A night of solitude and unconfessed desires

   

Livia's Point of View

In this immense villa where cold marble meets sparkling chandeliers, I am the only soul awake at this late hour. Like every evening, once my shift is over, I allow myself this moment of intimacy, where I can finally let my guard down and just be myself.

I lock the door to my room. The silence of the house is reassuring, almost complicit. I turn on my laptop, a gift from my late boss, a good man who always had a soft spot for my dedication. The screen lights up in the darkness, casting a bluish glow on my bare thighs beneath my light nightgown.

The silence of the house is absolute. Only the slight crackling of my computer disturbs the muffled darkness of my room. The bluish glow of the screen caresses my skin, revealing the soft curves of my thighs under my fine nightgown.

I slide one leg onto the mattress, the other dangling slightly in the void. My fingers tap on the trackpad, searching for the video that will captivate me tonight. A pornographic film. A story of forbidden passion, burning glances, and bodies seeking each other.

I press play.

The image comes to life. A hesitant woman faces a powerful man, her breath ragged under the grip of a desire she struggles to control. He brushes against her, plays with her nerves, waiting for her to give in.

I shiver.

My fingers slowly trail up my neck, grazing my collarbone before descending lower, where the heat accumulates insidiously. My legs tighten under the shiver that runs through me.

On the screen, the man approaches. His hand lingers on the woman's hip, grazing her without truly touching, igniting her impatience.

I nibble on my lip, my body reacting to every gesture, every whisper from the film. The excitement is a slow wave that glides under my skin, a silent call that longs to be fulfilled.

I let my hand explore gently, following the rhythm of the scene. My fingers linger on the lace of my nightgown, caressing the fine fabric covering my chest. My breath quickens.

In the video, the woman closes her eyes, caught in the turmoil of her unfulfilled desire. The man whispers something in her ear, words I cannot perceive, but which make me tremble.

My hand glides down my belly, lower, brushing the spot where the need becomes more intense. A sweet torture. My back arches slightly, my thighs press together.

The urge rises, inexorable, but... something is missing.

Someone.

A weight, a presence, a warm breath against my neck, fingers larger than mine tracing my skin with an unbearable slowness.

But there is no one.

Only me, this aching absence, and this heat that refuses to calm.

I close my eyes, letting my imagination fill the void.

I imagine a man beside me. His piercing gaze, his deep voice that troubles me more than I care to admit. His long, assured fingers brushing my skin, lingering on my hips, exploring every inch of my body without any rush.

I stifle a moan. But reality catches up with me. I am alone. I sink into my pillow, my body warming as the scene unfolds. My mind wanders, and I imagine myself in his place. In the place of this woman, subjected to an uncontrollable desire, a shiver runs through me.

My breath gradually slows. My fingers freeze, frustration still anchored in my belly. With a weary gesture, I stop the video. I let myself fall onto my back, staring at the ceiling in the dark. And I fall asleep.

In this immense house, I am the first to wake up. Always. Even before the sun begins to warm the tinted windows, before the silence gives way to the sounds of daily life.

I slowly open my eyes, still groggy from my too-short night. The warmth of my bed holds me for a moment, but reality quickly catches up: I do not have the luxury of lingering.

I sit up, run a hand through my tangled hair, and cast a quick glance around my small room. It is simple compared to the rest of the house, but it is my refuge.

My boss, Madame Isabella, is sick. Very sick. Her cancer weakens her day by day, and I am the only person she can rely on. The only one who watches over her daily.

I push aside my sheets and place my feet on the cold floor, a shiver running down my spine. My movements are slow, almost mechanical. I head to the adjoining bathroom.

In front of the mirror, I splash cold water on my face before grabbing my toothbrush. My movements are precise, methodical. Once ready, I take a few minutes to apply light makeup. Nothing too flashy, just enough to enhance my features: a thin line of eyeliner, a bit of mascara to accentuate my gaze, a touch of gloss on my lips.

Then comes the moment to put on my uniform.

A black and white outfit, fitted, shorter than necessary. A form-fitting skirt that stops well above the knees, a tailored white blouse with a discreet but suggestive neckline. Not the kind of uniform one imagines for a maid, but here, everything is about appearance. I put it on with almost ritual precision, smoothing the fabric over my hips, adjusting the collar to fall just right.

A last look in the mirror. Perfect.

I leave my room and ascend the stairs to the upper floor, my heels echoing slightly on the marble. The house is still asleep, the air thick with an almost surreal calm.

Arriving at Madame Isabella's door, I knock softly.

— Come in, she whispers in a weak voice.

I open the door and slip inside.

She is there, lying in her enormous bed, her frail body lost among the luxurious sheets. Her face is pale, marked by fatigue, but her eyes still have that bright glimmer, that natural elegance that commands respect.

I approach.

— How are you feeling this morning, Madame?

She gives a slight smile.

— Like every morning, my dear... alive, but tired.

I sit in the chair by her bed, resting my hands on my knees.

— I am here if you need anything.

She nods, then, after a brief silence, her eyes drift into the void, as if she is pondering something important.

— My son will be returning from Italy soon, she finally says.

I frown slightly. Her son?

I have never seen him. I know she has a child, but he has never set foot in this house since I have been working here.

She seems to read my thoughts and turns her head slightly towards the wall on her right. My gaze follows her movement, and that's when I see him.

The photo. Hanging on the wall in a silver frame, it stands there, like a memory frozen in time. I get up and approach. The portrait is striking.

"Alessandro."

That’s the name discreetly inscribed under the photo.

A man in his twenties, with a charming smile, chiseled features, and a hint of nonchalance that gives him an irresistible air. Dark, deep eyes, a gaze that is both intense and mysterious. He exudes something captivating.

A shiver runs down my spine, though I do not know why.

— He will arrive this evening, Madame Isabella continues in a soft voice. I want his room to be ready.

I turn away from the photo, regain my professional demeanor, and nod.

— Of course, Madame. I will take care of it immediately.

Before leaving, I ask her if she needs anything else.

— No, for now, everything is fine.

I bow slightly and close the door behind me. But as I walk away, the image of Alessandro continues to haunt me. And a single thought crosses my mind. What kind of man is he really?