The Venetian Series 01: When the Masks Come Off in Venice

She stood facing the bed and leaning forward to rest her arms on it. Her wishes were clear to Helmut, who positioned himself behind her, and slowly pushed his cock as deep within her as it would go. He pulled it out once more, dragging it sensually against her clit, and began to fuck her. They found their rhythm, slowly burying Helmut's cock over and over in her innermost core, then accelerating very, very gradually until they became a runaway train and crashed into ecstasy.

Bedrich was at his usual table when Helmut arrived at the cafe the next morning. This time, Helmut took a seat and ordered an espresso awkwardly in Italian. Bedrich calmly surveyed their surrounding, and after confirming that no one was within earshot, began to speak.

"This is quite an unusual business, Helmut. I must admit that I am surprised."

Trying to contain his impatience, Helmut asked, "What were you able to find out?"

"First, I would never have thought to see Till Acquati using a bravo."

"Are you sure he is going to, as you say, use him?"

"There is only one reason that a man speaks with a bravo in Venice. A bravo is a very solitary person. He has no friends. He can't afford to have friends."

"Were you able to follow him?"

Bedrich smiled indulgently. "Yes, I was."

"Did you learn anything about what he is doing?"

"I believe I learned whom he will kill."

Helmut's eyebrows rose slightly. He paused for a moment to stir his espresso, which seemed too hot on this particular morning. "Who might that be?"

Bedrich replied, "A wealthy American businessman. His name is Bob Cole."

Helmut dropped his spoon. "Bob Cole?"

"Yes. Do you know of him?"

"I do. I just met him! How do you know that he's the target?"

"I have watched bravos before. I know how they prepare, once they have received an assignment. This one had Cole under surveillance all during yesterday evening. How did you come to meet him?"

Helmut related to Bedrich the story of his chance meeting the previous day with Till Acquati and Acquati's assortment of friends. Bedrich listened attentively, occasionally breaking into a broad smile, while at other times looking intently serious. When Helmut arrived at the conclusion of his tale, Bedrich mused silently for a moment, then began to speak.

"Helmut, I told you that I am retired. There are things that I know about Venice, because I have spent so many years here. There are things that I could once find out, because I took great pains to stay in contact with certain kinds of people. I have let those contacts lapse. But you are an investigator by profession. The things that are most important for you to know now are things that you can find out for yourself, with the resources that are available to you."

Helmut conceded that this was very true. He had been planning to use those resources as soon as he figured out what the hell he had gotten himself into. Bedrich continued:

"You need to learn right away about the nature of the business relationship between Acquati and Cole. That will tell you the reason why Acquati wishes Mr. Cole to, shall we say, go away. And it ought to provide you with the key to whatever shady business Acquati is engaged in that you wish to put a stop to."

"Bedrich, I believe that I should be able to learn these things. May I then discuss this with you again?"

"I will be here tomorrow morning."

"Thanks, then, I'll see you tomorrow." With that, Helmut hurried off to start consulting his databases.

Back at his hotel room, Helmut erected a small electronic fortress for himself on the table: his laptop, secure phone, and various odds and ends that served the purposed of producing or thwarting encryption. He placed the little coffee-maker provided by the hotel on the table as well. Then he set to work.

Several hours and many cups of coffee later, Helmut had put together much of the picture. HighPacific was a well-capitalized American firm that dealt in futures contracts for raw materials. It was considered by some insiders to be vulnerable to a hostile takeover. This might be considered likely to happen if there were a shift in the balance among the major shareholders. Helmut had assembled a list of those major shareholders:

1. Bob Cole

2. Horace Pennington, a staid and respected British investor

3. Heather O'Shaughnessy, a Boston heiress

4. A vague consortium of investors, which turned out to be (once one pulled the thread and unraveled it a bit) Till Acquati.

If something bad happened to one of these major investors, it could go badly for the others, since the firm would be subject to takeover or "greenmail", the practice of buying enough shares in a company to threaten a takeover, forcing the owners to buy them back at a higher price in order to retain control. Therefore, it would appear that Mr. Acquati would have a strong interest in not allowing Mr. Cole to be assassinated.

But of course, Mr. Acquati's main business interest was in the more exotic forms of derivatives. On a hunch, Helmut had worked his contacts and had ferreted out information that Acquati had placed avery substantial amount of money in derivative bets, bets that paid off precisely in the event that HighPacific fell prey to a hostile takeover. In effect, Acquati was betting against himself, but the amounts that he stood to gain if the bets paid off would dwarf his interest in keeping the company under its present ownership.

It was time to pay another visit to Lieutenant Durante of theGuardia di Finanza. But how to convince him that there was a plot afoot to kill Bob Cole? The evidence was not going to impress him -- that an old Czech fellow claims to have seen Acquati consorting with an assassin from a bygone era.

As Helmut was pondering how to sell the conspiracy to local law enforcement, his reverie was interrupted by a call on the hotel phone. The front desk informed him that a Mr. Acquati was requesting an appointment with him later that afternoon. Helmut picked up his cell phone and dialed the number. This was one invitation that he could not ignore.

A short, obsequious cab driver who knew a bit of German had deposited Helmut at the front entrance to Acquati's Venetian residence. The dwelling was less ostentatious than Helmut had imagined. It was set back some 15 yards from the street, and the entrance was guarded by some life-sized statuary of two human figures, dressed in the mode of antiquity. There was probably a canal entrance on the opposite side. The relatively small home was clearly centuries old and built to last, but not to attract attention. The paint job had seen better days. But the architecture and the small decorative touches that could be detected here and there were exquisite.

Helmut walked to the front door and rang the bell. He was greeted by Acquati's omnipresent bodyguard and ushered into an elegant parlor, where he sat alone for about thirty seconds until Acquati made his entrance, dressed in a superbly tailored pearl-gray suit, with a teal patterned tie. Helmut rose to greet him, and Acquati once again offered his hand, a model of business courtesy.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Pagel. How do you like your stay in Venice thus far?"

"I have enjoyed it very much. The city has a very unique personality."

"Yes, it does. I enjoy riding in boats," Acquati said drily, with a twinkle in his eye. "I must apologize for conducting business out of my home. I do have an office, but at my age, I have come to prefer to work in comfort when I can. Won't you have a seat?"

Acquati handed two portfolios to Helmut, who placed them on an ornate coffee table before him, and proceeded to listen to a fifteen minute presentation by Acquati on his philosophy of derivatives trading. He spoke of using derivatives to "sculpt" the future, creating a web of financial agreements that could sidestep fate and ensure that the investor was the master of his own destiny. Helmut was very attentive, while wondering to himself how the person who was spinning these lofty ideas could also be planning a mafia-style hit on a business associate. How could Bedrich be so certain, with so little actual evidence to go on?

Acquati concluded his presentation. "Mr. Pagel, I hope that when you have a chance to go over these prospectuses at your leisure, you will find something there that suits your needs. I must apologize for not spending more time with you, but I have another appointment in just a few minutes."

"Well, thank you very much, and I will certainly give them my full consideration, Mr. Acquati."

"I also look forward to seeing you at Michela's Halloween party. Of course," Acquati chuckled, "we will be wearing masks. So we won't always know whom we are seeing."

Helmut hadn't even considered that aspect of the party. He made a mental note to purchase a suitable mask. He smiled at Acquati and replied, "I plan on enjoying the Venetian traditions while I am town. Until then, Mr. Acquati." The bodyguard materialized and escorted him to the front door.

Helmut left the residence and, on impulse, began to explore the neighborhood. It was quiet, and the shadows were lengthening as twilight drew nearer. Although the homes were packed densely together due to the shortage of dry land in Venice, there was a sense of privacy from the way the neighborhood was organized, with the structures offset from one another. Each residence was lovely and dignified, and some carried a whiff of the exotic old days when Venice was the Serene Republic -- according to Bedrich, of course, this was a ghastly fraud. Bedrich painted a picture of the old Venice as a vicious and brutal dictatorship, wearing a mask of democracy. And he seemed to be suggesting that the new Venice was not much different.

After twenty minutes of rambling about the neighborhood and musing, Helmut reached for his cell phone to call a cab, and suddenly realized that he was carrying only one of Acquati's two prospectuses. He considered his options. The plan to engage Acquati with an undercover sting might no longer be necessary, if this had turned into an investigation of a conspiracy to assassinate a business associate. But that conspiracy investigation was based on rather tenuous evidence. If it turned out to be a construct of Bedrich's fevered imagination, it would be necessary to proceed with plan A. And since his invented character, Helmut Pagel, was a serious and avaricious investor, he had better return to Acquati's residence for the second prospectus.

After another ten minutes of walking, Helmut reached the entrance to Acquati's residence once more. But he hesitated there, because he heard what seemed to be a woman's voice, wailing in anguish. The sound was clearly coming from that residence. As Helmut hesitantly approached the home, he realized that he could see Acquati's bodyguard through the sheer curtains, sitting in the foyer. The bodyguard was watching a soccer game on a big-screen TV with rapt attention, and apparently found the screams to be of no consequence -- there could be no doubt that he heard them. Helmut move slightly to the right, into the shadows, and suddenly found himself peering into the same parlor where Acquati had entertained him earlier. And in that parlor, he saw a remarkable tableaux.

In the center of the room was a naked woman, who was partially suspended from the ceiling by a rope which was attached to a beam there, and attached at the other end to the woman's wrists, binding them together. The woman had flame-red hair, and Helmut recognized her as Heather, the wife of Jason Bowman. Behind her stood the impeccably dressed Till Acquati, brandishing a riding crop, which he brought down sharply and repeatedly across Heather's back and buttocks. With each blow, Heather cried out in genuine agony, and her face contorted in pain. But between the blows, her face lapsed into an expression of voluptuous satisfaction. Acquati's normally impassive mouth was turned up ever so slightly at its corners, into the beginning of a grin.

The second prospectus would have to wait. As Helmut crept away into the shadows, he thought to himself, Venice is an interesting place.

Riding in a taxi back to his hotel, Helmut had second thoughts. He reached for his cell phone and dialed Rodica's number.

"Pronto."

"Hello, Rodica, this is Helmut."

"Hello, Helmut!"

"I was wondering whether I might see you tonight."

"Yes! I am home. Come over, please."

"Thank you! I will."

Ten minutes later, the cab deposited him where the street came to an end, and he walked a short distance along the canal to Rodica's house. She greeted him at the door, closed it behind him, and without saying a word embraced him fiercely. They shared a hot, wet kiss, then Rodica fell to her knees, feeling for Helmut's cock through his pants and moaning when she found it hard. She quickly undid his belt and trousers, pulled them to his knees, and began to rub her face against his cock and balls.

"My god, Rodica," groaned Helmut, which inspired her to take his hard cock deep into her throat. Helmut was transported by the sensation, and his hips began an involuntary motion, as he seized her short mop of hair and pulled her face to his crotch. Rodica began to make sounds of hunger as she swallowed him over and over, until Helmut began to cry out her name and filled her mouth with the satisfaction that she craved.

Afterward she rose and embraced him again, then kissed him lasciviously, her lips still wet with his cum. She winked and asked, "Have you had dinner?"

"Not yet," he replied.

"Let's just stay here," she suggested. "I have prosciutto and bread that I baked this morning, and cherries."

"That sounds perfect."

They retired to her little kitchen, where Helmut admired the very old cabinetry as Rodica placed the prosciutto, bread and cherries on the table. They both attacked the food with gusto. When they rested for a minute, Rodica ventured to ask, "Is Bedrich helping you to catch the financial criminals?"

"Yes, I think so," said Helmut. He considered telling her about the things he had seen that afternoon, and then banished the thought from his mind.

"Helmut, is your job dangerous?"

"Mostly not. Financial criminals are not usually the violent ones."

"Maybe it is different in Venice."

"I don't know."

Rodica put the food away, and opened a bottle of wine.

"Helmut, I want you to do something for me."

Helmut grinned. "I plan to."

Rodica grinned back. "I mean, something special."

Helmut raised his eyebrows.

"I want you to shave me."

Helmut hesitated and blinked. "You mean, down there?"

Rodica smiled and nodded. "I read in a magazine that it feels better if it is shaved."

"Well -- I want you to feel just as good as possible."

"So you will?"

"Sure, if you want me to." Helmut raised his eyebrows and added ironically, "That's pretty romantic for a second date."

Rodica simply said, "I like you."

"I like you, too."

Rodica beamed. "Let's go upstairs." She picked up the wine glasses and the bottle, and led the way.

When they entered her room, Rodica deposited the wine and the glasses on her dresser and turned to embrace Helmut, giving him a slow luxurious kiss. Helmut felt his pulse quicken and he whispered in her ear.

"Let me see that place you want me to shave."

Rodica smiled him, and seductively removed her skirt. She stood in her blouse and undergarments, letting him look, knowing that the hair spilling out from her skimpy panties was having an effect. Then, with her eyes locked on his, she lowered the panties to the floor. Helmut swallowed.

"Are you sure you want to do this? Your hair looks nice," and without giving her time to answer, he knelt before her and began to rub his face against her thighs and mound, feeling the soft hair tickle his cheeks and nose. His cock sprang to life as he inhaled her fragrance.

Rodica gave a musical laugh and firmly said, "Yes, I want to be shaved."

Helmut dragged his tongue along her slit, then slipped it deep inside her. She gasped and pushed his head away, wagging her finger at him. "After you shave me, you can do that as much as you want."

Reluctantly, Helmut rose to his feet. Rodica spread a towel out on the bed and arrayed the bed with scissors, a wet washcloth, and a new state-of-the-shaving-art 5 blade razor, plus soap and hair conditioner. Then she disrobed and lay on the bed, placing her ass on the towel. She spread her legs and grinned up at Helmut.

Following Rodica's tutelage, Helmut first snipped away the long curls with the scissors, then with slow and tender care, shaved away every last vestige of hair from her mound and thighs, leaving only a slender exclamation point trailing upwards toward her navel. He applied some conditioner to the area as a salve and cleaned away all the residue with the washcloth.

Rodica smiled approvingly. Helmut asked, "May I have my reward?" and she nodded her assent. He removed his own clothes, reached for a pillow, and positioned it under her ass.

Her freshly shaven pussy was on full display now, glistening with her juices that were spilling out and traveling down her thighs. The experience of being shaved by her lover had aroused her, and now, being examined by him, smelled by him, at close range was arousing her further. Helmut closed his eyes, opened his mouth wide, and descended upon her clit. He filled his mouth with her, relishing the supple feel of her clit against his tongue as he teased it, licked it, sucked it. He felt her hands on his head, forcing him closer as she moved her hips, rubbing herself against his face. Her new-found smoothness was a thrilling sensation for both of them, and before long, she gave a groan that rose in pitch until she spilled a fresh torrent of juices against his face. Moving with urgency, he mounted her and they began to fuck in earnest.

Helmut was awakened by sun streaming in from the next room, and he saw for the first time that next to Rodica's tiny bedroom there was another, larger room, her painting studio. It had a window that faced to the east, and Helmut got up to walk through it and marvel at Rodica's paintings. They ran the gamut of styles; there was an abstract piece that appeared to be a nested series of partial spheres, each missing a quadrant so that the spheres inside were visible, all in a rich plum-color. There was a landscape of a Venetian canal that reminded him of the style of Aelbert Cuyp. And in a prominent position in the middle of the room was the stern blond woman looming over the prostrate man, her copy of "The Punishment of the Forger", sitting on an easel so that she could continue to work on it.

He heard the padding of her bare feet behind him. Helmut turned to greet her, and indicating the paintings, said, "These are lovely."

"Thank you," replied Rodica, demurely.

"When I was a young man, I tried my hand at painting. I was almost an art major in college."

"You can still do that now."

Helmut smiled wryly. "You think so? I don't know. I made my decision back then. I don't think I get a second chance."

"I believe in a second chance," murmured Rodica, and Helmut, who was gazing again at her paintings, did not see the wistfulness in her eyes.

After a quick shower, they breakfasted together on more prosciutto and bread, and Helmut announced his intention to go to the Piazza San Marco to meet with Bedrich at the cafe again. Rodica looked a bit morose at this. Helmut observed her reaction, but knew not how to respond.

As he walked through the carefully preserved magnificence of the Piazza San Marco, surrounded by its massive and ornate structures, Helmut's thoughts turned again to Rodica. He had felt a curious sort of peace in her presence. Their burgeoning affair was like an oasis for him, a secluded place where he could retreat from the corrupt and venal world that his job required him to inhabit. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to simply remain in that oasis, leaving the corruption and venality behind. But now he was prepared to confront them.