The Dance of the Butterflies

Quickened heart beats and moist lips, nervous hands that seek but take time to find. They can’t work or function as well as they’d like, stricken by the intense dance of the butterflies deep in your belly.

Curious glances, a hunger unlike anything you’ve ever felt and a desperation, a desperation to satisfy the hunger before it completely takes hold of you, and you’re so close.

The dim light makes you feel as though it could all be a dream, what a dream. Skin touches skin in the darkness, a simple graze of hurried fingertips on naked skin quickens the beating drum of your heart, quickens the dance of the butterflies.

What painful pleasure, waiting for the light touching to become heavy, the frantic movements to become more calculated and for the tongue that swept nervously over lips to move onto skin.

Shaky breaths are such a simple soundtrack, perfectly suited for this night. Yet the butterflies don’t dance to that, they dance to the beat of the drums.

Drums that pound and pound, faster and faster, harder and harder until the beating is so hard and constant it blends together and then, silence.

The drums start again, slowly falling back into their normal even beats.

But now the butterflies are too tired, and they lay settled on the dance floor of your belly waiting for another night, and another dance.


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