The Assyrian
“I remember the way she moved beneath me, the habit she had of twitching her hips a little to one side as she neared her climax. I remember how she liked to bite my ears. I remember the blinding love I felt for her, and the memory is itself no less than love, as glowing embers are still fire. Esharhamat—oh, the passion of that name. Esharhamat.
Once, twice a week, as often as we could, we made love in the house on the Street of Nergal. I would wait, wretched, certain she could never come again, ...until I heard her little hand tapping lightly at the wooden door that separated one building from another, and then, when I had her in my arms, I would carry her to our bed—for we had a real bed, with a mattress filled with raw wool, for there would be no soldierly scorn of comfort with my lady Esharhamat. For a long time we could hardly speak. We could not bear that our lips be parted. How I loved the whole of her sweet body. How I hungered to learn it all, every morsel, with eyes, hands, lips.MoreLess
Once, twice a week, as often as we could, we made love in the house on the Street of Nergal. I would wait, wretched, certain she could never come again, ...until I heard her little hand tapping lightly at the wooden door that separated one building from another, and then, when I had her in my arms, I would carry her to our bed—for we had a real bed, with a mattress filled with raw wool, for there would be no soldierly scorn of comfort with my lady Esharhamat. For a long time we could hardly speak. We could not bear that our lips be parted. How I loved the whole of her sweet body. How I hungered to learn it all, every morsel, with eyes, hands, lips.MoreLess
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