Mari

Mari

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Summary

Finding herself lost after the death of her husband, Mari succumbs to the anguish in a world where anguish is a luxury. Wars and civil unrest have driven her to take on an industrial job, where she finds Sadi. Sadi lives in the ruins of a past life where opulence abounded. But she has become a survivor in her own right. She teaches Mari the skills necessary to thrive in a world that is on fire. With one another, in spite of immense lost, they rediscover some semblance of the former lives they led.

Summary

Finding herself lost after the death of her husband, Mari succumbs to the anguish in a world where anguish is a luxury. Wars and civil unrest have driven her to take on an industrial job, where she finds Sadi. Sadi lives in the ruins of a past life where opulence abounded. But she has become a survivor in her own right. She teaches Mari the skills necessary to thrive in a world that is on fire. With one another, in spite of immense lost, they rediscover some semblance of the former lives they led.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Dreamt

Author Chapter Note

Mari begins to dream. (First Draft)

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: July 27, 2017

Reads: 612

Comments: 5

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: July 27, 2017

A A A

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When she came, she came with profusion and ecstasy. She came in the way that passionate lovers do in the night on moonlit beds. She came with a release of energy and tension. She came and when she shut her eyes as the orgasm made her writhe, she slipped into a state of pleasure that set off chains of soothing emotions and images—magnolia blossoms wafting in the night winds, falling softly to the ground, rivers coursing slow but powerful enough to erode mountains, white sheets of colorless null purling and waggling. She thought of no lovers—man or woman—who came before. She was swept up in the surge of feeling and that was all that existed. The whole of her being compressed to a single point. And as she arched her back and a rolling of sensation steady as the peal of thunder came up from her hips, radiating down her thighs and up to her chest, over her breasts and perking up each nipple as it did so, she let out a little squeal of delight. A slight brush of her clitoris, swollen and becoming a bud of orgasmic pressure pent up and awaiting release, made her shudder. “Dammit,” she whispered, as the fluids from her orgasm coursed down over her perineum, dripping onto the bedsheets. “That felt good,” she kept saying, “That felt so good…”

No lovers. None man or woman. No tongue-tips probing her engorged vaginal lips or trying to part them as though her inner pleasures were morsels to be tasted.

Just her.

Just her and the silver bullet-shaped toy, still buzzing between her fingers, wet from her pussy.

When she turned her head, body still throbbing, rocking with each heartbeat, she expected to see the magnolia trees she’d dreamed about. Instead, all she saw was scorched earth, burned cinders, smoldering timbers from toppled trees and singed plant life. The fog of war had lifted and gone to hang in the sky, obscuring the Moon. And oh, how she wanted to see moonlight—those nights she’d spent before, with others, were full of the moonlight! How it turned her on to see lovers’ faces contorted, beaming, smiling, twisted in the moonlight! And candlelight, too. Though, she had lit candles before her masturbation session and now those candles guttered and waggled as unseen breezes blew across their candle-flames. Hot wax dripped down the candleholders and she thought back to her teen years when she’d—ashamedly—masturbated with a candleholder that bore a striking resemblance to what she thought a penis looked like. That was before her first proper fucking. And now, she knew better.

Mari got up and went to the bathroom, her inner thighs slick with her wetness. It excited her, being bared to the hot air of the summer night which came in through the open windows—turned her heart into a little staccato-drum in the middle of her chest, tamping away. She could smell herself—a private, animal smell. It was unique to every woman she’d been with and she imagined that for every man, when they buried their faces in her tuft of pubic hair and lapped at her labia as though hungering for her fluid, they thought to themselves, So different. So unique. So unlike my last lover. Primal throes of passion left no room for reasoning or disgust—she loved those thousand secret scents from the loins of her lovers. The way they tasted, the unique shape of each cock in her mouth, the tips exuding little droplets of pre-cum on the taste buds of her tongue so that she could sample each unique flavor. Sex was sensual, yes—it involved all the senses. You looked, you wanted to smell, you wanted to taste, you wanted to feel, you wanted to hear. Panting breath, the caress of hands across nipples and clits. The grasping of penis shafts, tugging, pulling, urging. Come in me. Slide in me. Be in me. Urging. She shook her head, turned on the shower. It fizzled and sputtered, then a few meager streams of lukewarm water dribbled out of the showerhead. Her nipples were beginning to throb where she’d pinched them as she masturbated—she loved that titillation, that thrill of pain, of feeling carnal and alive and corporeal whenever she took each areole, rolled them between the pads of her left hand while her right hand worked doing its business down below, then giving each a little pinch. It was like setting her nerves afire—a furor that rose up into the cup of each breast, then spread throughout her chest and settling down in her navel. Beneath the water of the showerhead, she felt herself getting horny all over again—that labial curtain was parting, making her wet. It was not all water, either. God, I need a dick. Or a dildo as big as my fucking forearm. Whatever part of her hungered to be satiated, she wasn’t sure she could get it here. Not in this world. She put her back against the shower wall and slid down, letting her knees come up and her legs spread. Mari felt all at once exposed, bared to the world, in the privacy of her shower. She pretended that there were people watching, eyes widening. She pretended that she was actually naked in front of the world. All those lovers, all those men and women. Her naked buttocks was pressed against the shower floor. A wave of arousal overcame her and with hands and fingers that didn’t seem at all like her own, she started masturbating all over again. She began slowly, forming her fingers into a V, massaging her clitoris as she sat there with the water spattering between her legs. Not again. God, this passion has got me prisoner. It’s holding me here. It was as though she were raping herself—simultaneously willing, and undesirous.  Could it be healthy for her to have masturbated so much? Could it psychologically detrimental? But she didn’t care. If it meant dying, she didn’t think she could’ve kept herself from it. She was already being picked up and carried to that plateau. She fumbled about the shower, feeling along the shelves overhead. Fuck, I need it. I need it, now… Her fingers crawled across the tile, and finally…at last…yes… There was her toothbrush. Should I? She should. Will I? I will. Mari, unabashed, slipped the handle between her increasingly moist lips. It touched on some inner part of her—far too skinny to pretend it was a cock, but it was invasive and long and set off those precursors to intercourse. That spreading of cool tingling like passion rising deep in her core. Mari started slowly, and the unique curvature of the handle turned and twisted against the walls of her vagina in a way she found unbearably pleasurable. She thought about pulling it out, forgetting it all—can I really come again?—but she wanted it. She wanted something. Anything. “Fuck me,” she said and the release of that one word was like a spell—her imaginary, faceless lover took heed and fucked her. She moved the toothbrush in and out, rapidly. Penetrate. That word alone rang in her head. She slowed, right on the edge of the peak, then sped back up again. The sluicing of the trickling water across both her breasts and her bare back only compounded the sensations of pleasure she felt—she was wet not just below, but all over. She grimaced, lifted her pelvis and rolled her hips. She waited for her climax, rocking her body as she masturbated. Let it come. Let it come. Don’t make it come. But Mari wanted the silver buzzing bullet-shaped vibrator. She needed it.

She lifted herself up, thrust into herself to build up her orgasm, then walked backed to the bedroom with her fingers on her clitoris, rubbing vigorously. The vibrator still lay on the bed where she left it. She switched it on and her pulse quickened. Mari placed one foot on the edge of the bed, left the other on the floor and pressed the humming toy against her vagina. She could feel the buzzing deep in her pelvic bones, enwrapping every nerve fiber, encircling every bundle. When she came for the second time, it was even harder. It soaked the bedsheet, trickled down her left leg and left her feeling emptied and out of strength. She collapsed on the bed and lay there staring up into the darkness of the ceiling. She drifted off to sleep, slipped into a dreamscape-ocean beach where the sands were strewn with lovers straining to please one another, bodies glistening beneath the sun. They were quiet about their sexual exchanges, but the eroticism of so many bodies rolling about, granules of sand clinging to both breast and buttocks…

And then the dreams of a single house in a clearing, surrounded by vegetation, an old barn out back overtaken by verdigris and a rusted tractor covered in kudzu, its indiscriminate form barely discernible from the rest of the thick growths of flora. It was significant, in some way—though she knew not how.

Mari slept soundly.

She dreamt of him. The dreams about him came first. A man of hunger, prepossessing of power but not understanding what his power truly meant. Then the dreams of her. The dreams about her came second. A woman who was a shootist—who taught her to shoot. To survive in the abandonment and the desolation in this little house on the edge of the war-fired furnace that had once been the world. 


© Copyright 2017 Aurora M. Soleado. All rights reserved.

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