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<td align="LEFT"><b>Barbara and the Butcher's Son</b></td>
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<td align="RIGHT"><b><font face="Georgia"><a href="bios_m2z.shtml#Mannix" title="click for author info">S.M. Mannix </a></font></b></td>
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<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Barbara was younger than she looked, but not far from the prime
of womanly beauty. Her body curved in rich ellipses around the
taut core of her fecund being. Her hair was thick, soft and the
color of dark chocolates. Walnut scented waves of it hung about
her bold heart shaped face in an angular bob. She was stern and
serious but given to rare fits of robust sensuality, which she
restrained in a tightly laced corset. She owned a restaurant,
which had been her inheritance from an Italian cook who had been
her lover. He had been killed by a man who said at the time that
he was Barbara's husband but later hanged himself in jail. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Straight laced, sensible men who wore clean collars to church
on Sunday mornings and fresh ones to work every other day of the
week, regarded Barbara balefully. As tempting as her matriarchal
beauty might have been, they knew well that she was a destroyer
of men's lives. Daring young men, who wore clean shirts to the
bars on Saturday nights and played as much as they worked every
other day of the week, admired Barbara recklessly. Her sumptuous
beauty was too tempting, and their experience of female power
too limited. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Barbara's restaurant was in a large old house, which had belonged
to a famous doctor who had lost his fortune after he was crippled
in the war. The doctor's hospitality had been so extravagant
that his creditors felt justified selling his home to a Florentine
chef named Ravelli who converted it into a grand restaurant.
The house, with eight ovens in the kitchen and deep wine cellars
below stairs, two main dinning rooms and several side rooms on
the second floor, a ballroom and four salons on the third floor,
all connected by an endless network of hidden passages, dumb waiters,
and servants quarters, transformed without any great effort.
Barbara lived with Ravelli in what had been the doctor's personal
suite on the forth floor, until Ravelli's death after which she
lived there alone. The doctor would appear from time to time
in the rooms that had been his; long after he had administered
a carefully measured, and certainly fatal, final dose of morphine.
He had once been an unusually handsome man, but a shell which
should have over shot the field hospital and a surgeon who should
have been stitching saddles instead of flesh, left the doctor
with a face frozen in a wry snarl and limbs that would not work
properly. On sunny days, he would sit close to the windows and
roll cigarettes with one hand while he watched the people passing
on the street below. He tended to ignore Barbara, so Barbara
tended to ignore him. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Max was from a small town in the country, where his father had
been the butcher. He was a tall enough young man who was broad
in the shoulders and slim at the waist. He had sand colored hair,
a square jaw, and iceberg blue eyes which focused resolutely at
whatever held his attention. Every morning he would go out, with
his cleaver and knives in an old leather envelope and walk past
Barbara's restaurant on his way to work. He labored at a large
stall in the meat market with four other men. As Michelangelo
wrought marble and stone with hammer and chisel, Max shaped flesh
and bone with cleaver and knife. He could rend a cold gray side
of beef into twenty two ruby cuts, each so smoothly sliced that
buyers sent by chefs from all over the city were instructed to
only accept prime cuts from Max. When Max took his knives to
a leg of lamb, he did not produce a common butterfly, but what
his colleagues described as Venus's Lips. He never showed pride
in his work, only calm satisfaction. At the end of every day
he would polish, sharpen and oil his tools then scrub himself
from head to toe with a soapy brush and wash himself clean with
cool water. Dressed in a black suit, and a white shirt he would
leave his room and walk around the corner to have his dinner at
Barbara's restaurant. Barbara permitted her regular diners to
pay for their meals week by week, sometimes month by month, but
Max always paid in cash and never used his credit. He was a fairly
sensible young man. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Barbara respected Max as a responsible master of his craft; Max
admired her as a competent mistress of her own affairs. Despite
the familiarity of their daily interactions they did not meet
socially for several months. In the last week before the start
of Lent everyone who could afford to throw a party did. Year
after year Gussman the Butcher's party was among the most famous.
Gussman was the wealthiest butcher in the guild, he owned the
stall in the market where Max and four other men cut and sold
his meats, and two others in different wards of the city. Gussman's
party was so large and so famous that every butcher in the guild
provided magnificent meats to suit any fancy. The Bakers Guild
sent glorious breads and cakes. Chefs from every quarter of the
city competed to outdo each other, and themselves, with the creations
they sent. Fantastic menus for banquets and buffets graced Gussman's
tables. Exceptional wine flowed plentifully. Through his genius
Gussman acquired and served casks, and cases, of wines which men
of much greater power and wealth paid wildly to buy by the bottle.
No one who came to Gussman's party left hungry or sober. No matter
what his station, every guest was fed like a prince. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Barbara was not corseted that night. She wore a green silk dress,
which clung to her skin, as she moved. With every change in her
position the dress teasingly revealed the plump fullness of her
heavy breasts, the concave line of her waist, the womanly dome
which rested between her wide hips, or her broad round ass. She
was among the most desirable women there, and she was unescorted,
drinking along with the men while eating with her hands. Her
table was crowded with gentlemen, tradesmen, gamblers and playboys,
some of whom had been called over to sit with her, although most
had invited themselves. Max was one of the few men who was there
by her personal request. She looked across the table at him as
she tore a limb off of a roasted hen and sucked the soft greasy
meat off of the bones, but said nothing. There was a famous merchant
at the table named Gustavo Ignazzio de Palazzolo. He was a tall
handsome African, somewhere over sixty years old, with a noble
face and strong hands. He wore a dark suit, a brightly brocaded
waistcoat, and a tall stiff collar with a rich silk necktie.
De Palazzolo was a famous man for many reasons, but at parties
he was most famous for being a captivating storyteller. He told
heroic accounts of his service in the Abyssinian War, humorous
anecdotes about his first trip to Naples, and inspiring tales
of his conversion to Catholicism and his pilgrimage to the Crypt
of Saint James. Also at the table was a charming sea captain
named Sabastião Pessoa who was a melancholy little man with heavy
eyebrows and a strange, subtle sense of humor. He had the ability
to charm and amuse every one around him with little more than
a tilt of his head, or a turn of his mouth. Max did not have
such talents. He was a solitary, quiet man who was shy in crowds
and unwilling to compete with more charismatic men for attention
he did not need. So, although he had Barbara's attention, he
only smiled at her politely and kept his thoughts to himself.
The hours danced by, as did platters of food and jugs of wine.
Gussman made his toast. Everyone was in high spirits. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Barbara had ordered a steak and eaten it with the carnivorous
focus of a leopardess. Having carved most of the meat away from
the bone, she regarded lustfully the tender pink flesh that her
knife was too dull and clumsy to cut cleanly. At this point Max
asserted himself. He asked if he could assist her, and produced
from under his vest a thin knife with a flexible blade. He then
stripped the bone of every succulent morsel of meat and passed
each of them to her modestly, without ever hinting that he expected
to win any reward or favor for having done so. Barbara thanked
him, and let her eyes linger on his face long enough that he could
not mistake her attraction to him as anything other than what
it was. As the party broke up every man who was in the position
to do so offered to escort Barbara home, but she declined all
offers. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Max the butcher is my neighbor," she explained to each of her
suitors. "If he can carve bandits as well as he carves beef, I
need no other escort tonight." Thus, both drunk on wine and merriment,
Barbara and Max walked back along the black and white paved streets,
past monuments and palaces, through narrow alleys and empty plazas
to their own ward and her restaurant. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">At the restaurant the staff was celebrating in the kitchen, enjoying
the remains of that night's menu and supplementing it with their
personal reserves of wines, cheeses and liquors. Barbara asked
Max to join the party, at least long enough for one round of drinks.
Unaware that it was a rare invitation he accepted casually, and
soon found himself following Barbara up a tight turning stairway
toward the top of the house. She led him into a room where he
thought he glimpsed a man in an evening suit standing beside the
window, but when she turned up the lights they where alone. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">For a moment, Max wondered why he was where he had found himself,
but that was due more to drunkenness than his naïveté. He had
been a man long enough to understand what privileges Barbara was
offering him. She stood beside the sofa at the center of the
room with her feet apart and her hips cocked to one side. Her
eyes where locked on him, burning with the same intent focus that
they had cast on the steak he had fed her. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Do you care for more wine?" She offered walking toward him.
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I'm quite drunk enough, thank you." He said some what soberly.
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Perhaps you should not leave just yet," She suggested, "If you
are quite that drunk." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I haven't far to go." He said with a grateful nod. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Along so many narrow, uneven stairways?" she argued. Her point
was clear; if he was too drunk to accept the drink, he was not
sober enough to take the stairs; and if he was sober enough to
take the stairs he was not too drunk to accept the drink. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"A wise man would argue that I am sober enough to take the stairs
now, but if I take another glass if wine I shall not be so sober."
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"If you are sober enough to know that, then you are sober enough
to know that I am inviting you to stay the night." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"And if I am sober enough to leave, but I do not leave, then I
must be willing to stay." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Then you must." She gave him an inviting smile. Max's landlady
had a daughter, Fatima, who worked as Barbara's maid. Fatima
was fascinated with Max, and used to spy on him when he was bathing
after work. That night, while she was helping Barbara dress for
the party, Fatima had confided in her mistress about what she
knew of the handsome butcher. The information she imparted had
ignited an interest within Barbara's imagination that she was
eager to satisfy. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Max did not need a neighborhood gossip to fuel his interest in
Barbara, he could see with his eyes how her body was shaped, and
he knew, as any mature male would, what such a body was good for.
All Max needed was the permission to express an interest that
had existed since the first time he had watched Barbara bend down
to tighten her bootlace. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Shall I ring for more wine?" She asked politely. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I'm not staying for the wine." He said bluntly. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">She laughed. "If you don't want any more wine, then I am going
to bed." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Max responded with a perplexed frown. "And what sort of hostess
would invite a man to prolong his stay then announce that she
intended to retire?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">It was clear from his tone that he already knew what the answer
would be. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"The sort of hostess who did not intend on retiring alone." She
replied, knowing it was what he wanted to hear. "What sort of
man would not presume as much?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"A wise man presumes nothing," Max replied. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"A foolish man ignores the obvious," Barbara said, turning her
back to him. As she walked away, her shoulders swayed and her
green silk dress dropped smoothly to rest on her hypnotizing hips.
Max pulled at his boot strings, and was out of his coat and vest
before he had crossed the room. He left his collar and tie on
the doorknob, and his shirt on the floor. He stood at the foot
of her bed in his trousers and socks, with his braces still on
his shoulders and his chest puffed out. Her bed was guarded against
the Winter draughts by a heavy canopy and curtains of rich velvet,
inside of which were warm pink sheets and pillows cut from shimmering
Chinese silk. She sat with her legs together and her feet pointing
toward him, a curious smile on her face as she waited for him
to approach. He stayed his distance, but tilted his head as if
awaiting an order. She raised her small pink foot, arching her
toes down then wiggling them. He caught her foot in one hand,
and held it, as he tickled her toes and arch with the tip of his
tongue. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">The summer before Max left his mother's house to make his fortune
in the city, there were gypsies camping in the forest outside
of the town where he lived. The priest and the captain of the
guard had warned the restless young men not to test their manhood
by visiting the camp, but Max had ignored the gray bearded village
elders. He had some money of his own, so he brought all the sausage,
bread and wine he could afford, or carry, to the Gypsy King and
passed the night in their camp as a welcome guest. That night
a fawn-eyed, brown-skinned girl danced for him by the fire, and
invited him to sleep with her. From her he learned how to release
a woman's passions, and then how to tame those passions, so that
he could ride her through as much shared pleasure as either of
their bodies could stand. The silver buttons where gone from
his jacket the next morning, as where the coins from his pockets,
and the girl, but he knew even then that it was a reasonable exchange.
As he traced the curves of Barbara's calves with his mouth, kissing
the tender backs of her knees and watching her body relax and
her legs open to him, he felt that it was he who had cheated the
gypsies. Barbara was a far better woman than any son of a country
butcher deserved. Her flesh was so soft that at times his hands
could not be sure if they were caressing Barbara, or one of the
voluptuous satin pillows which surrounded her. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Barbara lay underneath him, shivering as he touched her with unanticipated
expertise. It would have been enough, for her, to have been selfishly
fucked by a man so handsome and so well equipped for the task.
His body had been sculpted by hard labor into a shape more perfect
than Grecian chisels could rend from even the finest marbles.
His skin was smooth and his hair was soft, his harmoniously proportioned
muscles moved with effortless grace as he proved he was strong
enough to lift her, and turn her, and put her however he wanted
her. He calmly massaged her with powerful hands, which gently
soothed every muscle they caressed. She felt herself beginning
to climax, and as much as she wanted to hold back, she was too
much under his control to hide it from him. His thick neatly
groomed fingers had pealed her like an over ripe fig, and were
tickling her someplace she had not expected him to uncover so
deftly. The oblivion of sensual ecstasy hovered like heavy storm
clouds, each little orgasm crashed like a roll of thunder close
over head, but the eminent storm would not break. She turned
on him, transformed by lust into a furious maenad. As she lashed
out, Max pulled away from her, suddenly tame and apologetic.
Laughing at him, she forced his braces off of his shoulders and
his trousers off of his hips. She was delighted to find that
Fatima had not exaggerated about the young butcher's wears at
all. He was amply blessed in both shape and size, and Barbara
was sure he could do as well with it as he had with his fingers
and tongue. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">He smiled as she tackled him, letting her pin him to the mattress,
and ride him as if he were nothing more than some toy there solely
for her amusement. His heavy hands kneaded her bosom, her ass,
and her belly. His strong fingers pinched her erect nipples,
and stroked her swollen lips as she drew him toward her womb.
She writhed and undulated on the end of his cock, as she ran her
small hands over his solid chest and thick arms. He watched her,
and found great satisfaction in the pleasure she was extracting
from his body. When her face was flushed, and her hair was sticking
to her cheeks, and her hips gyrating more slowly, he sat up and
kissed her panting lips. He drew up his knees, and turned his
shoulders, rolling her on to her back with out withdrawing himself
from inside of her. Bracing himself on his strong steady arms,
he began to move his hips in small gentle circles, churning within
her, as he tested the fit. She was wet and relaxed and he filled
her with out resistance. She was not too tight, but she was not
too loose either; he was neither too large, nor too small. It
was perfect. She purred, and ran the sharp tips of her fine fingers
up and down the muscular back that was propelling his increasingly
powerful thrusts. He moved inside of her as if she was telling
him how, but she was enjoying him too much to shout instructions.
He just knew. He knew that when she sighed and caressed his flanks,
he should softly ease in and out; when she moaned and clawed his
buttocks, he should vigorously plough into her; and he knew that
when she growled and bit his neck, tearing into his shoulders
with her sharp little fingernails, that he should savagely pound
at her depths. He knew how to please her as well as he knew how
to please himself, and he did so with calm satisfaction, much
the same way he did his work. The last night of Carnival rolled
past as they climaxed together, fucking like beasts of the fields;
the sheets stuck to their skins as they curled around each other,
exhausted and close to sleep. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">When the church bells woke her, Max was gone. He had not left
so much as a shirt stud behind, and not even the night porter
has seen him go. That evening he came into her restaurant, his
forehead marked with an ashy cross, and ordered the cod chowder
with some bread, and water to drink. After he had eaten she came
over to his table to greet him. She did not look like the same
woman he had been with the night before, once again in her corset
and severe black dress, until she smiled at him and said hello.
They chatted politely, each privately relishing the memories of
the night before. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Will I see you later?" she asked, with a lascivious undertone,
which only he would expect from her. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I am afraid not," he said with out any regret showing on his
face. "My father has grown too old to run his shop alone, and
even Gussman won't be selling enough meat to pay five butchers
over the next forty days. I'm taking the first train north in
the morning." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I am sorry to see you go," Barbara said, swallowing her displeasure.
"You have been a most valued patron." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"And you have been a most obliging hostess," he said, rising
from his table and reaching for his billfold. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"You don't have to pay. Tonight you eat on the house." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">He thanked her, with a fond smile, and made his way to the door.
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"If you ever return to this city," she called behind him, "you
are always welcome here." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I doubt if I shall ever return to this city," he muttered as
he passed onto the street. The Doctor looked down from his window
and watched the handsome young butcher go; behind him he heard
Barbara throw herself on to her sofa, sobbing. He rolled another
cigarette, and mused on the figure of a man who had possessed
all the fame his profession could grant, and the finest woman
his fame could win him, as he turned his back on it all to be
asimple butcher, with a plain wife, in the unknown country town
where he was born.</font></p>
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