InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Hedonism ❯ To Gaze Into the Forbidden ( Chapter 2 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: abraxas_ren 
(Miroku (and Sango)) [It involves biological waste products (at this time of night I forget the technical term for it). You may question my sanity for having written it.] S: Miroku develops a very unhealthy fetish related to Sango. Utterly and unforgivably sick and twisted.
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 06.28.2008 | Updated On: 06.28.2008 | Pages: 1 | Words: 748 | Visits: 1.7K | Status: Completed
(Miroku (and Sango)) [It involves biological waste products (at this time of night I forget the technical term for it). You may question my sanity for having written it.] S: Miroku develops a very unhealthy fetish related to Sango. Utterly and unforgivably sick and twisted.
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 06.28.2008 | Updated On: 06.28.2008 | Pages: 1 | Words: 748 | Visits: 1.7K | Status: Completed
“To Gaze Into the Forbidden” by Abraxas (2008-05-09)
It was night and the moon loomed large and blue while the world settled into sleep.
Miroku sank beneath a blanket. He relaxed, as if lost with thought, yet keeping his eyes wide open. All the while he watched his friends resume their individual nocturnal habits. One by one the members of the group were conquered by sleep and soon the air was alive with a cacophony of snoring.
Everyone succumbed but not Miroku. To the monk sleep was pretense and night was cover for an operation unspeakable and perverted. If it was just that massage exercised by men of his vigor, his urge, it would have been excused as normal. Even expected. Alas, it was not as simple as that.
To be safe and free of suspicion, he walked out of the camp slowly. Only when he cleared the area was he brave enough to run through that trail. He needed to get there, to find there that trophy. And he needed to be fast. Already hours and hours ahead, Nature was determined to obliterate, forever, that object of his passion.
His passion!
Who could have imagined such a thing would be his passion? The lust – what word described it? What language grasped it? Impossible! It was not meant to be chained by words.
Perhaps the strangest part of it was how it came to be. Although it consumed his fantasies when alone with his hands, he could not remember where the idea originated. It could have been that he stumbled upon it accidentally. Maybe it happened on a night like that, with the stars and the moon. Maybe, if that had been the introduction, he reacted with disgust. How so ever it transpired, by degrees, very gradually, it was transformed into obsession.
Yes, the thought led to the images – pictures – that sent his hands between his legs many, many nights.
Then it was not enough just to think about it.
There, between shrubs. There, upon grass. There, cloaked by shadow and light. At last he found it. And the sight of it induced a bulge that throbbed unapologetically. With a tug of fabric the restraint was loosened. Exposed and erect, he fell onto his knees dazed by a frenzy of stroking.
The sound of flesh slapping against flesh added its rhythm to the call of the night.
The pleasure swelled within his grip and pictures entered into his mind. Fragments of images. Sango – wandering. Sango – finding that safe, hidden place just for them. His hands untying sashes; her fingers gripping against clothes. Articles, undone, falling, collecting into piles discarded. Naked below the waist, she spreads her legs and bends her knees. The man watching the woman squatting. She, biting her lips. He, urging the act onward and onward.
“Give it to me!” he uttered, aloud, envying the view enjoyed by the grass under the squirming and squatting woman.
Sango – gasping. Miroku – listening. Something – falling clump by clump.
As if to gaze into the forbidden, though confined within fantasy, he looked at the feces that piled between the woman's legs.
“Oh, yes, Sango! More, more!” he moaned aloud yet as if whispering to the Sango of imagination.
So complete was the fantasy that everything was imagined perfectly: from the contorting of her face to the curling of her toes, even the sounds of her straining wet and slippery droplets of feces.
He pictured her waste extruding out of her body. He acted, unable to resist that urge, his arousal plunging into his treasure of dung. Lumps of it were sifted through his grip; it smeared along his shaft up and down. The feel, still warm and soft, brought him into ecstasy. The tainted pleasure of it erupted across his fingers and splattered against his stash of feces.
He gasped and stumbled onto that heap. Covered by excrement, he did not panic. There would be time to prepare a cover about late night baths later – now he wanted to be alone with the feces of Sango!
(666)
A/N: Awarded Moderator’s Choice (Masturbation Prompt) at the IY Hedonism LJ Comm.
It was night and the moon loomed large and blue while the world settled into sleep.
Miroku sank beneath a blanket. He relaxed, as if lost with thought, yet keeping his eyes wide open. All the while he watched his friends resume their individual nocturnal habits. One by one the members of the group were conquered by sleep and soon the air was alive with a cacophony of snoring.
Everyone succumbed but not Miroku. To the monk sleep was pretense and night was cover for an operation unspeakable and perverted. If it was just that massage exercised by men of his vigor, his urge, it would have been excused as normal. Even expected. Alas, it was not as simple as that.
To be safe and free of suspicion, he walked out of the camp slowly. Only when he cleared the area was he brave enough to run through that trail. He needed to get there, to find there that trophy. And he needed to be fast. Already hours and hours ahead, Nature was determined to obliterate, forever, that object of his passion.
His passion!
Who could have imagined such a thing would be his passion? The lust – what word described it? What language grasped it? Impossible! It was not meant to be chained by words.
Perhaps the strangest part of it was how it came to be. Although it consumed his fantasies when alone with his hands, he could not remember where the idea originated. It could have been that he stumbled upon it accidentally. Maybe it happened on a night like that, with the stars and the moon. Maybe, if that had been the introduction, he reacted with disgust. How so ever it transpired, by degrees, very gradually, it was transformed into obsession.
Yes, the thought led to the images – pictures – that sent his hands between his legs many, many nights.
Then it was not enough just to think about it.
There, between shrubs. There, upon grass. There, cloaked by shadow and light. At last he found it. And the sight of it induced a bulge that throbbed unapologetically. With a tug of fabric the restraint was loosened. Exposed and erect, he fell onto his knees dazed by a frenzy of stroking.
The sound of flesh slapping against flesh added its rhythm to the call of the night.
The pleasure swelled within his grip and pictures entered into his mind. Fragments of images. Sango – wandering. Sango – finding that safe, hidden place just for them. His hands untying sashes; her fingers gripping against clothes. Articles, undone, falling, collecting into piles discarded. Naked below the waist, she spreads her legs and bends her knees. The man watching the woman squatting. She, biting her lips. He, urging the act onward and onward.
“Give it to me!” he uttered, aloud, envying the view enjoyed by the grass under the squirming and squatting woman.
Sango – gasping. Miroku – listening. Something – falling clump by clump.
As if to gaze into the forbidden, though confined within fantasy, he looked at the feces that piled between the woman's legs.
“Oh, yes, Sango! More, more!” he moaned aloud yet as if whispering to the Sango of imagination.
So complete was the fantasy that everything was imagined perfectly: from the contorting of her face to the curling of her toes, even the sounds of her straining wet and slippery droplets of feces.
He pictured her waste extruding out of her body. He acted, unable to resist that urge, his arousal plunging into his treasure of dung. Lumps of it were sifted through his grip; it smeared along his shaft up and down. The feel, still warm and soft, brought him into ecstasy. The tainted pleasure of it erupted across his fingers and splattered against his stash of feces.
He gasped and stumbled onto that heap. Covered by excrement, he did not panic. There would be time to prepare a cover about late night baths later – now he wanted to be alone with the feces of Sango!
(666)
A/N: Awarded Moderator’s Choice (Masturbation Prompt) at the IY Hedonism LJ Comm.