Silence of the Butterflies Ch. 01

What would I do if I could move? Scream? Attack them with a knife? Run away? None of them were useful if they wanted my help and didn't look human.

The drawing took so long, I calmed down. It was still uncomfortable to be imprisoned in my own body. Without imminent danger—I would've been killed already if I was going to be—the chilly touch started to feel relaxing.

They slapped my chest. Not hard, it had more of a frustrated air to it. The touch disappeared, leaving only silence. I got nervous again. If I was left like this, I'd starve to death. I felt the bed move, so they hadn't vanished for good.

When the touch returned, it was even slower. With big motions, the word 'Open' was written across my chest and stomach. Then an arrow pointing out from it. This got repeated for several times, so many I thought my skin would chafe.

The motions grew bigger and sloppier like their patience was running out. The finger hit my nipples a couple of times, making my mind twitch. Then the arrow was drawn longer, and the finger drifted through my pubic hair. My penis conducted the chilliness like a lightning rod, sending a shiver through my abdomen.

This made the touch pause, then poke my dick like one would prod leftovers to see if they were still edible. To my surprise, my penis nudged a little. My conscious muscles were out of order, but it made sense my dick would still react. It'd never cooperated with my brain, anyway.

The hands retreated. My dick grew semi-erect and then just laid there like the world smallest beached whale.

A chill struck through me as a whole palm was pressed against my chest. My nipples got hard, and the fingers were all over them, twisting and playing. The tips of the nails circled my nipples, caressing them only an instant before withdrawing.

My dick loved it, and I didn't hate it. The touch was so intrigued, observant. I'd never been touched like that.

I'd once had sex with a woman who'd never gone past first base, and it had been all fumbling and awkwardness while we had explored each other's bodies. This was like being intimate with someone who hadn't even seen a naked man before.

Which was probably the case and I couldn't decide if that made me horrified or curious.

The fingers left my sensitive spots, moving upward. They settled on my collar bones and seemed to find the shape amusing. With apparent glee, they circled the skin around the tips of the bones closest to my Adam's apple.

They stayed at it for a while, then went for my lips.

I wanted my speech back, but no such luck. My breathing got heavier.

They must've noticed it because the fingers pinched my lips, sending a jolt of electricity running through me. The nail ran along my lower lip. It was like a tightrope act, slowing down so much I wasn't sure if the hand was moving anymore.

Then the touch disappeared. The bed creaked, and I knew they were next to my legs.

With a long, meandering movement—like a painter measuring the full width of a new canvas—the fingers started from my toes. Building momentum across my feet, they rushed past my stomach, brushing my nipples and ending in circles over my cheeks.

Then again. This time with different timing. This wasn't the rhythm of a painter. More like a musician. A conductor guiding the performance. Or maybe my body was more like a board game to them? A 3-D puzzle?

This continued for a couple of rounds until they brushed over my sides and my body twitched under the accidental tickling. A silent giggle erupted from my mouth.

There was a pause, like after a sudden wrong note.

The fingers tickled me a bit more.

No, no. Please, don't. Stop it!

My silent pleas were ignored, and the fingers danced up and down my sides, changing direction without warning. Being paralyzed and touched was weird, being helpless and tickled was excruciating.

My stomach was cramping, and tears ran down my cheeks to my ears. Just when I thought I'd die, it ended.

A finger swiped some of my tears away, vanishing into the darkness. Did they have any understanding of what tears meant?

When the fingers finally returned, they continued their journey across my body but avoided my sides. They returned to my pubic hair, finding it more curious than even my stubble. Twirling the hairs around their claws and examining the curls. They returned to brush my hair and then back again to my crotch. The fingers picked one of the curly hairs and pulled on it until it was straight and then let it snap back.

There was an amused pause.

Then they flopped my penis from one side to another. It had gone flaccid during all the tickling but recovered eagerly as the fingers stroked and teased it. They moved along my growing shaft, kneading it harder with their fingertips. Despite the circumstances, it didn't take for long before my dick was fully erect.

Again, there was a pause. This time, more than anything, it had the air of amazement.

When the fingers continued, they wrapped around my shaft and squeezed firmly. My hips buckled. Another squeeze, another buckle.

They held their grip and my dick slowly filled with more blood, the veins swelling in the process. The other hand's fingers massaged the tip of my dick, prompting yet another buckle. They found the sensitive spot under the tip and brushed along it.

My breath turned heavier, the pleasure flooding other emotions. All the touching had made my body sensitive. My nerve ends seemed to respond to the lightest breeze. This, combined with my long dry spell, made every sensation an explosion.

Then there was a cold palm cupping itself around the tip of my dick. The whole shaft throbbed. I was so hard. The relentless grip keeping all the blood in, multiplying the bliss.

As the palm massaged me, the other started to move up and down my dick. It was slow, careful, experimenting.

When I couldn't grow any harder, they build up the speed, still not easing the grip. I panted and moaned silently, trying to warn them, I was coming soon.

After all the unpleasantness, I found myself wishing it wouldn't end this soon. But they seemed eager to see where all this was going, and I couldn't tell them to stop or slow down.

With one last twist of their palm, my orgasm erupted. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. My balls clenched, sending the sperm on its way. The first hot burst blasted against their palm, drops escaping from between their fingers. More and more came out, streaming down my shaft, drenching their hands.

They continued stroking, wads dripping on my stomach. My mind was scorched with bliss, their unyielding touch flooding me with wave after wave of euphoria.

Only when my dick fell limp, unable to release anything more, they let it go.

With a quick shake, like a dog drying its fur, they shook their hands, sending the sperm flying in every direction. The drops hit my face, making me squint.

My dick was sore from the exercise. They examined their still stained hands. After the initial distaste, they seemed to be intrigued by the texture.

I couldn't keep up. Exhausted by both the mental and physical stress, my eyelids fell shut, sealing me into silent oblivion.