Ineptitude of the awkward lover

He is slow, he thinks. She, however, is a natural. He wants it to be fun, and yet passionate. It is important for him that the difference between the two be clear – he wants her to enjoy the moment to the utmost; but he also wants to take her to the throes of passionate love, give her something by which she would remember him by, long after he has gone.

There is magic in the night. It enslaves her, she drinks it in completely. Her instincts take over. He is different. The magic enraptures him, but does not devour him completely as it does her. He still thinks, he still wonders. The curve of her hips leaves him as fascinated as a blind person seeing sunlight for the first time. His hands go over her body, slowly, capturing every moment, every sensation, in a corner of his mind that even he never delves into unless he is with her. He is hesitant, he often wonders if she is as intoxicated as he feels. She is in a different universe – servant to her primal instincts, she has no idea of the games his mind is playing with him. He looks up at her face, that portrait of her wondrous being. Her eyes are almost closed. Even closed, they wreak havoc on him. They are held close tightly, as if in fierce pleasure. He can picture in his head the eyelashes coming together in one instant, in that instant when she opens her painted lips just a little bit, just a very little bit.

In that moment, perfection is born.

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