Venice Pt1 - A Ben Lane story by Turner & Blackwell

turner_blackwell

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Hello everyone, I'm Jake and I've been a long time lurker on LPSG. Unbelievably, I've been a member since 2004! Always loved the Erotic Stories forum, and this is my first attempt at one of my own.

If you like my style then please consider heading over to the Patreon page that I have started with my friend Lilly. We are writing a serialised eBook called Pitch of Intrigue, a story inspired by the Erotic Stories forum and the Football Manager series of games. Copy and paste this link for our page:

Patreon.com/TurnerandBlackwell

This is the first part of a story called Venice. If there's enough interest I may carry on!

VENICE

After interminable goodbyes, some of which required a final drink or a promise of drinks the next day, the three escaped the ballroom and out into the cool of the huge atrium. Cynthia and Diana both slipped an arm through Ben’s and they made their way from the high balcony, down the left hand set of curved steps.

The girls’ high heels, re-donned since the end of the dancing, clicked and clacked on the marble floor of the hallway, as making an echoing tune with the lower sound of Ben’s brogues. The doorman in his cloth of gold coat and top hat, hearing their approach, pulled the great iron and glass door open, and a warm breeze flowed in that pressed the fabric of the girls’ dresses against their long legs.

Diana sighed as the air cooled her glowing skin. “That feels…incredible,” she breathed. The atrium was huge and quiet, it seemed wrong to speak above a whisper. “Six hours of reeling! I thought I’d never be cool again!” She breathed deep, her chest threatening the fabric of her bodice as it had been throughout the night. Whoever had made that dress had been a master of the art of the near-reveal.

The dress code of the ultra-exclusive highland ball to which Cynthia had invited no fewer than fifteen of her friends was explicit in its dress code. Ladies were to wear ballgowns whose skirts stopped no further than six inches from the ground, and they were to have their shoulders covered. This made sense in when the ball was held in the Highlands of Scotland, where the night wind could chill even in the summertime. Every five years, though, the ball would be held in a Southern European city. This year it was Venice, and the balmy Adriatic nights had made the ballroom stiflingly hot.

The Victorian strictures of the dress code were designed to discourage any licentious behaviour, but women like Cynthia and Diana were not to be thwarted by the mere requirement to cover themselves entirely from shoulder to ankle. Indeed, Diana had the kind of curves that could be dressed entirely in hessian sacking and still make an ayatollah sit up and howl. Her dressmaker had produced an off-the shoulder corseted gown in shining scarlet that lifted her splendid breasts up so that they threatened to spill out with every spin and set of the reel.

Those breasts were her natural calling cards, the twin keys that had unlocked her personal door to high society, and she used them shamelessly, to the delight of most of the men and some of the women at these kinds of parties.

The corset itself was knotted up the front in black silk ribbon, tied in a tantalising bow at the front. Several men had been tempted and tried to pull the knot free in the confusion of the dance, only to find that it was cunningly sewn to be resistant to exactly such unwelcome attention.

Diana’s skirt did indeed reach the required six inches from the floor, but it nevertheless was not what the staid, conservative committee members had had in mind when they set the rules. It was split up one side so that, when she spun, the floaty red material revealed a long length of perfectly toned, perfectly bronzed thigh, along with the silver T-bone heels that she wore.

Many a peer of the realm and knight of the Garter had been captivated by her tonight. Many an aristocratic lady had pursed their lips in pinched disapproval at their husbands’ ridiculous attempts at flirting, to which Diana had responded with a wide, luxurious smile, her dark eyes flashing and her brown hair elegantly piled on her head so that nothing distracted from the tanline-free expanse beneath her long, graceful neck. She was magnificent.

Cynthia, her best friend from university and the youngest daughter of a duke, was perhaps even more beautiful than Diana, but she did not broadcast sexual energy to quite the same scandalising extent. She had delicate, high cheek-boned features, wide green eyes and a tiny, upturned nose, but her most striking feature was her flaming red hair that, when let down, reached to the base of her spine. Tonight it was twisted and tied into an elegant knot, and she looked every image the Celtic queen.

The hue of her hair meant that the only colour she could wear was white, and her dressmaker had crafted a one-shouldered gown hurt the eyes with its pristine perfection. There was a gold sheen to it that became apparent as she moved, which she did gracefully and serenely no matter how fast the beat of the music or how frantic the dance became. Her long, pale arms moved elegantly in perfect time as she beamed prettily up at her dance partner.

Her skirts had no wanton split, and again she had been careful to meet the six inch rule. With her high black stilettos, she was still a couple of inches shorter than Diana, and slimmer as well with none of her friend’s voluptuous curves. They were as different as beautiful women could be, and perhaps this lack of similarity formed part of their bond.

“Gondola, signor?” the doorman murmured.

“Si, per favore,” Ben nodded, smiling, enjoying the feeling of the two dainty hands that had been slipped around his arms. He was a head taller than Diana, even in her heels, and his strong shoulders were made to look even wider by his short, red jacket. He was wearing the dress uniform of one the highland regiments, and he was wearing a kilt and long red socks above brogues with shining silver buckles. On his chest were three medals, their coloured ribbons gaily proclaiming his operational experience.

Ben was a handsome army captain, and handsome army captains get invited to parties by society women. He had been friends with Cynthia for many years and had accompanied her to all sorts of events, but this was the most lavish, most luxurious, most aristocratic of the lot.

They emerged into the balmy blue of the Venetian night. A crescent moon hung above the palazzo opposite, reflected crazily in the ripples of the canal that flowed a mere few steps below the door through which they had passed. The dark shape of a gondola bumped quietly against the stones. From the glowing windows above the strains of the band continued to play, a quiet tune now as the ball drew to its end.

The doorman appeared as the reached the bottom of the steps and with a practiced arm he helped the ladies step down into the boat, giving each a smile and a respectful “signorina” as he did so. They were received by the welcoming gondolier who, traditional to a fault, sat the ladies facing towards the back. Ben, needing no hand to guide him, waited until Cynthia and Diana were settled, tipped the doorman, stepped into the boat and sat down facing them.

It seemed the gondolier, a young man born and bred to the canals, was equally affected by the sensual nature of the night. His warning, “Pronto, signor?” was uttered in a respectful murmur from his platform at the back.

Ben answered, “Si, prego,” and with a flick of the single oar they glided away from the palazzo and into the dark maze of Venice.

“Did you have a good night, ladies?” Ben asked in a low voice.

“Magical,” Cynthia breathed.

“Amazing,” Diana agreed. “Although I think it might be about to get better.”

They glided along, taking two turns in quick succession and passing under a bridge. On either side buildings reared into the dark blue sky which was pin pricked with stars. In a low, sonorous voice the gondolier broke into a tune, its notes smooth and relaxing.

After a moment the sound of the water lapping against the boat’s side and the singing of the gondolier was joined by another: the unmistakable sound of lips meeting. Cynthia giggled. Despite the dark Ben could see that they were entwined, Diana gently cupping Cynthia’s face. They parted and there was some indistinct whispering, more giggles, and another passionate kiss before, as one, both girls slid off the bench onto the floor of the boat and crawled towards Ben.

When they reached him they both knelt up, leaning their faces close to his and, wordlessly, each kissed him deeply. Diana was first and he felt her tongue dart forward between her parted lips, eagerly exploring his. Cynthia was less confident, but after a hesitant second he felt her relax, her mouth opening against his and a slight moan escaping her throat.

While he was kissing Cynthia Ben felt Diana’s hand crawl up under the hem of his kilt. She ran her nails up and down his inner thigh as she said “Ben, Cynthia and I wanted to thank you for coming with us to the ball.”

“That’s right,” Cynthia agreed, her hand on his knee and then running up his other thigh.

Diana giggled. “We were wondering if we could…oh my god…is that your penis?” Ben grunted slightly as Diana’s dainty hand grasped his semi-hard shaft. “Oh my god it is! Cynth, you have to feel this!”

“Diana!” giggled Cynthia, “You can’t just…oh my lord!” Ben felt another delicate hand wrap around his penis. Diana released her gentle grip and began exploring further.

“Well, well, well, Captain Lane!” she breathed, a smile on her lips, “I had heard that you were impressive but I had no idea…god your balls are massive…”

Ben lay back and sighed and the girls continued to explore, commenting to each other in awed tones. He felt as second hands joined the first and began gently pulling on his cock and fondling his balls. Then Diana said, “OK, enough teasing,” and he felt her head drop down under the fabric of his kilt.

He grunted as Diana’s lips wrapped around the head of his penis. Cynthia, with a final giggle, joined her, unhesitatingly running her tongue down his shaft to his balls. Four hands and two mouths teased, sucked, pulled and licked as the gondola ghosted along through the warm, still Venetian night.

The gondolier, whose song had not missed a beat, fell into a momentary silence at the end of a tune. Ben looked around. “Va bene?” he asked as Diana slid another inch down his now rock hard length.

The gondolier chuckled. “Certo, signore,” he murmured, and broke into another tune.

Ben’s hands rested lightly on the two girls’ heads as they continued their work. They took it in turns, one sucking the head of his enormous member, the other licking his shaft and his balls. Their mouths were quite distinct, Diana’s more practiced and confident, Cynthia’s more hesitant, softer, and they both emitted little squeaks and moans as they worked.

There was the momentary sound of choking, a noise beneath the dignity of the daughter of a duke, as Cynthia became over ambitious with the amount of Ben’s penis that she could manage. Diana giggled. “Give it here, you innocent little thing!” she said, and expertly swallowed more than half, holding it in her throat while Ben’s head rolled back and he groaned.

“Diana!” squeaked Cynthia. “You dirty bitch! Let me try!”

Diana came up for air, and Cynthia immediately choked on Ben’s cock again, but she was not to be deterred. Her ancestors had conquered lands in Scotland and around the world, so she would conquer this penis!

Ben knew she wouldn’t – no girl ever had – but he was delighted that she was trying, and the pleasurable learning curve was interrupted as the gondola bumped up against the steps of the hotel. The momentary jarring as the boat’s side met the wall jerked Cynthia’s head down another inch and she gagged again, pulling back onto her haunches and panting, leaving Ben’s massive member glistening in the night air. Diana delicately, gigglingly covered it with his kilt.

The gondolier cleared his throat. Ben could hear him smirking as he said, “Devo continuare, signor?” He was offering the Venetian equivalent of driving around the block again so that the girls could finish what they had started, but Ben had other plans for them.

“No, grazie,” he said. The gondolier hopped onto the pier and held out an arm for the girls, who stepped onto dry land, smoothing their dresses as they went.

“Un momento,” said Ben and the gondolier grinned, recognising that Ben needed a brief pause before he could stand. Dignity achieved, he stood, smoothed his kilt, handed the gondolier a hundred euro note and stepped up onto the pier where the girls slipped their arms back through his.