Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “In relation to this, neither of us should take it personally if the other does not want to do something.” He looks at her, that gentle curl still on his lips, and she nods lightly in understanding, bidding him to proceed. “We know we are sexually attracted to one another,” he states, and this gets a grin on her lovely lips, and that ever-ready blush tickles at her features, though it does not claim her as much as usual, “So we should not take it as a rejection if one of us does not want to do something. A safe word or signal may be used by the submissive if they are being asked to do something they do not want to do. The signal is given, everything is stopped. No bad or hurt feelings. It’s not a personal critique; it’s just about preferences.”

  She nods, picking up her mug to have a few swallows of the milky coffee. “But what if I want to be pushed?” she asks.

  “Yes, well, we will push each other, I suspect,” he smiles, “But that goes back to open, honest communication. I’d rather us talk about something instead of, perhaps, my springing it on you in the depths of a session.”

  She nods to this, pondering, and he waits for her.

  “I like that you push me,” she finally says, looking into his eyes. “This is new to me, and I am very shy, anyway, so I need the push. But not too much. You are patient, and you nudge me just the right amount, in just the right way.”

  He smiles even more at this, the expression warm, loving. “Thank you, Lily. You deserve to be treated well.”

  And this does get the blush to arrive as she grins deeper, those shoulders scrunching up a bit, though they settle quickly enough, and her lips part to reveal some of her teeth as the smile broadens.

  “So, we choose a safe word and signal,” he carries on after spearing some more of his meal on the fork.

  “Signal?” she peers, wiping her mouth with the cloth napkin, “And why both?”

  “Well,” he answers, a smirk taking his lips in a subtle suggestion, “If one is gagged, they may not have clear use of their voice.”

  “Oh.” She blinks, and the blush from before looks calm compared to the one that takes her now.

  “A signal may be a rapid series of blinks or a tapping of the fingers, any number of things that does not require a distinctly heard word. Some even use the humming of a particular tune. The idea is to have many options agreed upon by all parties.”

  “Ahh, like tapping out in a martial arts bout,” she compares.

  “Yes,” he agrees after a split second of consideration, “Just like that. If you tap, it stops. And tapping is a good one to use, because if you are blindfolded you cannot very well use your eyes to give a particular sort of blink,” he adds, then pauses, staring at her, his grin one of bemusement, for she has looked away, somewhat scrunching in to make her petite self even smaller than usual, and the healthy flush of her skin manages to increase even more. “Lily?” he gently tries.

  Her grin curls up then, more to the side, becoming its own smirk, her eyes shifting about, then moving up to give him a tentative look, before she blinks and averts her gaze again. He just watches, continuing to give his own warm, accepting smile.

  “I think I would really like to be blindfolded,” she finally says, leaning forward somewhat toward the table, her hands down in her lap now, arms pressed in tightly to herself, unwittingly giving a press to her bosom.

  He watches as the moment lingers, not disturbing her, for it is her discovery. She lets her thoughts take her, still looking forward and down, not focused on the physical. After a moment of this, she looks back up at him.

  “It’s scary but exciting. Not knowing exactly what is going to happen next.”

  He nods slowly. “It very much includes the mind, and people like we make generous use of our imaginations.”

  She smiles sweetly at this, giving a blink of her eyes.

  “So, what might you like as a safe word?” he asks before resuming the use of his held fork.

  “Oh,” she ponders for a very brief moment, “I don’t know. What do you suggest?”

  “I tend to go for flowers or plants or some such. You’d not want to use a word that might normally come up in the context of a session, not even one that might normally be useful in such a situation, due to the aspect of roleplay. It is not a good idea to use ‘no’ as a safe word, for instance, but ‘banana’, well, that stands out.”

  He offers her a teasing grin at this, and she chuckles lightly, nodding.

  “Oregano,” she suddenly says.

  He looks at her, in the midst of chewing his food, then he nods as he finishes, applying a wipe of the napkin to his mouth as he reaches for his own coffee. “That is a good one. May I ask why you wish it?”

  She looks fully upon him then, “Oregano is known to repel some butterflies.”

  He nods, after swallowing the strong, somewhat bitter liquid, “Oregano it is, then.”

  They share a smile, letting a quiet take them, working through more of their respective dishes. It is not terribly crowded here, though the weather on this Sunday is very nice. It could likely well be contributing to people being out and active as opposed to sitting in a café, lingering over a meal and pleasant company.

  “There are also often rules agreed upon by all participants.”

  “Oh?” she leads, having a generous sample of her water, the glass standing next to one of milk and another of fresh fruit juice.

  “Yes, such as how to dress or behave, how to address one another, certain tasks that may need to be done, certain protocols followed.”

  “Oh, that sounds involved.”

  “Well, we don’t need to go so far at this time, if ever. Those are just examples. It is entirely up to us.” He smiles warmly at her.

  She smiles back, thinking. “How would you make me dress?” she asks, and he senses the playful flirtatiousness to it that he so adores.

  “Well, it would depend on the circumstances, but you have a remarkable body, which I find very pleasing and attractive, so, if you are willing, I would probably dress you in ways that show that off, again, depending on the circumstances.”

  She nods, taking it in. “For us, right? Not to show me off like a trophy?”

  “Yes, for us, though may I have a bit of pride at knowing someone such as yourself chooses to be with me.”

  And she blushes again, though it is lighter, more a warm soothe. “Yes,” she manages, then she sits up straighter, collecting her thoughts. “I get bothered a lot because of my looks,” she says, and he gives her his full, serious attention. “I get emails sometimes of a very unpleasant nature, people wanting sexual things from me, some even outright offering me money.”

  “That’s terrible.” He blinks, brow furrowing.

  She looks at him, lips pressed together. “My email is public, so it happens,” she says, “And so I sometimes distance myself, and that makes some people think I am just a stuck-up, cold bitch. I work out and train for myself. I make myself look pretty for myself. It doesn’t mean I am doing it to catch a man or something. I want to be healthy, and sometimes I like to wear pajamas all day, and sometimes I like to do my hair and put on make-up and nice clothes.”

  He nods, slowly, still just watching and listening. She then looks back up at him, and where she had just worn a somewhat open, almost casually determined expression, she now has on one of her wonderful smiles.

  “I’d like that, though, wearing what you want me to wear, sometimes, depending. I’d like to look good for you, for you to think I look good.”

  “Thank you,” he says with utmost sincerity, “That is a wonderful gift you give me, and I do think you look good. You are a very beautiful person, Lily, inside and out.”

  “Thank you,” she says, smiling back, that normal flush that may have threatened from such a compliment not taking her now as she stalwartly returns his gaze. “Likewise.”

  His own smile increases, cheeks pressing out to greater prominence, “Thank you.”

  “What other sorts of Rules?” she asks, cutting into
the dwindling remnants of her breakfast sausage.

  “Well,” he ponders, finishing up a mouthful of his own food with a quick swallow, “Sometimes people that are not living together agree to send a good night and good morning each day.”

  “Wouldn’t people in a ‘vanilla’ relationship also do that?”

  “Yes, but in this case, there might be consequences for the submissive if they break a Rule.”

  “Oh,” she says, blinking into that lost stare she sometimes gets, thoughts again taking her.

  “It is meant to be a way to make those involved feel close, of course. It’s nice to know you may be your partner’s first and last thought of the day.”

  She smiles up at him. “I think about you a lot.”

  “And I, you,” he returns.

  “You also said something about tasks,” she leads, now just interested in coffee and talking.

  “I did. There may be tasks, or even chores, if you will, given, and again, if they are not done in a proper and timely manner, there could be consequences.”

  “May I have an example?”

  “Of course.” He smiles at her, very much enjoying her manner, and he fixes his eyes on her, deciding it is time for a push, “I want you to choose a time, soon, and somewhere in public, whether your office, a bathroom, wherever, I want you to pleasure yourself and think of me, and then I want you to tell me about it, in detail.”

  Her eyes have stopped blinking as she just stares at him, and they slowly grow wider, and as if on cue, the lovely flush rises over her flesh.

  “Oh,” she finally says, the sound somewhat meek, breathy, “Okay.”

  He smiles. “Good,” reaching over to gently place a hand atop her nearer thigh, “Don’t get caught, and …,” he leans in closer, and she rises up on a subtly stiffening spine, shoulders going back a bit as he brings his mouth to her ear, whispering, “Don’t orgasm. You may not orgasm without my permission.”

  When he has finished slowly moving back to his own upright position, she is covered in a riotous blush. He merely looks at her, his lips curled into a subtle grin. She finally meets his gaze, and she nods.

  “Okay.”

  Chapter Ten

  The darkly-garbed figure has arrived here on foot. It had proven a lengthy trek, and much of that time had been spent pondering. The intruder has to be careful of possible cameras, even those carried by most people nowadays on their mobile phones, and so shadows, height, care find use to minimize this potential exposure as much as possible. It is not just fortunate that the buildings in this part of the city are so close together, but the layout is known and thus taken advantage of in the planning of the night’s excursion. Few people bother looking up, and even if they did, they’d have to catch the precise moment to be lucky enough to see a passing shadow. Some people hear odd sounds, like footsteps or scurrying through their ceilings. They presume this to be pests of some kind, hoping it does not become an issue requiring further intervention.

  The email in-box had been rather more full than usual, some messages sent with a high importance. They had been waiting too long, and now, with a simmering feeling of guilt, the vigilante is out again. One of them, in particular, had held big news, big, found by the contact known as Sparrow.

  They are trying to pin the murder of the girl, Marina Potchak, on the very person who tried to save her. It had struck deep in the gut to read that information. All that effort expended to rescue the girl only to have her slaughtered there in that farmhouse. And it had been an obvious trap, and now the figure feels guilt at having been so lured and that an innocent life has been extinguished. Casualties must be expected in this war. It won’t be easy.

  The vigilante crawls up a tight collection of cable pipes outside an apartment building, moving up to the roof of the tall structure, the metal brackets placed well, supporting the weight of the climber as the length is traversed. Quick, quiet footsteps, and the other side is reached, and from this vantage, the target proves easily seen.

  The building to be watched holds one story, across the street and down a ways, not far at all. The enhanced binoculars are brought out, placed in front of the eyes, and the spying begins.

  Messages had also been received regarding Detective Pello Halkias, and though this is far less disconcerting than the news of Marina, it had still been a blow. More information had been unearthed, and it seems a fair assumption that Halkias will eventually have the charges dismissed, if any get filed at all, but that source has likely dried up. He will feel less compelled to so risk himself, whether by choice or coercion. Hopefully, no further misfortunate will befall the detective. He is a good man, and he deserves better.

  It is a war, and there will be casualties.

  Five minutes of surveillance reveals nothing. The location appears empty, dark, devoid of any activity.

  The dark-suited figure scurries down to street level, choosing a place to sprint across that is lacking in any real coverage of light. There is little presence of pedestrian or vehicle traffic here, but even one sighting could prove too many. Once near the other small building, all is dark, all is quiet.

  Eyes peer in, being more careful at first but finally openly peeking in windows, scanning the interior as best as possible. Nothing. This building had been a small way station for the crime ring, a place to temporarily store certain goods, generally not human goods, but the locale and its possible purpose had been documented. Now it looks to have been abandoned.

  This is a further bother. What opportunity may have been missed? It has been too long since this work has been done. Too many messages, too many developments; must be more diligent.

  A rear door is easily forced open, and the figure carefully enters, goggles down over the eyes to enable seeing quite well in this dark environ. The place is largely empty, though some used crates and boxes and some broken furniture still dot the region like discarded heralds with dust-filled mouths. The P90 is held at the ready, finger near the trigger but not on it, as the vigilante carefully checks the building, realizing it has, indeed, been vacated.

  Some time is spent giving the place a thorough looking over, mostly done due to curiosity. Why was this establishment abandoned? Was anything left behind that may indicate where they have gone? There are always trails; no one is invisible.

  Back outside and easily atop the roof of this place, crouching, hidden in darkness and shadow, thinking, waiting, watching. Some digging has also been done as regards the serial killer haunting the city, especially as a few of the more sensationalistic news outlets associate that murderer with the vigilante. It’s ludicrous, of course, but the implication is more of a concern.

  The serial killer seems interested in the same girls, but as prey, not victims needing help. A passing moment is spent pondering this, but there is as yet too little information. Unfortunately, young ladies in just these sorts of situations often end up as victims of violent crime. It could just be a coincidence. Still, if anything may be done to stop it, it will be done.

  The war is intensifying. The crime ring is trying many avenues to thwart this work. It would be amusing, if it were not pathetic, that the criminals are manipulating the police and the media to help them instead of those two same institutions working more fervently to stop the expanding activities of the criminal organization, that influence spreading like a dark mist throughout the city.

  What is becoming?

  *****

  He takes a moment to get settled in before turning to the package that has recently arrived for him. He is alone here in his rooms, and he finds that it feels empty now when she is not here. As he disrobes, he thinks of her, a gentle smile taking his lips.

  He has not felt like this in years, having been lost in dealing with so many other issues that courting has not come up. Certainly he has felt its lack from time to time, and other moments, he has found himself taking note of someone he may see, but such has never been seriously pursued. His mother and sister had joked about trying to set him up, but, of
course, nothing had ever come of that, either.

  And now, there is her.

  He realizes the potential challenges to what they seem to be about to pursue, but he will not let that stymie him. And what will he do when he has concluded his business here? He cannot just abandon this, abandon her. This is not a fling or a passing fancy. He feels it deeply, taking him, and he eagerly embraces it. He wants to give it every chance to bloom to its fullest. He senses such amazing potential between them, and he finds himself experiencing a sense of happiness, eagerness, that he has not felt in so long.

  He scoops some ice cubes into the round, stout glass, then splashing some of the whiskey over them. He swirls it, letting it cool, bringing the glass up, but he pauses just before it reaches the mouth. He thinks on how she drinks her scotch, and another little grin takes his lips. He ought to try it that way sometime, he decides, then he samples of his own, enjoying the heady taste and subtle burn.

  Now in his black silk pajamas, drink in hand, he heads back to the table and looks at the small package. It is from home; he notes that easily enough from the label. They use a special encoding to ensure proper delivery and so the recipient knows the parcel is to be trusted. He wonders what it is, since any sort of information could be sent electronically. He had not requested anything. He sips again of his drink, then sets the heavy glass near the parcel. He takes up his ornate letter opener, really more of a small knife, the entire piece made of Damascus steel, somewhat in the style of a tanto, the whirling pattern upon it adding to its aesthetic.

  He can feel the reasonably weighty contents as he opens the box, and within he finds several things – a small data key, three 10-shot magazines, two boxes of specially made bullets, a shoulder holster, which is no doubt tailored to his specifications, and a custom-modified pistol. He supposes Jericho decided to ignore his comment that he did not need any more weapons. He has his cane, after all, and he has not even bothered to begin carry that around with him, even knowing Denman Malkuth is here.

  He picks up the handgun, admiring it, a two toned Walther P99, chambered in .40 S&W, fitted with an Insight X2 light and laser sight. He pulls the slide, noting how smoothly it moves, also making sure the gun is empty, though he would have been rather surprised had it not been. He tests the trigger, pulling on it delicately, and he feels the ease, the force necessary to fire having been reduced. Jericho has many roles and duties, Weaponsmaster being but one of those.