Butterfly Chaos

Deep in the Rockies, Harold and Jodee were asleep in their tent. Sometime earlier, somewhere – perhaps nearby, perhaps not - a butterfly had flapped its wings. Now, far above them, a largish volume of frigid stratosphere responded, abruptly twisted itself into a dense skein of suppressed turbulence, and fell earthward, gaining speed. It hit the near-vertical naked upper slopes, sped unimpeded downwards, still accumulating momentum. It blew through the small, frozen, wide-spaced pines of the tree-line, leaving a fifty-foot wide trail of snapped two- and three-finger branches. Then out into the clearing at nearly two hundred miles per hour. There it shredded the tent, ripstop nylon utterly failing to ripstop. Its job done, the aberrant gust slid across the meadow and dissipated in the dense, mature forest farther downslope.

Jodee came awake screaming as the tent exploded, aluminum poles pretzling and snapping. Harold, notorious for his ability to sleep anywhere and through any disturbance, awoke equally fast, just more quietly.

Jodee's first thought was 'earthquake': Harold's was 'BEAR!' It took only moments for them to fight free of the raggedy nylon and stand up. A couple of seconds' reflection and inspection suggested a much more probable, and correct, cause.

By the full moon, they could see Henry's tent a hundred yards away, apparently unscathed. And already galumphing towards them at full tilt came Henry, wearing only jockey shorts and flopping unlaced boots, flashlight in hand, bellowing "What's up? You two okay?" Harold reassured him, at full volume.

The trio had known one another for above twenty years: these two-tent outings had become a staple, but there had been no comparable disasters. In fact, Harold and Jodee's first date had been a double, with Henry. Jodee and Henry had suffered since day one from an intense lust for one another. But it was well hidden- unexpressed beyond rare covert looks and casual, "accidental" physical contact. Swimming pools and hot-tubs were oases of purest agony. On these camping trips, sometimes, as now, Henry came alone, other times he had brought female company. Jodee wasn't certain which bothered her more.

Standing in the moonlit ruins, they laughed at themselves: Harold in his boxers, displaying a significant and growing belly; Jodee in the oversized man's tee-shirt she always used as a nightie; Henry studly in his jockeys.

Harold was busy examining the tent: "Man, what a mess!"

Taking advantage of Harold's preoccupation, Henry studied Jodee's nipples, standing adrenalin-erect under the thin fabric. They cast dark little elongated moon-shadows. Jodee noticed the scrutiny: her face could pretend to ignore the attention, but her belly couldn't. Her sudden shortness of breath had little to do with either adrenaline or the altitude.

Henry looked up at the sky: clouds were gathering for the daily, heavy, midnight rainstorm. "We can't fix anything here, now, and it's going to rain again. Soon. You both have your clothes in your sleeping bags?" They nodded: dry warm clothes in the morning were a lovely thing.

"Grab your bags, put on your boots, and let's adjourn to my tent. We can squeeze in okay. I'll cover your packs so they won't get wet. We can unfuck everything in the morning when we can see. Come on!"

Three bags and bodies into a two-man tent was going to be tight despite the tent being roomy for a two-man. Contemplating possibilities, Henry announced: "One requirement, folks! I do NOT want to wake up in the middle of the night spooning Harold. Or being spooned by him. So I suggest Jodee gets the center spot, okay?"

Harold, busily getting his and Jodee's bags situated, muttered "Makes sense to me."

Jodee's belly did a humongous flip. She eyed Henry, but in the moonlight couldn't read his expression. Did her opinion even count? Not that she was about to object. Not a bloody chance of that! Her whole body was one gigantic electric tingle, and goose-bumps were on the loose. This could be a real challenge, for there were things about her and Hubby Harold that she'd never told Henry, although he'd intuited a good deal more than she suspected.

She'd married Harold far too quickly, and with too little experience: her lifetime N_(sex) = two, a singleton pre-Harold liaison, and that one brief and not very happy. Nevertheless, she knew she was intensely sexual: unfortunately, Harold did not number strong sexuality and libido amongst his many sterling qualities. As a lover he was from the start neither proficient, nor prolific, nor even very enthusiastic. Better adjectives were pedestrian and apathetic – at the moment, it had been weeks since any sort of sex. He was erotically un-adventuresome in the extreme – had never even asked for, and she had never delivered, anything so wildly esoteric as a hand- or blow-job.

Perhaps even more important, he positively disliked cuddling in bed, hence no body-contact once sleep loomed. For Jodee, of course, the result was a level of suppressed need and frustration difficult to fathom. She knew intellectually that Harold's characteristics were not even marginally her fault, but nevertheless felt guilty. Through it all, she remained dutifully faithful. Physically at least – but there was no counting the times she'd mentally made love to various men, high among them Henry.

Now, somehow, she was supposed to retain her sanity through a night –perhaps several nights?- of lying less than a foot away from her long-term lust object - who would, she knew for a certainty, be naked inside his bag!? Could a human actually be any hornier than she at this moment?

It took only a couple of minutes to get things settled: Harold's antipathy to snuggling meant their sleeping bags were always separate, never zipped together. Harold and Henry climbed in: Jodee followed, slithering down between them. Henry courteously turned on his side, back to Jodee, giving her as much room as possible. Harold managed –as usual- to avoid any semblance of snuggling, despite his and Jodee's bodies being only inches apart. And Jodee lay there in a huge quandary, heart pounding, throat dry, trying to figure out what the hell she was supposed to do, meanwhile avoiding any contact in either direction.

Harold apologized in advance for his inevitable snoring – it wasn't really loud, just perpetual – and settled down to do his instant-sleep routine. In thirty seconds his breathing had slowed and settled. In two minutes, he was snoring gently. It would take another disturbance of gust-magnitude to waken him before dawn.

Jodee held herself nearly rigid for ten minutes, completely at sea. Harold was now zonked – the snoring was the signal: it would stop only in the final half-minute before he awakened, this she knew for certain. She took her heart in her hands, made a decision.

Glacially, delicately, she rolled towards Henry, up onto her side. He was much closer than she expected, and her slow-motion roll ended with them in a perfect spoon, separated only by two infinitely compressible down bags. Then, mirabel dictu, Henry waggled himself against her, pressing back solidly.

Her heart thudded. His hand slipped free, went awkwardly up behind her head, pushed her face down until her lips grazed the tiny hairs of his nape. She nearly melted. She nibbled and lipped and tongued: he squirmed, delighting her.

Her heart was truly racing now – thank God for Harold's deep sleeping!

Almost light-headed, astounded at her temerity, she felt for her bag's zipper, slid it down silently, tooth by tooth, to mid-calf, freed her top arm, slid it gently out and then up and over Henry's hip, outside his bag. He writhed slightly beneath its weight. As she held her breath, still mouthing his nape nonstop, his hand found hers and pressed it downwards, solidly against the bulge of his fully developed hardon. Her pulse increased, her breathing shallow, rapid, pits swampy. And down between her legs swirled a glorious, electrified gushing sensation.

She held her hand still for a time, studying by Braille. Then, gently, initiative to her, she slipped her hand from his grip and down between them, found where his arm came free of the bag. Her hand followed his arm under the edge to his side, then down his ribs to his hip. He sighed silently as he rolled slowly onto his back, raised his knees to tent the bag, giving her freedom and permission to do whatever she wished.

She actually held her breath as her fingers settled gently around his cock: she'd been right about the nudity. For half a minute, as she explored, her breathing disappeared. Only when her fingertips found the tip did it resume, but ragged, difficult to control, noises welling up and needing to be choked off. She curled her fingers into a tunnel, ever so slowly cycled them up and down the shaft, feeling his breathing change as he got harder yet – and hotter, too. She instinctively tickled the underside of the helmet with one fingernail: he gasped at the edge of audibility.

As her fingertips caressed the helmet, she felt a distinct, unexpected itching in her palate and tongue: she'd never given a complete blow job, but understood immediately. The desire to inhale his cock, to do some extended scratching of the itchiness, was almost overwhelming. Her fingers didn't slow as she quickly realized the utter hopelessness of trying to satisfy the urge: bodies wouldn't flex that way in this confined space, and major shifts of position were impossible.

This simple-seeming hand-work, equally unfamiliar to her, would have to suffice.

Henry's tension grew steadily into active shivering. "This..." she told herself –without stopping, and without worrying at all about waking Harold- "...is utterly CRAZY!! What the hell will we do if he comes? Can I even make him come if I try? Am I even sure I know HOW? Maybe men are all different from one another! And besides, I've never done this, what an incredible ninny I am. Would he like that, to have me make him come? Can he come silently? Oh, Jeez..."

Henry stopped her hand with his: puzzled, she waited, worrying that perhaps, somehow, she wasn't doing things quite right – after all, she was the ultimate amateur - and it had all seemed to be going along so well, what could be wrong? Henry quickly erased her fears as he did a long, slow fumble with his other hand, came up with his terrycloth towel, draped it over her hand and his cock.

She understood: Et voila - The Solution! The towel meant he was preparing to come, so she must be doing okay! Confidence restored, she resumed delicately, just fingertips and nails, and dead slow. He had a lovely partial foreskin, she could pull it up to completely cover the head, and even sight unseen it gave her wonderful visions of other possibilities.

It took several more delightful, tension-building minutes of perfectly silent work, but suddenly Henry went spastically rigid, his breathing stopped, and then three, four, five gushes inundated her encircling, stroking fingers. She managed to catch it all with hand and towel. As he came, she tried to imagine what it might be like to have this happening in her mouth, the cockhead softly, firmly scratching that unexpected itch, then the hot throbbing and jerking between tongue and palate, the spurting against the back of her throat. She was sure she could handle all that just fine, given a chance! How frustrating!

Meanwhile, what she actually had would have to do for the moment. (Not exactly a "bird in the hand" she thought, almost giggling aloud.) The thoughts churned her belly: her fingers slid into her personal wetness and yielded sensations so intense she almost cried out. Frightened of herself, she removed the hand, returned her attention to Henry - it was interesting how hard he had to work to control his breathing as he settled and recovered.

. With his breathing in check, Henry shoved the wadded towel foot-wards, then rolled slowly towards her. Breathlessly, she waited, hoping, emotions all pins and needles... and YES! - finally, after twenty years, their mouths found one another. Luscious beyond description, the first kiss was scorching, cool, infinitely slow-motion, phenomenally deep, and insanely prolonged. Well into it she felt his hand inside her bag, his fingertips on her hip.

She echoed his earlier motion, raised and spread her knees slowly, carefully. His fingers slid delicately down her midline into her slickery wetness. He seemed to know precisely what she required. Given her neediness, perhaps any touch at all would have done, but she suspected not, things were too perfect, this was NOT just "any old touch"! His finger waggled her cervix. Then there was a finger each in pussy and bottom. Nobody had ever delved into her ass before, it was surprising, but felt exactly right, an unexpected dash of gasoline on the fire.

He softly applied his thumb to her clit. Trying hard not to shake or thrash about, she came. They ensured her silence with the ongoing kiss as she settled briefly, then cycled her through a second. And a third. Only then, with her breath whistling through his nose, did Henry finally let her stop.

The kiss went on for what seemed like both the longest and shortest imaginable time. And never a word was spoken. Eventually, reluctantly, Henry relinquished his touching, retreated, re-zipped her bag. She refused to concede total separation, shifted to snuggle against him so they could resume kissing. She wistfully studied his resurgent hardon, trapped between them – but eventually acknowledged the proprieties, and side by side, not quite touching, they managed a few hours of very fitful dozing.

Early morning arrived with its bright, clear skies, birds going crazy in the overhanging trees. Henry and Jodee were wide awake, holding hands surreptitiously, when Harold's snoring ceased and moments later he came awake with a start. He rose on one elbow, surveyed the interior scene. Jodee was on her side, curled towards him as if to spoon. Henry lay likewise but reversed, his back to Jodee's, and tucked snugly against the tent sidewall.

Jodee looked up at Hubby: he grinned, kissed her lightly and said "Wow. Some night-time adventure, eh? Our faithful old tent, exploded by some freak wind gust. I think I'll be my usual manic early-morning self and get up and go survey the damage. You two don't have to move, just let me wiggle out. I'll be back pretty quick. Maybe I can even find the coffee over there!"

It took Harold a couple of minutes to get dressed, and then away he went. Inside, invisible through the netting door, Henry and Jodee looked at one another. She reached for his crotch, found him completely resurrected. Heart in her throat, she asked softly "Don't suppose we could manage a complete fuck in five minutes, do you?" She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again fiercely, as if to devour him utterly. "Personally, M'sieur, I'm sure we can. And ohmigawd how I want to! But there's a problem. Harold had a vasectomy, I'm still fertile, and have never gotten on the pill. No contraception. Damn!"

Henry smiled at her: "No problemo! We'll just use your bottom instead of your pussy. The universal Catholic contraceptive." A simple, matter-of-fact statement. Jodee was genuinely startled, flushed beet red, muttered "Henry... I've never done that. Never!"

He looked surprised, told her "Madam, that is a positively criminal waste. You're coming to the technique at least twenty years behind schedule. Making love to your bottom has been one of my longest-standing fantasies. Time for fantasy fulfillment."

In her brain, something wonderful exploded into a lovely, all-suffusing glow – all along he'd been just as gaga over her as she over him. Whatever her emotions had been - love, lust, neediness, whatever! - they had been reciprocated, even if secretly.

His voice got through the glow: "You'll enjoy it, I guarantee. It's not only a perfect contraceptive, but it's one of the most wonderful ways in the world to make love. Will you trust me?"

Jodee noted the precision: the question was "Will you?" not "Can you?" Of COURSE she could trust him – after all she had literally put her life in his hands times without number, rappelling down cliffs, squeezing through caves, crossing turbulent alpine streams. The real question was, WOULD she trust him right here, right now, and on this? Half a second sufficed: "YES, I will. Completely. Just show me what to do. Quick!" Then, a moment later, much less sure of herself, it was "Henry, are we being completely crazy and stupid here?" His answer echoed her feelings: "Nope. Crazy, you bet! Certifiably, beyond a reasonable doubt - but the only stupid thing is that we've waited over twenty years. Now THAT'S some serious stupidity!"

On her body, Henry's experienced hands were urgent, forceful, precise. Face down, knees wide apart, butt in the air, she felt him move to squat behind her, felt the prod of his erection brushing her crotch. She was a gusher now: lubrication not a problem, maintaining dry clean panties, definitely so! As he settled, she had a coherent thought, asked sideways "I can't see Harold from here... can you keep a lookout for us while you're distracted?"

Henry allowed as how he could, then told her "You're in charge of your clit – just go for it as hard and fast as you can. No time for niceties – those can wait for next time. I'll be right there with you, every stroke. Don't worry about me! I'll manage me, you do you, together that makes US. Team ONE!"

He set the helmet at her pussy entrance: "One stroke, just to say we've been there, and for lube..." As his cock slid home, so did his thumb, far up into her bottom, setting off lightning in her brain. Her fingers found her clit, began their dance. It wasn't going to take very long! She silently howled her enthusiasm into the sleeping bag between her teeth.

Then he settled the head into the cone between her buttocks, the perfect approach to her anus. He pressed, telling her "Push back at me, push from the inside out like going to the bathroom."

She did. It worked. Magnificently. She blossomed hugely open in slow motion, inviting him inside, accepting, incredibly fillable. Stretching, just short, but definitely short, of pain. Her entire inner world seemed suffused with a bright coruscating light. Later whenever she would try to describe the sensations to herself, all she could do was pile up adjectives – full, hot, tight, opening, expanding, surrender, openness, deep deeper deepest, luscious, evil, heavenly, bittersweet, happily sad, ecstatic, universe-window.

Between them they began to stroke – him with her, her with him. Her fingers flew over her clit. She was impossibly full, this delicious, huge, solid thing driving into her in ways she had never, ever imagined. She was diving headfirst into sensory overload, worried about whether she was going to be able to come in the time available, whether she was satisfying him too, when his hands wonderfully resolved the dilemma. They slid down her sides beneath her tee-shirt, cupped her gently-hanging breasts, a perfect size-match, the ultimate living brassiere. She vowed never to complain again about having "merely B" boobs: anything else wouldn't have fit Henry's palms nearly so perfectly.

As he used his grip to pull her solidly into his crotch, apparently driving his cock all the way to the back of her throat, there crystallized twenty years of need and desire to have his hands exactly thus. It rang like a cut-crystal bell until he thumbed her nipples, pinched them with precisely the right intensity.

The crystal shattered and as it did, she came in the most violent and prolonged orgasm of her life. A bit of her brain continued to function, felt the powerful driving contractions of Henry's own orgasm far up inside her, felt deep muscles she hadn't known existed taking over and working on him, pulsing, squeezing, making their own special version of love to this unexpectedly welcome intruder.