InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ The Girl ❯ TG ( Chapter 1 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: abraxas_ren 
Disclaimer: The characters of Inuyasha are not mine; they are property of Rumiko Takahashi, Shogakukan, Yomiuri TV, Sunrise and Viz.
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 06.28.2008 | Updated On: 06.28.2008 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 1.8K | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: The characters of Inuyasha are not mine; they are property of Rumiko Takahashi, Shogakukan, Yomiuri TV, Sunrise and Viz.
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 06.28.2008 | Updated On: 06.28.2008 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 1.8K | Status: Completed
“The Girl” by Abraxas (2007-07-15)
She would have been a fine young girl – he imagined while he gazed – but now, and now, that she defied time she was beautiful forever. The face at that moment felt like silk. Those eyes, parted as if disturbed from sleep, at that instant seemed to be aware.
“So pure, so innocent,” he spoke – no – he exhaled upon the figure, slathering her image with his breath. “Too perfect for this world.”
Like a god to the sacrifice was Miroku to the girl.
“I will be quick. I promise you,” he whispered into her ear. “The first time is always quick. It will be easier for you that way.” She stared as he sat and explained: “The first time. Girls are scared of the pain the first time. And that’s why it should be quick. But after that I can take as long and repeat it as often as you wish.”
The monk opened his robes and, holding her hand within his, brought her touch upon his chest.
“It’s OK. To touch. To be curious!” A smile. A giggle. “How many bodies have you seen have you wanted but could not touch?” The hand, its fingers, twitched involuntarily. “Don’t be afraid. I offer you me. Touch all of my body!”
He clasped her hand onto his lap. Teasingly, playfully. His erection throbbed against her palm. It was such a sweet, childlike grope full of promise. He knew she would not be afraid of it even if she were not familiar with that aroused masculine state.
The girl’s kimono parted. Two small, firm breasts were exposed. Again hovering as though worshipping over the figure, he clasped them and squeezed them. He rubbed his face in between them. They felt, suddenly, cold. A queer, sticky water oozed out of the nipples but he was not concerned. From then to now he understood it was only natural.
He eased atop, smothering her cheeks with his kisses. He loosened his kimono. He grinded into her, all the while his penis slowly and gradually peeked out of his loincloth. With one, direct thrust he was exposed. He angled upward, pressing its swollen, hot head against her belly. Its silky, cool texture by contrast enveloped seductively.
Miroku humped, heaving and gasping, as he kissed the girl’s lips through which passed a sound he imagined to be contentment.
At last, they were naked.
He knelt between her legs enrapt by her beauty. Like a geisha, her skin was white and flawless. A work of Nature to be envied by women alive. Frail and delicate, her body begged for gentility. He almost wept right then and there that a violent act could have been thought against her.
Under the moonlight, within the forest, the world was silent as if at vigil. Only his breath echoed through the wilderness. They were alone, they could be sure of it; they were as alone as that moment when he found her. She caught his eye at that instant. He could not help but cry at her sight. He promised pleasure and devotion but he knew the encounter would be fleeting. It could not last between them. If only for an instant, he would have given her the experience of a lifetime.
Any by doing so correct that error of fate: that something so wanted, something so needed would be denied a girl of such rare beauty.
Miroku did not ask if the girl wished to bear his child. He could not bring himself to stoke that kind of disappointment. It was simpler to unburden her of virginity.
The monk slipped his penis into her vagina until he felt the tightening of the passage. Looking into her eyes, he crawled over the figure. Clutching tightly her shoulders, he kissed about her lips. Something – something like a tear – issued from her eyes; its dew shimmered amid starlight.
Like a snake striking its prey, he thrust his erection through her tightness. Writhing and shaking. He drilled it into her body. He thrust it deeper and deeper until his scrotum met her labia and he could not penetrate further.
“I promised I would be quick,” he stammered across rough, excited breaths.
She had not resisted – even to utter a whisper.
It was an initiation rite: to be transformed from a girl to a woman. It could have been routine and mechanical but he always strived to infuse the act with a personal, conscientious touch. So it would be unique and memorable. And humane. The cold, brutal way that men of the time deflowered virgins was uncivilized but he believed it should be an act of pleasure. It was part of his mission – what he envisioned to be his mission – as he could not resist a woman and could not bear the thought of a girl in pain.
Of course, there would be an element of hurt. He understood that, philosophically, the girl’s innocence had to be destroyed for the woman’s power to emerge. It was true of boys, too, as he remembered fondly. It was Nature’s law. For something new to live something old died.
The act was brutal therefore the aftermath was important and he understood from experience that comfort was required. The loving touches, the gentle attentions. The intimacy offset the pain.
They lay side by side together, naked and cool. He placed his head upon her belly, his eyes starring at the smatter of stubble about her vagina. The short, onyx sprouts were wet with warm, dewy semen. She was filled with his seed and now, at the end, she slept content. He sighed and wondered if it was in vain.
Was it too late?
In the morning, the girl – whose name would be eternally denied – remained upon the earth, still and quiet. Exposed to the elements at length her body decayed from white to red, from it normal, natural form to waste. Miroku could not bear to watch her wither. He wished she would be perfect then cursed at the realization – nothing perfect endured that world. Her clothes were tied at the head and along the feet, forming a kind of shoal
She had to be buried so he spent the day searching for a location then digging up the grave.
The monk thought it was blind luck he found her in the middle of the woods, far and away from the beaten path. She had not been dead long. The body was warm those first, few moments. She was not beaten, not scarred even by bruise; she had not been robbed of anything but life. Clearly, it was famine.
Her virginity was intact and, like all of the encounters with girls alive and dead, he could not imagine anyone continuing to be so incomplete.
As he rounded the mound of the grave, he smiled at the woman one last time. He treasured the moments and wondered – no – knew that his act was appreciated. Though there were no cries of satisfaction within this world.
END
She would have been a fine young girl – he imagined while he gazed – but now, and now, that she defied time she was beautiful forever. The face at that moment felt like silk. Those eyes, parted as if disturbed from sleep, at that instant seemed to be aware.
“So pure, so innocent,” he spoke – no – he exhaled upon the figure, slathering her image with his breath. “Too perfect for this world.”
Like a god to the sacrifice was Miroku to the girl.
“I will be quick. I promise you,” he whispered into her ear. “The first time is always quick. It will be easier for you that way.” She stared as he sat and explained: “The first time. Girls are scared of the pain the first time. And that’s why it should be quick. But after that I can take as long and repeat it as often as you wish.”
The monk opened his robes and, holding her hand within his, brought her touch upon his chest.
“It’s OK. To touch. To be curious!” A smile. A giggle. “How many bodies have you seen have you wanted but could not touch?” The hand, its fingers, twitched involuntarily. “Don’t be afraid. I offer you me. Touch all of my body!”
He clasped her hand onto his lap. Teasingly, playfully. His erection throbbed against her palm. It was such a sweet, childlike grope full of promise. He knew she would not be afraid of it even if she were not familiar with that aroused masculine state.
The girl’s kimono parted. Two small, firm breasts were exposed. Again hovering as though worshipping over the figure, he clasped them and squeezed them. He rubbed his face in between them. They felt, suddenly, cold. A queer, sticky water oozed out of the nipples but he was not concerned. From then to now he understood it was only natural.
He eased atop, smothering her cheeks with his kisses. He loosened his kimono. He grinded into her, all the while his penis slowly and gradually peeked out of his loincloth. With one, direct thrust he was exposed. He angled upward, pressing its swollen, hot head against her belly. Its silky, cool texture by contrast enveloped seductively.
Miroku humped, heaving and gasping, as he kissed the girl’s lips through which passed a sound he imagined to be contentment.
At last, they were naked.
He knelt between her legs enrapt by her beauty. Like a geisha, her skin was white and flawless. A work of Nature to be envied by women alive. Frail and delicate, her body begged for gentility. He almost wept right then and there that a violent act could have been thought against her.
Under the moonlight, within the forest, the world was silent as if at vigil. Only his breath echoed through the wilderness. They were alone, they could be sure of it; they were as alone as that moment when he found her. She caught his eye at that instant. He could not help but cry at her sight. He promised pleasure and devotion but he knew the encounter would be fleeting. It could not last between them. If only for an instant, he would have given her the experience of a lifetime.
Any by doing so correct that error of fate: that something so wanted, something so needed would be denied a girl of such rare beauty.
Miroku did not ask if the girl wished to bear his child. He could not bring himself to stoke that kind of disappointment. It was simpler to unburden her of virginity.
The monk slipped his penis into her vagina until he felt the tightening of the passage. Looking into her eyes, he crawled over the figure. Clutching tightly her shoulders, he kissed about her lips. Something – something like a tear – issued from her eyes; its dew shimmered amid starlight.
Like a snake striking its prey, he thrust his erection through her tightness. Writhing and shaking. He drilled it into her body. He thrust it deeper and deeper until his scrotum met her labia and he could not penetrate further.
“I promised I would be quick,” he stammered across rough, excited breaths.
She had not resisted – even to utter a whisper.
It was an initiation rite: to be transformed from a girl to a woman. It could have been routine and mechanical but he always strived to infuse the act with a personal, conscientious touch. So it would be unique and memorable. And humane. The cold, brutal way that men of the time deflowered virgins was uncivilized but he believed it should be an act of pleasure. It was part of his mission – what he envisioned to be his mission – as he could not resist a woman and could not bear the thought of a girl in pain.
Of course, there would be an element of hurt. He understood that, philosophically, the girl’s innocence had to be destroyed for the woman’s power to emerge. It was true of boys, too, as he remembered fondly. It was Nature’s law. For something new to live something old died.
The act was brutal therefore the aftermath was important and he understood from experience that comfort was required. The loving touches, the gentle attentions. The intimacy offset the pain.
They lay side by side together, naked and cool. He placed his head upon her belly, his eyes starring at the smatter of stubble about her vagina. The short, onyx sprouts were wet with warm, dewy semen. She was filled with his seed and now, at the end, she slept content. He sighed and wondered if it was in vain.
Was it too late?
In the morning, the girl – whose name would be eternally denied – remained upon the earth, still and quiet. Exposed to the elements at length her body decayed from white to red, from it normal, natural form to waste. Miroku could not bear to watch her wither. He wished she would be perfect then cursed at the realization – nothing perfect endured that world. Her clothes were tied at the head and along the feet, forming a kind of shoal
She had to be buried so he spent the day searching for a location then digging up the grave.
The monk thought it was blind luck he found her in the middle of the woods, far and away from the beaten path. She had not been dead long. The body was warm those first, few moments. She was not beaten, not scarred even by bruise; she had not been robbed of anything but life. Clearly, it was famine.
Her virginity was intact and, like all of the encounters with girls alive and dead, he could not imagine anyone continuing to be so incomplete.
As he rounded the mound of the grave, he smiled at the woman one last time. He treasured the moments and wondered – no – knew that his act was appreciated. Though there were no cries of satisfaction within this world.
END