This is a tale about a woman. No one special or distinguished. Just an ordinary woman. Where does her tale begin? Where does it end? Where does it continue? Those, answers cannot be readily and apparently discovered. Why does it matter? It’s just an ordinary woman. But is her being ordinary not extraordinary? In and of itself? Where will this ordinary woman’s life go? Where has this ordinary woman’s life gone? That, herself asked directly may provide the answers. What role will she play? What role does she play? Who is she? What is she? Where will she go? How has she gone? So many questions, so many things to be gained. So much to learn. So much to explore. So much to share. So much to gain.
Risla was working during sunlight hours in a nice, friendly miniature supermarket store, walking around stair-format layered shelves of fruits that included apples, pears, citruses, and more when a thunderous noise erupted outside.
Risla was the only one in this world. This world was for her and no one else. Devoid of life, but full of life. Her own life was plenty to her. Her own life was enough for her. She was her. Her was she. She knew how to live when all else did not. The world was barren. Empty. Greenless. Unalive, but full of life. She was often curious about how she seemed to be the only thing to….exist. To think. To recognize her own existence. To dictate her own physical actions. To dictate her own path. To dictate her own being. To move. To be mobile. To be voluntarily, self-controlledly mobile. To dictate each of her own steps. To dictate each of her own thoughts. To be able to create expressions for the sake of communication. Even if there were nothing to communicate to, to communicate with. She was her. Risla was Risla. An ordinary woman. An ordinary person. By her own jurisdiction and definitions, she was 26 years of age. Risla liked to touch herself in different ways. In a variety of ways. It made her feel good. For no other reason than the fact that things were that way. Touching herself in certain ways made her feel good. Doing things to her vessel made her feel good. In the realm of physical reality. She had nothing much to do. She had a lot much to do. But touching herself was the option among those options that made her feel good; the other possibilities seemed to provide no value. Her realm was barren, with nothing much to do. So she touched herself. A lot. Just as she couldn’t understand how she was the only one to be able to think, ponder, and recognize the realm around her, she couldn’t understand why touching herself felt so pleasant. It just did. She had time to herself. So much of it. All of it. She could walk. She could run. She could wave, she could wail. She could lay bare on the barren ground beneath her with no worries, and just lay as such. She could touch herself. In ways that were, for whatever reason, pleasurable to her. So she did all that. She ran a lot. She waved a lot. She wailed a lot. She jumped a lot. She touched herself a lot. Everything was empty, everything was vast. An endless expanse of red, empty, barren land in all directions. A orange-ish blue sky, reminiscent of heat, dryness and humidity. Sometimes a nice blue. Sometimes a sinister orange. She perspired a lot. Her body was hot. Often hot and stuffy. It was unpleasant. She couldn’t understand why. Why she disliked this feeling. Why it felt unpleasant. But it also made touching herself feel better. Touching herself when she was stricken by such conditions felt pleasurable. Touching the vessel she occupied. After she enjoyed touching herself, she would run. Then when she tired of having ran, she would touch herself again. Running, touching. Touching, running. Run, touch. Touch, run. Like this, she continued for an amount of time she couldn’t comprehend. Days? Weeks? Months? Years? She would not know. She didn’t understand time. She just enjoyed running and touching herself. She couldn’t get enough of touching herself, but she sensed there had to be something more. She knew there had to be something more. She would try different ways of touching herself, different methods more pleasurable at different instances. Sometimes she would use more force, sometimes less. Sometimes she would maneuver her vessel in new ways. But she felt there had to be more possibilities. The red, empty, barren land before her seemed to
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/ralz66/str8solo_risla