There's something you taught me, about the way you make
love.
Do you remember when you taught me how to make love?
If I were to be sober, I'd probably look at it now in a
different way. How you, lioness of passion, tightened me
underneath your aura and pulled me into that battle of body
against body out of sheer lust, and probably nothing more
than lust. But back at that time, I was overexcited,
intoxicated with your intimate scents, too caught with my
love for you to object, struck by my lust itself and my urge
to be inside you. And you took me on your journey, onward,
backward, onward, backward. Faster and faster, you kept on
moving, and the feeling of me inside you but you above me
was echoing like drums of nymph in my head. A way to prove
me in the most magnificent way how no matter how deep I will
get into you, you'll always rule me, look at me from above,
hold me down below you, an admiring slave to your presence.
The way you loved me, and the way you used me for satisfying
your sexual desires, proved me all through the time that you
were my woman. Not just a woman, a queen, an empress. My
beautiful angel, my fairy of modern reality, the shining
whirlpool to take me at once and swallow me whole, swirl my
body and lift me up to the sun and sink me down to the
ground and fill my lungs with gaps of divine air, blown
away. And since you were my empress, I was your faithful
servant, always ready to fulfill your every wish. Anything
you desired, I gave you, and what you desired most was my
body, my lust and my submission. And I loved you during all
those times I served you, loved the way you used me, loved
the way I pleased you just as much as I loved the pleasure
you gave me. Inside you, I learned more joys than I have in
my whole life. You swept the sweat off my skin with your
tongue, and the saliva off my lips, and the semen off my
crotch, and the desire for you wherever that devilish tongue
of yours has stepped, collecting bead after bead of lust
with its magical soft touch.
It was the last time I was inside you when you broke me
apart, and when you collected my fluids into your womb you
also swept away my desire to live. As we were both giving
way to discomposing of our tension, your power stormed into
me and evacuated the small pounds of will and strength,
drying them, at first slowly and then manically. Leaving me
behind with no blood to push me to get up and hold myself.
With your lust I was revived, and with your lust I was
killed. And it felt like I could never, ever regain the life
I had before.
As you drained my ability to feel with the ability to lust,
I became an apathetic immortal, serving the material life
like any other citizen. When possible, I gave some room for
my mind to do its life routine, feed it a little, helping it
survive in the most minimal way. When physically enabled, I
even tried to give my body its lust-driven exercise. Usually
succeeding, I made an immaculate work, just the way you
taught me. I used my fingers and tongue and thighs and
genitals and dedicated them to the fine work of pleasing
women, and it surely made anyone who tried me the happiest
woman of her night. I made them feel like women, like
queens, like empresses. Made them touch the sky above and
land softly on the ground below, when kissing them goodbye
in the morning and leaving them a fragrant flower and a cup
of English tea and cream. With a touch of vanilla grain and
a drop or two of honey, like you taught me.
It was perhaps the art of lovemaking that I was perfectly
mimicking, but in fact no lovemaking was it, but mainly the
physical act that resembled the holy tradition I shared with
you. For no woman, as beautiful or bright as may be, could
have ever resembled the beauty that shone from every corner
of your body when topping me, forcing me under you with your
secret charm. The charm of ruling me not necessarily out of
lust, but out of love. For with the lust came also your
love, and nobody, not even you, could have denied nor appeal
against its purity.
And now, my lovely fairy, my beautiful empress, look at and
into yourself.
Which is purer inside you, your lust, or your love?
Or neither?






© June 2001