Theirs was a perfect love.
With great joy she would open herself up to him as he came crashing down on her, dispersing himself into thousands of licking tongues, playfully imbuing her, penetrating her deeper and deeper, ever more finely and delicately, precisely. She would pulsate with his every undulation, with her own rhythm perfectly respond to his, sometimes holding him a little bit tighter, not quite letting him go. Releasing him slowly so she could indulge in the luxuriant feeling of expectation and his next touch. His touch was never the same, his every movement different from the previous. Yet following a perfect, if untraceable rhythm, a most ethereal flamenco player. She knew his power was immense, yet she was never safer than in his embrace.
She did not long for him, nor did she live in expectation of him. She knew the sea, the currents and the tides… and his very nature would bring him back to her.
There was nothing simpler or more natural than him washing over her and their perfect union. In it, she realized her own true nature.
Each time she received him, he brought her new worlds, new murmurs, new delights. Each time she received him, all time stopped.
She knew of no time when she did not know him, when she did not love him, when she was apart from him.
When he was away, he never left completely. His scent was always in her, on her, there to titillate her, anchor her, when for a moment she lost herself in thought, in time.
He was her perfect, her only possible lover.
Theirs was a perfect love.
Every time they met, she greeted him differently, sometimes rubbing herself up and down him intently, while other times almost swooning at his mere touch. Radiantly opening herself up to him, taking him in whole, with all of her being. He could abandon himself recklessly in her reckless abandon.
Her thirst for him knew no bounds; his desire to penetrate her very being – no limits. She could not be quenched, yet she asked for nought. He could never fully explore her mazes; her playfulness in opening up to him could never be exhausted.
She was always ready to serve him. Yet as the thought formulated in his midst, he knew it to be false. She served no one; she was not even at service of her own pleasure. Which she, nevertheless, took greedily from his. Pleasure was not a goal either sought. Yet neither could escape it.
She was his priestess and his goddess. He worshipped her as she lay prostrate before him.
She was his worthy, his only possible lover.