This story was set in 1852, about two relatives named Kyarnhed Dashashash and Pirahilsani Agdeura Dashashash.
They had always been distant relatives, living under the same roof but never really seeing each other as anything more than family. The elders had taught them the basics of sex, as the family encouraged to have children at very young age. The elders taught only one position to finish the job, the missionary. Kyarnhed and Pirahilsani had always been content with the mechanical precision of the missionary, the way it felt like duty, like a task completed. But that afternoon, something changed. He had felt her eyes on him, her curiosity, her quiet confidence. They had asked the question that had been in his mind for weeks: what if it was in the mouth? He didn’t know the answer, but he wanted to find it. They had chosen a private room in their house, a space that was not watched, not judged. It was a place where they could be free, where they could feel more than just the act. They were ready to discover something new that was never done in the family, sex but it was erotic and used for PLEASURE, instead of procreation. They did BOTH for sex...
I didn’t know what it was like to feel the warmth of another’s mouth on my cock until that afternoon. The elders had taught me the missionary position—how to press forward, how to hold her hips, how to move with precision. But they never showed me the way her lips could wrap around me, the way her tongue curled, the way her breath synced with mine. I was nervous, but she was calm, her fingers brushing my chest like she was reading my thoughts. “You’re ready,” she said, her voice low. I nodded, not sure if I was.
She knelt between my legs, her eyes locked on mine. Her mouth opened, and I felt the first touch—soft, wet, warm. It wasn’t just the act; it was the way her lips moved up and down, the way her cheeks hollowed, the way my cock pulsed in her grip. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my body trembling as her lips moved, her fingers tracing my shaft. I could feel the heat building, the way my spine stiffened, the way my thoughts blurred into something else. She didn’t rush. She let me sink into it, into the rhythm of her mouth, the way it felt like she was taking me apart and putting me back together.
Then she shifted, her body aligning with mine as she lowered herself onto my lap. His hands found my hips, his fingers pressing into my skin, and I tilted my head back, letting the sensation wash over me. He didn’t just move—he felt the way I was, the way my body responded to his touch, the way my legs wrapped around his waist, my thighs gripping his ribs. I called it doggystyle, but it felt like a name for the way his cock glided in and out of me, the way my nails scraped his back, the way his breath caught as I pressed deeper.
He pulled my hand to his chest, his nipples hard and eager under my touch. I kissed them, my lips moving in slow circles, the way his skin melted beneath me, the way his fingers curled around my wrist as I traced his ribs. He guided my hand to his cock again, and I moved it to his thigh, my fingers pressing into the curve of his hip. His body shuddered, his breath uneven, and I leaned down, my lips finding his neck, my teeth grazing his skin.
When she came, it was like a wave—her body arching, her thighs squeezing my waist, her nails digging into his back. He didn’t stop. He kept moving, his cock pulsing inside her, his release building like a storm. She let out a sound, soft and broken, and I felt the way her body trembled, the way her legs wrapped around me. We lay there, our skin sticky, our breath shallow, our bodies entwined. I could feel the way her heart still raced, the way her fingers were still in my hair, the way her body pressed against mine.
We lay there, our bodies pressed together, still feeling the last tremors of what we had done. Her hands were in my hair, her fingers tangling in the strands, her breath slow and deep, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with mine. I could feel the way her body was still warm, the way her pussy pulsed inside my cock, the way her heartbeat matched the steady thrum of mine. She didn’t move, but I could feel the way I was still in her, still connected, still alive. I let my head rest on her shoulder, my fingers brushing the sweat from his back, my nails scraping the soft skin as I held her close.
She whispered against my neck, her voice muffled and thick with exhaustion, but there was no hesitation in it. I could feel the way she was still touching me, still holding me, still with me. I wrapped my legs around her waist, my thighs pressing into her ribs, my body still trembling from the way he had moved inside me, the way I had let him feel me. We didn’t speak, but I knew he was listening. I knew he was still there. And as the world outside faded, I let my eyes close, my body finally still, my heart still beating in time with his. We slept on top of each other, still touching, still feeling, still holding on to the moment like it was the only one that mattered.
I had never felt another’s hands on my body like this before. The elders had taught me the missionary, the way to hold a man steady, the way to let him press into me without resistance. But I had always wondered what it would feel like to be on top, to be the one guiding him, the one taking control. He didn’t just teach me how to do it—he showed me how to feel it, how to let my body respond to his. It wasn’t just about procreation anymore. It was about the way he kissed my neck, the way his thighs pressed against my ribs, the way his breath hitched as I moved.
He knelt between my legs, his eyes locked on mine. His mouth opened, and I felt the first touch—soft, wet, warm. It wasn’t just the act; it was the way his lips moved up and down, the way his cheeks hollowed, the way my cock pulsed in his grip. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my body trembling as his lips moved, his fingers tracing my shaft. I could feel the heat building, the way my spine stiffened, the way my thoughts blurred into something else. He didn’t rush. He let me sink into it, into the rhythm of his mouth, the way it felt like he was taking me apart and putting me back together.
Then he shifted, his body aligning with mine as he lowered himself onto my lap. His hands found my hips, his fingers pressing into my skin, and I tilted my head back, letting the sensation wash over me. He didn’t just move—he felt the way I was, the way my body responded to his touch, the way my legs wrapped around his waist, my thighs gripping his ribs. He called it doggystyle, but it felt like a name for the way his cock glided in and out of me, the way my nails scraped his back, the way his breath caught as I pressed deeper.
He pulled my hand to his chest, his nipples hard and eager under my touch. I kissed them, my lips moving in slow circles, the way his skin melted beneath me, the way his fingers curled around my wrist as I traced his ribs. He guided my hand to his cock again, and I moved it to his thigh, my fingers pressing into the curve of his hip. His body shuddered, his breath uneven, and I leaned down, my lips finding his neck, my teeth grazing his skin.
When he came, it was like a wave—his body arching, his thighs squeezing my waist, his nails digging into my back. I didn’t stop. I kept moving, my cock pulsing inside him, my release building like a tide. He let out a sound, soft and broken, and I felt the way his body trembled, the way his legs wrapped around me. We lay there, our skin slick, our breath shallow, our bodies entwined. I could feel the way his heart still raced, the way his fingers were still in my hair, the way his body pressed against mine.
We lay there, our bodies pressed together, still feeling the last tremors of what we had done. His hands were in my hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, his breath slow and deep, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with mine. I could feel the way his body was still warm, the way his cock pulsed inside me, the way his heartbeat matched the steady thrum of mine. He didn’t move, but I could feel the way he was still inside me, still connected, still alive. I let my head rest on his shoulder, my fingers brushing the sweat from his back, my nails scraping the soft skin as I held him close.
He whispered against my neck, his voice muffled and thick with exhaustion, but there was no hesitation in it. I could feel the way he was still touching me, still holding me, still with me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my thighs pressing into his ribs, my body still trembling from the way he had moved inside me, the way I had let him feel me. We didn’t speak, but I knew he was listening. I knew he was still there. And as the world outside faded, I let my eyes close, my body finally still, my heart still beating in time with his. We slept on top of each other, still touching, still feeling, still holding on to the moment like it was the only one that mattered.