by E V King
This recent turn of events was actually a stroke of luck, revealing the coincidence of a renewed opportunity, a new moment—although one might say it was ill timed, this newfound courage. To me, it was an opportunity to set things straight nonetheless and, for that reason alone, ill timed or not, it could never truly be wrong. My luck was that he would know; and so, I would be able to die a happy woman one day.
Chapter Twelve
To the wandering eyes of the outside world, my marriage had every semblance of a cornucopia of societal perfection; but I felt like, having been lured into a shrinking, barren room adorned with Charles’ rigid, feudal conceptions and relentless compromises, attacking and oppressing the natural essence of my being, it was trying to obliterate all intimation of my individuality. This unnatural arrangement of wedlock had numbed me, depriving my imagination of the mere possibility of full-fledged, mutual acceptance. Then Milo resurfaced, passionately reacquainting me with the concept of hope, showing me that my state was nothing less than the fruit of my own dereliction.
The summer sun was scorching my shoulders as I loaded my packed suitcases in the car. It still hadn’t sunk in that I was about to escape suburbia to be with my lover. Yet, moments like these presented me with clarity, with an opportunity to decide which person I wanted to be. Deep down, no matter what face I was showing society, no matter what agony I have been concealing, what struggle I’ve endured, I knew who I was, who I’d always be, and that I had a choice. I could hide in the shadows or I could step into the light. There was no predicting outcomes; but what I could do—must do—is honor my soul, oust regret and guilt, live life unhaunted and free, and see my happiness for what it essentially was, my responsibility; but foremost, must recognize that no action, no decision, no choice is effectively honorable if self-denial is part of the deal.
“I cannot believe you came. You really are insane,” Milo had said as he found me standing next to him in an anonymous paradise abroad. But the smile I found on his face made it worth every mile.
“My pleasure, darling. And…I already told you once I’d follow you anywhere,” I replied.
My thoughts slowed down as soon as I felt his hands around my waist. Here I was, standing girded in his room, and for the first time ever I would spend the entire night next to him. It had seemed surreal—after everything, after all this time—that this still had to happen. For a decade, I had dreamed and fantasized about this day, yearned for it, craved it, although I had banned the mere notion of it to the kingdom of impossibilities and hopelessly fucked-up chances. The shy Estelle, the one everyone knew, or thought they knew, would have shut herself off and resorted to the most ridiculous ponderings—silly details, like the fact he would witness her brushing her teeth, washing her hair, or something just as banal. She’d completely forget she would be allowed to be human, too, and he probably wouldn’t take a second look anyway. The shy Estelle, the Estelle I had once been, would have thought herself sick, probably been literally covered in rashes, turning up with a lame excuse or even provoking one to get out of the experience. She’d have left, run away, been paralyzed by anxiety because of the possible occurrence of trivial moments loaded with intense intimacy, so much so that it made her nauseous on the spot. She’d have bolted as soon as her feelings gained the slightest dimension of realistic possibility.
Admittedly, even I, the new Estelle, was still nervous as hell, trying to ignore that little silly girl somewhere deep inside screaming at the top of her lungs. But this would not turn out to be a mistake I’d blame myself for endlessly. This was one of those days: one that you know you will cherish for life, one that you will rehash in your mind when you are about to lose it; or when you’re older, reminiscing in your rocking chair—what a platitude, it will probably be an ugly-ass chair in an ugly-ass nursing home, but anyway—one of those days where you carry the silent comfort of the dreadful bliss of memories past, of happiness and youth and love gone by. But today, ah, but today was the day I was about to live it, feel it, caress it, hear it, and taste it. Yes. Today would have not only the impact of that very first kiss, but of every single one following it, too; every single kiss in our different chapters, and as all things Milo were always inside my head, not a single one of them have fled from me. They lingered inside, maybe just because they, their essence, shared in his ability to cuddle all that’s beautiful and bite away anything bad and ugly; because Milo had taught me that one could never enjoy enough, and that I hadn’t been living quite enough.
Our lips parted, and I felt how his textured hands ran up my nylons. His fingertips caressed their black-lace trim and mercilessly climbed up between my thighs.
“No underwear again?” he whispered in my ear. The mere scent of him aroused me as it floated along my cheek. “Dirty slut,” he snarled and pushed me on the bed. Skillfully he climbed next to me and groped under my pencil skirt again. “That is what you came for, isn’t it?”
His eyes were alit with a burning patience, and I bit my lip, feeling his hand ascending my spine through the supple silk of my blouse. With one harsh pull on my long, wavy hair, he ensured the availability of my throat, in order to take an eager bite. Unable to raise objections—not wanting to either—I lay there again at his mercy. During the long drive toward this room, I had fantasized about sensing his fingers deep inside of me, but even the most elaborate whiffs of my imagination never quite prepare me for their actual impact. The anticipation of this peculiar passion never left me dry and unmoved, but it remained a faint shadow of what truly transpired in my mind when I was able to see, smell, feel, and taste Milo, to take him in with every sense. An overdose of lust for all of them, all at once, baffling him, and driving me to the edge of reason. The fire in his ice-tinted eyes brought me outside my comfort zone. And those hands. What a delight, every single inch of his body was.
He licked my face. “Are you liking this, sweetie?”
I looked at him fully conscious of the fact he would be able to discern a prayer for salvation in my expression. But he was way ahead of me, and he withdrew his godly hands from between my legs and neatly smoothed my skirt after pulling it back down.
“So…” His glance showed the vague signs of a cunning plan that was clearly providing him with satisfaction of some sort. He got up, intrepidly walking into the bathroom. From the bed, I could hear the tap water running over and around his hands, and I remember almost feeling jealous, yearning as I was for their touch. He came back to stand in the doorway, leaning against the post.
“I’m going out now. Dinner with the colleagues and whatnot. You will wait for me.” His voice spoke with dryness and coldblooded determination. This was clearly not open to negotiation. The words that had just rolled from his mouth made my underbelly contract in agony. “Until my return, you will be left to your craving. You must suffer until I get back. You are my slut. My whore. You are only here between these four walls for the simple purpose of my satisfaction. You will wait for your release. For me.”
Milo already had the doorknob in his hand. “And I do not know when I’ll be back, but you…make sure you are lying ready for me.” He threw a provocative look my way as he took his time to pick up all room keys from the desk, and then he finished his monologue. “You are going nowhere, my little horny bitch.” And with that, he clicked the door shut and left me sitting, bluffed, on the bed.
My head was afloat on the soft waves of music filling the room while I waited for him. I was more than aware of my place: hidden, out of sight, lying ready on his bed, just the way he had left me. His words were spinning in my mind, and I noticed the tension they were drumming up down below. I hadn’t even put one foot on the ground since his departure. For the third time, I looked down to make sure that the white silk of my summer blouse was still perfectly sloping down my chest. Alone with my thoughts and feelings, I tried to focus on my task and be ready for his return. With my thumb and index finger, I meticulously straightened the knot of my sl
im tie. On my nightstand, a bottle of Laurent-Perrier was winking my way; Milo had been so kind as to open it before taking off. He probably remembered, somewhere in the back of his mind, that I was, without a doubt, a disaster at opening anything that involved a cork. But he had once told me he preferred me slightly inebriated, so I nipped at my glass from time to time in solitude.
It was a good thing people from my day-to-day surroundings—my family, and…well, not exactly friends, but acquaintances—couldn’t see me right now. This Estelle was a person they did not know existed, not even one of them. From their point of view, I was still the conscientious, gentle, classy lady. They had no clue this dark angel of reckless passion was living beneath the surface. For a long time, I might have seen things their way on this matter, and been too eager to accommodate society’s expectations; that is, were it not for discovering the real side, the alive side of me, in Milo’s bedroom all those years ago.
I had tasted fire, something quite new to me, just for a little while—with him. And though he was quickly out of the picture physically, the revelation that I had warm blood coursing through my veins was something that could not be undone. In my head, the new me, the dark angel side of me, rose unassumingly over the years, and soon caught herself doing every night, for just shy of a decade now, what Milo had forbidden me tonight—far out of sight, of course, of everyone pretending or imagining or claiming to know me. I couldn’t help myself back then—I lived off of a passion, of unintentional contractions upon the remembrance of his body weighing down on mine, a memory my blood never could, or wanted to, forget. I floated away in clouds of Milo left imprinted in memory. I felt my veins turn to sweltering velvet, just the way they still did, even though I was not that little girl anymore. He had brought passion to my life, and for that, I would always remain grateful. In his presence, this publicly unknown aspect of my personality was allowed, so I didn’t question it any longer. Then and there, here and now, I could just fully be who I truly am.
My palms slid over the sheets, still radiating his former presence. This action alone made me nibble my lip. Amid the champagne bubbles hovering over and tingling down my tongue, I took pleasure in his future offenses. The gentle tones sucked the evening air into the room. Tonight’s dusk came accompanied with a subtle summer breeze, which rolled lasciviously across my stomach.
Not long after, the flimsy curtain filtered the light of some arriving headlights and they shone into the room, delicately illuminating my clothes. At that point, I realized my presence was a badly kept secret. So I flipped over to lay on my stomach and folded my legs up into the air, desiring the hands that were now only a wall away, and I let him admire the dim outline of my heels from a distance. I knew he was there. Milo probably thought he was being quite secretive, but I felt his eyes tracking the lines of my silhouette, just as those of some strangers were doing. The lights turned off, and the last bang of a car door slamming shut soon introduced him back into the room.
“Not too tired of waiting, sweetie?” Milo looked at me, obviously amused.
“Never.”
My paramour walked across the room in my direction and tapped a slim cigarette out of the pack that lay next to the empty Laurent-Perrier bottle. With his ever-charming nonchalance, he drew the curtains open and sat down on the windowsill. Milo sent a first waft of fumes into the night as I crawled over the bed toward him. I had interpreted his actions as an invitation to move, finally, and went to join him. Not long after, he treated me to a draw on his fag. The mere sensation of his skin, even though it was only the insides of his fingers, made my lips burn. The waiting made my eyes stick inextricably to his face; and my veins turned to sweltering velvet again. He stood up and let me guard the open window all on my own as he sat down on the side of the bed, across from me.
“What do you think?” I asked with my hoarse smoky voice. “Do I look ready enough?” Provocatively, I shoved myself to the edge of the cold marble tablet and put my stilettos on both sides of my savior on the bed. Milo turned up his eyes to look at me. Patiently my fingertips undid my blouse one button at a time.
“I love you, you know,” he sighed, mumbling.
I was a little astonished to hear these words, which, even in a best-case scenario, I had only been able to intuit. The moonlight made me brush it off as a momentary utterance in a midnight-inspired ruse, so I said nothing in return, wishing I knew how to reply, and awaited for more words.
“Just look at you sitting there,” he said, followed by a second sigh.
Longingly, I sat on the windowsill, my blouse and legs wide open. Gradually I let the silk chemise slip down along my arms until it was nothing more than a heap of fabric brushing against my lower back. A new evening breeze stroked along my half-naked upper body, curling refreshingly through my black corset. His hands caught my ankles and slid up with an anxious air. I didn’t really care that there might be spectators to this little game of ours. Quite honestly, there wasn’t much I cared about in that moment. The only thing on my mind was having Milo around, on, and in me. And nothing more.
I stood up to wiggle out of my skirt and immediately went back into position. Milo started kissing his way up my leg, while one of his hands searched for the strap of the roller shutter, treating me to a first bite in the knee. Briefly, he rose, and with short little shocks, the white, lacquered wood of the shutter dropped halfway down. His fingers were clawing my hips greedily before sliding farther to the inside of my thighs where he kneeled. With almost uncontrollable desire, I stared at him. He glanced up, and my breath caught a little as his nails grated me on the inside. In reaction, I involuntarily tipped my head backward and banged it into the shutter with every stroke of his hand. When I looked down again, Milo was grateful, observing how he had driven me mad with one hand alone.
My lips could no longer cope with the desire building up. Neither could I. My mouth was still aglow after that short draft on his cigarette. Groping his hair, I invited him up, and a wild kiss—the kind only he could bestow upon me—ensued. I felt a swarm of a million hallucinated fireflies in and around me, a swelling desire to surrender. That’s what I came for anyway. That’s what I wanted, especially after all that waiting. He picked me up, out of the window frame, just to throw me back down.
“Spicy little bitch.”
He nearly jumped out of his clothes, and finally I had him just the way I liked him most, naked, standing there. I coiled on the Egyptian cotton covering the bed and waited a little longer, the seconds stretching out between us, his presence feeding my agony even more than his absence. Milo came to sit on top of me in his usual way. With his clenched teeth shining in the moonlight, his untamed paw entered me almost completely. A confusing haze of stinging pleasure was shooting through my nerves. He was the only one capable of ruining me this way, and he was allowed to, anytime he pleased. My body must have been craving more of the same, revealing it by means of a softly moaned lamentation. Nevertheless, I sneaked my way back, as if I wanted to escape his passionate grip, although I really didn’t; this craze was fearsomely glorious.
Pining for more of this sublime fight, I whispered in his ear: “Just tell me I am your whore.” Everything came to a halt. Minutely. Milo didn’t make a sound; neither did I. He locked my neck down with one hand; with the other, he gave me a wonderfully biting slap in the face.
“You are my whore,” he snapped. With rough thrusts of his knees, he spread my legs. Finally, his entire body was weighing down on me again. Finally.
“My dirty whore is what you are, and now I’ll put you to my use.”
Chapter Thirteen
Thinking I would sleep exquisitely well next to him had proven to be wishful thinking, partly due to the summer heat hanging heavily in the air—even indoors. From the moment the golden rays of dawn stung my eyes, I had been trying in vain to find my way back into dreamland. So I was lying awake in bed, gently rolling onto my other side, watching Milo sleep. I
tried to imagine his dreams, but found myself at a loss. After a while, I got out of bed and brushed my teeth for the simple sake of occupying myself. What would today bring? After all, I would be here for a few more days. Slightly nervous, I returned to the bed and crawled under the sheets. I decided to stop worrying and thinking about stuff that was impossible to foresee. It was time to let go of some of these control-freak tendencies of mine. Milo turned, pulling me closer as he put his arm around my waist. He made a gentle coughing sound, smacked his lips softly, and breathed out, the whiff of body-heated air kindly coiling around my ear. I could so get used to this, I thought before dozing off in his arms again.
After breakfast, we went our separate ways in the foreign city streets. Milo and James were going for a country run. He was also a colleague, but quite different from John. He was sporty and nice, and validated himself by means of his work. In short, he was a kind enough man about whom I have nothing more to say, except that Milo estimated him sufficiently trustworthy to keep our little secret. Meanwhile, I had decided to take a tour of my own. My way. I plugged music into my ears, and I was armed with a map because, after all, this was unknown territory, and visiting an undiscovered town without a map is a known recipe for disaster when it comes to crazy blondes.
The curved surface of the cobblestones was pushing into the soles of my walking shoes as I half walked, half hopped over the bridge, crossing a stream that shimmered green, reflecting the deep color of the captivating hillsides framing the city center. The idyllic scene slowly infected me with shreds of elation, reverberating in my steps. I had rarely been this happy over the past few years. So carefree, so peaceful was my mind that I lost track of the distance traveled. There was nothing like skipping through streets and alleys unknown, out to discover the unexpected. This small city, the baby sister of paradise, was a feast for the eyes. Hiding nothing in particular, hardly standing out from other quaint little towns, it nevertheless was perfect just the way it was. Jazz-like gypsy tunes complemented the composite image inside my head that found me turning left, drawn to the steps of a massive cathedral towering between the tobacconists and confectioneries. All of them, without exception, were selling postcards capturing both the natural beauty of the city and its gorgeous architecture.