Salt and Jasmine
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 3: The Scar
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 3: The Scar - Salt and Jasmine is a raw, sensual lesbian romance set in a cliffside lighthouse cottage. Through one pivotal year of storms, panic attacks, art, and jasmine-heavy nights, Susan and Nawana turn fear into fierce, unwavering love. Tender and explicit, it follows two women learning that staying—scarred, terrified, and wholly seen—is the bravest act of all. A luminous celebration of choosing each other, every single day, until staying becomes home.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Fiction Tear Jerker Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Squirting Caution Nudism
The scar lived just beneath Susan’s left breast, a pale, crescent-shaped comma that had punctuated her life since she was nine years old. A rusted nail on a dock in Maine, a scream, blood in the water, her mother’s face going white as bone. Twelve stitches. A week of fever. A lifetime of turning off lights before anyone could see.
She had hidden it from every lover she’d ever had: high-necked dresses, side-lighting, strategic pillows. The shame was older than reason: a child’s conviction that her body had betrayed her and would betray her again if she let it be seen.
Nawana saw it on their third night in the cottage.
They had carried the last of the boxes inside just before dusk. Rain threatened but never quite arrived, leaving the air thick and electric. The power was still out (a downed line somewhere up the coast), so they lit candles and opened a bottle of wine that tasted like smoke and cherries.
They argued.
It started over nothing: whether to keep the hideous orange armchair the previous tenant had abandoned in the corner, or have it reupholstered or consigned to the Fire pit immediately. The fight was small and stupid and precisely the kind they had promised each other they would never have.
Words ricocheted.
Nawana: “You decide everything, Susan. You decided we were moving here, you decided the paint colors, you decided we were keeping the cats even though I’m allergic—”
Susan: “You could have said no at any point! You’re here because you wanted to be—”
Nawana: “I’m here because I’m in love with you and I’m terrified of losing you and I thought distance would fix me, but it’s only making everything louder!”
The silence that followed was a living thing, sharp and cold.
Nawana’s eyes filled. She turned and walked out the front door without another word, letting it slam behind her.
Susan stood in the candlelit room, feeling the walls close in. She wanted to chase her, to drag her back, to scream or cry or beg. Instead, she opened another bottle of wine and drank half of it straight from the neck, sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, the orange armchair looming like an accusation.
An hour bled away.
The rain finally came, hard and sudden, drumming on the tin roof like thrown pebbles. Thunder rolled in from the west, low and deliberate. Susan’s chest ached with the particular hollowness that only comes when you have wounded someone you love and do not yet know how to undo it.
She found Nawana on the porch, soaked through, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the dark sea as if it might swallow her whole. Rain plastered her hair to her skull, ran in rivulets down her neck, and into the collar of her shirt.
Susan didn’t speak. She went back inside, grabbed the thick wool blanket from the couch, and walked out into the storm. She draped the blanket over both of them and sat on the top step, close enough that their shoulders touched.
They stayed like that until the rain softened to a mist and Nawana’s shivering became something quieter.
“I’m sorry,” Nawana said at last, voice raw. “I didn’t mean any of it. I ... panic sometimes. And I lash out.”
Susan’s throat was tight. “I know. I shut down. Same sin, different flavor.”
Nawana turned then, water streaming from her lashes. “I don’t want to be people who hurt each other because we’re scared.”
“Then let’s not be,” Susan said.
Nawana studied her face in the dim light from the candle inside. Whatever she saw there made her lean forward and rest her forehead against Susan’s.
“I’m cold,” she whispered.
Susan stood and offered her hand. Nawana took it.
Inside, they left wet footprints across the wide-plank floor. The Fire in the woodstove had burned low but still gave off heat. Susan added two logs and watched the flames catch while Nawana stood dripping in the middle of the room.
Susan turned back to her. “Take your clothes off.”
Nawana’s eyebrows rose, a flicker of her usual humor.
Susan rolled her eyes. “You’re going to catch pneumonia. Wet denim is not romantic.”
Nawana obeyed slowly, peeling off sodden layers until she stood in nothing but goosebumps and candlelight. Susan’s breath caught (she always forgot how beautiful Nawana was when she wasn’t hiding).
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.