It began with the work.
He was the brilliant author; she his secretary.
They were racing against time
To pay a debt that must be paid.
Her nimble hands matched his nimble mind.
Her fingers flew to record his thoughts.
Four weeks, a mere four weeks,
to finish his novel; to rescue himself from debt.
Each night she worked, by feeble candlelight,
To transcribe his thoughts
While thoughts of love engendered in her breast.

At last the work was done, his time redeemed,
Yet he could not let go of one so dear.
Shyly, Dostoevsky proposed they wed.
She consented to become his wife, so dear.
She was not beautiful in the conventional sense
But became his muse, in fact his life and death.

It starts. He stares.
A ferocious beast she sees, a human he is.
He strips her
Slowly gliding his hands from her neck to its base
Electrifying each nerve, she shivers.

In her vortex of deepest waters, he goes.
Eyes locked.
She remembers to exhale.
You make me weak, she whispers
as the tension intensified with each ******.

He maddened
Pulling her in, wrapping her legs around him.  
Lost in her moans as he reaches for her peak,
he sees her; she is his clair de lune.
The river flows in her.

And as she weakens
he holds her firmly till her waters flow.
For she is his redemption.