Rosalba's awakening

Wednesday, 15 July, Year 12 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

"Moscai... il telefono!"

The head butler was tall, but not too tall ; his hair jet black but not too jet (though definitely black) ; his manner altogether impeccable, though of course not too impeccable. Italian, you see ; but nevertheless... impeccable. He gestured his sparkling white gloves, worn to signify he's not aware his master needs him outside at the moment -- such as for instance driving the carii -- polishedly excused himself and made for the telephone's little table in the hallway.

"Si, casa Volpone" he proffered, evenly. The maid that had summoned him very interestedly immersed herself in supposedly dusting something that wasn't at all dusty to begin with, her back turned on him, half-pace away, her ears as wide as maids' ears ever widen. She was most firmly decided to figure out what the hell's going on in this house, and had been for some time, but with as little success as everyone else attempting the exact same, and this despite her presumably considerable advantages in being uninterruptibly present. While listening bemused to the intricacies being emitted from the other end, Mosca extended his white glove and rested it on her back, fingers on her clavicle, thumb right where cervix turns to thorax and most women project a bony bump, surrounded by sensitive hairs, capable of sending small yet almighty electric shocks all the way to their toes, and their nipples, and other places. As he rubbed she turned to face him.

"Guarda che io lo dico a mio marito."
Mosca's retort came silently. His ability to speak without voice was stunning, and this particular "e ? che me frega a me ?" one of his most impressive pantomymical creations. Then, as his attempt to extract himself from the other party's deluge of oral ministrations took, and he hung up, voice came to follow expression.

"Ma dille, Rosalba" he offered, as his left hand found its place on her back again, and firmly turned her round again. "Dille, dille" he whispered in her ear, his hand now pushing down the small of her back and encountering surprisingly little resistance doing so, as if Rosalba was finding her groove under his hand. "Dille, perche no" he continued, his right lifting her skirts as she gasped for air and then released it in a short, sweet moan. "Ma dille dopo."
"Dopo... dopo..." she cooed, eyes half closed, "dopo di..." she exhaled, a throaty whisper of sorts. Peraps she meant to inquire "after what ?", seemingly the next syllable out of her emptying windpipe'd have been a "che", yet she never arrived to forming it. Instead she let out a very sharp "Ahh!" as the point of inquiry no doubt made itself felt most viscerally, cutting its way into her very flesh and fulfilling her at the same time, in one hearty lounge. To her very sharp "Ahh!" Mosca replied his most calming "Shhhh!", his soft, sweet, snake song that on two different occasions before had mended his Master's nap, broken by baying hounds or domestic accident. It did seem to produce commensurate effect, as Rosalba confined herself to breathing sharply and swaying her hips into him, just as sweetly, and just as softly.
"Dille al tuo marito" he whispered at her, finding his rythm in her, back and forth, apace. "Dille che sei una puttana, Rosalba" he cooed.
"Puttana..." she cooed right back.
"Dille che ti piace."
"Mi piace..."
"Dille quanto e bello, essere una puttana."
"E bello... e bello..."
"Dille a 'lo cornuto di tu marito."
"Cor... nu... to" she whispered, methodically, "cor... nu... to... cor... nu... to."
"Dille che molto ti piace..."
"Mi piace... mi piace... molto... moltissimo"
"Essere una puttana."
"Sporcami, Mosca. Sporcami tutta!" suddenly she found her voice, enunciating clearly and decisively, in great contrast to her lullaby singalong before. "Sporcami dentro, per siempre!"
"Troia!"
"Si, si! Ah! Si! Ahhh."
"Sporcacciona!"
"Ah si, si! Ah, che... bello..."

Mosca withdrew his dripping appendage and, grabbing a fistful of her dress, wiped himself thoroughly. She had turned towards him, almost kneeling, an altogether impossible position.
"Questo non finisce cosi." he proferred, somehow ominously, as if threatening wrathful future visitations upon her.
"No Signore." she agreed, almost sheepishly.
"Vai, vai. Ne parliamo noi dopo." he shooed her, and then, turning his back on the upended Rosalba, left her there, as the most natural thing in the world. Then again, it is only natural that the maid would deal with the remnants ; and besides, Rosalba was as much a woman as ever woman was. What are women here for, if not to deal with the remnants ?

———
  1. This writ having transparently been inspired by a certain retelling of an indeed ancient story, I've preserved the nominal convention for transparency's sake, not to mention how well it actually works. This'd then be truthful artfulness and apoteotic artifice : when convention, transparent as convention may be, is nevertheless protected under the impenetrable aegis of being preferable in the first place. What better name than Mosca for the job and the role could you scare up, yourself ? So then! []
  2. Cars being relatively new, and the specialisation of autista not yet speciffically trained for, most houses still at this time passed the responsibility upon their head butler, everywhere a much more trustworthy not to mention capable intellect than the ranks of more traditional transportation personnel could possibly muster. So the grooms sat, and spat, and chewed hay with a disdainful stare across the hedges, while the head butler carefully if precisely oiled the machinery, or whatever it was he did to it.

    They'd have loved nothing more than to pull some kind of prank, of course, but then again the damned thing was imposing, it rather cut their bravado like a thousand young women's laughter. Misadventure promised to be expensive not to mention separately liable to incure Master's wrath, and so they manned their greenricades (which are exactly like barricades but with leafy greens instead of bars) and waited their time. Meanwhile their time was waiting upon someone else somewhere else, and soon ran out, like all time ever does. They, of course, full well knowingly didn't know this, as everyone ever does. And so on. []

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
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