Isabella and Ingrid in the Dog House
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Isabella Awakening Ch. 02 free porn video
Naples 1734: The thirty-four year old Isabella Silverto has returned to her parent’s home after a ten year loveless marriage. A funeral reunites her family for the first time since it was ripped apart by incest more than a decade earlier. Older, more experienced but still unsatisfied, Isabella spurns her brother’s advances and prepares for another arranged marriage.
Isabella slept late the morning after the funeral. She awoke slowly, savouring the last vestiges of a strange dream in which wild horses galloped along a lonely windswept beach and green-eyed children were the objects of loving farewells from mothers and aunts. Isabella always enjoyed her dreams, even when, like this morning, the images and stories made little sense to her on waking. She often took from them not a message or warning, but a feeling of magic that lingered in her body for many hours.
After last evening’s confrontation with Gustavo, she was expecting that sleep would not be easy. Instead, her exhaustion had taken her swiftly and deeply and it was only on fully waking that she remembered her surprising encounter with her brother in the bathroom. Even now, she was trying to put together the unexpected chain of events – Gustavo’s drunken and clumsy attempt at seduction, his revelation that he knew that Isabella had witnessed his incestuous coupling with Maria fifteen years ago in that very place and, perhaps most surprising of all, the sudden reemergence of her old friend, her powerful inner guide and mentor, who apparently possessed her at times of great sexual moment. She had asserted herself and gently deflated Gustavo’s passion. In Isabella’s fantasies, Gustavo was often her seducer and her, or rather the inner woman’s, outright rejection of him last night was counter to her own desires and dreams. Whenever She had visited Isabella before, although it was now three years since their last acquaintance, She had propelled Isabella towards her secret passions, not away from them. Isabella was not regretting this strange turn. She had long ago learned to trust Her and to respect Her choices and strategies, however strange, brazen or even cruel they seemed to Isabella’s logical mind.
It seemed that everyone had slept late that morning. When Isabella finally made her way downstairs to the kitchen, she found her mother, Marisa, sitting alone in the sunny little courtyard between the kitchen and the solid stonewall of the old bathhouse. Isabella poured herself a thick, sweet coffee and joined Marisa, taking a place beside her on the wooden bench. The women acknowledged each other but both were obviously still sleepy and they did not speak for several minutes.
Finally Isabella broke the comfortable silence ‘It was good to see everyone yesterday, wasn’t it mama.’
Maria, deep in thought, took a moment to answer. ‘Indeed it was. Having Maria and Gus at home brought back many memories.’ A shadow of sadness drifted over Marisa as she spoke.
‘They seemed happy,’ observed Isabella in an attempt to keep the conversation on a light note. ‘The traveling life must suit Gus and Maria makes such a wonderful mother.’
Marisa smiled. Despite the circumstances of their departure from the family home, her two eldest children were still a source of great motherly pride to her.
‘Yes, they are good people,’ she said. ‘The three of you are such a great comfort to your mother. I just regret we did not have longer together as a real family.’
This was the first time that Marisa had spoken to Isabella about her sense of loss following that terrible day.
‘They were old enough to leave, mama,’ comforted Isabella. ‘It was the speed of their going that was the great surprise.’
Marisa nodded ‘And the circumstances,’ she added, in almost a whisper, wiping her eyes with corner of her apron.
‘Time heals, mama. Even those wounds of which we must not speak.’ Said Isabella, placing an arm gently around her mothers shoulder. ‘Let the pain pass now’.
Marisa’s head dropped and tears began to flow. She buried her head in Isabella’s arm. ‘Oh, it hurts so much,’ she sobbed. ‘You cannot know.’
‘Mother,’ said Isabella, stroking her hair. ‘I do know, and you must not grieve or punish yourself.’
Marisa suddenly realised that Isabella was behaving as if she was aware of the terrible truth behind their family’s breakup. She sat upright and looked at Isabella, who was calm and returned her gaze with love.
Isabella spoke slowly. ‘Mama, I know that you have protected me from the truth these many years, but as adults I think we should keep no secrets. I do know the truth. I probably know more than anyone but you and Gus. But I do not believe you should feel either guilt or shame. The outcome was sad, but I do not believe there was the slightest ill intention on your part or anyone else’s. It was a tragic turn of events, but let us give thanks for our health and happiness and for Gus and Maria too.’
In that one statement, delivered with great love and insight, Isabella absolved her mother of the sins she had carried like a weight these past fourteen years. Marisa’s eyes showed the lifting of that weight. Without reasoning through the how of Isabella’s knowing, her inner being accepted the release and her heart filled with pure joy. She suddenly saw that Isabella, so long the naïve, dutiful, tender child, was actually a fine and wonderful woman whose words had magically healed the deep and abiding scar on her soul.
Marisa hugged Isabella and cried, not from pain but from the pure joy of relief and love. They sat together silently for some minutes before Marisa spoke again.
‘Isabel, I realise now that I have misjudged and neglected you all these years. I have been blind to your true nature and to your gifts. There is so much I should have done, should have told you, but I was confused and distracted by my own stupidity and failure. I don’t know how to make it up to you.’
Isabella interrupted ‘Mama, be calm. Don’t punish yourself like this. I am fine, I am happy, I have made my own life and you have always supported me.’
‘No Isabel. There a so many things I should have done. I don’t know how you discovered your gifts but I should have been there to guide you. I would not have believed it possible given the sadness and the….banality, yes banality, of the life you were delivered into with that stupid husband.’
Isabella laughed. ‘Mama, I shall grant you that Henri was an unsuitable match for any woman of even meager heart, but I had other sources of inspiration.’
Marisa raised an eyebrow and made a slight grin ‘Lovers, Isabel? Did you take lovers?’
‘A few mama, only, a few.’
‘Then how? Who? ….’ Marisa suddenly stopped. Isabella said nothing but Marisa suddenly knew the answer. Anton!
Marisa remembered her much earlier suspicions about Isabella and Anton, particularly when Anton had petitioned Alberto and her prior to Isabella’s marriage to Henri. Without saying so, Anton had intimated the unsuitability of Henri for a ‘woman such as Isabelle.’ Alberto had dismissed his entreaties as being based on Anton’s undoubted respect for Isabella’s intellect, but Marisa had more than once wondered whether Anton had some deeper, more carnal, knowledge of Isabella’s true nature.
Mother and daughter sat, half facing each other, holding hands and smiling into each other’s eyes. No words were spoken and none were needed. As if their minds were joined, the images and feelings of Isabella’s first awakening flowed through and between them. They both felt great power and joy and it was then that Marisa truly understood what she had to do. She kissed Isabella on the lips and left, saying only that she must think and make plans.
While Marisa plumbed the depths of her own secret past for an answer to the dilemma now facing her, Isabella remained in the warm courtyard and allowed herself to close her eyes and drift to a place and time long ago. The images, the sounds an
d the feelings were as real as if the events had happened yesterday.
She immediately thought of her brief exchange with uncle Anton during the funeral party. It was from her inner guide, the magical, mysterious woman in her dreams, that Isabella had learnt the art of seduction, the ways she could use her body and eyes and words to speak directly and powerfully to those parts of a man that carried his carnal instincts. And to read his responses and cues as if he was a small child in a sweet shop. Her teasing of the aging Anton was simply a playful expression of those skills designed to complement Anton and to revive, if just for an hour or two, his failing manhood.
Isabella remembered her times with Anton with great fondness and thankfulness, despite a somewhat inauspicious, and possibly quite criminal, beginning.
Anton had been Papa’s closest business confidant and advisor since both were young men making their way in the Naples spice trade late last century. Both were handsome young men from humble backgrounds but they had keen minds and could turn pennies into golden dollaros or drachmas or lire with their bargaining skills and charm. They had remained close even after marrying the two most beautiful women in Naples, Isabella’s mother the voluptuous Marisa and the taller, aristocratic Serena. Sadly, Isabella did not come to know Serena as she died of the Flux only a few years after her marriage to Anton. Uncle Anton had remained a widower, never marrying again despite his good looks, substantial wealth and popularity with women. As a teenager, Isabella had been vaguely aware that Uncle Anton had several women ‘friends’ and that her mother was somewhat impatient for him to settle on one and marry.
It was not until she was nineteen, a full year after the events of the bathroom had reduced her to being the only child at home, that Isabella came to know Anton as a lover. She had spent the past year confused and afraid for her soul. She had continued her volunteer teaching role at her former school, being dismissed from her obligations as a student at the age of thirteen. She was a proficient reader in several languages, among them French, Greek and Spanish, and had taken the morning duties at the school as much from an intellectual desire to use her hard won skills as to be near the Sisters and the holy Chapel on the Hill, hoping that their piety and goodness would somehow infuse her sinful body and wash away her, and her family’s, terrible sins. She enjoyed the teaching but never felt particularly forgiven. On the contrary, her own sinful thoughts and private explorations continued to intensify over the year. Dreams of Gustav, Maria, Mamma, and even the Holy Sisters themselves, locked in naked passionate embraces continued to lubricate the machinations of sinful desire.
Isabella was slowly coming to terms with her earthly, and earthy, nature when Marisa called her aside one day for a serious meeting at the kitchen table.
‘Isabella, you are aware of your father’s growing interests in Spain. The Bourbon Princes have encouraged trade and your father is poised to enter into a most advantageous alliance with a well-connected trading house in Barcelona. He must soon travel to Spain to make final arrangements and I have decided to go with him.’
Marisa went on to explain the long and tiring journey and the likely hardships of travel in a foreign and, according to Marisa, unsophisticated land. Isabella was in no doubt that she was to be left behind, a hunch confirmed by Marisa.
‘You must not fret my dear. You are a capable and responsible girl. Your father and I are very proud of you and trust you completely’ The unspoken corollary of course was that Isabella’s siblings would not have been found so trustworthy, but Marisa said nothing of the kind.
Isabella was to remain in Naples through the autumn and early winter to supervise the skeleton staff of two elderly servants and to take action on a few very minor business affairs being entrusted to her – more as a sop, she thought, to bolster her self importance and to ease the pain of being left at home in miserable Naples while Mama and Papa traveled to mysterious and exciting foreign lands.
Still, as always, Isabella’s momentary bitterness soon vanished in a wealth of exciting possibilities of her own. As mistress of the Silverto home for three or four months, she would establish a routine of her own choosing. She would fully explore father’s library, which she always suspected he kept more for the appearance of good breeding than for his personal enjoyment, she would make clothes and learn to cook. She may even have friends over for dinner! Yes, she decided, it would be like a holiday. Of course she maintained the pretence of disappointment and of feeling conscripted to play the less glamorous homemaker role right up until the day of her parent’s departure. Like the good teenager she was, she was not about to forgo the benefits of that priceless commodity, parental guilt.
By the time her parents left, Isabella was very much looking forward to her time as mistress of the house. And, indeed, within a week she had settled into a routine that she found both relaxing and productive.
She often bathed after dinner and, dismissing the cook and the maid for the evening, would light the little fire in her father’s study, settle into one of his large wing-backed chairs and read one of the many wonderful books in her father’s library. After devouring the Lives of the Saints and the Peloponnesian Wars, she found a great fondness for Ovid’s poems of love and travel. Ovid took her to strange new places of the heart and his tales of adventure in the ancient world stirred her own inner world. She would often imagine herself as a character in a somewhat wicked tale of mysterious dealings and handsome strangers.
It was one such evening, after about four weeks of this blissfully quiet life, that Isabella was reading in the study, warm and comfortable, that she heard a knock at the front door. Puzzled, she rose, tied her silk gown, and padded barefoot to the door. Not quite sure what to do, she called ‘Who is it?’
The reply came ‘I am sorry to bother you so late giovane Donna, it is I, Signore Domani’. Isabella instantly recognised the cultured voice of her zio Anton, her father’s oldest friend, a widower in his early 50s.
Si, Uncle Anton!’ exclaimed Isabella, unbolting and opening the heavy door, relieved that this was no stranger she would have to deal with.
It was raining heavily outside but, despite his soaked clothes and hair, Isabella hugged her ‘uncle’ and fussed over him, imploring him to take off his coat and dry himself by the study fire.
‘I do sincerely apologise, Isabel’, said Anton in his deep, clipped slightly accented voice. ‘I do realise that your parents are away, but I was hoping that your father may have left a letter for me.’
‘Oh, I do not know,’ replied Isabella. ‘He said nothing about a letter. But let me look while you warm yourself by the fire’.
She walked to her father’s desk and started to rifle through the box of papers her father had left. Meanwhile, Anton, almost six feet tall and looking as handsome and distinguished as ever despite his drenching, stood by the fire watching his young hostess. Isabella noticed that his eyes followed her and that he was holding a package under his arm.
‘Found it!’ she laughed, holding up a folded document sealed with red wax and addressed to Uncle Anton. She handed him the letter.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, making a courtly bow. He did not open the letter but placed it on the small table beside the fireplace.
Having found the letter, Isabella now felt a little awkward, not being schooled in providing hospitality to adults. Uncle Anton also seemed a little nervous, not quite knowing what to say or do next. But it was Anton who broke the short silence.
‘I must be keeping you from your beauty sleep, Isabel. Not that you require it.’ He smiled, ‘You ar
e becoming quite a young lady. The boys must be starting to bother you.’
Isabella blushed. She had no great opinion of her looks, but it was true that the young men in the town had lately started to notice her and sometimes tried to engage her in small talk.
‘Oh no uncle, she stammered. ‘I was reading.’ She indicated the armchair where she had been curled reading Ovid’s poems of banishment.
‘You are becoming quite a sophisticated young woman,’ said Anton. ‘Perhaps it would not be inappropriate to offer you a little glass of wine?’ He removed the package from under his arm and unwrapped a dark, squat bottle.
‘This is a Portuguese Black Muscat, just off the ship,’ he said. ‘I am sure that a small glass would help you sleep.’
‘Thank you uncle’ replied Isabella, who had recently started to educate herself about wines, discovering that the pale communion and table wines she had taken since she was a child were but pale imitations of the real thing. She found two glasses in her father’s liqueur cabinet and allowed Anton to pour the dark, fragrant liquid into each.
‘To your health and beauty,’ toasted Anton, touching his glass to hers. He held his glass to his lips as he carefully watched Isabella sip from hers.
‘It is beautiful’, she said appreciatively. ‘So rich and smooth. I have never tasted anything like this before.’
‘It is rare find indeed,’ responded Anton, ‘a dark, well aged sweet muscatel fortified with brandy and flavoured with a hint of cinnamon. Drink up my dear.’
Isabella took another sip from her glass, noting the strong fruity tastes and a slight astringent quality of the wine on her tongue. Anton watched her, having barely sampled his own glass.
Isabella suddenly felt a rush and a wave of pleasant light-headedness. She swayed a little.
‘Oh, uncle!’ she said. ‘Your wine appears to have gone straight to my head!’ She took a few steps to the armchair and carefully seated herself. ‘I feel so silly!’
‘Not at all my dear.’ Smiled Anton. ‘Such strong liquor will have that effect on a young woman.’
Through her slight stupour, Isabella noted that Anton had put down his own, still full, glass and was watching her intently. Her intuition suddenly alerted her to something she could not name but which felt like a warm hollowness in her gut.
‘Drink up, my dear Isabel.’ Said Anton smoothly, his eyes probing hers.
Isabella’s mind was racing now and her situation was becoming clearer. Despite her initial fear, her feelings were turning to anticipation and excitement. She did not distrust or dislike Anton. In fact, despite his age, she had more than once met with Anton in her fantasies. She decided, somewhat to her own surprise, to go along with whatever it was he planning, but to take some control. The wine, she guessed, was fortified with more than brandy.
Oh, uncle Anton.’ She swooned, lying back into the cushions on the chair, half prostrate now. ‘I do love your wine, I really do, but I need a glass of water, it has died my throat so.’ She was now slurring her words slightly, deliberately emphasising the effect the wine was having on her.
Anton responded immediately, taking the wine glass from her hand and placing it beside his letter on the little table. He left the room to fetch her some water. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Isabella rose, somewhat unsteadily but fully determined to see through her plan. She retrieved the glass of wine and poured the remaining dark liquid into the back of the firebox. She then lay on her back on the hearthrug, still holding the now empty glass in her outstretched hand. She loosened the tie on her robe and arranged her limbs as if she had gently collapsed.
A moment later, Anton returned, a pitcher of water in his hand. He stopped at the doorway to take in the scene before him. Clearly, Isabel had retrieved and finished the glass of wine containing his carefully calculated dose of laudanum and had then duly collapsed on the rug before regaining her chair. He knelt beside her prone body and checked her breathing. Deep and regular. Next he lifted an eyelid. Isabella knew from her reading that drugs caused stupefaction and dutifully rolled her eyeballs into their lids, moaning softly as she did so. Anton took her empty wine glass, rinsed and refilled it with water from the pitcher. Cradling her head in the crook of his elbow, he gently raised her head and held the glass to her lips.
Anastasia
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