She was confused by mention of a shoe factory, but then, she knew that the maestro had a strange personality disorder, and was given to short lapses into these strange non-sequiturs that may or may not have had anything to with his life.
(I got sick of being a monkey. Too much hair in the shower drain every morning.)
Since she had, in fact, been supporting Carlo for some time, Francesca laughed out loud at this, the maestro's latest delusion.
" what is so funny ?? " he demanded. " I really AM the owner of Nike Corporation!" he said between gulps of water he used to wash down his zoloft.
"Uh, yeah," Francesca replied, beginning to doubt the maestro was up to hearing new vocal talent.
The maestro, sensing she knew he was lying quickly stuttered" Its my medication talking not me, Please... forgive me"
Having made arrangements to meet Maestro Grigorovitch at his studio in half an hour, Francesca quickly dressed and dragged Carlo to the stables where her horse-drawn carriage awaited them.
"This carriage reeks of deviant sexual activity," Carlo said upon entering the carriage, and held his handkerchief up to his nose--the handkerchief smelled like Francesca.
The horse snickered upon viewing the outfit Carlo was wearing to perform an operatic snippet or two for the Maestro at their destination, Sorrento.
They got into the carriage and started out on their jouney; vast dark clouds were approaching, the wind had kicked up a bit and had acquired a chilly bite to it, and lightning, growing closer, could be seen flashing in the east--Carlos could smell the electricity in the air, and as the smell of early summer storms always did, it stirred his inner zeal for debauchery and the pleasures of the fairer sex.
He felt a burning in his loins.
Fortunately Carlo, who had made a lucrative career out of deviant sexual behavior with middle-aged matrons such as Francesca, had been anticipating an outing to the opera and so had foregone his usual leather and studs that morning in favor of more conventional attire consisting of a dark emerald-colored velvet waistcoat with gold-plated buttons, a fitted silver brocade vest, an ivory linen shirt with lace collar, and tight chamois leather britches.
His britches made his skin feel itchy.
Rain began to fall, the steady rocking of the carriage further stirring his hot-blooded desires--there was a playful light in his eyes as he asked Francesca if she wouldn't be more comfortable riding in his lap.
Roguishly, she agreed, and with difficulty because of the lurching of the carriage in the rain, got to her feet, but when she plonked her comely but very curvaceous body on his skinny, feeble legs, he felt a sudden diminution of desire.
Lightening crashed through the virulently rumbling tumbling skies.
"Oh, Carlo!" Francesca screamed.
Francesca's scream re-awakened his passions, and the crashing lightning and the needles of rain pounding on the carriage ignited the flames of amore deep within them; and the agitated rocking of the carriage accompanied them as she moved her body in time with his thrusts, their passionate moans growing ever more hungy and greedy and primal as this ride through the storm grew toward its glorious crescendo.
But then, brigands approached the carriage from the south (yeh, an assumption, I know, but in fact they were Cesare's men....)
Momentarily distracted, Francesca twisted her neck to the side so violently that she tore a ligament.
Francesca's husband, Cesare, a brutish merchant thought to have been lost at sea a decade previously, had recently found his way back to the Amalfi coast and, being incensed to find his wife wantonly spending his hard-earned fortune on a gigolo, had sent his henchmen to intercept her and return her to their villa at once where he planned a cruel surprise to reveal his return.
