(To read The Butterfly Chains Act I)
They say time is money. Bullshit. Time is not money in that you can always make more money.
But I will agree that time has its own currency in the form of memories. They are the savings account of your life. This is why, when its time to go, your life flashes before your eyes. You withdraw your life savings of the memories that made an impact, that affected you, that you want to take with you when you leave this reality.
Up unto that moment they just sit there. Some of them collect interest from your attention and other emotions, or perhaps are spent being shared with others, which in turn deposit new memories of the old ones with compounded interest.
Of course many of the obvious ones will flicker in your mind’s eye like a music video, the ones that flash a hundred half second clips of various views of the same life. A lot of them may surprise you in that you hadn’t given them much thought at the time they were deposited into your memory bank. But they did matter, to the point that they are one dollar’s worth of the last Benjamin of memories that your conscious self will savor one final time.
It’s inevitable. Long after I am gone future perverts may chance across this blog like our generation did to paper, ink and typewriter authors of decades long to the sands of time. And when they do I want them to know that one of those last dollars I withdrew was the candlelit sight of my Leigh nude, cuffed, spread eagled and chained with legs as wide as her anatomy allowed.
I had every intention of taking advantage of her helplessness. The fact her hands were secured beneath a bevy of pillows like a kinky Princess And The Pleas, or that her cunt was spread so fucking wide open it would have made Larry Flynt blush.
She was completely vulnerable to any and every sadistic whim that I could fathom from the murky depths of my demented imagination. I had her exactly how and where I wanted. So what was the first thing I did to her?
She was radiant in the flickering light from the flames dancing atop the candles. My eyes widened, jaw slightly dropped, pulse raced, mouth grew dry. I was in the presence of erotic perfection, and it stopped me stone fucking cold in my tracks.
The links of the chains glowed as if they were on fire, and from the heat coming from their captive that was not out of the question. Hues of pale yellow streaked with traces of electric blue and cold pewter. Each color morphed into the other with each gust from the ceiling fan onto those candles, which in turn made the chains pulse with life. Or how the dark monochrome of the black leather on the ankle cuffs provided such a dynamic chiaroscuro against the soft candlelit nirvana that is Leigh’s alabaster skin.
Shadowy flesh tones, warm with lust and dim light, painted each and every valley of the landscape of her torso with soft, velvety strokes. The culmination depicted a bondage masterpiece of timeless beauty.
Her breasts and upper torso, while still obscured by the antiquated effects of the cutwork linen top, brought their own contributions via the crisp shadows cast by pert breasts stretched taut with tension, their hardened nipples proudly teased me with their own shadow play. And of course the way her eyes just glistened, their moisture a hint of things to come…literally.
Of particular attention was the indescribable beauty of the subtle valleys where thighs meet hips. It was right there that I, for a second, forget my name. Her legs were so fucking open, so damn wide. Her cunt was mine to abuse and tease as I wished. I could have buried my tongue in there for an hour and she couldn’t have done a damn thing about it. I could have teased all the way around her open folds for an hour and she couldn’t have done a damn thing about it. Or I could have brought her right to the edge of a tongue lapping clitoral orgasm and decided if I was going to allow her to enjoy it or suffer the frustration of starting over.
So what did I do?
I worshiped her.
“My God baby you look amazing” I whispered. There was no need to speak so softly, but I felt like was I was in church. It seemed appropriate. Talk about gifts I am about to receive!
I leaned down, placed my face mere inches from her cunt, and just looked. I’m sure she could feel the heat of my breath caressing each and every labial fold and crevice. It wasn’t meant as a form of torture. I just wanted to drink every fucking inch of her in.
With the care one might extend to the cradling of a newborn my fingers made contact with her uppermost thighs, right where they transcend into hips. So tightly drawn was the silken flesh that cascaded across those subtle valleys. So smooth, warm, full of life, delicate, even ticklish to an extent. Leigh will say she is not ticklish. She lies.
Tracing their contours I felt her squirm in reflex as a “Mhhhhhmmm” escaped from her lips into the night. Back and forth my fingers stroked her, so much so that as I looked up over her clitoral hood, past her gently rolling torso, through those magnificent breasts and upon the lust painted on her face…
… I had to get my lips on hers.
I was in no hurry, so with a dry, open mouth kiss where my hands had been I snaked my way, kiss by nibble by lick, up the length of her bound and taut body. Across her stomach, her ribs, the base of her breasts, those collar bones, finally arriving at a nape being offered as if I had fangs. So delicious.
Our eyes met before our lips did. Magic danced in their blue depths. And with the force of a butterfly’s wing two hungry mouths became one passionate, deep, tongues dancing kiss. Magic indeed.
For even with everything I had planned, I knew right then I was going make something very large, hot and angry disappear deep inside her spread wings.