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Copyright 2013 Enea Tonon
Writer -Enea Tonon
Translator -Angelica Insolia
Cover -Tania Galiè
Title | The pleasure and cruelty
Author | Enea Tonon
ISBN | 9788891129284
First digital edition 2013
© All the rights are reserved to the writer
©Copyright - Enea Tonon
Via Roma 73 - 73039 Tricase (LE)
This eBook cannot be object of trade, commerce, loan and resale and may not be distributed in any way without the prior written consent of the author.
Any unauthorized use or distribution constitute violation of the rights of the publisher and the author and will be punished civilly and criminally as provided by law 633/1941.
Even more madness in this story ... but it's so appealing!
A madness that you feel, you live, and you don't want to let it go.
The alienation has different tendencies, but in this book, in this extraordinary story out of the ordinary, the author takes us into a world where everything seems possible, where there is no longer any law, any rule, and where the desire of living and feeling his adventure, pushes him to transgress any prohibition.
This long descent into hell keeps us in suspense from beginning to end.
Once again, my feeling in reading this other new book of the author, is that nothing and nobody can change the trajectory of this man eager for new sensations, increasingly strong and more intense and go all the way to his story once again at the risk of his life.
This is something innate in him, a decision evaluated, because more than ever he needs to live and nothing can stop it, even if today it would seem that the student surpasses the teacher.
This is what she thinks and loudly proclaims, but it's her vision, and no one will ever really know if one outweighs the other.
Everyone perceives and interprets in its own way.
Both characters are swallowed by the same desire to push even further their limitations, towards an inevitable hell which tends them its arms, in this madness without continuity solution that they live, and that threatens at any time to catapult them to a point of no return.
These are the feelings that are felt in reading this book, of which only the author really knows the innermost mechanisms.
A book that makes us cringe, fascinates us, embraces us and binds us to this story, until you have reached the last page, where the demon lights up his second cigarette.
«These events and the characters are real and only the names have been changed».
Eight hundred miles to go with your heart in turmoil and your skin burning.
From time to time I had to lean over to one side rather than the other, to reduce the pain from my cracked ribs and I had to avoid deep breaths that caused more violent pain.
It bothered me even to hold the steering wheel, because of the swollen finger, that inexplicably, now began to peel.
Nothing to do but follow with my eyes, the black band that slipped under the wheels of the car, which by now was traveling in the night, while in the mind thoughts chased in freedom as fast as lightning , but so condensed to contain large memory spaces , usually kept away from me.
Perhaps it all started in those early summer afternoons , when still a child , they closed me in my room and I remained to watch the blades of light that filtered through the closed shutters.
I liked them, because inhabited by the dust that danced unstable, and to me they seemed full of life.
Unable to sleep I climbed over the sill to come up the roof of a small building just a little lower, and from there on the branches of a large pear, and finally to the ground.
Nearby, the austere Venetian villa, with the walls streaked by the lichen.
In addition to the silence, I could hear the croaking of frogs and cicadas chirp.
My favorite place was at the bottom of the park, in the darkest place, where the sun never broke the shaded that were forever protected by trees with powerful branches.
Among them the most beautiful was a huge loquat tree with branches so large to seem the arms of a giant on which you could walk standing.
I leaned on the edge of the well calling out, and the echo send them back to me from its depths, coloring them from time to time with always different tones, as if that was not my voice.
It had to be very deep, because the light did not come down to the bottom, and I shouldn’t go there.
I was told that it was inhabited by large snakes capable of catch and drag me down into the darkness.
I peered closely at the dark and I was ready to escape quickly if I had seen them come up to me.
Tired of my game, I sat down and watched the figures carved in a series of bas-reliefs in stone that surrounded the well.
Snakes and naked women.
I turned around to see if anything was different, but no ... nothing but snakes and naked women.
The women, the bottomless well ... the mystery, my soul stolen ... or sold.
I resigned myself and stood there sitting on the ground, following with my fingers the profile of those figures.
For a long time my fingers caressed that stone breasts and my mind chanted bold wishes, while little shivers ran through my skin and the fiery thought.
Even then, women exercised a fatal attraction on me.
Then out of there with a long frantic rush headlong into the sun, until I fall exhausted to the ground in the tall grass, and I stood there with open arms, looking at the sky, I don't know for how long, lost in the fantastic visions.
Or it all started on Elena's lips?
Not yet fully a teenager, I wanted to kiss her lips with a craving that day after day grew on me, and I had never kissed anyone yet.
Elena was slender and with almost no breasts, but I didn't care and I spent all my time wishing her mouth, which she stubbornly refused me.
That night everyone was gone and we were alone, in the vineyard in front of our homes and I felt thrilled.
Suddenly Elena tells me:
- Do you still want to kiss me?
I was amazed and excited at the same time.
- Yes, yes, very much.
Elena makes a turnaround on herself and reaches out to me, handing me her lips, but in the dark, partner my impetuosity, I didn't see the long pin that she was holding between her teeth , and that pierced through my lower lip sticking the gum.
The pain is excruciating and sudden anger shock through my mind, together with the sudden disappointment, but I calm down immediately.
Now I can punish her and revenge myself and do what I want with her, and I still want her lips, with more force than ever before.
I tear off the pin and squeeze her in my arms and kiss her with fierce greed, and now I feel like I completely own her, but hers not, there are many hidden, getting weaker as we slip on wet grass. My excitement and fury and her resistance diminishes more every moment that pass, while I clumsily slip off her panties, never leaving her lips that I'm eating in small bites that hurts.
My madness is infectious and her teeth start tightening my lips, while her hands cling the grass around us and tear it along with clods of earth, then they are on my face, in my mouth and everywhere.
"That first kiss has the sweet taste of my blood, and of the grass and earth."
Or again, it all started many years before.
The feral sense of pleasure had begun to sprout into me a long time before, when I was six years old and I was secretly reading «Un poignard dans la gorge, Malaise a Milan, La fournaise infernal, Les rats du Tamige, la nuit des espions…».
Or simply, it was always written in my DNA?
I wonder that as I touch my lips, swollen out of proportion, but I don't care to know for real.
I couldn't go home in those conditions and not because of the burns on my chest and belly, that somehow it was possible to hide under clothing, but especially for those numerous one that marked my forehead, and for the bite marks that had blackened my cheeks, and for the deformed lips.
There was no possible explanation for the injuries on my chin and upper lip and for the ear lobe slightly detached.
It was already night when I stopped at a grill to call my brother, who at that time lived alone.
He told me:
- Come to me and stay as long as you want.
He came up to me in the dark and hugged me, but I moaned loudly because of my sore ribs, and he looked at me in surprise, then in the light, just inside the house:
- Roberto, what have you done?
A wound on my upper lip, one on the lobe of an ear, and other on the chin.
The lips distorted from the swelling and the checks almost completely black for the capillaries broken by her bites and almost thirty red burns on the forehead, completed my appearance, and no car accident could have got me in those conditions.
I couldn't think of any good lie, so albeit reluctantly, and without getting into details, I told him what happened.
- I can’t believe you let her do this to yourself.
- You're completely crazy, and you've never been like that.