Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  He walks over, moving behind her and reaching around, setting his hands on the lapels of her jacket to take if off her. He parts the garment, her own arms going down and loose, angled back so as to aid him. He notices the prominence to her chest as she does this, her breasts pushing against the fabric of her light-colored, button-down shirt.

  He lets the coat drop gently to the carpet.

  He adds his own to the pile, then moves in behind her, very close but not pressing in as yet. He moves his hands underneath her arms, touching at her waist, then going up, causing the tapered shirt to tighten in further, his hands then slowly gliding to her belly. She sighs, moving her hands over his, letting them sit there, trailing with his motion. She arches her neck up as she feels him touching his lips to her flesh there, the kisses beginning delicately, inching up to just behind her ear. He notes her smooth respiration as he does this, paying close attention to her, taking in her scent and taste as well.

  He moves his hands up, softly touching over her chest, letting the palms graze lightly over the curve of her breasts, then pausing as his fingertips work at the buttons of the shirt, slowly undoing them in a downward progression.

  The shirt is added to the pile.

  He moves back to her, still behind, touching over her shoulders, hands moving up along her flesh to her neck. She sighs again, a fragile, ethereal wind, as more of the delicate kisses find the back of her neck.

  He draws his hands down, along her back, turning his wrists and moving then to her waist and about to the front. He leans in, pressing against her, and he feels her pushing back as he flatten his hands over the tops of her thighs, then brings his fingers in, holding her more firmly, drawing upwards with the pressure of the tips, moving inward, the material of her black skirt bunching up somewhat. She lets forth a very light sounding moan, almost more of a sigh given voice as his hands release, moving around to undo the metal fastener at the back of her garment, then slowly apart, coaxing the zipper downward. So released, he uses but the barest effort of his hands to ease the skirt down, and he feels a shift of her hips to aid this as the garment falls to the ground, leaving her in her thigh high stockings, black tanga, and her black, four inch pumps.

  He holds her waist more firmly now with his right hand, still kissing over her neck, though more intently, as he slips his left hand about to cup her panty-shrouded pussy, pressing in and upward with his fingertips, massaging her, palm pushing down onto her mons Venus. He feels the yielding of that soft, inviting flesh, the friction of his movement added to by the fabric of her underwear as it is moved over her pubis.

  She lets a gasping, hitching breath pass through her parted lips, chin raised now, neck more taut, her head leaned to the left, giving him better access. She reaches up with her hands, her left going over the one of his between her legs, the other seeking back to grab him, up high near the hip, fingers clutching with growing need, her knees bending, body tensing in response to his touch.

  He looks down at her as he continues kissing and suckling and nipping at her neck, pressing in with his teeth, causing another lengthy note of pleasure to flow from her mouth. He sees the increased intensity of her breath in the rise and fall of her blooming cleavage within the alluring clasp of her brassiere, the top of the molding cups lined with a touch of lace.

  He then pauses, lifting his chin to whisper warmly in her ear, “Just stand here. Hold as still as you are able.”

  She nods, the gesture almost unnoticeable, another deep breath passing through her lightly parted lips as she remains in place, hands coming away from him as he moves, her arms held out, poised but unsure. He places his hands on those slim limbs, sliding down, gently encouraging her to just relax hers to her side, which she does.

  He then brings his hands up behind her, sliding the knuckles of his bent forefingers over her smooth flesh, upwards to either side of her spine, until he reaches the clasp of her bra. He undoes this quickly, pushing it in with a pinch of fabric to release the hooks, then sliding his hands under the lengths of delicate material, pushing up and forward to her shoulders, which she shrugs in to aid him. He leans in, hands going down the length of her arms, and the bra is added to the pile.

  Her breasts are lovely, enticing, nicely shaped toward round, not overly large or small. The pink-hued nipples stiff from the attentions she has been receiving, firming up within the circular enclosure of her perfectly sized areolae. He then places his hands on her hips, just in front at her pelvis, and slips the fingertips inside the edge of her tanga, then slipping it down easily with a bend from his waist. She dutifully raises her heels, and he also gathers up the skirt, adding both pieces of clothing to the pile.

  He stays behind her, looking at her lovely form, the flicker of the candlelight caressing her shape, her slender legs and pert rear end, as though licking over the smooth, enticing skin. He begins to undress himself, taking his time, just gazing upon her, letting her wait, thoughts no doubt careening through her mind of what may be about to next transpire. She holds her place well, displaying her own patience, her own eagerness, perhaps, to do as he has bid.

  When he is naked, his own garments added to the pile, he moves back in behind her, reaching his hands about and up to hold her breasts, cupping and fondling them, moving his fingers slowly over her soft flesh, tips moving up to take her nipples, applying a slow, steady pressure, but not too hard as yet. She inhales a slow breath in anticipation of some shocking sensation at her nipples, and the smoothness of the respiration barely hitches as he closes his fingers together.

  His arms are now about her own, and she reaches her hands back to clutch at him as he increases his touching of her; he stops what he is doing, leaning in to whisper, “No, be still, dear Lily.”

  She gives another little nod, complying to his wishes, letting her arms hang again at her sides within his embrace as he resumes touching her bosom, kneading the flesh, even as he presses into her with his crotch, feeling the return push of her firm derriere. He says nothing to her about this movement, deciding to wait until a further time to press more diligently with any restrictions, instead reveling in the electric feel of her rear end against his still thickening member.

  He again reaches down with his left hand, keeping his right in a firm hold upon her breast, sliding down along her taut belly, tracing the outer edge of her navel in its downward progression, fingertips moving between her legs again. She emits another moan, this one at greater length, her eyes closed, her arousal evident in her breathing, the flush of her skin, tilting her pelvis outward, eager for the exploration.

  He stops then, moving his hands away from her, and he senses her confusion. He moves to her right, taking her hand in his own, guiding her the short distance to the bed. She looks upon him now, for the first time since he has disrobed, seeing his slender form, noting the shadowed definition of his abdomen and ribcage, the curve of his rear end, the out-thrust rod of his erection. He is possessed of lean muscle. She looks up, seeing him gazing back at her, an inviting smile on his lips, a need in his eyes, just as she shows the same in her own.

  She follows his lead, going to the large bed, and he moves a hand along her extended arm, guiding her. His hand moves down to the upper curve of her buttock, continuing to give her suggestive pressures of his touch and motions.

  She pauses just at the edge of the bed, so close to him, looking up into his eyes, “Do you want me on my back?”

  He smiles more, feeling the lovely thrill of hearing her question, her offer, her willingness. “Yes,” he answers with a languid blink of his eyes and single nod of his head.

  She accedes to his bid, moving onto the bed, the dark duvet remaining in place, its sheen belying the tempt of slickness to it, something she feels against her skin like a cool coax. She crawls fully atop it, then turns, reclining to her back, legs parted just slightly, looking up at him.

  He slips into the bed next to her, his left arm pressing into the yield of the bedspread and mattress, and she raises up a bit, sensing h
is intent as he puts his arm about her, getting in close to her, his body now against hers. He is on his side, looking her deeply in her eyes, a gaze which she returns, the smiles gone from their lips, her breath still increased from their recent foreplay and further anticipation. She looks up at him with a pleading expression in her beautiful eyes, and it thrills him.

  He leans down, and she pushes upward with her face, leading with her chin, and their lips meet. She emits a sigh, even as he lets forth a deeper sound of pleasure, though still mingled with audible exhalation of breath. They kiss hungrily, though still savoring one another, their lips moving with it, tongues slipping out to feel of one another, the slick sensation adding to their arousal, more light gasps and buzzing moans adding to the score of their engagement.

  She does not move her arms or try to use her hands, still holding herself mostly still, either from bashfulness or adherence to his bid, he is not sure, but he places his own right hand against her face, delicately stroking over her jaw, then down to her neck, as though weaving the air, like a conductor with no baton, luring and enticing further feeling from her. That hand travels down, over her collarbone, touching it lovingly before drifting further to her left breast, cupping and fondling the lovely flesh, and again finding her firm, erect nipple, applying a slow pinch with the pads of fingertips, his index then brought up, curled, pressing into the end with his fingernail.

  She moans at this, her body tensing, and he feels her own fingers curling into claws, pressing into the bed, even as her spine arches somewhat, causing her chest to push up even more into his hold. He releases, moving his hands out, still against her flesh, grasping her breast more firmly, massaging before moving down.

  Their kissing does not stop, breath becoming more rapid from both, especially her, warm gasps traded into each other’s open mouths, tongues lapping together, tasting, giving way to the closure of lips, only to part for more. He presses more into her side, leaning his face over her, directing the angle and intensity of the kissing. She follows this easily, eagerly.

  His hand again finds the focal point of her moist arousal, fingertips gliding up along her petals, middle pressing in to find the opening, feeling the gathered honey of her enlivening. He pushes in, less delicate this time, easily moving his index finger to join this one, sliding both fully inside her. She gasps again at this delving, her lips pressing sharply into his, and he grips her more strongly with his left arm, holding her as close as possible.

  His fingers are moved in and out for a time, travelling the silky depths of her, giving her more sizzling stimulation, until he slips them away, candlelight reflecting off the glistening shine of them, his hand then finding its way back to between her legs.

  Their kiss breaks, her head going back against the pillow, her breath more intense, rapid. He looks at her, her eyes yet closed, her body drinking in the sensations, and he brings his fingertips up, finding the engorged bud of her clitoris and pressing over it, moving in smooth, tight circles over the sensitive nub.

  Her eyes snap open at this, mouth held with further parted lips, the muscles of her thighs standing out in a rigid response. He feels her hand on him tighten, and it shoots an electric feel through his being.

  “Oh, gods,” she exclaims, looking at him, “I want you inside me. Please,” she pleads.

  He moves then, getting atop her, between her legs, which spread out further. Her willingness and accommodation is but one of the myriad layers to her lure for him. Her chest moves with her breath, nipples still firmly pronounced atop the soft pillowing of her breasts, her eyes all but stuck on him, and his are no less magnetized to her intoxicating form. He presses inward, and she moans lightly, more of an inviting hum, eyelids going down somewhat, her hips writhing. He continues pushing, sliding inside her with little effort, penetrating her to the hilt.

  She gasps, a sound answered with his own throaty moan, and he leans down to her, sliding his arms up outside her. She begins to reach up to him, but he props himself with his left arm, taking her right wrist in hand and pulling her arm to the bed then out and up, keeping hold as he does the same on the other side. He then completes sliding down to atop her warm body, the sheen upon her ambrosial flesh brought forth from the flickering illumination of the candles. He pushes her arms up over her head, lacing his own within hers, holding her down in this embrace as he begins moving his hips.

  She brings her slender legs up, wrapping them about him as they move together, and he feels the touch of her thighs like a fervent addition to the bouquet of sensations. His thrusts are met eagerly with her own, if not more so, his attempts to dictate a more thoughtful pace overridden by her vehement responses, engulfing his every departure with a needful push. It is a bliss unmatched, and he can feel his own conclusion approaching.

  He holds her tightly, feeling a similar firmness from herself, their eyes again locked into a naked channeling of their lust, their faces so close as they gyrate their hips. She gasps more openly now, punctuating each driving thrust, her breath evidence of her quickening.

  “Please,” she murmurs again, her brow knitted with her burgeoning approach, “Please, Skot,” she adds, “I- I,” she says, her voice needful, yet stammering from that very intensity.

  He grits his teeth, adding his own increased vocalization, both of them matching their heightened breathing to the pace of their union. He feels his heart practically exploding in his chest, his body all but quivering with it. Her own hot craving also courses within her.

  He barely manages to contain himself until he feels her body tense, taut like a bow string, and she cries out, her fingers interlaced with his, curling into iron claws. She continues the movement of her hips, grinding over him now, her muscles fluttering as her orgasm takes her. He feels the clutching, and he is unable to resist, his own spasms erupting as he expends himself inside her, the several jerks of his organ finishing before her own climax finally calms.

  They lie there together, their bodies now released of tension, though still burning with the sweaty heat of their culmination. They kiss, and she slips her arms down to about his torso, holding tightly just below his chest. He brings his own arms down, slipping them about her petite frame, a firm grasp. He stays inside her, just experiencing their continued union, the basting feel of their bodies against each other.

  *****

  He sits alone at the small wooden table, the round top holding the stout glass bearing a double vodka on ice, the edges of the surface marred by cracks and splits, one large enough that he grazed his finger against it and felt a painful pinch, then shifted the position of his chair to avoid it. He suspects this drink will not help his continued attempts at staying awake, but he also knows he cannot put that off indefinitely. Besides, he chewed up and dry-swallowed two more of the small, candy-like, red pills before venturing out. He is not sure if that may diminish or enhance the effect, nor exactly what mixing alcohol in may do. He isn’t the most cautious since his life changed so drastically and coming here from Zürich.

  Ernst’s downturned eyes gaze out from beneath his prominent brow, his face long, narrow, perhaps giving him a look of intensity that he does not intend, of which he may not even be fully aware. He feels lethargic, lost, wrapped in a sleepy buzz as he sits here. He gazes out over the dark landscape of the place, the techno music driving, though it sounds as if it is behind a wall, even as he sits right here in the midst of it, occupying this place somewhat on the outskirts of the room.

  There is a large main stage here, and two smaller ones that are really not much more than podiums, though there are poles on each. Using these are scantily clad girls of generally youthful appearance, some topless, but none fully nude, what with the very thin g-strings and impossible-seeming high heels. Others meander through the crowd, dressed more than their sisters on stage but still showing off their bodies in very un-subtle displays. He has turned down three thus far who have shimmied by, offering their company and services.

  There is a plastic ashtray at his table,
and he has lit one cigarette, the length smoldering, untouched now within one of the four grooves cut out of the edges. The thin tendril of its smoke bleeds upwards, languorously, matching the mood of its owner.

  He is not sure why he came here. There are more reputable places in other parts of the city, though his appearance and pocketbook would likely preclude his patronage. He followed his new compulsion here, feeling less and less capable of resisting it. His evening had begun with some aimless wandering before he found himself in a less savory part of the city, the neon shape of a curved body and the large lettering outside the place doing less to entice him inside than this incessant call he feels like some constant white noise in his mind.

  He raises his glass, downing the remaining contents and settling it back to the tabletop, ice clinking in place. A waitress comes over rather quickly, just another of the girls, picking up a tray to perform one of many duties expected of them.

  “Another, sweetie?” she bids, leaning down over the table to give him a nice show of her cleavage, pressed together and thrust upwards by her halter top.

  “Yes, please,” he says, almost robotically, not looking at her.

  “Can I get you anything else while I’m at it?” she pushes, “Some other sweets for you, sweetie?”

  He looks over then, and she glances from his eyes downward to her chest then back up at him, causing a slight jiggle to her medium-sized breasts.

  “Just the drink, please,” he says, dryly, and though he does not mean the rejection as an insult, she sort of curls her heavily painted lips as she turns and heads to the bar, still giving a saunter of her thin hips in case he is watching her ass.

  He is not, already turning back to look out over the playscape of the locale, not really taking anything in, yet managing to somehow absorb everything through his seeming hypnotized awareness. The waitress comes back somewhat quickly, showing the less than busy nature of the evening to this point, though she did spend some time talking with the bartender. She sets the drink down near him.