Titans of Barsoom

It was perhaps the one time in Dick Grayson’s life that a woman was disappointed to see him.

Dejah Thoris had allowed her hopes to run away with her. Her courtiers had barged in on her, raving that they’d found a pink-skinned man, with dark hair and a heroic build and comely features. It had to be John Carter—they’d brought him right to her.

Unfortunately, her hopes were dashed. She knew every inch of her beloved’s body, but this man—attractive as he was—was not John. He was very much like him: square-jawed, soft-haired, a statuesque musculature. In fact, whoever this unconscious stranger was, he appeared to Dejah like a poorly done painting of the man she’d married.

She actually felt an ache of sympathy for him, whoever he was… so close to being the man above all men, but off by a few degrees. The chin was different, and the lips, and the nose. Not wrong… Dejah was sure there were many who would find him perfect… but she measured him against John Carter and on that scale, this worthy could only fall short.

Still, he was nice to look at. Having him in her presence was almost like having a picture of John, or a statue of him. Not the thing itself, but enough to remind her of the thing, in days when she was beginning to worry her husband would fade from memory. But being able to so accurately see where he and this stranger diverged—the contrast brought back some of John to her, like something sour would make a sweet sweeter by comparison.

It was clear that whatever the man had once worn, much of it had been damaged. What might once have been a yellow cape was now a rag wrapped around his neck. A mask covered his eyes—it was a little torn, but like his handsome face, had escaped much damage. A few tattered scraps remained of a red tunic he might once have had on. And he seemed to have a green unitard beneath it, but that had been reduced to little more than shreds of fabric gracing his well-muscled chest, belly, and hips.

Judging from the difference in dirt covering his extremities and his torso, it seemed clear that, like John, he had the Jasoomian predilection for hiding the flesh underneath extensive covering. The taut muscles of his arms and legs had gone bare, but his loins were covered.

Oddly, Dejah got the impression that this man was not much like John in his fashion, but more like a Barsoomian—wearing a loincloth or shorts, and footwear, but not seeing the need to have on much more in-between. She imagined him like John… hard cock underneath those ragged coverings… and her lips automatically parted, as though offering to service the man’s appendage as she had her husband.

And, without thinking about it very much at all, Dejah pinched her nipples the way John had used to. But she looked at the dark-haired man and imagined it was him doing it. She pulled a few strands of jeweled chain away from her breast, then lifted it to her face and sucked on the erect nipple. She sighed as she blitzed the nipple with her warm tongue.

She frequently replicated John’s efforts when she masturbated. But doing it in front of this man, even unseeing, made it more enjoyable. If he woke up, he would see her. Dejah didn’t go so far as to let him see, but the prospect was enticing—he was no replacement for John, but he was fresh and new and so close to what she wanted most in life…!

The man breathed in and Dejah wondered if he could smell her, somewhere in his dreams. If he liked the scent, as John had. If he smelled something of her quicksilver arousal among the rudiments of her subtle perfume, her slight glistening of sweat, the shampoo in her hair, a dozen little things she had eaten or drank in the past few days…

None of them things John had experienced in a lifetime. This man was experiencing a her that was veritably untouched by John Carter.

And how did he smell? Did he eat the things John ate, drink what he drank, work wherever he worked, dress like he dressed? She bit down harder on her breast, taking more of it into her mouth. She was growing warm. Wet.

The thought of going further, of actually pleasuring herself, was a thrill. A sin amidst an eternity of asceticism. It had to be indulged in.

She undressed, although all she had to take off was her loincloth. Still, the fabric of the chair she sat down in felt delicious under her bare ass.

She took her mouth off her breast, but continued the caress of it. Fingers stirring in the warm, wet morass her lips had left behind. She spread her thighs, letting the cool air run over her sex. Wild sensations came from her nakedness there, from the most gentle breeze, and she knew then how much she’d wanted this.

All the excuse was doing was taking away her inhibitions. Now she felt without guilt and it was like she was touching a whole new body.

Dejah ran her hand down under her breast, sampling the skin of her belly, her pubis—every touch bringing her closer and closer to her womanhood. Past her navel and into the tender hairs of her pussy. She curved her hand around her mound and squeezed.

“Ohhhh!” she moaned in deep pleasure. Her middle finger slid along the wet cleft… grazing against the seeping openness that would let her into the tender pleasures within… it came to her clit, which seemed to tickle, squirming against Dejah’s light touch.

Dejah’s slender body began to tremble. And when the man stirred in his sleep, she didn’t even think that he might be waking up. All her focus was on his body—allowing herself to be carried away from the fantasies his naked flesh sparked in her.

Dejah touched inside her hot pussy, imagining it was how John would touch her, how this man would touch her. She pretended to feel his lips at her ear, his hot breath on her, his lustful whispers reaching her brain…

Dejah held tight to one breast while she fingered herself. She lifted her feet and kicked away the loincloth she had left down at her ankles. Then she lifted her legs, resting the balls of her feet on the bed the man was resting in.

She really began to pleasure herself, with her middle finger inside her slot and her thumb on her clitoris. Her legs shook. Her breasts jounced. She eased up on the little bud at the top of her pussy, knowing that John wouldn’t, that he’d know she could take more than Dejah dared to give herself. Tears sprang to her eyes, but nonetheless she eased up on her clit and stroked her folds instead.

Many delightful hours with John had taught Dejah how good it was when her pleasure climbed steadily, slowly—when she didn’t try to rush towards the intensity of an orgasm, but instead savored each moment that brought her closer and closer to it.

It was easier with John: she focused on his satisfaction and he focused on hers. But she couldn’t very well focus on this dark-haired stranger being well-rested…

Wouldn’t it be funny if he noticed my toes up on his bedspread? she wondered. It was dark, in this room meant for rest, but if the man could see his own hand in front of his face, he’d be able to see her toes wiggling next to him. Would he be able to tell they were curling and splaying because of what she was doing to herself?

As the man lay there, he mumbled in his sleep. Dejah didn’t know what dream he was having, but it was fun to imagine it was one of her.

The thought pushed Dejah’s lust further out of repression. She wished he would see her toes, guess what she was doing. But there wasn’t much chance of it. Unless…

Dejah was hit by a wave of passion. Masturbation had never excited her so much before; always seeming like a crude and unworthy substitute for what she should be doing with her John. But this was more than unleashed inhibition.

It was a kinkiness, a fetish that she hadn’t allowed to come forward, even with John, and it sent a shiver through her. John might judge her, might not accept her… she couldn’t ruin life with the man she loved for the sake of some experiment. But this man, whoever he was—he was not John Carter. And whatever he thought of her didn’t matter.

Dejah took her thumb off her clit. She didn’t want to come anymore; not like this. While the thrill of her forbidden fantasy dared her to think it past an inkling, she held herself still. She needed to do more than satisfy herself. She needed to explore the things she couldn’t have with John. Only that would justify, redeem their long separation.

She got up and separated herself from the rest of her jewelry, even kicking off her sandals, to stand wholly naked and openly aroused before the slumbering male. She shook by the time she was done, feeling the juices on her thighs that were wanton sign of her passion. He would only have to open one eye to be able to tell. The thought of that made Dejah wetter still.

A large, high window let in a shaft of sunlight, to be ignored in sleep or guide in wakefulness. Quivering with perspiration, Dejah stepped into that light. She dragged the chair behind her until it was illuminated too, then she sat down in it. Her legs stretched forward. She parted them slightly.

Resting her head on the back of her chair, she closed her eyes and basked in having the sun on every inch of her skin. Without looking at the man, she could easily imagine he was awake, moving, looking back at her, seeing everything her naked body had to offer. The knowledge filled her with a lust that made her cunt the warmest part of her body.

Dejah didn’t understand why showing herself off like this was so exhilarating when it wasn’t John who was seeing her… perhaps because while all Barsoomians were matter-of-fact about nudity, this Jasoomian would take it as her tantalizing the mightiest taboo imaginable. The thought of herself, not as a princess, but as a denizen of the depths of perversion, could only be gloried in.

As she lay there, exulting in the thought of how her imagined yet real lover must be desiring her, Dejah realized with a jolt that she could go further still. Not just display her gorgeous body to the man, but pleasure herself, knowing it was witnessed and appreciated by someone so much like her beloved John…

She daringly opened her eyes, looking over the man’s perfect body again, then shut them again—pretending that he was merely pretending unconsciousness, that he had closed his eyes the moment she’d opened hers so that he didn’t reveal the desperate longing that was really animating him.

But soon, Dejah would push him too far to continue to play dumb. Her eyes would be open and she’d stare at him, while he had no choice but to keep looking, keep enjoying the sight of her orgasmic body.

Shutting her eyes again, Dejah slowly reached for her breast. She brushed her fingers across her nipple. Then she took the hillock into a tight embrace.

She imagined the man awake, eyes wide, leaning closer. She squeezed her breast, kneading it, as if demonstrating to the man what he might do to her if only he were audacious enough to touch her. Then she took her other breast in hand and squeezed it until it was molded to her tight grip.

Dejah maneuvered her breasts about, pressing them together and pulling them apart. Then she lifted one to her face, ducked her head, and sucked on the nipple. More energetically than usual, Dejah pulled on it with her mouth and shook her head as she kissed it.

I must be driving him wild, she told herself.