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there would be an uproar, but Orianna would hold firm. Her eldest daughter’s wedding gown and trousseau must be designed and sewn by the Venetians who would come to do so.
    Orianna smiled to herself. Oh yes, she could delay the inevitable for at least a few months’ time. If only she didn’t have to do so. If only Bianca could have a fine young man from Venice or a French duke for a husband instead of the most debauched man in all of Florence. She cursed her oldest son softly beneath her breath and then quickly took it back. Men could not help being the fools they were.

Chapter 2
    T he Moorish slave girl moaned as the thick leather strap descended upon her bared buttocks for a twentieth time. She silently and carefully counted the strokes her master laid upon her plump golden flesh. Two more and she would shriek piteously. Another and she would call for mercy. Usually he hit her twice more before he released her to fall to her hands and knees, buttocks raised. It was a routine she followed with him, and he never realized at all that it was she who controlled the situation.
    After beating her twenty-five strokes he would mount her and relieve the lust that mistreating her had roused in him. Afterwards she would praise his prowess and beg him for more, curling into his lap as he fondled and squeezed her breasts. Sometimes he could comply, but more often he could not. He was a man who needed to inflict pain in order to perform as a normal man might. Now it was said he was taking a new bride. The Moorish slave girl felt pity for the poor girl, whoever she was. She shrieked. Another blow followed. “Please, master,” she begged him. “I can bear no more!”
    “You can, and you will, my barbaric little bitch,” he growled at her. Two more blows followed. “Now on your knees, and service me!”
    The Moorish slave girl fell upon her hands and knees. Her bottom was burning from the beating he had inflicted on her with his leather strap. She elevated her buttocks and waited for him to plunge himself into her. He did not disappoint, for once aroused he was a most satisfactory lover. The thick, lengthy peg of hot, smooth flesh probed deeply, and she enjoyed a surge of pleasure before remembering her duties. “Oh yes, master!” she cried to him. “Your weapon is mighty, mightier than any I have known before you. Do not send me away when you take your new bride. I live but to pleasure you, my lord!” She squeezed him with the well-trained muscles of her sheath.
    His fingers dug into her scalp, and grasping a handful of her long hair he yanked her head back, demanding, “Who told you I was to wed, bitch?”
    “The household is filled with gossip, my lord. If I spoke out of turn I beg your forgiveness,” the Moorish slave girl whimpered.
    Releasing his hold on her hair, his two hands gripped her hips. “I have no intention of sending you away, Nudara,” he assured her. “You will soon have other duties, my pet. You will teach the little virgin I am marrying how to please me.” Sebastiano Rovere laughed darkly. Then he concentrated on pleasuring himself with his slave girl, fucking her hard and deep until his lust exploded in an unusually fierce burst of excess that left him—as well as a surprised Nudara—extremely satisfied.
    Afterwards, as the slave curled herself into her master’s lap, Nudara spoke daringly. “It is said she is the most beautiful girl in all of Florence, my lord. Is she?”
    “I have no idea,” he responded. “I have never laid eyes on the wench. I want, I need, a blood tie with her family. Marriage is the most powerful bond I can make. The girl is ready for marriage. She has begun to walk out with her mother, and in the process has attracted a number of admirers. Before one of them soils her, I will have her.”
    “A virgin of unimpeachable lineage will be worthy of you, my lord,” Nudara said.
    “Aye, she will,” he responded.
    Nudara began to caress him, her skillful fingers slipping