Adult-FanFiction.org : Inuyasha / Yashahime

Rin - The Wife	By : Release_Buddha Category: InuYasha > Het - Male/Female > Sessh?maru/Rin > Sessh?maru/Rin Views: 8414 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Release_Buddha in no way owns the franchise of InuYasha, property of Rumiko Takahashi, or makes profit from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1-The Original
- 1
The Original
“Rie, Ran, Rinko,” she whispers from where she sits, red lips slightly parted, a slight tilt upwards to the corners, as she glares at him playfully. “And now another Rin?” her voice peaks upwards at the end of her words, like she is really surprised, really asking. “Dear, I think you might have an obsession with little me, the original Rin, the one with black hair and brown eyes. The one you saved twice, brought back to life twice, the on you saved from hell. The one you groomed, let stumble across your little liaisons with whatever whore you could find, the one who travels with you when wanderlust so entices. Don’t forget that.”
The woman’s eyes are cold, not warm like their color so suggests. She is cold, cooled by the years of being the wife of such an unfaithful man, living through the hardships of being nothing more than a simple human, no powers or whatnot, in a world of demon woman clamoring for the manhood of one powerful daiyōkai.
Her lips red, while enticing, are quirked to show cruelty, hatred, bitterness. For that is the nature of this woman, once kind and sweet, now a black hole of the worst of humanity. He loves her for that though, drowns in it for that is what he wants, that is what he made her. He is the one that took the childish innocence, the smiles so bright, the eyes so glimmering, and shattered it. He is the one who took the girl, made her a woman, and painted her lips red.
Human men, disgusting as they may be with their pudgy stomachs, foul breath, rotting teeth, dandruff-ridden hair, coarse nature as well, would find her absolutely appalling. But she is not for them. If she was, he would have left her sweet, left her kind, and with smiles rather than smirks. If that was so the case, she would be nothing like the bitter hateful woman she is. But he doesn’t want a human woman, he wants a woman. And he is a demon, so his definition of woman is different.
She is subservient, yes, he likes submissiveness, he likes to be in control, to be able to mount and fuck her and have her take it all. But he likes he strong too, holding her own amongst the women that want him, holding her own against his horde of suitors. She must be clever and crafty, like the orange fox sliding through the underbrush, a million dirty tricks must be stashed up her sleeve. Evil, really. To compliment his evil. Not every woman in his harem, is that way, simple as that. Some are kind, some still stop to sniff the pink flowers. But this one, his first, his wife, his black-haired Rin, she is that. She is the standard with which he measures all his other females.
“I would not be so obsessed, if the black-haired Rin is not perfection,” he replies. She sneers at him, rolling her eyes in fake modesty over his flattery. “I would not have Rie, a failed attempt at taking another human and creating perfection. I would not have Ran, the failed attempt in making a hanyo more than tolerable. I would not have Rinko, the failed attempt at which to make a demon what I want. And I would not have the new Rin, an attempt once more to make a demon what I want.”
“The original will always be best,” she replies. He chuckles at the haughty nature he has imbued her with, and she chuckles back, laughing at her own comment. “The new may shine brightly, tempt with the promise of new tricks and traits, but the original is what you’ve always returned to, and what was the basis for the new. The original comes first, in chronology, and in that dead, black organ in your chest that beats maybe every once a millennium.” Her brown eyes meet his golden ones, blank of emotion besides mordant humor.
“The original will always be best, you say? Well, I quite recall enjoying the new. Perhaps I should have a taste the old to understand.”
She smirks at him as they are getting to the heart of the reason he is here. For pleasure. For fucking. For that is what is really is, doll it up in pretty words like love making, mating, or bedding, but what it is, is fucking. The rough thrust, the quelled moan, the scream of euphoria, the pain, the pleasure, the high, the low, the beauty, the ugliness. Fucking is a complicated matter, fuck with the wrong person and it’s all over. Perhaps it is disease that ends it, luckily as a demon he is immune to most and he takes care to bring none in, perhaps it is jealousy of an ex-lover or current lover. Fuck with the right person though, and it is an act that is timeless.
The way she crawls to him, well, there is but one way to describe it. Erotic. The slight way to her hips as one knee slides in front of the other, reddened palms slithering across the floor, tongue slipping out to flick against her lips. Just the mere sight of her, his black-haired Rin, the original Rin, begins the process of swelling down below. That, and the promise of the fuck, her tight heat wrapped around his cock, bleeding it dry like the merciless bitch that she is.
She crawls forward, eyes slanted as she lazily looks at her lord. She is seductive, the epitome of seduction when she does this. One hand presses down against the black silk covering his knee, then the other hand on the other knee. She is face to face with him now, staring him down, challenging him. He snaps at her, a low growl rumbling deep in the recesses of his throat. She snaps back, presses her forehead to his, and licks the tip of his nose. He tastes like cherries, she thinks, before the thin line of his lips is pressed against her full one, demanding, wanton.
She likes his kisses, likes the feel of his lips on her, his tongue sliding against her bottom lip, begging entrance into the warm depths of her mouth, to plunder the riches, the taste. She likes them, she’s liked them since she was young, when she was too innocent to realize he was corrupting her for his twisted pleasure. She liked them then because they were shows of affection. Her father kissed her after lunch as he was heading out the door to tend to the crops. Back then, she didn’t understand why Sesshōmaru’s kisses lasted longer or involved his tongue, but she thought that it was just a yokai thing. She realizes now that little girl her was wrong, no, they weren’t the innocent shows of affection her father showered her with, they were the shows of lust of a depraved daiyōkai, but thinking back, she simply can’t bring herself to care. He corrupted her long before she thought back, so that is likely the reason, but she doesn’t fathom nor care. She just focuses on the kiss, the feel of her tongue brushing against the hardened points of his fangs, the tangy yet appetizing taste of her blood as his fangs draw it from her lip and tongue, the duel between her cut tongue and his own.
He pulls away. She is panting, lips bruised a nice, darker shade of pink, slightly parted to let the air escape. Her eyes are lustful, as always, her black-hair mussed from his hands and claws digging in when he tried to drag her closer, smash himself against her more. Her cheeks are a nice rosy shade he notes, seemingly innocent when he knows well the being behind the cheeks is anything but.
She examines him too in this instance. He does not show the same signs of loss of breath. He doesn’t need to breathe, so the lack of panting after the passionate kiss does not surprise her. He doesn’t have the same rosy coloring to his cheeks. He’s still the same mild tan, with the golden eyes that sparkle with dark passion, for blood and for women, and silver hair that never tangles despite how many times she runs her fingers through it, or he spends the night tossing and turning.
“Sesshōmaru…” she moans, tired of the examination, begging for the fucking. The name rolls off her tongue. Sess-sho-ma-ru, Sess-sho-ma-ru, Sess-sho-ma-ru. Sesshōmaru. When she was younger, sometimes she would mess up on pronouncing his name and call him Shesshomaru. Then Jaken would scold, waving the Staff of Two Heads wildly in the air as her grating voice spanned across the sound space. Then, who wanted to think of Jaken during times like this? “Sesshōmaru…” she moans, again, focusing on his golden eyes in order to push the thought of beady yellow eyes, warty green skin, and just the overall disgusting nature of Jaken from her mind.
He pushes her over, pushing her down against the brown-yellow tatami mats, straddling her flourished hips, pressing his hardness against her still clothed form. Her black hair spills out across the tatami mats, wisps and strands curling and spreading. He traces one of the black strands across the floor, the silky feeling against his finger. She jerks her head to the side, and he glances at her with a playful care. Reaching up her head, she snaps her teeth, clacking together. He leans in an nips her nose, and then presses his lips to hers.
The feel of her lips against his, moving, kissing him back, tongue demanding entrance past his own lips, demanding a fight for dominance, oh he loves it. He likes subservient women, yes, and Rin for the most part is that, and most certainly that is what Kin and Jin are, but he has also trained her to have a back-bone, to have a fiery fight within her. And that is why when he feels her tongue inside his mouth, he lets her dominate, run her tongue across his white teeth, taste the flavor of him, the rice wine he had before coming here, and the new Rin who he kissed before coming to her as well. She pulls back, lips pressed into a thin line of disgust as she tastes the hint of cinnamon from the new one. Then she smirks and presses her hands against his shoulders to roll him over on his back, to straddle his hips.
“Should I smack you?” she asks with a pointedly mordant glare. “Should I deny you, push you away, shove you out the door so you may return to the little trollop Rin with red-hair and orange eyes. You think to come to me with that taste of her in her mouth? You think I am amused by that, aroused? No, I’m not. But I will not push you away. I must remind you why you come back to me, why I am the original, why I am the better one in comparison. But first, what do I taste like?”
He sneers at her, his hands coming to rest on her hips. “You taste like peaches,” he replies, “and I eat peaches every day.” She smirks at him, and leans back in to kiss him.
She kisses his lips, first it is slow, then it is hard and passionate. But she does not demand passage past his lips, instead she trails the kiss upwards, feather light against his cheek, across the bridge of his nose, to the other cheek. She leaves red where she goes, paints his pale skin. She traces the line of his maroon stripes, kisses the points, and follows her red trail back to his other cheek and does the same. Then she heads further north, places kiss on his closed eyes, and a kiss on the indigo moon in the center of his brow, before doing the same thing she did his cheek markings, and tracing it with her tongue. He still tastes like cherries.
“I like cherries,” she whispers in his ear. “Especially the dark red ones that almost look black.”
“Do I taste like those cherries?” he asks with a sneer, craning his head off the ground. She leans forward and rests her head against. He chases her lips with another kiss, a slow, small one. This one involves no tongues down the other’s throat, but it is still enjoyable by both parties. “I think we’ve been kissing long enough.”
She sneers at him, grabbing his cheeks in her hands and pressing one last fleeting kiss on his forehead. The hands slip down to push the maroon silk over his shoulder, baring to her the paled skin to which she places her lips and sucks. He snorts above, but she does not care. Moving back to examine her work, she smiles in triumph. Next time he goes to the Rin with red-hair, she can see the marks that Sesshōmaru has let her leave on his body to claim him, to show to the red Rin that this man shall always be Rin’s, the original Rin’s, not the new Rin’s. She moves to mark him again, to leave reddened spots on his neck, his shoulders, his arms, everywhere she can get her lips on as she slides down the silk and strips him of his cloth shell.
“Most, if they saw us, would think I was the submissive here,” he comments as she removes her mouth from another spot with a pop. She cranes her neck to look up at him with sparkling brown eyes, and a sneer of mirth. “I am not the subservient one,” he says with a sharp glare. She shrugs her shoulders and moves to mark him right above his nipple. He gasps at that feel of her lips on his skin, so close to the sensitive bud, and it is music to her ears. To reward him, she trails her lips down and nips at the soft skin, which earns her a groan.
“Sometimes it is I that is subservient,” she says looking at his face, pressing lips against the first red mark she made. “That is what you say you want, for you are a demon, I am human, you are a man, and I am a woman so it is what is expected. I’d take care to remember though that I am not just any human woman, I am Rin, your wife, your lover, and more often than you are mine, your master.” His eyes snap open, harden and sharp as he silently commands her to take back the words. “Never,” she whispers, and bites the tip of his nose. “These marks say never. You do what I allow, sometimes I wish to be beneath so I let you think you have control. But remember, I am the puppet master of your harem, and the puppet master of you. What did you say to me once? Oh yes. ‘My Rin, you control me, bring me to my knees. I fall to you from the pains of lust’.” She snorts. “Let’s talk about this later though. There is an itch I need scratching and –” and she slides one hand below the hem of his hakama, to grasp the hardened flesh, “there is a little friend down here who can scratch that itch.”
He does not say anything, closes his eyes with the silent mantra in his head that is not her who allows him dominance occasionally, but he who allows her dominance enough for her to delude herself like that.
She slowly, tauntingly slow, unfastens the tight belt of white that holds his hakama against his narrow hips. She slithers the belt from beneath his form and brings it to dangle in the air as she parts the folds of his hakama with her other hand to release his manhood from its constraints. The piece of flesh, hard, pole-like even, is glorious. Long and thick. Sometimes she wonders how she ever fit that into her when she was younger, but then remembers the grimaces and stabbing pain and recalls the she barely fit him in the first time, or the time after that. Now she can take him with ease, but that has come with practice after practice, session after session. She runs her fingers along the grooves, silently admiring the organ, before she turns her gaze to his face, and her attention to the piece of silk dangling from her other hand. He opens his eyes to regard her with careful wariness, for her knows what she wants, and should anyone walk in on what she wants, he will no longer be able to chant his mantra.
But he allows it anyway, so she ties tightly the silk ends to each wrist. The white belt is made of from demon silk, strong, it can hold against any pull. Instead of rope or chain, this is what demons use to tie up prisoners, and he allows Rin to tie him with it, bind him. How can he still claim that she is subservient to him, the original Rin? He doesn’t know, but he closes his amber eyes again and lets himself chant the mantra once more as he feels her slide down his silk hakama, and assumes she tosses it to the side where it won’t be in the way.
“Look at me,” she orders.
His eyes flutter open. She stands between his legs, gazing at him with eyes so burning with her lust. She has let her crimson kimono fall, let it flutter to the ground and drape around his ankles. She stands, nude and bared, and he drinks in greedily the image of her body. The contours, the curves, the perfections and the imperfections. She is well-endowed, but no ridiculously so. He bosom stretches out, curved, beautiful, they do not sag nor do they look comical. Her hips are curved as well, but they do not look as if bones are broken or misshapen. Her stomach is flat, there is no baby fat like some of his other concubines for she is barren, but he also does not see her bones, and it doesn’t look as if her stomach is caving in on itself. Her legs are toned, not to fat, but not like twigs either. They are muscular as well, from her years spent traveling, and the horse she rides so often. He likes her feet too, he’s always had a bit of an unusual liking for feet. Their dainty, not the feet of a trampling monster, and soft and pretty. They have scars though, and he remembers when she was younger, he would always be forcing her to sit down on a fallen tree to clean away the dirt and blood and bandage her wounds. Looking upwards, his eyes land on her arms. They are not pudgy, the skin doesn’t hang like a kimono does. But it doesn’t look like there is a thin strip of skin as the only covering for thin, white bones. She is perfection to him.
She lifts one foot and presses it lightly against his straining girth, and it sets fire through his blood, makes his stomach flutter. Tsk, she sounds, balancing perfectly on the one foot she stands upon. She removes the foot, comes to stand on two feet again, before lowering herself to her knees, to kneel in front of his cock.
She leans in, breathes on the flesh that jumps at the proximity of her parted lips. Will she? Oh he loves it when she wraps the lips around him, swallows him, downs him like he is the sweetest wine. He loves the feel of her tongue mapping the furrows of his length, caressing the tip, and the little groove which occasionally spurts a white pearl of pre-cum. She leans even closer, her lips now kissing his length. Not the head, nor does she use her tongue, just a chaste kiss in a very unchaste place. He moans, his only way of begging, and he feels her lips curl upwards into a smile before she downs him.
He hits the back of her throat. God does she feel good with her warm mouth wrapped around him, tongue lathering love against the base of his manhood. She moves her tongue upwards, taking her head with her as she licks against the bottom grooves and bulging veins. She downs him again, he hits the back of her throat again, and she hums, the vibrations buzzing against his length. The fluttering worsens. She traces one vein up, around and around, she licks up the pole and then down again, following the same bulging vein. One hands slips under his thigh to reach beneath his length to fondle the sack below. She gives a gentle squeeze and he groans, feeling the need. God, if he is not careful he’ll cum right in her mouth, before he’s even gotten to touch the warmth between her thighs.
She releases him from her mouth with a wet pop, and glances up to him, lips parted as she breathes in and out. He opens his eyes to look at, gold clashing against brown, lust against lust. He wants, she can see it, she wants, he can see it. He closes his eyes once more, and she leans back into to take into her mouth. Up and down she moves, bobbing north to south. She hits the base over and over, sometimes she’ll pause and hum and he’ll almost cum.
Oh he feels it. She must know feels it, she is still fondling him, she must feel the tightening. When she places her other hand against his stomach, and feels the flutter of muscles, she must know. He thinks she wants him to cum in her mouth, so he doesn’t care. He regrets slightly that he cannot come inside her heat, but if this is what she wants, to show him she can use her mouth better than the red-haired Rin could ever dream of, she doesn’t care. He is ready, he is on the edge, walking a tight line, wobbling and wobbling, ready to fall into the white-black pleasure.
But then she releases him, again, while his is millimeters from that edge. His eyes snap open, once more sharp like the blade as he glares at her. She sneers at him, places one last kiss on his tip, licking up the little dab of seed, and pulling away completely. He is ready to complain, or to grab her and shove her face down onto him. But then she licks her fingers and drags the little tips to tweak the dusky buds pointed, and he realizes what she is doing. He will play along, lay back and watch her.
She sits on her heels, one heel pressed up against her sex, she flicks and tugs at her dusky buds. He watches her fingers with an intent golden gaze, watches as she pulls and tugs, gasps and moans. One hand on one, jerks the bud until it is red and her cheeks are flushed, then she flattens her palm against the peak, and trails it over to the other peak and repeats the actions. He’s gaze will flick down to where her heel peaks out, pressed against the sensitive pull. If he watches long enough, he will see her grind against her heel. It’s a fun show, makes his muscles flutter, keeps him hard and aroused to the point of being painfully so. And when she cums herself, he is jealous, for she knows the sweet feel of release before he does. But he likes watching her, the blush that spreads across her chest and cheeks, the way her eyes shut and she tosses back her head, hands firmly planted against the ground as she writhes in pleasure.
When she comes down from her high, she glances at him, breathing heavily as he watches her with amused, lustful eyes. She smiles in fake shyness, like she is embarrassed that she pleasured herself before his eyes with her heel, put on a show for her husband. But he knows that is not as she crawls to him, hips swaying. He knows she used her heel because he would like it even more, and she was not shy when she was doing it. A being like Rin is not innocent, shy in her sexuality. She is a sensual being, groomed and created to be the way she is, and that is not to be demure or modest.
She leans a kiss down onto his tip one last time, licking the white pearl of cream off the tip of his length. She likes the taste, not at first, but she has become accustomed to the taste, and she has grown to like it.
She crawls up onto him, hands against his pectorals. His muscles ripple beneath her fingers as she rests above him, not sitting, suspended above his length that is ready to be engulfed. He is excited, watching her, gazing into her eyes. The foreplay, the kisses, it has all lead up to this. The marks, the teases, the sneers, she will claim him. She leans forward, leaves one last kiss on his lips. He licks his lips, takes in the cherry tastes she talks of so much, and the lingering peach. He likes both tastes more than he has ever liked cinnamon. Cinnamon, it’s nice, but it’s nothing like the complex taste that lingers and taunts him as he lays awake at night next to whatever girl that’s not his Rin, wanting, yearning, but not going to.
She impales herself, drawing him from his contemplations on her delectable taste. He groans, arching his neck up at the feel of her warmth wrapped around him. She is tight, so tight despite the years of use he has gotten out of her. So warm, like the fires of hell itself is caressing him, loving him. She is tight, like the silk that wraps around his wrists, makes him her little bitch in not so eloquent terms. She lifts up, the feel of her silken muscles sliding up and leaving his drenched manhood exposed to the cool air. But then she slams back down, swallows him into her body again. She grips him.
She is slow at first, but then she’s fast. Moving up and down, her body rocks. Every time she slides back down his girth, she rocks her hips, rocks him inside of her. He groans low in his throat, the deep sound rumbling through the air. She joins him, her light moan mixing with him in a beautiful chorus of primal noise. Up and down, the feel of her silky steel muscles gripping him, squeezing him, he feels the heat flooding through him. She does to, feels the coiling in her as she rides him. The faster she moves, the less regularity in her motion, sometimes she’s up longer, sometimes she’s down longer. He doesn’t care, the feeling is too good.
He is there, on the edge, walking that rope once more. She is with him, holding his hand in the darkness, placing one foot in front of the other, hand holding his and she leads him forward. They are together, ready to tumble. The thoughts of red hair and orange eyes, the new Rin, are long gone, buried with the sneers and the silk. They’ll dig it up again, but for now it remains buried as they walk along, hand in hand as they delve deep and deeper into the depths of pleasure.
His eyes flutter shut as she stills above him, muscles clenching and unclenching as she explodes in a mushroom cloud of pleasure. His testicles clench as he releases the seed that will never take root. His mouth falls open as a howl sounds through the night. She, more of a silent person when it comes to her shows of pleasure, throws back her head as every nerve in her body tingle with the fires of good feelings. She feels so good, body flushing as she holds him in her grasp. When he is done howling, he is panting despite his lack of need for breath. Coming down from their highs, they breathe, blushing as if they are innocents, not the pleasure driven, lustful creatures that they are. That she’s not the temptress, and he’s not the player.
“So how’s the original?” she asks.
“Always best,” he replies.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Rin - The Wife