732 .1 – Production.
They are simple little things; there is no doubt about that, but in every bite, different takes are made. And for Billy, what remains is a reproductive kind of work, in which everything merely seems to exist. Leaving, for reasons unknown to others, Billy tends to understand the hardships of war, so costly and so full of suffering. It seems difficult, but it needs a stronger drama than any other.- Billy replied.
-That’s what I like.- Monica replied.- even if it’s a bit raw, and filled with that misfortune; even when it feels as if the torment is coming to an end, nothing truly resists how people seem to shape life.-
Pain is simply the pain of seeing oneself in that role. And yet Monica’s performances are faithful to her own nature, reverent in their own way. That reverence appears when everything else is pushed aside, when everything seems to provoke disdain. The death of love through perversion. The death of innocence through the thaw a society steeped in envy undergoes, one that blooms at the slightest hint of interest.
People are jealous, conceited; they judge and act with cruelty. They fill the soul with hatred and act accordingly, and that is what makes the impact harsher: a man who, from the shadows, does the bare minimum, adding that violent and envious touch to life. The lynching—adding a sweet note drenched in envy.
-It’s sad and daring in its own way.- Billy summarized the meaning. It was sad, filled with desperation, and with a humanity that cannot simply be seen through decorum. Unworthy and scarcely inherent to life, when everything seems to collapse. It is the soul of suffering that threatens with truth and the pain of a simple life.
The ending is tasteful, although you need to respect the director’s vision, and this must stay between us. In a simple way.- Monica said, refusing anything else. Of what remained, or what slowed along the way, suffering was all that was left.
-Even so, I think we would do better making Cleopatra, a remake, an expensive one at a hundred million. I’ll put my name on it, a good writer one way or another, and we’ll give it life in a different form.- Billy replied.- Just think about it: a strong script that cuts all the way through, powerful soundtracks, the ideal you always keep in play, and, well, an Oscar-worthy performance.-
She bit her lips and nodded. Something inside her awakened with desire.
-Why would you do it?- Monica asked.
-It’s art.- Billy said resolutely, in a way that needed no explanation at all.
-So you think it’s possible to make Malena?- she asked.
-In fact, it is. Although it’s raw and intense, I think it can be discussed with the director.- Billy commented, knowing that much was yet to be seen, much was yet to be risked—in performance and decorum, in how everything turns into fantasy.
Although it was simple, the Italian invasion began in ’33, during the mobilization, when the girl was eleven years old; and by ’39, when Malena’s husband dies, she is seventeen. She then takes a clerical position, and everything ends a year earlier, a rhythm used to mark her growth.
-I’m just saying that when a man is strong—and he is—he is not afraid. He chooses, and that shapes love in his own way, one safeguarded by the simplicity of life.- Billy replied, looking at Monica standing beside him; in her, there was not much, yet everything was utterly simple. She wore that wonderful white robe.
IItsounds wonderful.- Monica replied.
-She must know the power of her charm; she must learn it.- Billy replied, stepping closer to her, as she whispered to him in Italian—an act of complete strength, one that did not shy away from either irony or purity.
....
He ran his finger across her breasts, those glorious breasts that prickled under his touch. They lost themselves in a utterly wild kiss, brimming with raw passion. He kissed her fiercely, savoring those lips that had captivated him from every angle. A kiss infused with longing, scarcity—a single night, the last one before she would depart and leave him alone.
She pressed her body against his; she was burning hot. Billy's body blazed like an open furnace. He didn't deny how much he loved it. The passion from her feet upward, the strength of her arms clamping down hard on Billy—each in their own way, the passion that shone between them both. Billy grabbed Mónica's long hair and yanked it back firmly, seizing the moment to kiss that throat filled with tender intensity; every kiss lingered on Billy's lips as he trailed down gently, tasting those pink, ample, generous breasts, an areola that mesmerized him. He bit. He licked. He kissed. He savored. It was exactly what he craved.
Everything felt so delicate.
She kissed his ears. Meanwhile, they both focused on kissing with that implicit desire surging between them.
Her hand slid down, leaving nothing to the imagination. She performed a gentle stroke with her hand, pausing what remained, fully committed; she caressed him from top to bottom. As he leaned his back against the chair, she dropped down and tasted him—the salty flavor was enough to ignite her excitement, the power she held over Billy. She raked her nails across his abdomen, growing harder each day from the intensive training he undertook with effortless grace.
She simplified it with indulgent ease.
Her tongue glided over the tip. That power of domination hooked her completely. He gripped her hair tightly and thrust fully into her mouth; her throat constricted, and she felt it with exquisite wonder—the gag. While she rested her hands on his thighs. He sensed the release building, drops of tears escaping from her like ominous rains, and to Billy's surprise—as to anyone who might claim otherwise.
He planted his seed deep in Mónica's mouth, from her throat to her tongue, spilling onto her lips. Cleanly, simply. Then, by chance, a thin trail of semen escaped, which Billy caught and smeared across her face—from her cheeks to her forehead, trailing down her neck.
She bit her lips as Billy lifted her up, slick, ready, and willing. A marvelous penetration, bathed in love, reciprocated in kind. Billy kissed Mónica's lips, and she responded eagerly; sweat clung to their skin, and flashes of lust darted through both their eyes—calculated and mythical were the ways each one moved.
It was quick, hard, and utterly delicious. Feeling the climax build in minutes as he filled her completely. She, now wearing nothing but white socks, was taken again—this time on the nearby sofa, on all fours; he struck her buttocks with force. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the dance of pleasure.
Would you like any adjustments to the tone, such as making it more sensual or formal?
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