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Sweet Butterfly

 

 

They say heat goes up, and I can attest to it.  Apparently, so does dampness.

My whole body, dangling from the glass ceiling like a ripe fruit, is covered in sweat.  This is what being in a jungle must feel like.  This is what hanging from a huge tree in a jungle must feel like.  At night.  Under the stars.  The world at my feet.  Except I'm the one who is being played with, and I'm not sure I like it.

When we entered the greenhouse, I rejoiced at the sudden warmth enveloping me.  After all, I was naked from head to toe, and the short walk in the garden made me realize the first purpose of clothes.  Why he was taking me to the greenhouse was a mystery though.  Before I could utter a word, he gagged me securely and, holding my hands behind my back, gently pushed me forward on a sand path surrounded by small trees and all sorts of plants.

As I walked, I could feel the leaves brush my skin, and that simple touch made me shiver.  High above us, the stars added their faded light to the small lamps scattered among the foliage.

When we reached the center under the high glass dome, he ordered me to stop and stand still.  I waited, anxiety building.  Then I saw I was not going to be stark naked for a long time.  Not that the leather was meant as a cover.

My arms go first, tightly bound in a heavy binder behind my back.  My legs follow, neatly encased in thigh-high boots which he slowly laces up, taking his time.  When he asks me to spread my legs wide, I have trouble keeping my balance, but the soft ground swallows part of the heels and I'm stabilized.  Grounded, too.

At that very moment, a tiny butterfly comes flying around me and I jerk my head to chase it away.  I hate bugs.  Whether sweet or poisonous, creeping or buzzing, they make me nervous.  The little intruder leaves, and I relax.  For a short while.  That is, until I choke from a sudden lack of air.  The corset looks divine, but did he really have to choose two sizes under mine?  It takes me a couple of minutes to adjust, but while I am regaining control of my lungs, he fastens a large leather collar around my neck, making it impossible for me to turn or lower my head.

One more restraint, a leather band holding my hair in a strict ponytail, and his sigh of contentment seems to indicate I'm fully restrained.  Which I am.  There's nothing I can move except my eyelids and fingers.  Not that it helps.

I'm curious why my breasts are free of any artifice, but the answer quickly comes in the form of paint, or maybe it's some sort of syrup.  As he uncaps the flask, a flowery fragrance fills the air.  Jasmine?  Magnolias?  I was never very good at botany, but it sure smells good.  He methodically applies a layer of sticky translucent gel on my breasts, adding an extra touch on my nipples.  I distinctly remember Anne Rice's Beauty series, the part about the lotion that would warm up and bring teasing torture to any part of the body where it was applied.  Is that what he has in mind?  Unsurprisingly, he also covers my sex, paying particular attention to the most sensitive areas.  One, two, three layers.  When he's finished, he steps back and watches me with a wicked smile.

"Ready, girl?"

Sure, but ready for what?  This is much more than what I expected when I innocently suggested a little "bondage night."  A knot forms in my stomach.  Can I handle this?  As I meditate on my fate and how there is very little I can do to escape it, I hear the rattle of chains.  Chains?

I feel a gentle tug on my wrists, then one not so gentle that pulls my hair back.  I hear a few clicks as the chains are locked in various parts in my back, on the sides and around my ankles.  And then, nothing.  Where has he gone?

Suddenly, the sound of an engine starting and I'm being lifted off.  The chains pull and bend me over backwards.  My legs, knees wide apart, are gradually extended towards my wrists and my head is pulled up by the hair.

Up and up and up I go.  Though the ascent is slow, I'm already feeling nauseous.  I'm afraid of heights.  Did I tell him that?  Definitely.

When the engine finally stops, I'm almost touching the glass panels of the dome, 20 meters high above the ground.  My body is slightly bent, and I suppose I must look like a moon crescent.  Except the fire within me doesn't exactly make me feel like some dead satellite.

I barely begin to consider my helpless situation when everything under me turns into darkness.  Dim light from four lamps in each upper corner of the greenhouse gives an eerie feeling to the scene.  The trees are shadow-like monsters, extending their arms as if to grab me.  I'm on the verge of panic.  Then, from the corner of my eyes, which I strain to lower as much as I can, I realize something else is glowing right under me.

Wrong.  I'm the one who's glowing.  The paint!  It's fluorescent, and my sex and breasts shine like silvery stars.  Now I'm the moon all right, reflecting enough light to ... oh, no.

As the dreadful thought occurs to me, I see the first one.  It suddenly breaks in from the shadows and flies to my left breast.  Its velvet-soft wings flap across my bare skin, and a faint moan escapes my gagged mouth.  The butterfly takes no notice as it lands on my nipple and begins to suck it, or whatever butterflies do.  The flowery fragrance, the light, and by the look of it, the taste of the potion makes me the perfect bug attraction!  I feel more sweat on my forehead, and my heart quickens.  This cannot be.  Surely he will bring me down now.

I appreciate how vain my hopes are as another yellow-winged intruder comes flying in and lands on my right breast, quickly followed by a third one.  The silence is such that I can hear their wings flapping as they caress, suck and tease me.  I try to move my head or feet or hips to scare them off, but I'm too tightly restrained.  My breasts have become very convenient landing pads for the bugs.  And more of them arrive to enjoy the party.

My mind is verging on insanity, especially when the next aerial squadron finds my breasts are too crowded.  Because of the posture collar, I can't see further down, but I feel their swift, gentle touches around my widely-exposed sex.  And the cream between my legs I produce in abundance does not seem to chase them, either.  How many of them are swirling around my most sensitive parts, I can no longer say.  I'm losing it.

Sheer panic seizes me when I see a giant white butterfly leisurely flying around my head, caressing my cheeks, then diving down to land right on my clit.  This is too much.  My eyes get watery and I would scream if I could.  At the same time, I feel the waves of ecstasy approaching and what is left of my reason hopes that the shaking will make them all go.  The waves crash down as I thrash in my bounds, but my movements are kept to a minimum by my severe bondage.

The bugs are still there, enjoying their feast and calling for more friends to join in.  I'm lost.  I begin to hallucinate.  All I feel is the touch of millions of wings.  All I hear is a continuous buzz, outside and inside.  Coming and going.  And never ending.

Copyright 2015 by Chelsea Shepard.  All rights reserved.

Many thanks to Dan Dofogh for the drawings!

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