Twelve moons

When I was between my twenties and my thirties I had a great love. Back then, I promised to myself that some day I’d write her story; a story that would astonish – if not shock – any reader who wouldn’t simply opt for disbelief. But what! Wasn’t she the most exceptional, the most overthrowing, fiendish and maddening woman that any man could possibly have? Now, half as many years later as I was in that time, and soundly healed from all the grief that I underwent thereafter, I’m offering this story to you.
She brought to my life as much misery and affliction as a man can endure; yet, one hour by her side was worth a week of woe, and I was granted many more of the former than of the latter during our twelve full bittersweet moons together.

She was a girl in a thousand.

Lewd as a cat in heat she was, sporting a red lipstick wound for a mouth that, when widened to a broad bright smile, underlined the gaiety of two dark-brown piercing eyes upon an oval face, contoured by a long copious black mane cascading both sides over the shoulders as low as the tip of her swollen, preternatural firm teats that pointed up to heaven in a silent and continual thanksgiving to the divine powers that forged them.

On our amatory strivings she made a total and blind offering of her anatomy, not scrimping a single inch of flesh, a cleft in her body or a twist of her flexible figure. There were no prohibitions or unfulfilled fantasies with her, no refusals or lame procrastinations. Magnanimous, obliging and grateful, she would promptly get aroused; and often, the touch of a passionate kiss or a caress, the tickling stimulus of an ardent word whisperd by the ear, or simply the heat of my intense, kindled stare, sufficed for her to accomplish one more of those countless orgasms that, like beads in a rosary, she would thread into a longlasting ecstasy that lingered on until eventually she almost lost her conscience, her sense of place and time, and fainted; an ecstasy that would finally drive me as well to a devastating paroxysm of pleasure.

Oh, was she nymphomaniac? Not exactly; rather, she was the sex just because. Always ready for it, but not ruled by it.

Nothing and nobody could actually rule her. Such was her almighty will. Generous and unsatiable, but free above everything. She wouldn’t take any bounds to the flesh or to the heart, though she would willingly give you her soul on an only condition: no questions and no reasons. Questions annoyed her and she would only answer you with lies; smart lies whose secret was only hers, but that you would believe; lies that overlapped each other, subtly dragging you with them one more step towards an abyss of madness. And reasons? There was no other reason than her own sovereign will; and if her will was yours, what else could you ask?

But don’t try to deceit her! She would quickly uncover the sham no matter where this lay, and whatever you could do, she could always do better. If you wanted to fool her, she fooled you twice. Victorious in any battle, her brain could rival with the most outstanding ones: witty, sharp, funny, invincible. She could scan your thoughts and read into your mind, and all the passion and ardor that used in bed would turn into cold steel at the least suspicion of her freedom being hampered; then her look and words would cut like a chisel.
Was she insane? Demented and paranoid? Of course she was! Totally unsound. But hers was a godly disorder, the very source of her conspicuity and strength.
For twelve moons she was my god and my priestess, offering me her whole self; and though she was alien to pain I swear – I swear that I once saw her weep.

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