by E V King
Milo wrote back: Bitch.
My rash action hadn’t missed its target. Even better, this showed me he craved me in that very instant—what an enormously arousing thought. His kind words had immediately pierced the skin of my fingertips from the nanosecond they slid across the screen and pumped fast into the gaping mouth of my hungry soul.
My pleasure x.
He replied: You deserve to be slapped around.
Please shut up. It’s happening again. Soon as you called me bitch. Damn, I have serious issues when it comes to you. Two words and already wet.
In the meantime, I escaped the grocery store and climbed into my car. Horny for Milo, I got behind the wheel, hoping something—the passing scenery—would calm me down. For the moment, that wasn’t happening. I tapped my fingers nervously and had difficulty keeping my eyes on the road, or even in this world, while my inner thighs were scalding. The world of Estelle and Milo came closer with every sound. Blindly, I searched in the cupholder next to me for my phone, my eyes hungry to read his randy texts.
Milo: The only whore I know heating up this fast…you are unique. Congrats, bitch.
Me: Only with you. Apparently unique too.
Milo: Do you feel yourself getting wet?
Me: Yes. And feel all of it contracting.
Milo: Unique specimen.
The road blurred into the background, and I realized driving in this condition was no longer a responsible activity. With much effort, my eyes tried to focus on something, anything in the distance, and scan for the opportunities it offered. Not long after, I had a stroke of luck and swerved to the right to park my car on the shoulder. Swiftly I unbuttoned my jeans and let my hand slide in. This was information I couldn’t deprive him of. This particular high made it impossible for me to lie, something I was more or less incapable of with him anyway, but more importantly, never felt the need to. I didn’t have to hide anything from him. Not even the mad and sordid twists of my mind. It’s fortunate, because the only urges constantly rising in his presence, in the flesh or in my head, were without fail the most forbidden and perverted kind.
He’d probably point out I was being excruciatingly honest again. Most certainly, because few others would confess to entertaining, let alone acting on, these kinds of wicked thoughts—fantasies of the degenerate kind, some might say. To me, this was elation, pure and simple. Whatever made me kink that way, I was not ashamed, and I was not corrupted, because on the other side of the dime, motivating this life of scandal behind the curtains of my mind, lay the precious heart of a hopeless romantic. Milo touched upon this sometimes, but he bent to the kinks of my road all too willingly.
Me: You drive me crazy.
Milo: Do you finger yourself secretly then?
Me: You know me too well.
Milo: Then think I am coming in that filthy mouth of yours. Or do you prefer having my sperm up your ass?
Me: Just pulled over, can no longer concentrate on road. Yes—and you slapping me around again. No idea how hot you get me.
Milo: Have you touched your wet cunt yet?
Me: Why do you think I pulled over?
I was so thankful for the invention of word-suggestion software on cell phones nowadays…I must remember to silently praise the inventor of this blissful thing once I get home.
Milo: Trashy slut. I will beat you up so bad…and clench your throat and look you straight in the eyes.
Even when he wasn’t physically there, he knew perfectly what I wanted, as if he had a direct line tapping into my desires, the pain and the passion, the depraved ways of rapture and ruin I needed him for, deliciously balled into words. What a man. Experiences like these were worth it all—ensuring me of my genuine duties, against all better judgment. Even though I knew full well he was a mere mortal like the lot of us, I was momentarily convinced, again, that he surely must be that god from my past, walking among us, hiding in plain sight, pulling my heartstrings again with that mad magic he held.
Milo: And compel you to put three fingers up your pussy. And I watch you with my hands around your neck.
Me: you beast, I want you to fuck me so bad right now, the harder, the better.
Milo: hard as hell, darling.
just tell me that then—shout.
scream, you need to be fucked hard.
by your whoremaster.
The darkness of my heart and soul veiled over me like warm waves full of peace, and my hand felt numb, creeping to my thigh to rest a little. My eyes found two blushing cheeks in the rearview mirror, as well as one of my golden locks sticking to my forehead with a pearl of sweat. Estelle, I thought to myself, you are definitely derailed inside your mind. I had no time to wonder whatever made me hunger this way, because the answer had been there all along. It was that fire of his, of Milo’s.
Milo: on fire.
Me: You, too?
Milo: yes, dear whore, I’ll go jerk off now.
Me: damn, I will rip you apart next week I think.
Milo: and I will rip your ass.
Me: with pleasure.
I’d better come naked.
Milo: think so, too. just those hooker heels.
Me: delicious animal, you.
how could I ever resist you…you are as much a swine as I am.
Milo: the filthier, the better. Just came, if only all of it was on your face…
Me: you may.
I wanted to visit stores like this daily. Leave to get supplies, freshly baked bread, and ingredients for the night’s dinner, and come back with a full truck and a blushingly hot orgasm as an extra. This delight should be a daily thing; of course, if this were to happen every day, it wouldn’t phenomenally turn me on like it did just now, satisfying myself on the side of the road, with hundreds of clueless witnesses passing by, not noticing. They were up to their usual routines—going to the store, visiting a last customer before heading home, out to get the kids from school—and I was sitting there, in the middle of their days, savoring a crazed moment in my car, on a normal day, in a normal place, with and without Milo, escaping the mechanics of life. These thrilling details molded my life into something worth sensing.
We had done it a million times before, with slight variations in tastes, but from our homes and from our couches or beds, occasionally with spouses nearby, unaware of this thing. Obviously, the poetic capacities of dirty talk are fairly limited, sometimes up to the point of nonexistent; but to label it a vulgarity is a flagrant injustice. The animalistic aspect of life justifies the practice with ease; an independent means of liberating the mind of unnatural structures and reacquainting it with the basic urges. If anything, it is one of the last honest remnants of our natural disposition. It was nearly a decade ago that he had first heard me moan with liberation over the phone; and it had clung to my loins, my first long-distance sex. Again Milo. Again.
The silence again. Hours and hours of it. Days at a time. I offered him rest—he needed that. So he was probably just taking it easy then, resting, focusing on getting better, focusing on himself. Everything I wanted too, really, but somewhere behind the love hid this silly little human, a silly human worried by the silence—the hours and hours of it. A part of me was still that same little person, silently living on in fear such as back when I was hopelessly smitten with a fatherly man, to use Milo’s words. Fear to speak. Fear to breathe. Fear to live. Fear to love. Those little silly people, of whom I harbored one, yearn for confirmation, for an answer to their questions and doubts, but mostly for a resonance of the pleasure of experience and the ecstasy of baring it all. The ignorance, intrinsically connected to the silence, this vicious package deal, was tolerably painful and feeding the most terrifying monster of mental discord: indefiniteness. Patience never was my strongest suit, but if I wanted to keep him close for a little while longer, then I just had to sit back not knowing what was going on in his life; trust his
method and, most importantly, just wait.
Time and rest have proven to be senseless necessities for many things. Focusing on goals might help—numbing the mind with physical exercise in the gym, stifling the doubts and insecurities to a temporary death with work—but that didn’t mean it was getting any easier. The egotism inside that silly little girl rose up, making the silence—after hours and hours—quite insufferable, flooding my mind with dread. Disgusting. Repulsive. Why the silence? Was this it? The end? Another end without good-byes? Did I dream this up with my stupid floating mind? Probably. This silence probably didn’t even occur to him. I didn’t occur to him. He let me slide as if I were nothing. On a freezing winter’s day, he wouldn’t even grant me the common pleasure of the smoldering vapor of his steaming shit. That was surely because, to him, I was not human; I was a thing, an object to serve his affection, an object to be used. But wasn’t that exactly what I agreed to? Wasn’t this what I had wanted all along?
I had assented to this myself. It really turned me on. Really. If he so much as hissed in my direction how much he enjoyed shamelessly using his strumpet, I soaked my underwear in the blink of an eye. Frankly, I didn’t know why I lubricated instantaneously when he treated me, and spoke to me, as if I were a whore. Perhaps it seemed more plausible in my mind that he too, like the men in my past had proven to be, didn’t have an inkling of feeling for me. Or maybe it’s simply easier to believe that, the not loving thing. His departure was inevitable, certain, part of the agreement, and by accepting it in advance, perhaps that resulted in my lack of inhibitions, my lack of fear that he would disappoint me. Really, that’s the truth, the real thing to say. I had moaned my agreement to this deal. So that would make this horrible side effect to the silence my fault. Or would it? Maybe there was more, maybe we were more. That was what he said anyway. Argh…well, saying and doing, words and acting, we all know that story too well.
I am a worthy addition to a gallery filled with naïve females and silly little girls: the mistresses hanging out on the walk of shame. Together we’d be able to yearn for our respective consumers with whom we, incidentally, fell in love. Or was that not the case at all? Wasn’t it just the opposite? Maybe he had had enough of that recently found honesty of mine, of my stubbornness as well, and of my wanton determination for a theatrical confession. I should’ve just put my foot in my mouth, and shut up, the way I used to. That man was sick of it, my craziness. As women, we tend to forget about the simple fact that men are regular people just like us. They are mortals with a heart too. That was something, perhaps, that had my stupidity written all over it. So that’s where I earned this: these hours and hours of silence. Or maybe, just maybe, this quiet was no more than the invisible witness of his recovery, his actual resting, and his actual gaining strength; but yet again, I couldn’t stop my mind from obsessing over it at full speed.
This scenario was exactly what the textbooks would call “losing your mind.” Truly, I was going insane here. Instead, I should just get a grip and hold on, wait, and stop overanalyzing situations until I blow them up into epic nothings. Life was often deceptively simple—simpler than we thought. Milo rests—a hush follows. Clear. No motives, no aversion, no fear. Oh devilish silence, hours and hours of it, I succumbed to you with pleasure for his well-being, for my no reason person. But my humanity sometimes got the best of me and coveted nothing more than his reassurance. My insides ached for that instant where his sparsely granted words would pet my worries into the sweet bliss of obedience, the harmony of those particular letters calming the storm raging underneath my skin. For now, I was bound to wait and would endure the silence, seconds upon seconds of it, huddling into days—weeks, if necessary—as your hidden refuge rock in the surge. I decided it was time to trounce that little human of mine, so that I could go on doing what was important—offer him some silence.
Chapter Ten
I kept staring into his eyes, not because I was waiting for an answer, but to avoid hearing what his brain would filter out from what was truly roaming around in there. Never would I wait for that diluted crap. Milo was something I wanted to touch straight through the gaze. In his face, I already discerned the first subtle signs of reason, microscopic expressions that would soon swell into spoken words. With my index finger on his lips, I elegantly managed to put a stop to it. This was not the time for words; they were nothing more than the bitches of a selective reality. I didn’t want his lies or, worse, to hear how cute I was being. Nothing speaks louder than silence. Nothing is quite as pure. So I went on staring at him, and I found the authenticity I yearned for. A delicate waterline started tiding over my eyes. The adrenaline of the anticipation was getting the better of me, an eagerness for the infinite value of candor that would come strung together in the fraction of a minute. I dove into Milo’s azures of raw thought. Deep beneath a superficial net of compassion and despondency, I chafed myself on his reefs, the grains of appreciation tingling on every inch of skin. His truth put me to trembling. I am many things, frank and deliriously insane among them. I am natural now; the ice queen had learned, over the course of many years, to let go. Just as much, I am the keeper of an obscure heart, filled with a damned tantalizing sadness. He had seen it all. He was enchanted and amazed: by my apparent boundlessness, my uncomplicated nature, and even by the dark veil wrapping them up. He had touched upon my sanity and my madness, and all the shades in between. Without a word, everything I had ever really craved to hear was floating unspoken between us.
Milo attempted to speak again. But I stopped him once more.
“Just let me dream a little longer, darling,” I mumbled.
My head drifted down next to my hand on his chest. The cadence of his life dragged me along into a slumber.
“Let me be yours, just for a little bit,” I whispered, almost pleading. “Just for a little bit, before I realize these shreds of dreams will never get better in this life. Just for a little bit, let me be entirely yours. Let me surrender.”
I sighed and a tear escaped, despite my best efforts, betraying a flint of melancholy and regret, to taste full bliss on his skin. He didn’t say a word, and his fingers roamed my hair, although I didn’t quite know whether they wanted to adore or console. Maybe it was both.
One day maybe we would be ready for this world, a world that would in all probability never be ready for us, that would never quite grasp the human ambiguity, this sublimation of pain into higher plains of pleasure. I wanted to walk next to him, with no intention of possessing him or marking him as my territory. I just wanted to walk next to him, to read fulfillment in his eyes, to see it flare up as the desire-filled glances of strangers caressed my body from a distance, fully knowing this was my gift. That sparkle in his eyes and the roguish smile blossoming on his mouth were pure traitors, testifying to the fact that Milo takes pleasure in bathing in their envy, as he lives in the silent knowledge of being my lord and master.
The sultry spring sun was singeing my legs, reflecting off my gold bikini as I was winding down next to the pool, and trying to get a tan in the process. My head, in fact, was tilted against the back of the bed, and my fantasy wheels went spinning, calling forth the specter of unspoken superiority, the pride that lay in his controlling me, ruling me. Would it soar if he had the power to consciously share me with a stranger of his choosing? Would he be able to handle that kind of power? Surrender me to the lewdness of another? Command me to? A simple command. An order. An assignment. I would entrust myself to Milo’s taste, obeying his command. But only on the condition that he would stay. On the condition that Milo would see how I offered up my body. On the condition that I could stare that proud animal of mine in the eyes, over the shoulder of that negligible, sad spirit debased to be a poor, wretched pawn in a story he could never aspire to be a more than a structural part of. On the condition Milo didn’t lose my look, not for a single second, not even in between the instructed thrusts. Only so that he could unveil the dim-lit truth that said
I was unconditionally his. Belonged to him. That I was his property. Then, I didn’t have to say as much and could stare that reality right into his loins, his head, and his heart. That’s the way it works with men, and in that order, to be frank, even when it touches upon abdicated deities.
Or did Milo have boundaries of which even he was himself unaware? Maybe the sharing would prove to be harder than he expected, only to be reserved for our warped fantasies. Or maybe it was not so much affection he wanted to detect in my eyes, but rather my willing subjection to unbridled jealousy. My distress would turn to suffering right in front of him, piercing my entire body, flowing on the rhythm of his borrowed passions. He would stare back at me, register my torment, and thrust on mercilessly. My insides would shrivel in anger, my heart bleed in agony, and my breathing halt, yearning for the conclusion of the deal. I was willing to die, to die a little, in his presence, in order for him to mend me, nurse me back to culmination until by his hand I was recreated, reborn. However much this sight could ever tear me apart, it would fade into nothingness next to the more intense battles that would lie ahead. That much stronger would my inner warrior surface, to warrant a passionate coup de grace to Milo’s face, that much more usurping when we reclaimed the night, and he seized me in his unrelenting fashion.
Maybe we would want this out of sheer curiosity. Nourishing his eyes. Sharing a moment of darkness, or else deciding this was a bridge too far, even for him. Yet observing the insolent lust of others would not leave us unmoved. Our night would end in fireworks because of—or in spite of—the spectacle preceding it. Between the fantasy and the act, I was still left to my best guesses about how much he kicks on his mastery over me. I sensed my boundaries stretch that far, maybe even beyond, but would Milo understand? Would he share this obscurity of mine? Would he grasp that it was about my selflessness, my devotion, and my fire for him? Without his presence, the mere notion of it would never have dared to cross the threshold of my mind. The question would never even exist, just as much as my will for it would never exist, because Milo was the red pin in this string of thought.