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Miroku swore he could smell the ink on the scroll: the one in the headman’s house, the one that united him with Sango forever: husband and wife.
Had he ever been this happy?
Looking down at the luminous face of the woman he loved?
The one who gave him hope. Who gave him the will to endure, to live?
“Sango.” He couldn’t resist her pull any longer. He needed to taste his wife’s lips, his wife’s lips! Her name and her joy still lit him from the inside, finding reservoirs of happiness that he thought had died the day that his father had succumbed to the curse.
A curse that he had defeated. With the help of impossible friends. A priestess from the future (whom he missed dearly), a hanyō (who he now considered his closest friend), a kitsune (who was like a younger brother to him), and Sango.
Sango. Now officially his. And he was hers, too.
She was the first, the only, who made him want to live.
For the first time, asking to bear his children was not a glib request to a pretty woman as a tease, or as an escape, or as a way not to think about the doom that awaited him. Sango was everything he wanted. His wife. One who would be the mother of his children.
“Miroku…” Sango’s jeweled brown eyes glistened with the tears of her own joy, her own relief, that somehow, through everything, they were there, together, whole.
“Go on then,” the short, but venerable, priestess who had served as their witness nudged them both, “all is recorded, all is well. You and your wife should go home now and celebrate…” Kaede cleared her throat, “the fruits of the marriage.”
Miroku took Sango’s hand and started to walk toward the hut, their hut. He and Inuyasha had built it on a plot of land bestowed to them by Kaede. It sat between Musashi and Inuyasha’s forest, because Miroku and Sango never wanted to be too far away from their hanyō friend (or the well that cruelly separated him from the person he loved).
“Inuyasha?” Miroku called into the nearby woods; the hanyō had not joined them in the headman’s house, muttering something about ‘fluffy bullshit,’ but Miroku had a strong suspicion that he was within earshot for the entire thing. When the hanyō appeared, his arms crossed and his face tight, Miroku simply bowed. “I—we… wanted to say thank you. For everything.”
“Keh.” It was Inuyasha’s usual answer. The rest though, about found families and brothers and senses of belongings and joy, was there too, just unspoken. And, Miroku was certain that Inuyasha would be at the well that night. “You two deserve it.”
“We’re proud to call you brother,” Sango commented.
For a moment, Miroku saw the hanyō’s face soften before he nodded.
“I’ve got watch tonight. You guys got other business.” Inuyasha disappeared back into the woods before either Miroku or Sango could react.
Other business.
Miroku wasn’t even put off by Inuyasha’s brashness. He had been thinking—daydreaming—about their first night as man and wife since… well, probably since the first time he laid eyes upon her, but certainly from the first time he really saw her. Not as a beauty (which she was), not as a potential conquest, but as a person whose soul had been ripped apart by Naraku, but was slowly, persistently, healing.
That moment, where Miroku saw that about Sango was also the moment that he fell in love with her.
It had taken much longer for Miroku’s hope for a future to manifest alongside his love.
“Did…” Sango started to speak, “did you think this day would ever happen, Hōshi-sama?”
Sango still blushed when she looked at him. She still used formal language when she spoke to him. This, his wife, the woman he would raise a family with, who had saved his life on more than one occasion, and in the most important way that mattered.
No, this would not do.
Miroku tugged Sango by the hand into his body and he leaned in to kiss her lips with everything she had freed him to feel: hope, joy, love. He was loath to do it, but he pulled away abruptly. “Please, my dearest Sango, my wife, call me by Miroku.”
He wanted to hear his own name from her lips. He wanted the formality that fenced them off from each other to melt away, into the kisses that would start that night and last until the morning.
“O—oh,” Sango stuttered. She had used ‘Hōshi-sama’ as a way to keep just a little bit of distance between them for so long that it was automatic now.
‘Hōshi-sama’ was safe. It meant that if everything fell apart and she lost everything, her love for him was still kept at a distance, remote enough to scar over and heal, like Kohaku’s cuts into her back.
But Miroku’s lips were real. His hands holding hers, his smile, his vows were real. He’d asked her to bear his children, and she had said she would.
Her husband.
“Miroku…” Sango tried his name on her lips, and she watched the way his eyes widened when she said it. “My husband, Miroku.”
Miroku was kissing her again, letting his tongue test the seam of her lips, letting his hands gently cup her face, as if he was transmitting his own elation through their touches. “My wife, Sango.”
Then they were there, in front of their hut, their home.
Sango stopped at the door. Her soul (and her body) had been keening for this, for him. But… was she ready? She had abandoned her hope for a domestic life so long ago, choosing instead a life of duty, a life of protection, a life of revenge.
Yet the light of Miroku had crept into the dark dungeon she chained herself in, asking her what she wanted, what she desired, what she hoped for.
One more kiss. That was what she wanted at that moment. To seal their bond, and to gin up her courage for what was to come next. Sango stepped on her tiptoes and she pulled Miroku’s mouth to hers, tasting her husband once more. She thought of his hands on her (when she started welcoming them) and how they were tender, but practiced.
She thought…
…She thought about becoming Miroku’s wife, in the eyes of the kami, too.
“I’m ready,” Sango said, letting her desire-laden eyes find their way to her husband’s. “To be your wife. Completely.”
Sango then led Miroku into their hut. A fire had been lit and was burning low, leaving the place with an earnest glow. Their futon was already laid out for them, expectant.
Inuyasha is too kind, Miroku thought as he looked around the welcoming room, the mood entirely set. Miroku gazed at Sango in the glow of the firelight, trying to calm the rapidity of his heartbeat.
Miroku had experienced the pleasures of the female form. But it felt like it occurred in a past life. Before he rediscovered his hope, finding the occasional woman to accept his request to bear his children could shine a candle on his darkness. In those encounters, he had learned a few things. Yet, as he faced his wife, his Sango, he felt as inexperienced as she was. Sango might not have been fated to be his first, but she would be his last.
“We don’t need to rush,” Miroku assured. “We have the rest of our lives to… consummate our marriage.”
“But we only have one wedding night,” Sango countered. “We have waited long enough to be happy.”
Her eyes were still uncertain, but she had started to untie her wedding kimono. In two hand strokes, the fabric slid off of her form, and into a pile on the ground. Miroku followed suit, untying his own kimono, then easing it off of his shoulders until it too laid on the ground, its sleeve having reached out to touch the sleeve of Sango’s kimono.
Miroku looked upon his wife. She was down to her bindings and her fundoshi: beautiful. Her skin was criss-crossed with scars: from mottled points from demon claws, proof that she was a formidable slayer, to thin clean lines where a scythe had once met her skin, the tragedy of Kohaku’s betrayal (and in a way, the celebration of his salvation). Miroku did not have to ask Sango to turn around to know of the deeper hurt there: of a woman who would crawl out of a grave in her quest for revenge for her family, before becoming his family.
“Your happiness means everything to me,” Miroku said, letting himself look at his beautiful wife completely; her scars and her soul were as magnificent as her face and form. “I love you, Sango.”
Miroku took one tentative step forward, aware that he too was stripped to his fundoshi, and that his desire to be with his wife had manifested and was currently straining against the fabric. He let his fingers graze Sango’s jawline, lining them up for another kiss. His own excitement did not matter. To him, on that night, the only thing that mattered was Sango.
When he relinquished Sango’s lips, she wore a smile that he had never seen before. It was a knowing, mischievous smile. Then he understood why. The fundoshi that had so recently been hiding his erection came loose and dropped to the ground. Now Miroku was bare in front of his wife, and she was looking at the flesh that her hands had just revealed.
“It’s… wow,” Sango stammered.
(If Miroku had needed a confidence boost at that moment, well, that had done wonders.)
Miroku tried to stifle the moan that broke from him at Sango’s statement. Her playfulness was working, gently eroding away his apprehension. He knew that there would be some pain for her, and likely some apprehension associated with the rapid evolution of their expected level of intimacy, so he would do everything she asked that night. It was a night to celebrate, but so too, it was a night to set the precedents for all the other special nights for the rest of their lives.
“Please Sango, may I see you, too?” Miroku asked, letting his desire overcome his own apprehension.
Sango looked down at her own body, a smile crossing her face as she looked at the fundoshi and binding still hiding her most intimate parts from view. There had been a handful of occasions during their journey for revenge that Miroku had enjoyed Sango’s naked beauty, but that enjoyment had not been welcomed. And often, earned him a well-deserved lump from hiraikotsu.
Miroku couldn’t remember when he stopped that habit; probably at the moment he realized that he was in love with Sango (but before he let himself hope to act on that love).
When Sango began to unwrap the bindings around her breasts, her eyes dewy and playful, made the memories of all the others Miroku had been with evaporate away. It left Sango, and only Sango, in its wake, but it too elicited a memory: Miroku’s impish pleasure of taking in Sango’s body without leave barbed him with shame.
“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled from Miroku’s mouth before he could stop them. When Sango froze, Miroku knew that he would have to continue. “That I… took. Before. That I put my hands on you and looked at you without… permission.”
The melodious laughter that erupted from Sango at his apology unsettled Miroku. Her blush was gone, replaced with a luminous smile.
“How many thumps did you endure for your stolen touches and glances?” Sango ribbed, still unwrapping herself like the illustrious present that she was. “You’ve been duly punished for that.”
Then with a final tug, Sango freed herself from the bind.
It didn’t matter that Miroku had seen her before, because he had not seen her like this. Waiting, smiling, wanting his eyes to rove. So he let them. Her breasts were full and pert, sitting effortlessly on her chest even as there was no mistaking their suppleness. Each was adorned with a delicate pink nipple, with the color and shape of a sakura blossom, pebbled from the night time air.
“Do you… do you like looking at me?” Sango asked, her hands inching lower, to the final piece of cloth that separated Miroku’s eyes from a complete vision of her flesh.
“So much,” Miroku said, and he let his delight beam out of him, his eyes wandering over every crest and valley on Sango’s—his wife’s— body. He loved her skin and he loved her scars and he loved her muscles and he loved her breasts. He could feel the old twitch of his hand, begging him to let it feast on Sango’s body too, but there was time yet for that. And he had a better way he could put his hand to use. “May I remove your fundoshi?”
Sango’s smile matched Miroku’s, and she nodded her consent. He lingered on the shame of all those times he had touched her uninvited; it made this, an invited touch, all the sweeter.
Miroku unwound the last fabric that separated them, ghosting his fingers over Sango’s flesh. She trembled at his touch, releasing a breath as he tested the satin skin of her stomach. Finally, the fundoshi fluttered to the ground.
For a moment, Miroku stood frozen. He had been here before, staring at a woman in naught but her skin. But often those moments were drenched with sake, and undertaken near mechanically. He’d touch and he’d kiss and he’d caress, listening to the timbre of his bedfellow’s voice, testing their readiness, until he would finally lay on top of them, spread their legs, and complete the dance.
But this was Sango. He wanted to look in her eyes and kiss every inch of her body. He wanted to find every possible avenue to her pleasure so when it finally came time to consummate, the inevitable pain of becoming her first would be bearable.
She’s a woman who crawled out of a grave to seek revenge. Miroku reminded himself. Sango was no ordinary woman, and that was why he loved her.
“All those unwanted touches through our journey, and now that they are wanted… are they less… desired?” Sango’s voice sounded small, uncertain. Her posture slumped ever so slightly, as if she were trying to hide her nakedness without her attempt being blatant.
Miroku quickly pulled his wife into his arms, letting flesh press flesh, nuzzling his nose into her neck. “There is no greater prize to me than giving you wanted touches, Sango.” He pulled away just enough to take a strand of her shimmering silky hair and wrap it around his finger. “I was reflecting on how lucky I feel to be here with you.” He then leaned in and kissed the juncture of Sango’s jaw and her neck. “You will never need to worry. I’ve been hopeless for you since near the first time we met. And now that you want my touch, I am lost to know exactly what to do.”
Sango could not help but chuckle at the silliness of her husband. Here she had expected to be the uncertain one, the inexperienced one, who floundered about under the guide of her more experienced partner. Yet, it felt as though she were needing to cajole him into touching her, so unsure he seemed to be. It made her smile. It was one more sign that there was always far more to the monk than his lechery, that his emotions and desires ran far deeper than his roving hands and eyes. True, she suspected this about him, but here, standing naked in front of him, it was confirmed.
“Then please,” Sango breathed, letting her hands trail down the muscled sinew of Miroku’s back, toward the round globes of his perfectly formed derriere. When her hands found purchase there, she squeezed. “Touch me, Miroku. And… show me what we are to do to fully be husband and wife.” Sango pressed her breasts into Miroku’s chest, pleased to hear an answering stutter to his breath. “Because I can’t wait to realize the many things I have dreamt of doing. A… man is not the only one with desires.”
“It may… hurt,” Miroku sighed, but his hands were now exploring Sango’s skin more freely. “When I… take you.”
“I trust you.” Sango tried to make sure she did not come off as blasé as she said it. “I trust you completely.” She backed away from Miroku then, and looked down at their bed, then once more at the indigo eyes of her husband. “Please, Miroku?”
Sango did not know if Miroku truly understood just how long she had waited—wanted—to be here with him. How many nights she fell asleep with visions of his lips all over her body behind her eyelids. She knew what was to come, she keened for what was to come.
“I want you.”
Finally, Miroku stopped holding back. His kisses became more urgent and his hands more daring. Sango’s body sang at the contact, and as his tongue tasted her flesh, she let herself go. When Miroku’s lips found a particularly sensitive spot, Sango moaned. When Miroku’s hands discovered a vein of pleasure, Sango gasped. And Miroku tuned to Sango’s voice, spiraling in on the kisses and licks that felt the best, and on the touches that elicited Sango’s joy.
It was clear that standing would no longer do. Sango let herself sink onto the futon; Miroku eagerly followed suit. Soon, his body was crushing her into their mattress, leaving her skin tingling from the expanded contact. Had she ever felt this good? It was as if her blood was singing, strumming melodies from the core of her body to the tingling tips of her fingers.
“Miroku…”
His name, so difficult to let herself say just that day, slid effortly from her lips. It was the name of her lover, the name of her husband.
“Sango…”
And how he whispered her name in kind sent tendrils of love radiating through her body.
“Please,” Sango said.
Sango didn’t want to divulge that because she didn’t know what she was doing, she didn’t know what would feel good. She didn’t want to admit that no one had ever explained how sex worked before. She was remiss to do much more than trust in Miroku to guide her.
All she knew was what she wanted: to spend the night making love to her husband.
“It’s okay to…” Sango murmured. She needed to say it. “To use your past experience. With others. To… make it… good.”
Sango silently begged Miroku not to make her say it: that she didn’t know what she was doing.
“I know.” Miroku finally—finally—he understood her unease. It was not from lack of desire that Sango was hesitating. She was one who was proficient at nearly everything she put her mind to, but had yet to experience love-making. Miroku did not believe he could love her more, but there he was, looking in her eyes, knowing that his heart had just grown fuller. He also knew exactly what to do from here.
Miroku kissed the crown of Sango’s head, smiling with the whole of his body. He brought his fingers to her jaw, and smiled.
“Let us make a promise, then.” Miroku let his eyes burn into Sango’s, the warm brown pools that he could not wait to wake up to every morning. “That tonight, and every night that follows, we share with each other what feels good, what we desire, and what feels not as good.” When Sango smiled back, Miroku added one more thing. “You are everything to me, and I don’t think a lifetime of ‘experience’ would have prepared me for being with you.”
“Okay,” were the last words Sango uttered before Miroku had recaptured her lips.
Her body felt hot against his, and impossibly soft, and his skin tingled at the sensation of Sango’s fingers exploring him for the very first time, tracing the lines of his muscles down his back, dipping her thumb into the divots just above his butt then slowly wandering there too, squeezing his glutes as she went. Miroku was unable to contain the groan that escaped his lips, for the pleasure of her touches and for the joy of her eagerness to know his body as well as he planned to know hers.
“I would like to… touch you everywhere, Sango,” Miroku breathed between the kisses that were becoming more intense, more wanting, more jubilant. “May—may I touch you everywhere?”
“You may!” Sango’s happiness chimed like bells in her reply.
Miroku tried to contain his own excitement, but he could not. He already knew his hands would be doing far more work than his groin, because the prospect of becoming one with Sango had already brought him close to bursting.
“Don’t hold back,” Miroku whispered directly into her ear; he had wanted to say this to Sango for so long. “I want to hear you.”
Sango exhaled as she nodded, but Miroku did not miss the smile. It was his welcome. It was everything. So, Miroku began to touch, listening to Sango’s unspoken words. He watched her heaving breasts, in part because they were a sight to behold, but also to gauge. He wanted every caress, every massage, every brush of his fingers to feel good. He wanted a complete map of her reactions, down to the most intimate detail.
But he also wanted to ease her into his touches. Because if he was to join with her, he would be damned if it was not the best possible experience that he could give her. So, he started at Sango’s neck, kissing her jaw as he sampled the skin. His nose reached her throat as he let his finger run across her clavicle. Sango sighed as he explored, leaning into his touch, but he had not yet found what he was looking for.
Miroku moved farther down, letting kisses and nibbles follow his finger, listening again to Sango’s replies. His hand wandered down Sango’s arm, pausing briefly when it encountered an interruption to the smooth skin: scars that painted his beloved. Life experiences that made Sango who she was. Beautiful.
Finally, it was time. Time to touch what he had wanted to touch since the first moment he saw her: the magnificent breasts perched atop her chest. He remembered how his hand twitched with superficial desire that first time, wanting only to please himself.
That was a different time.
Miroku slowly, deliberately lowered his hand, watching the rise and fall of Sango’s chest as she realized what he was about to do, watching as her eyes widened with apprehensive desire and her mouth fell open but uttered no words.
“Before I… continue,” Miroku whispered, “I need to know. Are you… enjoying this?”
Sango attempted to collect herself enough to answer. Every one of his touches sent tremors through her body. Every kiss and nibble left Sango catching her breath, her nerves singing in response to the electric touches. And given where Miroku’s hand was hovering, where his lust was concentrated, she could not help but silently keen for what was to come next.
Sango still remembered the moment she realized she had feelings for the monk. The moment he went from being a comrade in battle and a friend to… to the man she wanted to be with. It was just after she had stolen Inuyasha’s sword to trade for her brother. She had been injured and was trying (unsuccessfully) to bandage her arm. Without saying a single word, Miroku was there, gently taking the bandage from her and tending the wound. It was the first time that Miroku had used his hands on Sango to soothe instead of molest. It was… when Sango first saw just how much deeper Miroku was than his surface lechery. She remembered feeling so ashamed of betraying her newfound comrades-in-arms, hating herself, but then, there Miroku was… tending her.
“It’s okay, you know,” he had said, “being willing to do anything to get your brother back.” His hand had then lingered over the wound. “So, please don’t leave. You’re worth the minor inconvenience of Naraku’s traps.”
He had touched her butt right after he said it, and gotten smacked right after he touched her butt, but… it was the moment something changed for Sango. The moment she realized that she couldn’t leave her newfound friends. The moment that… Miroku became something different in her eyes than any other man she’d met.
She remembered watching Miroku flit off to flirt, over and over again, asking woman after woman to bear his children, but never her. When she was feeling particularly dark, Sango often wondered if he only viewed her as a friend and comrade, despite his hand’s amorous intentions with her backside. Even as she outwardly denied how ardently she had fallen for him, inside, every time his eyes and hands wandered to others, she died a little inside.
Even when his eyes seemed to stop wandering, a whisper of a doubt always lingered for her, on the edge of her conscious thought. It asked her whether his proposal was sincere, or whether it was a doomed man bringing his friend a glimmer of hope at the end of all things. It gnawed at her even when the fight was over and they stood and signed the papers: man and wife, asking her whether her wandering monk was tying himself to her now out of obligation.
But the look of glee in Miroku’s eyes as he tilted his head to take in her breasts, and the way his lip quivered as his hands traveled toward them could not be out of simple obligation. Sango could tell that Miroku was holding back even as he wanted to charge forward, to treasure that night, to treasure her, and that was quieting the voices that told her that she did not deserve this happiness.
“Yes,” Sango answered. “Please… continue.”
Miroku let out something akin to a stifled squeal before managing to contain it. Sango chuckled, mirroring Miroku’s jubilation; there was no doubt that Miroku felt for her what she felt for him. She was his only, as he was her only.
Miroku’s hands stifled Sango’s thoughts, and she let out a gasp. It was the first time anyone had touched her breasts, and Miroku’s hands were not just touching them: they were cupping them. Soon, he let the pad of his thumb graze featherlight against the sensitive pebbled flesh of her nipple. It ignited every nerve in Sango’s body, and she writhed at the sharp and delicious pangs that it sent coursing through her.
“Yes!” She couldn’t help how loud she had said it. And she couldn’t get away from the way that Miroku’s indigo eyes twinkled at her outburst, as if he had been waiting.
“If you think that is good, my wife, then I have some excellent news about what is to come next.” Finally Sango could hear playfulness lace Miroku’s voice, as if her unintended exclamation had broken through the worry and found its way to the celebration of it all.
They were here!
Alive!
Whole!
And married!
It was everything that Sango had dreamed of, but was afraid to dare hope for.
Miroku dipped his head down to join his hands, his thumb continuing to draw out Sango’s gasps. He was loath to admit how many times he had touched himself thinking about what they would feel like, but Sango’s breasts exceeded every fantasy he had ever had. They were giving, but solid. Pert, but supple. His hand could hold one, but never completely cover it.
He wondered what they tasted like.
Then, the grin came to Miroku again.
He would get to find out what they tasted like. Right now.
Miroku wanted to immediately close his mouth around the delicate cherry blossom flesh atop Sango’s breasts. He knew that she would keen for the sensations, but now that he was here, as much as he wanted to taste his wife, he wanted to tease his wife more.
Not for long, and just a little.
Miroku ghosted his lips against the soft edge of Sango’s breast, a grin on his face at the way she grunted. He kissed again, increasing the pressure of his lips, then again, and again, his lips coming closer to the pebbled flesh he was looking most forward to.
Finally, with a single glance into his beloved’s eyes, he let himself taste.
“O—oh!”
That was the sound Miroku had wanted to hear. A sound so uninhibited that Miroku had to keep himself from involuntarily moaning in response. He was already on the knife’s edge of a rather embarrassing situation, but Sango’s pleasure mattered far more than his did. He would please her first, maybe for the first time in her life, and he would celebrate that high honor.
“I am glad that you are enjoying this so much,” Miroku chuckled. Those were the last words he planned on uttering, at least for a while.
Miroku continued his worship, letting his mouth taste the salty delight of her right nipple, then her left, all the while his thumb ensuring that neither of them went neglected. More rapidly than Miroku expected, Sango’s gasps lowered to moans, her tensed twitches gave way to languid writhes, and the strained worry on her face dissolved into relaxed bliss. Sango was starting to let herself enjoy the sensations, without holding back.
It was what he had been waiting for. Letting his touches reflect his unfettered joy. He had so many more places he wanted to explore, wanted to touch, wanted to taste! But tonight, this was his only goal: to gift Sango the unfettered joy of intimacy. And in those moments, when the glee painted her face and she’d relinquished the careful control that followed her like a shadow, Miroku too let himself feel unfettered joy. Not at the sensations of the flesh (although those were extraordinary), but at the naked trust that Sango, the first woman he had loved since his mother, was bestowing upon him.
It made what he had planned next infinitely more wonderful.
“There is more I wish to do, Sango,” Miroku breathed, his eyes now locked into hers. “I wish to touch you… intimately… in a way I believe will be unlike anything you have ever experienced. And… I don’t want you to hold back.” Miroku slid up Sango’s body, and placed a kiss on her lips. “It will… make what comes next infinitely better for you.”
“I trust you.” Sango’s reply pressed on Miroku’s heart so intensely that he felt a tear come to his eye.
“Thank you,” Miroku said, and without changing his position, he let his hand drift south.
Something had changed in Miroku’s eyes; Sango could see it, as if they had suddenly grown clearer. As if, as she was finally letting herself go, so, too, was he. They for the first time could be together completely unmasked, completely unshielded.
The only other times in Sango’s life that she felt so free was during the heat of battle. Going head-to-head with demons burned her blood and lifted her soul. She was herself in those moments. The grief in the aftermath, the wounds and the death—not to mention Kohaku’s purgatory—had soured Sango to battles.
But here she was, writhing to Miroku’s practiced fingers. Here she was, giggling when his lips found a particularly sensitive spot and moaning when his touch coiled pleasure in her core. It felt so wonderful to be free, and to trust that with Miroku, in their marriage bed, it was okay to be free.
When Miroku’s hand teased the curls at the juncture of Sango’s thighs, she let herself squeal. His were the first fingers to touch her there (she had even refrained from using her own). It sparked a buzz of anticipation in her, one that took root with that first jolt of pleasure, as if her body knew what was coming, and hungered for it. A second touch; this time Sango sighed as the currents of sensation echoed through her, pooling again in the core of her, which had begun to throb with need. By the third touch, Sango stopped concentrating on her reactions, and let herself simply experience. Because with every stroke, the ripples grew more intense, the tension grew stronger, and the throbbing between her legs grew more exquisitely unbearable.
“Let yourself go, Sango.” Miroku whispered, his voice labored from his own desire. “I… am going to try something else.”
Sango could only nod, but as soon as she did, Miroku lowered his head back to her breast, taking it into his mouth. He also returned his teasing hands to their place between Sango’s legs, finding the sensitive bud that seemed responsible for both the ripples and the throbbing. Then, Miroku resumed.
Sango had experienced his tongue on her nipple, and Sango had experienced his fingers teasing between her legs in isolation. She knew it would feel good when he combined the sensations, but… she had clearly underestimated just how good. Sango cried as the dual sensations crashed into her, Miroku’s tongue and fingers working in congress leading her up, up, up, into the stratosphere.
“Mi-ro-ku…” Oh, the way his name sounded on her lips, the way his hands and tongue seemed designed only for her, the way she could let go of it all and just experience.
Marriage bliss was bliss indeed.
“I love the way you say my name…” Miroku paused his tongue’s massage for a moment, just long enough for Sango to see the smile on his face, before he resumed.
Miroku was almost there; he could feel it. When he tickled the button of nerves hidden beneath the folds of Sango’s sex, paid attention to the tremors that ran through Sango’s body. He listened to the timbre of her voice, watched the way her eyes hazed over and her face flushed. When his tongue found its way back to the sensitive flesh of Sango’s nipple, Miroku knew he had found what he was looking for. He saw the pathway that would lead Sango to experiencing the first orgasm of her life.
So Miroku used his tongue to tickle and his fingers to massage, pleased as Sango rocked her hips to the rhythm of his fingers. She was close. He could tell. He could hear. He could feel. And on some other blessed night in their future, he hoped too that he would get to taste too. But that could wait. Tonight… was for Sango.
“Don’t hold back,” Miroku whispered, then he turned his attention back to his wife, back to his love, to resume until she’d found her bliss.
A battle played inside of Sango’s mind as crests upon crests of pleasure were coaxed out of her by Miroku. She was losing herself to it, and she was trying desperately to hold onto her composure. Was… was Miroku asking her to just let go? It felt so against everything that she had been taught, about what being a woman was, that the niggling thought sat in the back of her mind and asked her to restrain herself, to suppress herself.
But Sango didn’t want to suppress her happiness anymore.
Sango wouldn’t suppress her happiness anymore.
So she let herself cry out with every pulsation that Miroku’s fingers evoked between her legs. She let her body move as it wanted to in congress with her husband’s (and lover’s) mouth and hands. With every new touch, she beamed as her bliss climbed ever higher, tightening, coiling, spreading. It thrummed through her body like a warm ripple, from the core of her and out, lighting her nerves as it went.
And the coil inside of her, the one that Miroku seemed to be stoking with his fingers alone, was growing so tight as to be unbearable. How did something feel so exhilarating and so painful all at once? But it was not normal pain: it was the pain of anticipation, as if her body were standing on the precipice and waiting to fall. It was why she could not hold back her voice. It was why she could not keep her body still, because Sango was certain that Miroku’s ministrations had meant to bring her body into this state.
In that moment, when she was near crying, nearly begging to be released, when it was all she could do to hold the floodgates closed… Sango understood.
Don’t hold back.
She needed to let go.
She needed to trust Miroku to be her guide.
She needed to fall.
Finally, Sango relinquished the last modicum of control she had been holding onto and just… experienced. Miroku’s fingers. Miroku’s mouth.
And then…
It happened.
The most intense release of pleasure blossomed deep in Sango’s core, crashing through the rest of her body like a tidal wave. All at once, every part of her that was holding in that exquisite tension broke at once, and she didn’t hold back. Wave after wave of electric joy crested over her, and Sango let her voice find Miroku’s name as her muscles tremored.
Never had anything in her life felt that good.
“Miroku…” It had become so easy to say his name, so natural.
Like it had been waiting for her all this time to just let go.
“I love you.” Miroku had slid back up Sango’s body, so they were face-to-face.
There was a tear in his eye as he kissed Sango’s forehead. There would never be another for him. Not when he looked into her soft cinnamon eyes, still glazed over from pleasure. He would never forget the way she cried his name as she climaxed: having only called him ‘Miroku’ for the first time that night. If that was all there was to be that night, he was entirely satisfied.
A tender hand broke Miroku’s quiet celebration, winding its way between his legs, wrapping itself around his still-very-excited erection.
“I hope we can…” Sango had collected herself enough to purr. “Continue.”
So much for all there was that night.
His wife wanted him, mind and body. It was all he could do to keep himself from crying out from the emotional release that this night was giving to him. But that could wait. First, Miroku would oblige his wife’s request to continue. And in the afterglow of her first orgasm, Sango was as ready as she would ever be to have sex for the first time.
Still, he hesitated. It was going to hurt her, and it was… well, it was not going to take very long for him. Because it had been a while; the moment he realized that the only one he could see himself with was Sango, he ceased seeking out the company of other women. It would make tonight all the more special, but so too would it make his first time with Sango all the more rapid.
Miroku could not think about that now, because Sango was kissing him and stroking up and down his length with her hands and… if he did not put a stop to it then there would be an unpleasant surprise waiting for both of them.
“Sango…” Miroku stilled her hand and looked into her eyes; when they widened with worry, he knew that he must continue, must be honest. “What you’re doing feels amazing, and were I in a better state, I would rejoice in your hands touching me. But, what comes next, becoming your husband in flesh, I—I want it so much. And, well… I… it’s probably going to be… quick.” Miroku was relieved to see Sango’s face shift. “Being with you… I’m already set to… combust.”
“Miroku.” Her voice was amused, but it carried an edge of pleading. “I want to be your wife.” Sango then feathered her fingers against Miroku’s cheek. “I don’t care if… the first time it’s… imperfect.” Then somehow, through her worry, the marvel of a woman giggled. “And if it’s supposed to hurt, well then, all the better for it to be… quick.”
Kami, Miroku wanted to marry Sango all over again. She’d managed to turn his worries about performance into a blessing.
First times didn’t have to be perfect.
And yet, because she was Sango, Miroku knew that for him, it would be perfect.
“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” Miroku affirmed, not able to hide the smile that lit his entire being. “I love you, Sango.”
“So you’ve said,” Sango chimed, then she adjusted her position and spread her legs. “Now… will you… show me?”
“Who knew my little wife would be so eager?” Miroku could not help but laugh at the impish glint in Sango’s eyes. “You truly are a blessing from the kami.”
Miroku positioned himself between Sango’s legs, but he hovered. He needed to be sure. One last check that Sango would be ready for him, one last confirmation. When his fingers came back slippery from her arousal, the last of Miroku’s apprehensions dissolved.
He was about to make love to Sango! His wife!
It would probably not be the best sexual experience of his life (or hopefully hers). It would probably be clumsy and quick and (for Sango) a little uncomfortable.
But that didn’t matter.
Because of what it meant.
“I don’t like that it might hurt you…” Miroku murmured, never taking his eyes off of Sango’s face.
“It will feel good for you—that is a gift in itself,” Sango sighed. “And you made me feel amazing tonight. So you feeling amazing too will make us even.”
“If you think that pleasing you did not also please me,” Miroku teased, stealing a kiss from his beloved’s lips, “you are sorely mistaken.” Miroku allowed himself a chuckle. “And… I promise you, it’s only going to get better.”
“I know,” Sango answered, stealing her own kiss. “Now please, make love to me. Make me yours.”
Miroku would deny Sango no more. Miroku lined himself up, groaning at the sensation as her lips parted to greet him and the curls of her groin tickled and teased the most sensitive part of his anatomy.
He truly wasn’t going to last very long.
Beautiful Artwork by Otaku-108
But when Miroku looked into Sango's eyes. When he saw her trust and her lust directed solely at him, he understood that it was okay. It didn’t matter that the first time was not going to be amazing. Because it was still going to be special: because it would be the first time he and his wife made love. And that alone would make it wonderful.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Miroku said.
He situated his left hand on Sango’s butt for leverage, and rested his weight on his right elbow, letting his right hand find its way into her hair. Then slowly, deliberately, Miroku edged forward. Sango’s warmth pressed on all sides of him as he moved, drawing him further in.
He was definitely not going to last.
Sango knew that a woman’s first time was going to hurt. Everyone told her to viciously guard her chastity so that she could give it to her husband. And Sango guarded hers better than most (being a demon slayer with several blades hidden on her body certainly helped), but as Miroku and she became one, the pain she was promised didn’t materialize.
“Are… are you okay?” Miroku’s face was strained, but his eyes were tender.
“Y—yes,” Sango replied; it was the truth. “Different, but not… bad.”
“G—good…” Miroku’s relief was palpable, and finally, he picked up his pace, his thrusts becoming a steady rhythm.
It was an alien sensation, having Miroku inside of her. Sango felt stretched, and it was a bit uncomfortable, but too, there was some echo of pleasure being stoked, somewhere deep inside: moreso a promise of things to come than the immediate bliss from Miroku’s fingers.
And now, Sango was no longer a virgin. She was a woman wed to a man she loved, and on their wedding night, they were truly becoming one. When Sango looked at the strained reverence on Miroku’s face, she could not help but share in his joy.
When Miroku bit his lip and slammed his eyes shut, Sango knew that he was trying with all his might to keep his composure.
“Don’t hold back.” Sango was probably a bit too pleased when Miroku’s eyes shot open again and he looked at her, his words perfectly volleyed back at him. “I want to experience your joy.”
Miroku’s laughter filled the hut. Laughter that was uncontrolled and free, laughter that he probably had not experienced since before he inherited his curse at his father’s grave. It shook his body and brought Sango along, and before she knew it, there she was, laughing with him. Their first time consummating their marriage, in the act, and neither of them seemed to be able to get their giggles under control.
“Kami, Sango.” Miroku finally was able to speak again. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
“You love me for who I am,” Sango replied, earnestness replacing jest.
“I do,” Miroku confirmed, his own earnestness replacing jest. “I’m… well, I won’t hold back.”
Not that Miroku could have. Because the pain that Miroku was so certain he would cause her had not materialized. Because Sango’s body seemed perfectly tuned to make Miroku lose his mind over how good it felt: how good she felt. Because… Sango was his partner, and was waiting for him to give to her what she had given to him: unfettered joy.
So finally, Miroku sighed, and so he let himself choose the rhythm that his body was demanding (though he still was careful not to put full force behind his thrusts…), and expectedly, it didn’t take long for Miroku to feel the familiar tug, the exquisite tension, and finally, the uncontrolled need to burst. His thrusts became uneven as his need to release overpowered his ability to think.
Before he knew it, Miroku was crying Sango’s name, and spilling his seed into the only woman he had ever sincerely asked to bear his children. The orgasm was sensational, though not for the usual reasons. It was sensational because Miroku’s body had not been the only thing that sang in pleasure: for the first time, his soul had joined the duet.
“Sango…” Miroku looked down at the beaming face of his wife before collapsing onto her, relishing in the feel of her skin on his skin. “I love you so much. So so much.”
Sango breathed in Miroku’s musky scent as he came down from his climax. She was now a woman wed; their marriage was now consummated. Miroku had asked Sango to bear his children, but it wasn’t until that moment that it really hit her. She was going to bear his children. She was going to get a family. And she was going to do it with the only person in the world she could imagine having a family with. Miroku had been there to help her mourn her family, he had been there for the miracle of Kohaku’s return, and now he was here to help her rebuild a family. With him—the man that she loved. She could feel a tear escaping from her eye as she thought about it.
“I know,” Sango replied, nuzzling into her husband’s neck as he roped his arms around her. “I love you, too.”
The moon was high in the sky and the fire mere embers before Sango and Miroku let go of one another that night.
There would be many more nights to explore, to love, to not hold back, but neither of them would ever forget their first night together. A night that, for the first time, Miroku and Sango stopped being afraid of unfettered joy.