She was an alabaster dream. Pale hair, pale as moonbeams, lay across the snow-white pillowcase. Her cheeks held just the faintest shade of pink, lips holding the cherry sheen of rosebuds I’d long since forgotten. Her dream was full of softness, and the openness of longing. Whoever she longed for was a lucky man. But this night, I was luckier, for I slid into her welcoming warmth with the ease of a practiced lover, and the joy of a man who’d found his reason for existence.
Even after his existence had long ceased.
She sucked in her breath along with my shaft, moaning and rippling her pleasure. Her warm depths gripped me, welcoming my heft and girth as it was meant to be. I worked her well, letting her dream do more of its work, letting it draw us both into its spiral until she gasped her release beneath me, never waking.
Then I withdrew, kissing her gently as I went, leaving her spent and slumbering with a smile upon her lips, while I burned, stiff with a need that could never be released.
For that is my fate, you see.
To satisfy, yet never be satisfied. To please, but never be pleased.
Lest you wonder at my punishment, look only to your own natures, and judge me not. For whether or not women were Adam’s downfall, they have most surely been mine.