Mary Jane

Another in my weed series of stories, Mary Jane combines the easy release of toking with the affections of a voluptuous woman. She’s my main thing. enjoy

Mary Jane
by David Cain

Feeling anxious, feeling low, broken, dull, I eventually told a friend of my troubles. He gave me a name, a number, an address and promised me a better day. I made the call, spoke the name and went over to explore the solution he proffered. She answered the door, escorted me inside.

“Come in,” she said. “Take a seat and let’s get started.” She motioned me to sit on a pillow on the floor, the only real option open to me as there was no furniture. I sat full lotus, my hands upturned on my knees.

From her first kiss, all my troubles fled me. Her aroma filled the air, took over the room, loosened my belly and set my thoughts free. In a flash I’d forgotten the whole of my worries. I leaned back on my arms, sank in the pleasure of her touch. She kissed me again and my spirit melted.

I remembered a day in the park, reading Wordsworth under the summer sun, a warm gentle breeze blowing through my curls, pushing the pages of my worn paperback and the daffodils erupted into a wild pattern of petals and wind as the birds darted silently overhead. I lay back in the grass and the years went rolling by.

Leaving school behind, we drove to the park in the heat of the spring, searching for spaces, for energy and release. We laughed and sat and waited for the time to slip away. Each day drawing closer to the days we came to know, the bursts of freedom found in the first state of escape, leaning with liberty from the safe to the expanding.

And music and music, the ripping tear of electric vibrations, the heat and thud of a intently pounded drum, voices echoing and shouting, spilling and luring, taunting and releasing our youth into a rhythmic pattern of lust and anger. I kissed her again and she worked deep into my heart.

The blossom of big breasts and the tight excitement of roused nipples, we scared away responsibility with our earnest denials. I burrowed into her cunt, thrusting and lapping, rising and expanding, open and secure. I kissed her and kissed her and melted into a half-conscious, satisfied slumber that erupted into desire and an infinite need to feel more.

She kissed me and my muscles fled, lay me down upon the banks and wash over me like a spring flood, cold and warm and buoyant and splashed. I turned and I turned and the water and the sunshine and the burn and the sounds screaming into my peace left me wasted and wanting and sure there was more if only I could feel her kiss again.

“Again,” I said. “Give me more.”

Colors and visions of colors leaving the realm of light and entering into the dim shades of my last fears eroded and soon gone missing. I twisted and turned and the pictures came to life, dancing and mocking and laughing, so much laughter, in the round shapes and the lean lines and the soft wetness of acceptance and the stiff rise of taking. I cried in my happiness, gave way to my sadness, accepted my fate and dug my arms into the water, pulling me from safety to surrender.

I rested, humming and burst in the wake of her clouds. I took her inside me and I drove deep within. I lost my way and found my purpose and gave myself time to recover my senses.

The morning finally came and I went away, secured.


About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, cannabis, fiction, literature, personal, poetry, quotes, reading, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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