Butterflie$
fiction by M. Christian
— really was in the rocking, steel plated guts of an 4-Sale-4-Cheap Supertanker somewhere off in the Sea of Japan, really in that seasick haven for maverick outlaw programmers, really was in a second-skin complex polymer suit packed with the best-you-can buy State-of-the-art neurofacilitators, really was jacked into the public domain Glade of the Datasea —
No, just kidding, Cole was really virtually in a too-beautiful scene: walking through too-green parkland, on picture-perfect grass, under a too-blue perfectly perfect sky —
— and a butterfly was flirting with her.
COME WITH ME, FOREST QUEEN the butterfly flashed with dosed-Disney wings — zooming rudely, filling her field of vision, becoming a sprite with wings, when a leer and smile the size of a house. Back when the gear still smelled of packing she might've whipped the set off her face and panted with shock — now she absently noted that its face was artful, elegantly programmed.
OH, PRETTY LADY said yet another, fluttering up from nowhere, flashing Technicolor words at her. I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT, another. A faster flicker of brilliant wings, and then there were two hundred — a fission done with programming cubism. LET ME MAKE SWEET TO YOU — just how many were there? Cole saw nothing but the strobes of fractal wings, heard nothing but soft applause. Laying on her bunk in the creaking, groaning, oil-smelling, too-small cabin on the Liberty Ship, Cole was really in her suit, really rolling on deep sea waves — and was virtually being assaulted by a mad swarm of — for god's sake — butterflies.
They were nothing, really, but a feeling of electric softness, and the sharp spice of almost pain. Assault, okay, but is it rape when you can click your heels to together — and be back in Kansas? O-U-T in VRslang and she would be back to the main menu, and out of the satellite link. Besides, she had some pretty snazzy Security and immune-system software — what could happen?
Like a great 256 color wave the swarm — swallowed her. It was like falling, splashing, into an ocean of small, brilliantly beautiful colors and the feel of silk and bristle-brushes. She was lifted and carried into a zero-G oasis of a thousand silken wings, a million miniature hands, a billion tiny cocks. Zooming, one of the swarm, one of the gang, filled her eyes with naked elfin body, a long and hardening cock, and then nothing but a slyly smirking face.
Oh, he, she, they — were good, Very good.
The wings were eyelashes batting at her breasts, tickling her ass, flickering their gentle edges across her stiffening nipples, brushing the brush and thicket of her pussy, the pad of her mons. She couldn't see one butterfly, couldn't make a single out of the swarm — so she wasn't really being caressed by one. She was being caressed. Universally. Totally. Everywhere. By all of them.
One hot, quick breath they were many as one: the swarm reverse-fireworks into a huge hot mouth that kissed and sucked each of her medium-sized tits, pulling them in as they were huge pink nipples. Sucking, pulling, twisting and squeezing — not damned mouths, but wringers and god-fucking strong hands. Bruises, probably fuck-yes, but — Christ — she wanted to come! Then there came more lips inside those great suckers just for Cole's tight, aching nipples.
The come started somewhere in her cunt, somewhere that exploded up and through her like a wild pony ride of happy spasm. Her hips bucked and shook as her cunt sought something hard and thick inside her, or at least something fluttering and sweet on her throbbing clit — but the lips were single-minded and whoever was that single mind was sticking to just her nipples, her tits. Then they were a mass again, an orchestra of a billion tiny parts: tiny teeth nipping, pinching her tit-flesh, biting mouthfuls —
— she was being violated —
— out of her nipples till she screamed (again). The coming came without a mouth between her other lips, without a cock of meat or at least plastic in her cunt.
Tasting the her own distant breath in the suit, Cole basked in twitching muscles and flickering eyelashes. It was the first time she'd ever come with someone (something) playing with just her tits. And, fuck was it good —
Blowing hard, heaving, she floated. Slowly, she opened one eye, seeing just for a flicker, a tiny butterfly perched on her nose, feverishly pulling at a cock no bigger than a bee's stinger.
For a flicker. Just. There was a jacking butterfly, then a rainbow colored storm, then a hand that ran a Corinthian column finger down her belly.
It was a swirling inkpool of brilliance, a vibrating, fluttering, larger-than-life, made of butterflies — and Cole wanted it in her pussy now. She wanted the whole god-damned thing, the swarm in her. She ached, for spread for — god, yes — butterflies.
— she was being taken —
One of her started the VRslang hand-gestures that would pop her chute and drop her back to the Liberty ship. The other of her started crying and just spread her legs wider. The hungry pussy won, and CANCELed. The gang-rape cock moved between her legs and spilled into her pussy, onto her clit, into her asshole. Not a fuck, a whale's head that really wanted to fuck her but then that turned liquid and fluttering onto her clit's hard dot, pouring like heavy silver balls into her eager fuck-hole, and pressing towards her asshole. Eyes pressed phosphor-brilliantly shut, she could see with her pussy hundred horny butterflies rubbing the globe of her clit, washing her basketball with their tongues, fucking its hot skin, stroking it like their own huge cock. A hundred thousand eager horny guys washing her great member with their hot tongues, stroking with their hard hands, milking her clit.
At her lips, down where she knew she was torrentially wet, she could feel the millions rubbing themselves on her lips, pulling, stroking, rubbing them as no mouth or finger of her size could. It was a fucking ballet dancing on the lips of her cunt.
Her asshole? Oh, they licked there, too — stroked there, and slowly pressed their many hungry hands and mouths inside.
There were butterflies in her, slowly, then eagerly, bucking against her g-spot and cervix. Her eyes flashed open, and she saw a pair of them on the end of her nose — and as the first ripples of a great deep sea orgasm began in her wet, wet cunt, she watched him take his partner up the ass in a feverish, Eros-driven hard fuck.
Loved to watch, but Cole's snapped shut in concentration of what was happening — lost herself in the tide of coming, in the breaking waves that snapped her jaws and arched her back. She was aware that she'd jetted, she'd ejaculated (and that very somewhere else, she knew that she'd have to wash her suit) — but that was the meat, the coming that came a second later rocked her, dazzled her, pushed her eyes open (butterfly sucking butterfly in a hummingbird 69), and she cried (yet again — gloriously again, religiously again) — a deep bellowing scream that ebbed into exhausted near sobs.
Rolling down from the peak of the come, the fluttering mass became rolling waves of sensation. Caressed and fondled by a huge and gentle lover, a lover made of his own ocean waves, and flashes of pure color, she was THANKED in brilliant color for such a good fuck and then was wrapped in silk and furs and tucked into bed with a kiss on her cheek —
Hands stiff with clenching the bunk rails, Cole carefully pulled the facegear off, and creaked her head back into the cheap foam pillow. Every joint she had was aching — and her pussy throbbed, and her clit was sore with the suit's version of a butterfly fuck.
Javier, he bunkmate, wasn't there — so he missed Cole almost tearing her suit to shreds.
Maybe it was the still glowing memory of the butterfly fuck, or maybe it was the quick thought that she might have to sell the damned thing to afford to eat.
The Fabricscreen window on the side of her helmet, the little panel that showed her mileage for this trip — and her general bank balance, glowed with a row of angry red eggs that drilled into her shocked, then berserk eyes: BALANCE: 000.000.000.012.
She'd been taken, all right —
Smoke screen for a brilliant (well, fuck, she knew that) hack; a quick sneak undercover of a teeth-rattling come. She'd been violated, she'd really been taken —
Cole sat on her bunk, and couldn't help but think of the cost of butterflies: They certainly weren't free —
from The Bachelor Machine (Green Candy Press, 2003)
© 2003 by M. Christian
