What if Casanova were a woman?

Giulia Ferrelli My name is Giulia Ferrelli, and I was born in a house where the very walls perspire virtue. Or, at least, what the world chooses to call virtue. Daughter of Senator Vittorio Ferrelli, raised in the gilded opulence of a Venetian palazzo, I grew up amidst cold marble, tapestries depicting biblical scenes, and the rigid lessons of what is termed a noble education. At seven, I was taught to recite the cardinal virtues. At ten, to remain silent when men spoke. By twelve, I had already grasped a truth far older than their morals: virtue is a gown too narrow, stitched by the hands of men. But I observed. I watched the servants' hands tremble when they caught the eye of a beauty. I listened to the sighs held back behind closed doors. And I waited, silently, noting how a woman could bend a man with a single smile. No, I did not yet know love. Nor even s*x. But I knew that desire had a taste more precious than the incense of churches or the velvet of chapels. That it was a force, a breath, an invisible embrace capable of toppling kings. And I decided that this weapon would be mine. --- Tonight, I am twenty-one years old. And I am seated in the grand salon of the Palazzo Ferrelli, my legs crossed beneath a gown of ivory silk so fine it clings to every shiver of my skin. Lace caresses the swell of my bosom, yet stops precisely where indecency begins. Just enough to arouse, never to satiate. My Aunt Artemisia shoots me murderous glances between sips of sweet wine. Propriety, she murmurs. Yet another form of chain. But she is not who holds my interest. It is him. Count Lorenzo Baldi, heir to an estate north of Florence, wealthy, cultivated, renowned for his collection of antiquities and his reputation as a refined libertine. He sits two chairs away, clad in a garnet habit embroidered with gold, his amber eyes analyzing me with the meticulousness of a man accustomed to selecting his pleasures as one chooses a rare wine. He has been staring since the moment I entered. He believes himself discreet behind his manners. He does not know that I see everything. That I sense everything. I slowly trace a finger along the rim of my crystal goblet. A circle. Another. And I see him tense, imperceptibly. He is caught. Already. Finally, I meet his gaze. — You seem… pensive, Madonna Giulia. His voice is deep, veiled, slightly husky. He still believes he is addressing a well-born young lady, demure and ever so proper. I tilt my head, offer a half-smile. — I am thinking of boredom, Count. Of all that is imposed upon us. A brief silence. Then a soft exhale. He is unsettled. I relish this. I relish feeling power reverse its course. I relish feeling control slip from his hands into mine. I rise. My gown undulates around my hips like a whispered promise. The chandeliers cast trembling shadows upon my shoulders. I move towards him, slowly, and lean close to his ear. — Are you acquainted with the palazzo's private gardens? He freezes. A breath. A hesitation. Then he rises, docile. He follows me. Of course, he follows. The evening air is fragrant with honeysuckle and wisteria. Beneath the cypresses, the moon slips through the foliage like a curious courtesan. I feel his steps behind me. But I do not turn. Only the weak seek permission in another's eyes. I am the fire. I am the storm. We reach the small basin. The water, placid, reflects the stars like scattered pearls. I stop. Turn to face him. Slowly, I undo the first button. Then another. Then a third. My bodice opens upon the curve of my breasts, pale as the moon, still veiled in lace. I move no further. I simply watch him. — What are you doing? he breathes, his voice tight. — Studying your intentions. Men are so predictable. I step closer. Very close. My breath grazes his cheek. My mouth hovers near his, without touching. He holds his breath. I hear his desire like a distant storm. — You believe you dominate. But you hold no power here. Not here. Not with me. He reaches out a hand. I stop it, my fingers on his wrist. — Only if I say yes. And I do. In a voice so low it becomes a command. He is feverish. Overconfident, yet disoriented. He touches me like a starving man, but I slow his pace. I am the one who decides. I am the one who commands sighs and silences. His mouth wanders across my skin, descends, trembles slightly. He discovers my breasts, my hips, my belly with the devotion of a man who does not realize he is in the process of losing. I push him down onto the warm stone ground, settling myself atop him. My gown spreads around us like a theatre curtain. He enters me. Too quickly. Too forcefully. I do not cry out. I do not moan. I watch him. And I smile. I set the rhythm. The control. My hand pins his wrists to the ground. My voice guides him. My mouth commands him. He grows wild. He moans, nearly pleads. I undulate above him like an ancient goddess. I bring him to the very edge of himself. And I hold him there. Again. Again. Until he is nothing but a body yielded to my will. He climaxes violently. I feel him shatter beneath me. Like a man conquered without ever being touched at his core. He lies there, panting, spent, defeated. He gazes at me as a man who has just glimpsed something he will never again attain. As for me, I rise. I dress. Slowly. Button after button. Lace against skin. Fabric over power. — Who… who in the devil's name are you? he gasps, eyes wide. I lean down, kiss the corner of his lips. — I am what men both fear and desire. I am what you can never keep. Then I turn, and vanish into the shadows, without a sound. Tomorrow, I shall be elsewhere. In another palazzo. Beneath other eyes. Upon other lips to corrupt. I am a legend that is never retained. I am Giulia Ferrelli. And this world belongs to me.