Mima Mounds

Big Dicks

As far as exes go, Manta and I had a pretty good relationship. We were in a two year relationship before breaking up from the mutual realization that she’s pretty much asexual and I’m definitely not. We took a short break from each other and then started talking again and eventually started hanging out just for the pleasure of each other’s company.

Manta is tall and wide hipped, more handsome than pretty, but also prone to moments of awe striking beauty. She’s cold and logical, a scientist by trade, and I think we complement each other well – united by our love of humanity.

I in my turn am a survivalist, ritualist, and all around nature enthusiast making my way out of the Wilderness awareness school. I’m the emotional one in the relationship, but also a fairly solid rock all things considered. Between us we hold a lot of technical knowledge – which is fortunate given what happened.

It was late May when we decided to go camping in the shadow of the Olympic mountains in Washington state, in the ancient Salish holy place known as the Mima mounds. Nobody knew how they were formed – theories range from giant gophers to flash floods – but they’re eerily similar and stretch for miles.

We arrived, set up camp, and decided to go exploring. Manta brought her backpack. I decided to leave mine. We walked around for maybe two hours, when both our phones started going off at once. We looked at each other, both answered, and both just heard a sound like howling wind. We both had perfect service. When we would hang up, the phone would ring again. We both thought it was pretty weird but turned off our phones and decided to head back.

The trail we were following just ended in grass. We hadn’t come that way, so we turned around again, trying to get our bearings in the uniform mounds taller than us. We walked back and found the trail turned a different way than it had before. Following it just took us in a perfect circle around the mound where the trail connected to itself. We were pretty freaked out by now and climbed the mound to get our bearings. There was no campsite to be seen and when we looked down, there was no trail either.

Since then we’ve wandered those mounds endlessly looking for a way back, but we’ve never found one. We eventually made our way out of the mounds and into an old growth forest. We walked all the way around the mounds for the remainder of that day and never found the camp. Our phones had no reception now.

I built us a more rustic camp for the night, found some edible plants we combined with Manta’s snack bars for dinner, and spent the night curled together.

The following day was spent discovering that we really were the only humans in this world, and while this place had the geography of earth, it was as it might have been without people. Washington was actually profoundly influenced by its native people. In all my searching, I only found two straggly Camas plants and glimpsed a far off mastodon. We were alone.

Luckily as a survivalist, botanist, and herbalist I assessed and addressed our needs quickly. The animals here weren’t afraid of me, or aware that I could throw things. We didn’t starve.

Manta is an experienced camper and scored us a spot close enough to the ocean by a river, and within a day’s trek to the mounds. We built a serviceable house, a fence against the wolves, started putting food away for the winter, and generally survived for the first couple months.

Then Manta turned to me one night and said, “I want you to get me pregnant.”

“Now?”

“I’m mid cycle. Soon.”

I wasn’t complaining, but Manta had never wanted children before.

“Why?”

“If this is a world without humans – and you and I are here – it’s our responsibility to found a culture.”

“That’s a big responsibility.”

She hushed me, “I think we should have babies, as many as we can. Incest is going to be an issue, but if we crossbreed it’ll be better. I was looking at the math. I’m going to need you to breed all of our daughters – our sons are going to have to wait until our granddaughters…”

She went on, breeding programs – separating children out by genetic markers like hair and eye color. I was still imagining breeding my daughters.

“Women are the limiting factor here. Assuming that we can get one pregnancy a year and 70% are successful, between 19 and 35 that’s an average of 16 babies per female, assume half of those are female ofise gelen gaziantep escort – 8 x 16 puts us at a functioning population of 112 by our grandchildren… “

I shut her up by kissing her and then making her pregnant.

We’d had sex before, but never like this. I’d had a lot of kinky sex before – with other women – but staring into her eyes as I pushed into her, both of us working together towards my ejaculation, was the hottest sex I’d ever had in my life. Manta had never been the kind of woman who orgasmed when she felt a man cum, but she started now, and she’d murmur in my ear “Get me pregnant, cum inside me, give me a baby.” crooning over and over. I took her three times that night until she was slick with my seed.

After the first time we went back to our favorite position, spooning her from behind. My hand trailed across her thighs, tickling across her clit as she moaned against me, and I buried my cock as deep inside her as I could, again and again. There was no being quiet, not here. I howled, and distantly the wolves joined me, as I took her and claimed her, and spent inside her again, and again. We collapsed into each other, exhausted, kissing and cuddling, breathing hard, until sleep took us both.

She woke me with a hand on my cock. “We have to get as much sperm inside me this week as we can.” She said – all cold logic again. I blinked, not sure if I could, but she guided my hand to her, already wet, she’d prepared my way while I slept, and mounted my morning wood, rocking up and down, asking me to get her pregnant again, and it wasn’t long before I growled and rolled her over and took her hard, cumming less than a thimble into her.

“How often do you think you can honestly do it?” she asked me, as she lay on her back with her hips up, so that my cum wouldn’t trickle out.

“If you asked me to again, I’d probably fake an orgasm.” I groaned at her.

“Don’t you dare.” she snarled. “Really. We need a schedule.”

“Three times a day? – if we spaced it out right.”

“Okay, I want you back here at lunch for my next sperm injection.” She was all business now. “What herbs are good for trace minerals?”

“Bedstraw and Stinging nettle?”

“I’ll collect some for you. We can’t have the quality of your sperm going down. The primary limiting constituent of sperm is zinc.”

At lunchtime, she made me eat the ballsack of the buck I’d killed and brought back, “Full of zinc,” she assured me, and then lay back on our bed and did her best pouting sexy face, and spread her legs. It looked a little silly on her, but made me laugh and I dove in, kissing her, and then turning over so I could spoon her, fingering her until she was quivering, and wet, and then slipping into her, nothing gets me harder than an orgasming woman.

It took a while, but she kept murmuring things about babies, and cumming inside her, and if I could get any harder, those words would stiffen me. It wasn’t long before I’d plunged as deep as I could and let go my – 8th of a tablespoon?

“When we’re not trying to get me pregnant, we’re going to have to test and see how much you make three times a day, vs once a day. We don’t have a scale, but we can eyeball it,” Manta told me when I mentioned it. “My working hypothesis is we get more by doing it more.” then she trailed off into sperm quality and how saving up for longer than three days could actually lead to defects.

When we passed her ovulation week, she cut it off altogether to begin again after what should have been her period – except, of course, it never came. We celebrated, and suddenly it was she who got all the trace minerals and organ meats. Sex went away for nine months, as she got larger. I found myself motivated to provide in a way I had never had before. It was during that time, I single-handedly took down a mastodon with a pit trap. Manta waddled after me to help collect all the meat. We smoked it and tanned the hide as best we could. We would survive the winter.

When Seratia – named after a kind of bacteria – we played with all sorts of ridiculous names, since no one else would ever know – was born, we suddenly found our life taken over by her. But three months later, Manta turned to me in bed and told me to take her.

Who was I to refuse? I’d never been quite so gentle before. After the long dry spell it felt like drinking at a well, and gaziantep ofise gelen bayan escort we rocked together to a soft lullaby until I got my rocks off inside her and we fell asleep.

It took three months this time. Manta assured me that it was because lactation inhibits pregnancy, but muttered about her schedule being off, and wondering if I could masturbate and push it in during her afterbirth since it would be too painful otherwise. (She finally admitted this was silly, and she had to bow to the wisdom of her genetic inheritance, but it took a little convincing.) I spent my days providing and building our compound, playing with our children, and trying to figure out how to get metal out of rocks. I did build a kiln – and occasionally my pottery wouldn’t shatter. That was something.

Soon Seratia was the eldest of eleven other siblings, eight other girls and three boys – a ratio that Manta rejoiced at. Her schedule was back on track. We had always told Seratia that when she got old enough, she would join Mama in creating our tribe and she just seemed to accept this in the way children do. I, for my part struggled to see her as anything but a bright beautiful little girl.

I’d asked Manta about timing, worried that she would want me to impregnate my girl at her first period – not an age I feel particularly attracted to, but she surprised me by muttering about bone density and successfully carrying a baby to term and told me nineteen would be ideal as long as our female survival rate was 100% – we didn’t lose any children.

Late in Serratia’s nineteenth year we had a tribal initiation for her – the whole family dancing around the fire, except Manta who claimed she was too heavy with her pregnancy, despite only being four months in. She sat by and watched as I led the ceremony, and smiled fondly from behind the fire.

It should have been her introducing her daughter to womanhood, but I’m the ritualist, so it was I who explained that she was now approaching the mystery of womanhood. “What bleeds but is not wounded?” I chanted.

“Woman!” my family chanted back.

“What ebbs and flows like the moon, but walks among us?”

“Woman!” came the call and response.

“And what has this girl before us become?” I intoned

“Woman!!” the children screamed, a chorus of girlish voices, though I heard Manta’s deeper baritone behind.

“Come, meet your other half!” I said, beckoning her behind a skin curtain. I had constructed a headdress of antlers that I wore, and a robe that covered me for the occasion. Seratia was naked, crowned only in flowers. It was early autumn, and a slight chill had her skin up in gooseprickles. She approached me, as the other children started drumming, a ragtag rhythm, beaten out by children, but enough. She reached out a hand on my chest and I slid the robe off to puddle around my feet. I watched the firelight in her eyes as I guided her hand down to my semi erection.

“What is soft as snow?” I whispered to her so that no one else could hear.

“Man.” she said – her hands tracing me, cupping me, gently, so gently.

“What is hard as stone?” I asked as my erection rose in her hands to her wonderment. She had seen it before, of course, but never felt it.

“Man.” she said with excitement in her eyes.

“And what completes you to make another human inside you?”

“M -m -man.” Her lips had gone dry. I handed her a wooden tray of bear tallow that she took, kneeled, spread across my erection, and then rose again.

I reached around her, felt my daughter’s butt, luscious against my fingertips, squeezed, lifted her up easily, and positioned her against my now lubricated cock. Both her arms went instinctively around my neck. I positioned my cock at her entrance and began to slip in. She clung to my neck, with all her strength. She was so tight. I cupped her butt again, easing her up and then down again. Her head was buried in my shoulder and I pulled her face up and kissed her on the lips as she whimpered and sunk deeper.

Manta had assured me that virginity was a myth. That there is no hymen, just a bit of skin that is tighter than in other places and will rip if not properly lubricated. There was no blood, but it did seem to hurt a little in those first moments – her tiny hole stretched for the first time. I bounced her a couple times until she sunk gaziantep ofise gelen escort all the way onto me, her back arching away, towards, away again. Trying to find the right point.

“I love you,” I murmured into her ear. Her eyes had little tears bubbling in the corners but when she breathlessly said, “I love you too Papa.” I believed her. I took her and laid her on the altar, set up with our mastodon skin for the occasion, and really began thrusting in earnest. The children’s drums in the background. They began singing of their own accord, one of the songs I’d taught them.

“Be like a bird who halting in her flight, on a limb too slight,

feels it give away beneath her

Yet sings, sings, knowing she has wings

Yet sings, sings, knowing she has wings.”

Seratia moaned beneath me for the first time, her hips started to thrust back at me and then she was moaning with almost every thrust. I howled and the children outside howled back, and the wolves howled beyond until it was echoing off the mountains. My daughter locked her legs around my back and drew me in to kiss her, bucking against my crotch, until I was pushing as deep into her as I could, and ejaculating, in wave after wave of sperm. When I pulled out a little, dribbled out and down her pussy. I saw Manta frowning at this waste, on the other side of the fire, but the image of my daughter lying dazed and spent on the altar with my cum dribbling out of her, was worth her mother’s scolding later.

I picked Seratia up then and carried her into my bed, and curled up next to her until we both fell asleep. To my surprise, I awoke in the night, to her hand on my cock, slipping it into her. “I just want to feel it again, Papa. Can we sleep with it inside me?”

We tried, but she kept wiggling, and I couldn’t sleep like that so I came in her again. Quietly, so as not to wake Manta who was sleeping on the other side of the bed. I think I heard her wake and then roll over and go back to sleep. Probably with a fond smile that her daughter was getting the impregnation she was hoping for.

Unlike her mother, Seratia didn’t want to stop sex after she got pregnant – and we’re pretty sure she got pregnant that night or at least that week. She missed her next period. Manta said it was okay as long as I did my duty with her when the time was right, and so I kept at it. Seratia had my sex drive, not her mothers – with her mother’s capacity to stubbornly insist on sex when she wanted it.

When, a little over a year later, little Vermaform turned 19, he wanted a sexual initiation too. Manta insisted that he couldn’t get anybody pregnant, but admitted that he couldn’t get anybody pregnant if they already were. His sister was newly pregnant with her second child and volunteered when his mother didn’t. We sent him off on a vision quest, and when he returned, welcomed him back to the tribe a man. His sister took him on the altar and after that they went at it like rabbits, always careful to follow their mother’s taboo to never do anything while she wasn’t pregnant. Seratia happily took both of us whenever we wanted her, and she must have been getting it four times a day or more. She usually still slept in my bed.

When Ecoli, came of age – we had our rituals down for her. Seratia led the drumming and singing as I took my second daughter on the altar that we now just left up, as the ceremonial place to lose one’s virginity. Ecoli had always been slimmer framed than her older sister, and we worried about her first pregnancy, but she pulled it off fabulously. She tended a little more towards her mother’s sex drive, but still wanted me in her once a month or so to take the edge off all through her pregnancy.

Manta kept popping them out all the way through 38, when several complications made us decide she was of more use teaching everything she knew to her children and grandchildren. By the end she had 13 children, with one miscarriage. I kept breeding my daughters, with slightly reduced effect – but no less enjoyment, and got to watch as my granddaughters came of age, and Manta paired them up with their uncles by genetic markers to diversify the gene pool as much as possible. Our little camp that had once just been Manta and my lonely home had become a village. Full of squalling babies and moaning women. One of my sons even figured out how to work ore into metal.

Seratia and Vermaform used to sneak off places to have sex when she could get pregnant. Maybe their mother didn’t know, I’m not sure. I ignored it, figuring that one form of incest can’t be that much worse than another. It must have been one of those times that they snuck out to the Mima mounds and never came back.

Did they cross back into our world? Did they wander into another world unpopulated by humans? I like to think it was the latter. I like to think they knew exactly what to do.

As far as exes go, Manta and I had a pretty good relationship. We were in a two year relationship before breaking up from the mutual realization that she’s pretty much asexual and I’m definitely not. We took a short break from each other and then started talking again and eventually started hanging out just…

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