In the dim twilight of the shop, the man hissed once more as his blade sliced over his flesh. His brow knitted in annoyance as a tiny sliver of blood oozed out from the cut. Carefully, he held his hand a distance away from his fine clothing and searched for a rag.
When the spy had warned Cesare he had no skill as a barber, he wasn't lying.
Baltasar de Silva sighs, exasperated. That man always had an answer, shutting away his spy's protests with a simple, "I'm not looking for a successful business." Of course. Popular or not -heavy emphasis on not-, the barber shop had been set up fully stocked with any tools Baltasar would need to convince the public of Roma he was just a simple barber, working dutifully for a living with his lovely wife Fiora.
The dark-haired man stops suddenly, keeping a red rag pressed firmly over his wound.
Si, his lovely wife, Fiora.
If anyone was to ask, -unlikely-, he was to respond with some fabricated story of how he and the former courtesan came to be. Baltasar chuckles as he carefully puts away the razor he had been studying keenly. He doesn't remember too many of the details, but their little story went something like, "I'd fallen for her at first sight in a tiny village outside the bustling city."
Oh si, his beautiful, demure and simple sweetheart.
He laughs again, curled moustache drawn along with his smirking lips. Fiora Cavazza was a brilliant actress, in his opinion. The bold tart wore her simple clothing without protest, sauntering around the market for bread and meat, always with a calm smile that was only strange to Baltasar because he knew just how she acted in private. He knew well there was nothing demure and simple about the confident and extravagant woman. Nothing at all. Fiora was truly a dangerous and beautiful lady.
Baltasar jolts from his own thoughts, unaware how deeply he was swimming in his mind. He throws the rag down onto the counter in frustration, trying hard to keep up his arrogant front.
Dammit, she was beautiful. There was no denying it. Beautiful in the way she held so much poise in her long, shapely legs, such grace in the hands that held her deadly fan. Her cocoa colored locks, that dark gleam of judgment in her deep eyes…
Moving away to take a rather loud seat on the wooden chair beside him, Baltasar grunts and continues his tangent thoughts, eyes closed in suppressed irritation. Damn, she was beautiful.
In his mind, the barber's eyes rake over Fiora's form clad in the courtesan outfit he found particularly attractive on her. Her breasts were no large bounty, but Baltasar found himself liking it, imagining how his large hands could cup and kneed and massage them easily. Then he would move them slowly, ever so slowly and teasingly down her creamy torso to rest on those wide hips. What Fiora lacked in the north she greatly made up for in the south.
A smirk twitching on his hairy lips, Baltasar, alone in the empty shop, continues to fantasize without pause.
What point was there in keeping his desires from himself?
Si, his hands would massage against her hips as she moaned, reaching back to stroke his dark hair. Grinning from her pleasure, he would slip to gently squeeze the rounded cheeks of her plump bottom. Oh, how she might squeak in surprise, turning to nip at his neck. She would murmur, "What are you planning to do there, padre~?"
At this, Baltasar would smirk and cackle darkly. Si, he was the padre, and she the madre to their "project." And though at the time Il Lupo would certainly be off somewhere doing Dio knows what, the barber would uphold their little family roles. When a mommy and a daddy really love each other, indeed.
Baltasar feels a twitch in his loins just as he pictures himself shedding his trousers. He follows along, reaching down to tear at the buttons and release his growing beast from his fabric cage. Without shame, the barber grips the thick member in one hand and pleasures himself freely to thoughts of how he would make love to Fiora.
As all "married" couples do, he would grasp his "wife" to his bare chest, growling lowly with need and guiding her to their shared bed. She would laugh gently and smirk, breaking his grip with ease before starting to undress herself.
"No." Baltasar would halt her, eyes darkening with desire and his "razor" throbbing furiously. He would push at her shoulders, pinning her to the sheets of their bed and slowly working to remove her clothing until she was left bare and beautiful below him. He would make her squirm in frustration and growing want, his eyes drinking in the sights of her soft toned skin, her slim waist, plump little buds and rosy peeks, then lower to her generous bottom and precious flower hidden beneath a garden of rich curls.
Oh, how her expression would change from dominant to submissive once his tongue invaded her core. Fiora would blush deeply and cry out as he would wonder if any of her pathetic customers ever thought of her pleasure. No matter, for he was her muscled, handsome husband, and would give her all the satisfaction she could beg for.
And she would beg. Oh dio, she would be at his mercy. Fiora's sweet, needful gasps and shrieks would fill their bedroom and the barber's own pleasure. How he would enjoy drinking her with fever and repeating again and again a circuit up her smooth slit and around her throbbing button. Soon, his thick fingers would plunge into her dripping entrance, tickling her walls from the inside to make the courtesan arch up and scream his name. How beautifully Fiora must moan, Baltasar grunts in his mind, not minding his panting as his hand strokes up and down his blade.
The barber would push her further and further to the edge, the dark hair of his moustache teasing her soft petals and lips ever so gently sucking on her button. But Baltasar knew she was not as fragile as she appeared in public. He would begin to pump his fingers roughly inside her sweet hidden cave, lick a bit harder each time he felt the courtesan's slippery insides squeeze his digits. The barber's free hand would reach up to again massage her breast, taking her hardened pink nipple between his thumb and index finger and pressing forcefully.
After what he hoped would last for an eternity, Baltasar would make Fiora would cry out in ecstasy, and he would roar back, "Oh, you like this, don't you Fiora?"
In her own beautiful way, the courtesan would pant and moan, "Si, si, si, ooh, more, Baltasar!"
His dream Fiora would arch against his lips and release her sweet honey for him, and only him. Just as he imagines lapping up all she would give him, Baltasar chokes out a gasp and spills his seeds over his hand, thrusting into his fist a few more times before collapsing fully in the chair.
With images of his beautiful, satisfied and panting Fiora fading, the barber groans and lazily glances out the window at the darkened Roma night. Dio, how long had he been sitting there, just thinking- no, fantasizing, of the woman he had become hopelessly infatuated with?
Much too long, Baltasar concludes as he wipes up the white cream from his fingers and limping member. Self-consciously, he gazes around at the quiet shop and out into the sparsely populated street.
For once, having such an unpopular barber shop was a good thing. Now clothed and composed, the unskilled barber resumes putting away the unused tools. If anything, at least he could be alone with his thoughts. Baltasar brushes back his pitch colored hair and grunts softly, savoring the silence of the night until a single though sends a jolt through his spine, ending in his loins.
It was almost midnight, and his lone patron would be returning soon from her surveillance.
His beloved little wife.
Rather than become annoyed or flustered, the barber simply smirks darkly with a matching chuckle.
How late she would be returning, his Fiora.
Setting up his chair right by the hidden door of the shop, Baltasar waits with arms crossed over his chest, thinking of just the perfect way to "punish" his beautiful Fiora.