispering to Beni about how lucky he was to find such a good-looking woman to share his bed; caught him staring at her ass or legs, jokingly asking Beni if he might mind sharing. At one point in her life the thought of bedding two men would have had her juices flowing, but now and with one glance at the pair of them with their fat bellies and hanging jowls and those thoughts had turned to disgust. Instead she had deflected the conversation back to politics and the torment of foreign tourists.She had been unlucky enough to run into a couple of them the last Saturday she had made this trip to the city.  A husband and wife. At least that is what she had supposed upon seeing them together at that sidewalk cafe. The woman was Irish if her bright red ponytail did not lie, and him American. You could always tell Americans.  It wasn’t smugness exactly. It was more of a disinterested casualness that he wore about him. As if the struggles and achievements, the art and the architecture of a thousand years of Italian history were hardly worth noting. Eleanora could hear the man’s wife, loud as she was, fighting through the worst Italian she had ever heard – shredding the language like cheese on a grater – while her husband sat by quietly looking about as if somehow bored of the glories of Venice; eager to be home and back home with his 80-inch television, ten-pound beef steaks, and massive American cars that would easily seat her entire family. He leaned back in his seat, his size dwarfing the poor thing and threatening to destroy it under his weight. No, he wasn’t fat at all, but he was a large man; Eleanora guessed he would dwarf poor Beni whose head would barely come up to the man’s muscled shoulders and squared off chin. But what Eleanora noticed first were his hands; large, rough, powerful hands made from a lifetime of heavy work; made to take a woman by the hair and inspire her to do anything, say anything, give anything just to please him. Her face flushed red as she forced her eyes and her mind away from that thought. It had stirred up something deep in her belly. A feeling, a need that belonged to a different woman and a different life. Besides, the man was taken. His wife was a beauty. Her pale skin and long firm legs that of a model or actress. Her body lithe and feminine. Far more enchanting than her own sorry figure, hunched under the weight of her canvas and art-case, stomping her way to the end of the dock in her dollar-store flats. She walked by them, trying to bury her thoughts as she always did. Burying her envy as well as her fleeting dreams. She still did not know why but when she looked back, she saw that the man was looking after her as she walked away. His eyes were blue. Ice blue. Bright and piercing. Shaming the dim morning sky as the heavens tried in vain to match their hue. The man was tall and broad, his long legs stretched out before him, those eyes scanning the street as if looking for something, anything to hold his interest. His cold gaze settled on her for the briefest of moments, his piercing glare sending a cold shiver up her spine as she hurried off down the road like a fawn under the eyes of a hungry wolf. Eleanora tried to shake him from her mind but could not get the thought of him out of her head even as she quickened her pace, putting the road behind her as quickly as possible without running. Still the thoughts came to her. Thoughts of his ice blue eyes and his wife’s blazing red hair, his strong hands and her long bare legs, flashing though her mind as she made her way down the street carrying her canvas and case of paints.Before she had come to Venice her life, her former life, had been filled with such thoughts. Back when she was a different woman. A woman with a husband and a world filled with desire and excitement. Of breathless, steamy nights and the feel of a man taking her into his arms. Of feeling their lusts between her thighs, her body a canvas of loving bruises and impassioned bites. Of dancing and music and the admiring stare of a husband who truly adored her. Not that she was wise enough to notice. It had been an addiction she had come to realize. All those hard, young men in all those noisy clubs, all of their lustful looks and their brutal sex. All a desperate attempt to deny who she was. Her own private war against the passage of time. Her refusal to put aside the girl she had been and accept the woman she was. Her refusal to accept the life of a wife and matron, with all the laundry to be done and the extra pounds hanging from her ass… and a loving husband whose only desire was a wife and a home and children to warm his heart. A life, a future, that she had given up for… what? The illusion of youth?  The shallow excitement of a horde of fleeting, cruel-hearted lovers? And lost it all to a woman, a friend, who could see what she could not. Give what she would not. Becoming the wife and mother, giving Franco that life he so desperately yearned for and deserved. Still, that was another life and a life best forgotten. Her new life was the one she was living now. A life that included Beni the short, hairy, smelly garbage-man and his own dreams of happiness. Of a loving wife, of a home, and of children to warm his heart. Her own dreams, her own happiness, she had squandered like an ungrateful fool. Of course, that wasn’t her Beni’s fault. The man had been nothing but kind and gentle with her since the moment that they had met. Deciding to meet her fate head on, Eleanora had decided to give the man what he wanted – just as she should have done with Franco – and allow Beni to plant his child in her belly. She had spread her legs for him the night before, milking every last drop of his eager – although hardly spectacular – sex into her womb. By the end of the month, and with any luck, she would be happily pregnant and ready to begin another life. Even though that life was to be bereft of the excitement and ecstasy that, despite herself, she still craved.Stopping at a small café, a hole in the wall really, Eleanora took a moment to grab a cappuccino before heading to the end of the dock and her intended target for the morning. She might have sat down at one of the three small steel tables set between the café and the tumbling waters of the canal but the only one open was a bit lopsided and missing its umbrella. The others were taken by several local widows, aged crones dressed forever in black mourning their husbands. Husbands who had probably sacrificed themselves to the waters of the Adriatic to save themselves from the constant stream of bitter gossip spat back and forth between them over cold cups of tasteless cappuccino. She had almost escaped, hurriedly passing a few Euro notes into the gnarled, woody hand of the old man who ran the tiny café, when she overheard one of the assembled crones mention something about red hair. About red hair and a pair of ice-blue eyes. Eleonora suddenly found herself sitting down at that oddly tilted table, her back turned from them but her ears still open and listening. They were talking about the same couple, she realized. The tall blue-eyes American with his leggy wife. The two of them had been seen here often, strolling up and down the street, sometimes holding hands and smiling at each other, other times arguing heatedly. Obviously, a couple in love they all agreed. One of them began reminiscing about the fights she had with her own departed husband. Wall-cracking rows that were the talk of the family. And of the passion that followed. And the many children that followed that. The crones laughed. Another compared the American to her own husband. Just as tall but far broader. Another remarked on his woman’s hair, her laugh, her whorish manner of dress, the way his hand fell to her ass as they walked together, pulling her in close, whispering hot promises into her ear. The act somehow shameful and wonderful at the same time. They must be staying nearby each thought, though no one knew where. Perhaps at the Palazzo Veneziano or the Mocenigo if they were wealthy, as all Americans were. Perhaps on honeymoon or anniversary the way the acted so wantonly in public. Shameful. Terrible. Sinful. They spat at their coffee as each made sure to hide their eyes from the others. Eleonora rose from the table, leaving her cold cappuccino sitting there untouched. It was only a few minutes’ walk down to the end of the docks where the university building lay. She had intended to paint it today, to capture its faded magnificence on canvas. She stood before it, watching it come alive in the morning light, with the waters of the canal sloshing gently between them. Yet each time she drew paint, it was inevitably the fiery red or the ice-blue that reflected what was in her thoughts. The thought of them together. The passion that they must share. She wondered what they were doing now. Most probably walking the morning markets or taking in the sights, holding hands and sharing tiny kisses.  Just the same as any other couple in romantic Venezia. But what about later? Would they retire to their hotel room for siesta, as most others did? Would they walk the lonely streets hand in hand, the eyes of the city closed in the heat of the afternoon, as they kissed and touched without a soul to see? On impulse she decided to make them part of her painting. She found her hand moving swiftly now, completing the university building, the sea behind it, the few clouds that dared mock the summer sky. And them. Leaning into the doorway, her leg wrapped along his thigh, his face hidden along her neck as she pulled him in close with her head tossed back in passion. Eleanora was not the finest of artists but she had never worked so well, so fervently as she traced her arm along his back, his hair ruffled by her fingers, his legs and back straight and strong as he held his woman trapped in that doorway. The vision became real to her. Her hand unmoving, she shut her eyes and let her imagination flow. She could almost hear the woman’s soft moans, the heat along her neck, the terrible need rising from between her thighs as he took her, took whatever he wanted of her without bothering to ask. Both of them knowing what was his. His by the right of his passion. By the right of the hardness growing strong along her thigh. Demanding. Relentless. Overwhelming. Eleanora came to her senses as she felt the wetness growing along her fingers. In her blind impassioned musings somehow, her hand had slipped between her thighs. She was wet. So very wet, A dark spot of her juices plainly visible at her crotch, her pants bunched up between her thighs where she had been pressing. Rubbing. Diddling herself in the plain light of day on a public street. She looked about her, eyes darting in terror, looking for anyone who might have seen her disgrace herself like this. Thankfully, no one was around to see and to humiliate her. Just a few bored gulls had been there to bear witness to her shame.  For one terrible moment she contemplated resuming her play, her pussy was still hungry and eager to play. No one would know. There was no one here to see. And fuck but she needed it. She had been close, so very close. The thought of the two lovers driving her on, her fingers pr3ssing roughly along her swollen clit. Maybe this was what she needed, she thought. After all these desperate months and heartbreaking nights, foregoing her own satisfaction, thinking her own pleasure lost to her forever. Just a little more, she thought. There was no one to see. Just a few more gentle strokes. Sinful and disgraceful, like some slut-whore in the streets, but fuck it all she needed it so fucking badly.She slid her fingers down between her thighs, letting out a shuddering gasp at the touch of her own wetness. Reaching out to grasp the thin frame of the easel, Eleanora tried to steady herself before she fell to her knees the feeling too intense to bear. Just a little more she sobbed, just a little more. Her mantra for the past months. Her silent prayer ever since the terrible day that her life had ended. Just a little more. Please, oh Please! She filled her thoughts with his burning blue eyes, her hair flipping back and forth as he fucked her to orgasm after orgasm, each time threatening to fuck his seed into her helpless, willing body. Growling her name. Reminding her what she was even as her panting sighs repeated his words. Eleanora gripped herself hard, crushing her trembling clit brutally between her fingers, feeling the promised moment coming fast even as she let loose with a breathless scream. She fell, her wooden easel crushed under her weight as she collapsed to the street. Across the canal the door of the university building had swung open unexpectedly. Three men, students by their age, had come out laughing and joking, so amused by their own conversation that they did not notice her at all. The only stroke of luck that she managed and she prayed that they would not glance across the canal, attracted by the fall and clatter of her paints and brushes, the crack of the delicate wood, or her lip-biting whimpers as she crushed her hand tight between her thighs, her fingers plunging into the wetness they would find there. For a moment she thought of them seeing her, of the three of them hastily finding their way to her side of the water. Of them looking down on her with laughing eyes, unbuckling their belts as they made ready to use the wanton slut already on her knees and wet for the first hard cock that might take her. She bit her teeth, fighting a sudden urge to call them over. To finish her, driving her a ruined whore from this city and her Beni’s bed, if only for the promise of the carnal  satisfaction she would never find in his arms.  Eleanora slammed her fist into her mouth, biting back the thought. Instead she concentrated on the sharp pain that tore through her hand, forcing her hand from between her trembling thighs. Beating the rough concrete causeway until her fist bled and her heaving breaths were brought back under her uncertain control.Eleanora closed her eyes tight, hot tears running down her cheek to splash soundlessly on the ground beneath her. The three men, their conversation and their laughter had faded away into the distance leaving her kneeling on the concrete alone with only her shame for company. She could feel it behind her. Above her. Within her. Always there. Always mocking. A living breathing thing with its large mouth open wide in mocking laughter. Her own personal demon made live by her failures; failures as a wife; failures as a woman. Whore. Cunt. Bitch. Slut. Tramp. It taunted her with the words - each more painful than the last. Her life had given her so many choices,  so many chances to be the woman she should have been. Yet she had tossed them all away, and for what? To be the crazy bitch laying alone on the street, her forehead pressed painfully into the concrete, anointing it with her mournful tears? Thoughts of Franco flashed unwanted through her mind. Thoughts of him smiling, proud, happily fucking yet another child into Pamela’s traitorous womb. A child she herself should have borne him if she was not so utterly wrapped up in her own personal and selfish desires.Eventually she found enough strength to crawl to her feet, her sandals scraping noisily on the ground, masking the tearful sobs that caught in her throat. Her paints, her canvas, lay scattered across the walk with some of them already sacrificed to Father Neptune as they drifted off bobbing on the current. With a string of silent cries she kicked the rest of them in, leaving brief streaks of pastel color running off into the waves. Her brushes, the torn canvas, even the shattered frame of the easel followed them in as her whispered sobs turned into fierce curses that echoed along the buildings around her.  It did not matter. No one was there. Just her and her demon, whose mocking laughter was always and ever in her tortured mind. The lonely walk back to the train was a torture for her. With the sounds of the gulls turned to mocking laughter around her as she scratched her way back to the station, her sandals dangling from her feet. She passed by the cafe again, arms wrapped tight around her, eyes averted from the old women who still sat there, ignoring their coffees, eternally gossiping, filled with barely hidden envy and spite. When she got home she promised herself to prepare the apartment for Beni’s arrival, to cook his favorite meal, to coo in his ear and tell him how terribly she needed to feel him inside of her. She would crawl into bed and spread her legs, inviting him to once again wedge his hairy bulk between her thighs and do as he wished. Crushing her under his heavy body, the stink off his garbage sweat filling her nostrils as he filled her with his seed. She would raise his fat little children and be a good and complacent wife. No. It was not the life she had wanted, the one that she had and stupidly tossed away; sacrificed on the altar of her selfish lusts. But it was the one she had. It was time to start living it. She boarded the train back to the mainland and sat herself in one corner, away from everyone else. With a hot blush of shame she laid her hands in her lap, hiding the dark surge of wetness that was still visible on damned yellow cotton of her pant crotch. As she sat there, lost in her thoughts, she glanced out the window looking for a racing streak of gray and white, finding none. The gull had obviously found better things to do. She was alone now. Alone except for the laughter of that demon that still followed her, still mocked her, reminding her of who she was and who she might have been. She lay her head against the window glass, losing herself in the gentle rocking of the train, and tried to shut out the world around her. The world and the hideous laughter that followed her. Now and forever. -- source link

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