She was incongruously beautiful and unique. I looked at her eyes wide open and calm like a man who had just regained consciousness. We did not even notice that the storm had stopped. At the bottom of the swelling river I found the quiver of the Universe. I felt as if I had tamed the Rhine and embraced the starry skies. I saw it first time in my life and experienced excitement that would forever be the source of lust and desire from which passion would gush difficult to quash. She pulled up her skirt and from between her dancing legs shot her female nakedness. Our limbs locked and our bodies, bundles of throb and excitement, demanded intensity. We edged on slowly towards the pile of stacked sacks. Hers caressed my hair and clasped in a grip of my neck. Mine held her face, her shoulders and her loins. Our hands glided towards each other and, joining in a passionate touch, went on to caress.
She closed her eyes slowly as if she was inviting me. The storm stopped as if to make it possible to touch and lust to entwine. She did not recoil: she was there, waiting for me. Through the play of the shadows wrought by the flames of the lantern, a smile broke out on her lips. She was quivering and her knees tottered. I saw that she liked me and that she, too, was beginning to be carried away by passion. What am I supposed to do now?! She seemed to have notice that I was holding back and that realisation allayed her fear. If I hit on, she will take fright and flutter away like a bird. My body ached with lust that spilled into a strong desire to embrace her passionately. The beauty of her eyes, the softness of her hands and the tenderness of her body mesmerised me. Like a doe, caught in a trap, she bucked up, assessing the plight. When she took off her coat, I saw her body, slim and slender, quiver by the beat of her heart. Her thin and elongate nose glimmered in the semi-darkness of the mill. The soft, red lips, perched above a small and pointed chin, just about hid an enigmatic smile. Her long face, adorned with eyes which dominated it as stars dominate a clear night sky, peered from under a rolled, long black hair. “It’s warm in here.” I took her to the hearth where Mother had baked bread in the afternoon and where the embers still glimmered in the ashes. “Do not be afraid, fairy of the tempest,” I muttered to her, rejoicing in her presence. She shut the door unawares as she stepped backwards and, frightened, leaned against it.
The warmth of my palms must have pleased her, yet her fear made her flinch. Attracted by the sweetness of her look, I came up to her and put my hands on her frozen cheeks. From under a scarf and a loose black hair shone two beautiful female eyes. Jolted in fright, I dragged a girl with me into the mill. I went over to close it, but all of a sudden a soft and cold hand caught my arm. Nobody stepped inside, so I thought the wind had opened it. The door of the mill creaked and opened a bit. I was lying in the mill in my place on the stacked sacks listening to the shadows that the wind wrought as it played with the flame of the lantern. The wind was blowing from the sea pushing everything in front like a drunken sailor who cannot find his ship. The word from which they expect an answer is salty and the ear that hopes to get it is thirsty. They are posed many questions, but they have no patience to solve them. They have to jump in and swim when and how depends much more on others than on themselves. Young men think about women the same way non-swimmers think about the sea. A story form the novel Rembrandt, the miller's son