“In my
Here with you, my dear Francesca.
I see your hair, float in the wind-“
Giancarlo let out an exasperated gasp. “Idiota!” He muttered to himself. It was late, his eyes were heavy and every few seconds he would yawn, but his brain was riddled with thoughts of Francesca. After a dinner that was surprisingly non-contentious (mainly because he lied to his family and declared that Messer Lucardi was considering paying him a commission on the statue), he retired to his room for the remainder of the night. However, a notebook full of scribbled out poems later, and he was no closer to his goal of writing the most exquisite poem to win over the heart of Francesca. Giancarlo blew out the candle on his desk and went to lay down in his bed. He realized that achieving this goal tonight would be futile, but the image of Francesca continued to burn in his head.
He thought about her gentle face and her soft lips. How he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to touch her and feel the warmth of her body. He wanted to be smothered in her divine beauty. Giancarlo felt his hand start to wander and his member start to bulge. He could not dispel the lustful thoughts of her that he was having, nor did he want to. With each new thought, his passion grew more furious until he could not control himself anymore. The primordial urge took over him until he had completely satisfied himself. He laid in his bed, sweating and panting as he regained his senses. He did not get up to clean himself off; instead, he quickly fell into a deep slumber.
“What have I done?” He thought to himself as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness.
Header Image: Canto XVIII, Sandro Botticelli. 1482.