Chapter 27.
The eyes of Laura fixed an empty screen.
You/he/she had seen I squirt him/it to dirty him the shirt and the massive cazzo to repeatedly contract himself/herself/themselves, almost to want to throw back every drop. And while it was being bound to that filthy show, the connection you/he/she was extinguished of hit.
You/he/she had tried to write him a pair of calls but him you/he/she had not granted answer anymore: the window remained a shrine of incomplete desires.
You/he/she had closed out her, again.
You/he/she was given to not at all like and the legacies of that humiliating enjoyment faded away in the indifference.
You/he/she would have preferred to have disgust of it, as it was correct that pits. Naked and abandoned, huddled up on the chair on which nient'altro usually did whether to study. The lights of the cameretta it turned on as reflectors to exalt every sigh and every hair to advantage of the impudent eyes of a webcam.
You/he/she is now abandoned.
You/he/she would have had to think: I have satisfied him. It doesn't have interest anymore. It was found to think instead: you/he/she is satisfied. It doesn't have interest anymore.
You satisfied it was not him/it of certain. More it spent the time, more it realized. And what more it frustrated her/it, it was that it was not able it stuffed nothing.
It got up from the chair, as it was, naked and perfect. Her liked and he liked. Its sexuality lived with the maximum naturalness, without inhibiting her/it with unfair guilts, neither to denaturalize her/it with vulgarity from zoccola. What didn't succeed instead in understanding they were his/her feelings.
How much of the attraction for Angel, that had conducted her to that game, did he/she answer to his desperate application of love?
It went out of the room and it extinguished the light. He/she was power on only the lamp on the desk, that would have driven again her in the dark. Afoot naked it crossed the house without making noise. But if you/he/she had also done of it, well few would be changed: that night was alone. Angel had not even asked him him, if you/he/she risked something to play with him to the sow. It was as if it took him/it for granted, that was to disposition of his/her desires, that nothing to the world existed out of their virtual coition.
Ettore was out of town for a congress of party. His/her parents were in travel allowance, as usual.
And her, landlady, didn't succeed in being owner of his/her own pleasure.
How many friends would have invited the fiancé to joust in liberty between the couch and the bed. But her no: she had to reach the empireo. Not any boy but the superstar of the moment. You/he/she had aimed him since small and that desire, then unaware, you/he/she was turned into obsession.
It entered bath and it looked him in the mirror.
Its face was marked from I strive him/it the eyes reddened for not having lost sight the screen from times. A night of autoerotismo leaves indelible signs in the physicist and in the soul.
It allowed to flow the warm water and he/she sat him on the edge of the tub. It was not busy other whether to wait that he/she was filled.
You observed the legs and the pube, it felt him the sticky lips and the sticky skin and it looked for on the thighs if there pits to be removed some trailing of pleasure.
Up to few months before, absorbed in the warm water, you/he/she would have studied the changes of his/her body and the physical reactions to his/her own touches.
By now, nothing more than this interested her: of herself, also keeping on ignoring the mystery, he/she didn't want to know nothing anymore. But of the others, the thought tormented her/it.
And among so many others, one who was so many.
Angel, the man able to satisfy thousand and thousand women, since in degree to give to every one different man.
Laura would not have been satisfied with the angel for her: them he/she wanted everybody. The blonde angel deserved the black angel, that would have been her lover, friend, father and brother: incestuous beloved that the small one persisted him to call love.
He/she was for a long time immovable, without anymore the strength of I handed questions, as frightened by the weight of the answers. Clouds of foam stazionavano on the surface and there they remained as curtain. If on one side it felt shame for his/her naked body in water, from the other one it shivered in to reveal himself/herself/themselves incapable to cry.
When he shook, lust had slipped on the fund.
It went out of the water as a trembling nymph of a picture of Chabas.
It hastened to entwine himself/herself/themselves in the towel, and it tightened for a long time him the shoulders, with always greater strength, almost to get away himself/herself/themselves the breath. As it stopped, all restarted as before. The loneliness, the dark, the nudity.
It went to cameretta and it abandoned the towel on the bed. It found the laundry and it covered him the intimacies and the bust. You sat on the bed to read, some that would have helped her to confuse the thoughts. Spent a lot of time and a lot of pages, before realizing that its lucidity didn't come less however: so much was worth to accept him sow and defeat, for that night, and to try to sleep without taking comfort himself/herself/themselves in the dreams. It deposed the book, all it took is now lengthening a hand and to extinguish the light.
But also to get up, and to extinguish the PC. Had you/he/she left him power on, did he/she know him/it or no? Yes, but also no.
If yes, because and otherwise, because, it was until too effortless to understand him/it. For this, it avoided to answer him.
Arrancò to the desk, moved the mouse to disarm the screen saver.
Bastard.
The dialogue box camped in the middle of the screen. Violated once more, with an incontestable so irritating forwardness as.
Are you still there?
He/she simply asks idiot. And simply he/she answered, in the only possible way.
Yes.
Complied to so much banality, as if from the fund of the night he was not able anything else other than to go up again to the light.
I want to conduct you out of the darkness.
Accursed, you/he/she had not even read in the thought. It didn't deserve accondiscendenza.
Do you feel yourself in guilt for dragged avermici?
But Laura hoped in vain to punish him/it: you/he/she would never have been his/her peer, until him you/he/she had not wanted him.
The time of the veneration is ended: it is time to walk beside side. I want your support giving you mine. Do you see? I hand the hand to the painted cloth, and from it the nymph springs it treats again. He/she takes that life that up to I have now denied it possessed. Alive with me, sweet angel, and let's satisfy together us some breath of the air.
You/he/she had read of better. Perhaps in the comic strips, perhaps in the Kisses Perugina. But there was a fund of perverse logic in those sentences, that amended the formal molasses of it.
Do you believe to be able to seduce me writing as any Rapagnetta?
It tried to draw away himself/herself/themselves.
Any seduction I could forgive anymore me: I want only to disclose you the soul. You have wanted me Pigmalione, now I desire you Galatea. And this will happen, because both we turn that the other is really what it is. We are children of a superior order, brothers in the desire.
However terrible, perhaps still vaguely etilici, these new compliments seemed to shake her/it. In effects, Angel object of appreciations had never done her, sincere or interested that were. These, disclosed then an arcane game, whose rules dragged her/it over itself same. In that instant, he felt Eva.
What do you want from me?
I want to love you Laura. With sweetness and devotion.
Simply he/she wrote, leaving her/it in nanny of late words.
Confuse me.
And the screen pursued.
For this you want me. It is your nature.
Or natur
e! Or Nature! Also thinking him/it, he was careful not to wonder himself/herself/themselves the motives for so much deception. Even who had set already the poetic question you/he/she had ever succeeded in giving him an answer.
This way, Laura adjusted him, and he surrendered again. You/he/she was already surrendered, in the moment in which you/he/she had still grazed the keys of the computer.
What do you want that face?
It was clear that it pretended something. Of sure, it pretended the question that the small one had just granted him.
Let's see now us.
What is it, a joke? You/he/she had ended to see her/it no more than two hours ago, crooked as a mine, scattering I am set as much of that passion by to dry up you desire him for at least one day. Thing other could want from her?
It is late. Mine would not let never me go.
Yours are not there. And not even your brother. You go out of that house in twenty minutes and you come to the park Sempione. I wait you in front of the Triennial.
He was true you/he/she could not know him/it but you/he/she had understood him/it: Laura was alone. For the first time it realized than it loved the fascism of Ettore and how much you/they could miss two intrusive parents and bigots.
That history had to close him: the game needed the epilogue.
No. I won't come, Angel.
Digitato slowly had him/it, it almost feared to have to return on its writing to correct a wrong character, and to jeopardize the definitive sense of the sentence. It had only to press dispatch.
But it didn't do him/it.
It cancelled all and riscrisse.
Because I should do him/it?
Because you cannot do without it. It is already everything writing inside of you.
That history had to close him, he repeated. Absolutely, immediately, that same night.
It had only to go out, to reach him/it and to fall to pieces once and for all himself/herself/themselves of him.
There was no other choice.
Nobody has another choice. Nobody chooses. It had to know well it who he/she wrote her from a distant computer.
Wait me.