"L'ho detto a mio marito, sai..."
"E lui, lui che ha detto ?"
"'a detto..." Rosalba stops for a moment and looks up, way way up at the reclining head butler. Is he scared ? He doesn't seem scared. Is he the least bit afraid ? "'a detto che te spacchia la testa, 'a detto..." she continues her strand of narrative truth. It's not true in its meaning, import or substance, of course... yet... nevertheless... it's somehow true. This language doesn't have a proper meaning for factice (lo dice Pitre, e lui non si sbaglia mai), yet narrative truth is true in some myopic sense, like any scam it has the one path through it that does appear right as light even if any other and all the others are pitch-grade opaque. Nobody could accuse it of not being true, that's what it is.
"E... quando ?" comes the question, vague, disinterested.
"Piu tardi..." she cooes back.
"Dopo, dopo" she sings along his driving tune. The timelapse betwen her erstwhile occasional kisses by now collapsed into negative space, mashing them into each other on the timeline, turning the activity into earnest sucking him off, lovingly, dedicatedly. It wasn't always this way, though.
It hadn't been anything like this not half an hour earlier, as she hesitated before knocking on his door. She didn't ever do that before, neither of the two, both hesitation and matinal visitation novel items in her daily routine. She woke at daybreak, as she always had before, a maid's life begins with the dawn (and ends in pregnancy, they say). She woke at daybreak that day as each and every previous day, even as a little girl in her parents' house, before escaping that fiery, infernal hell into the frigid wastes of marriage -- at least nobody bothered her now, that's something. Isn't it ? Don't you find it's something ?
She woke at daybreak and then scurried upstairs like a giddy schoolgirl, about ready to burst down his door, when she thought better of it, half a second before actually touching that sacred representation of Signoria itself. She... she... she can't just barge in there like that, it occured to her. She has to knock. What's more, she has to prepare herself, she thought, as she pushed her breast out of its hiding, out into the open, as she lifted her skirt in front as high as it makes sense to, leaving a clear and unobstructed view of herself.
Then only she knocked, abashed, and with the vaguely irritated "Entra, entra, che c'e ?!" made herself scarce within. Within, the head butler's modest yet private apartment, a bedroom after a small parlour, and there he sat down, and there she kneeled between his legs, and told him stories she had to tell him while now and again kissing his manhood, worshipfully.
"Che merdaccia" he offered, neutrally.
"Asi l'ho chiammato anch'io", she retorted. Indeed she had ; the part of the past day's narration that had in fact happened but that she didn't air before the butler did in fact contain such matter.
What she had told Mosca was that after the first rage explosion cooled itself as it's wont to, a minute later, she ground her body into her husband's, and reaching into his breeches pulled on his penis, to irritation and then, still insistently pulling and pushing ever so slightly, back and forth, to excited paroxism.
What she hadn't told Mosca was that it was just what her other mother had taught her to, her secret other, latter Mother. What she told him was that she did it again, to her husband, that day, many times, to complete exhaustion and beyond ; but she didn't tell him why she did it, or how she learned to do it, or where. She never told him, or anyone, who taught her, nor would she. Yet she gave great luxury of detail as to the cuckold's hesitations, to the intricate meanderings of his "oppinion" formation, something entirely his own, derived at the impact of phenomena on his supposed "personality", a thing that exists like competence in bureaucrats exists : by autocratic fiat. Like sugar exists in poor household exactly -- because there's an empty box saying "Sugar" on the lid, and for no other reason.
She spent most of the time describing the other's waffling to a mostly disinterested one because that's what she was told she's best served doing and saw no better deed before her ; but she didn't mention their time in bed, she and her husband, except to say that as he turned his back on her she wanted to shove a thumb inside of him, and give him the release he so much craved, but didn't want to until Mosca himself had violated her anally.
"Fallo prima a me, e poi io lo faro a mio marito" she had said, but she omitted to discuss how much she had wanted to touch her man there, deep inside, how desperately she had wanted to put her thumb on his clou, on that enchanted nail whence it all hangs, personality an' pretense, emotion and eloquence, afect and fright and self-defense. She did it, of course, that same night, she didn't resist the urge to make her husband feel like the happy, loved little girl he absolutely was ; and afterwards, once his innard had grown stony and then he was done, afterwards she rubbed her finger into his pozzanghera, the little puddle that was left of him, and then on his uppoer lip, right under his nose. "Mia cara merdaccia" she whispered in his ear as she had done it, knowing full well that thence and forevermore he was married to her, and not the other way around.
"Una merdaccia vera e propria" she offered finally, roundly, and thereby closing the matter.