Butterfly

By

Donna M.

 

This work of fiction is a prequel to my story “Olfaction”

 

 

 

 

Some kids grow up wanting to be doctors or lawyers or scientists or firemen.  I wanted to be a lepidopterist.  Most people don’t even know what that means without Googling it.  I’ve always loved butterflies and wanted a life of being surrounded by them.  When I was a little girl I’d capture and study the pretty creatures.  Never would I put them in a jar or pin them to a board though.  They weren’t specimens; they were beauty.  I’d walk the woods, looking for chrysalises, what most people call cocoons.  I’d return as many mornings as I could, hoping to see their eclosion, which means emerging from the chrysalis as butterflies. 

Did you know that a butterfly is an imago of the Lepidoptera order, or family?  An imago is a sexually mature insect after metamorphosis. Unlike butterflies, I had to become sexually mature well before my own metamorphosis. 

My name is Natalie, and this is my story.

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My earliest memory was how my Uncle Nate always wanted to touch me after he smelled me.  When I was a little girl I spent lots of time over Aunt Sarah and Uncle Nate’s house while Mom worked.  Aunt Sarah joked that they weren’t ‘babysitting’ me because I wasn’t a baby anymore.  Using that word didn’t bother me in the least, but if she thought I liked her saying that, why would I disappoint her by not laughing?

It never bothered me either when Uncle Nate touched me.  We played lots of games when I didn’t have any clothes on.  When Aunt Sarah wasn’t around he too would take his clothes off to play.  He wasn’t like me.  He had lots of hair and a big part that was like a log, which got fat and stuck out, and made me laugh at how it looked and how it moved. 

At least that’s how I remembered him: touching me, and of course playing with his dick.  He never hurt me, and I liked the way he would kiss my pussy and taste it with his tongue.  He said I tasted as good as I smelled.  Uncle Nate would tell me never to tell Aunt Sarah or anyone else.  He would have me touch him, and no sooner would I do so he would go nuts and spray stuff all over my young body.  I remember it being so hot and gooey, but at the time I loved it. The games were our secret.

Though my reminiscences of Uncle Nate were all good, the series of boyfriends my mom went through didn’t supply the same fond memories.  No sooner did one of her boyfriends meet me, he wanted to rape me.  Some, when they managed to be alone with me, were as gentle as my uncle had been.  Not all of them were.

Soon enough I figured out the smell component.  Each one in their own way made comments about what smelling me did to them.  I mean, I saw what it did to them: they all got rigid erections.  I remembered the things Uncle Nate said and did; a consistent pattern was emerging.

A couple of the guys were at least half-decent looking and didn’t have big beer bellies like most of my mom’s boyfriends did.  I didn’t mind those men getting me naked and playing with me, mostly because they smelled good and bought me stuff.  It didn’t take long for me to recognize the power that I had.  If one of them hurt me, I’d say I was going to tell my mother.  They didn’t hurt me after that, but they couldn’t stay away.  One of her boyfriends bought me a book on butterflies after I told him that’s what I wanted to study when I got older.  I’d lie on the bed and look at all the pretty pictures in the book while he sniffed and licked my pussy then cum all over me.  I only got mad when he got some on the book.

Like I said, I was okay with all the play unless they tried to put it in me.  Now, that hurt! A couple of the men tried to make it sound like I was being bad, but I knew otherwise.  I had no fear of telling my mom, and I did once after the guy hurt me.  She threw him out and threatened to call the cops.  She didn’t though.

By that age I was beginning to understand that I was being taken advantage of, even if the concept of pedophilia was foreign to me.  If someone would have said I was abused, I would’ve laughed.  The men were somehow infatuated with me, made me feel special, and bought me stuff.  To a child, was that abuse?

Of course I didn’t share my secret with friends either.  When a friend told me her “disgusting” uncle touched her, I figured out something else about me.  If my smells made the men go crazy, even if they were “good” men (in later years I knew that my definition of “good” was that I sensed they normally weren’t pedophiles) then maybe I smelled them too.  When I thoroughly enjoyed touching and being touched by a man, there was something about their smell that excited me inside, and it wasn’t cologne.

The big surprise came in the 5^th grade when my teacher, Mrs. Delty, wouldn’t leave me alone.  She didn’t overtly sniff me or anything, but after the shock of recognition wore off I certainly knew what was going on.  She’d told us she was married and had a young son.  However that didn’t stop her from practically chasing after me like a sex-crazed lunatic.  I don’t think she even knew what was happening to her.

You see, since I had my first period, my mom was reluctantly explaining sex to me, choosing to conveniently forget how her boyfriends (at least the ones she knew about) abused me, which taught me quite a bit already.

Mrs. Delty never “caught” me, though I suspected she had many wet-panty school days and many sleepless nights of dreamt fantasy.  After the 5^th grade, I’d become adept at first recognizing the symptoms of “the smellers” (as I thought of them) and dodging their advances.

I was also well into my self-taught hobby of lepidoptery.  The local librarian sympathized with my thirst for knowledge on the subject and had books shipped in from other libraries in the area just for me.  Her name was Judy Lively, and she was among the first I “smelled” back.   Miss Lively’s attraction made no sense to me at first, even as I grew warm and my pussy and nipples tingled when I was around her.  Eventually I wondered if what was happening to me was what happened to others when I was around?  As my body’s reaction accelerated, I got the message.

I was kind of mixed up after that.  The feelings were new, and both thrilled and scared me.  I began visiting the library more often; matching my visits to when I knew Miss Lively would be there.  Every time I talked to her I’d get extremely wet down below.  It was around that time in my life I figured out masturbation.  I’d see Miss Lively at the library and then rush home and play with myself.  Those were my best orgasms, since maybe the ‘smell’ of Judy Lively was still with me.

Strangely enough, my study of butterflies helped me figure out what was going on inside me.  I learned about how butterflies and other insects mate and procreate.  I learned about pheromones and the power they have in animal sex.  Humans weren’t supposed to have them, according to stuff I read, but maybe I’m living proof otherwise.

The “smell” was pheromones or something like them, I was sure.

I must tell you that before I went off to college, I saw my favorite librarian, Judy Lively in town.  We had coffees at a local café and then went to her apartment where we had mind-blowing sex.  No sexperience of mine transcended that one afternoon until well after college and I was married (that’s a tale for another time).

In bed afterwards, we compared notes on our ‘gift.’  She confessed that she was a lesbian and never attracted to men.  She recounted how both men and women would flock around her, and how she willingly allowed the sensually overwhelmed women and girls into her bed.  She said I was only one of two she’d met who had the same power and reciprocally overwhelmed her extra, special sense.  I gave her an edited version of my childhood and then recounted my high school years.

Puberty had dialed up my pheromones tenfold, so much so that by my freshman year in high school I was a wreck.  Boys were all over me.  Girls hated me because they saw their boyfriends fawn over me and couldn’t understand why.  I wasn’t the prettiest girl by a long shot.  I had bright red hair and a million freckles.  I didn’t develop fast either.  Since nothing else made sense to them, the other girls started rumors that I was a slut and screwing all their boyfriends. 

Then the double whammy hit.  Because of the rumors about my promiscuity I was sent to see a school counselor.  No sooner did I enter his office my brain exploded along with my pussy.  It wasn’t as if he was a hunk or anything; it must have been the pheromonal scent that did it.  Later in life I began to classify men by animal groups because of the nature of their smell.  Someday I would classify Mr. Kimball as equine, not because he smelled like a horse exactly (nor could I guess if he was hung like one) but because of the overall scent of powerful masculinity and my reaction to it.  One day I’d debate if my classifications were Freudian, like horse=riding, for instance, but at that age I just went with the flow, and right then the flow was juices dripping from my wet pussy and drenching my panties.

Mr. Kimball motioned me toward a chair next to his desk.  Like I said, he wasn’t a handsome man but rather plain looking; tall and lanky like you’d think a cowboy would look like on TV.  He appeared to be misinterpreting my behavior as either fear or guilt, and tried to assure me that I wouldn’t be punished.  “We just need to talk, that’s all,” he said with an exaggerated smile.

I was already squirming in the chair, rubbing myself against the seat in a wild attempt to quench the fire that was burning down there.  When he leaned closer to me, beating around the bush talking about promiscuity and how wrong it was, I had the first orgasm, tiny squeaks of rapture slipping past my trembling lips.

“Are you okay, Natalie?” he asked, knowing that something had happened to me but clueless as to what it was.

He made the mistake of getting out of his chair and kneeling on one knee in front of me.  That’s when I had the second orgasm.  When I saw the huge bulge in his pants, I quickly had a third.  I made more noise that time, though I tried to stifle myself with my hand.  I realized he was mentally struggling with his arousal while trying to understand mine.  Finally I got up enough courage to ask him to move away from me.  He was naturally indignant at being told what to do by a student, but maybe because of his confusion over both our reactions he went back to his chair as I moved mine away from his desk.

 As matter-of-factly as I could, I explained my pheromones and likewise my sensitivity to others’ scent.  He was embarrassed when I acknowledged seeing his erection and my understanding of why he had one, and that I wasn’t hurt or offended by it.

I explained, “I’ve never been with a boy, you know, for sex.  It’s these pheromones or whatever that make all the boys hang around me, and you know, want to like have sex with me that made the girls tell all those lies about me.”

Mr. Kimball nearly tripped over his own words trying to make sure that my little orgasmic episode wasn’t talked about outside his office.  Like all my mother’s boyfriends who couldn’t control themselves around me, I wasn’t about to hurt Mr. Kimball’s job and reputation since he didn’t do anything to me, and I told him so.

“You understand now,” I said, “so I won’t tell anyone what happened.”

Even though we moved farther away from each other, the closed office air was a pheromone fog and both of us were still subject to its effects.  My pussy itched again and I couldn’t help but squirm in the chair; I mean, I couldn’t use my fingers right in front of Mr. Kimball, could I?

Right after thinking that, I realized his hand was down there, out of sight behind his desk, and that he was likely rubbing himself.  I didn’t say anything until he moaned softly.  He had the good graces not to take his cock out in front of me, so soiled underwear was his only impropriety.   I willed myself not to go the same route.  I wanted to finger myself so badly but managed to control the urge.  My self-control almost hurt.  Mr. Kimball didn’t know what to say after he came in his pants.  I reiterated that it would be our secret and suggested he stayed away from me going forward.  I had a pretty good idea of my condition and lot in life, so I didn’t see a need for any counseling anyway.

But he was my first equine, and I did see the size of the bulge in his pants.  Unlike when I was a little girl, I now knew what those things were good for besides jerking off.  My post-pubescent vagina may be virginal, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t fantasize—and masturbate.

My high school years were like that, trying to steer clear of all the boys and male teachers who smelled me and went nuts.  The few times a girl smelled me and had the same aroused reaction I had to let them down easily.  I wasn’t morally against sex with girls; I eluded those girls more to avoid being identified as a lesbian, which still had lots of negative connotations at that time, unlike today.

You’re getting the picture now, aren’t you?  At least in my small sphere of life I was the most desirable girl around and yet I was mostly alone. 

In high school I never let a boy get close enough to me to call him my boyfriend.  I only had a few girl friends.  One of them was Jennifer.  Jenn was a morose girl who went through life with the proverbial cloud over her head.  I could tell early on in our friendship that she “smelled” me.  Unlike others she fought it like someone fighting the onset of the flu.  I could tell that for some reason the idea of lesbian sex with me was repulsive and I didn’t understand why until she confided in me about her abusive childhood.

I’m learning how lucky I’d been.

Possibly with the exception of Uncle Nate and a couple others, when the men smelled me and got crazy I was smelling them back.  In hindsight, perhaps my mom had a little of the ‘power’ too, since nearly all her boyfriends were either equine or vulpine, my two favorite ‘smells.’  You see, their touch wasn’t repulsive to me.  I liked it because of the pheromones.  I’m realizing other kids, like Jenn, weren’t so lucky and that’s why they’re traumatized by the abuse.  From then on I had a greater understanding about how terrible child sexual abuse was, no longer seeing it only through the lens of my own experiences.

I shared my story with her, and in some small way I made her a bit happier.  She was too afraid of her desire for me to make a move, so although we were the best of friends through high school, we never made love.  We stayed in touch after graduation.  She’s married now with a couple of kids and seems contented with her life.

My life continued to be about butterflies.  I’d often have dreams where I was emerging from my chrysalis, bright red wings matching my hair color testing the air for flight, when a large, strong male swooped down upon me, his dappled wings fluttering as he positioned himself above me.  I was in estrus—in heat—as soon as I detected his scent.  We mated in a glorious fluttering of wings, and then I’d wake up, completely soaked with sweat and pussy juice.

When I was a senior in high school, I found there was a butterfly conservatory in a neighboring state.  I visited the place and fell in love.  I put a lot of miles on my beat up old car driving to and from the conservatory on weekends when I didn’t work.  The first few times I was one of many visitors who walked around and gawked at the beautiful creatures.  I imagined I was a butterfly preparing to mate, pheromones in the air and ready to procreate.  When I did so I felt my panties getting damp.  I was still a virgin, and although when I was younger men touched me and stuck their tongues and fingertips into me, I was yet to be fully penetrated by a penis.

During my third visit I spoke with the lepidopterist that ran the place.  Like with most men, I saw it on his face as he smelled me.  My pheromones made him nervous but also interested in spending time with me, teaching me a lot.  His smell was porcine, as most men are (to me it doesn’t mean he smelled bad, just that was how my extra sense ‘saw’ him) so I wasn’t attracted to him at all.

Upon my fourth visit he offered to make me an honorary associate with a free pass for later visits.  I graciously accepted, although I felt sorry for him since I knew he wanted more than anything else to get into my pants.

On my sixth visit, I met Daniel.

He was a college student studying biology who was interning at the conservatory.  He was also very handsome—and equine.  Just as in Mr. Kimball’s office freshman year, we made the olfactory connection the moment we met.  If we were animals in the wild we would have mated right then and there, the pheromones between us being that strong.  Daniel was dark, tall and thin, with black, unruly hair and an engaging smile.  We spent an afternoon together talking about and watching butterflies, while dancing around what our libidos continually shouted at us.

I knew that he would be my first.

Upon my next visit, he got up enough nerve to ask me to dinner.  Instead I asked him if he lived alone, and when he answered yes, I invited myself to his place.  Take-out food and a warm bed was what I wanted, not fine dining.

From his schooling he knew all about pheromones, so as we ate Chinese from the little boxes, I helped him understand what was happening to him.  He told me that he’d never felt this way around any girl before in his life.  When I asked him if he had condoms, I thought he’d die.  When he stammered and asked me about my age, I smiled and said, “Think of what we’re going to do as pupal mating. Consider it my eclosion.”  What that means is in rare cases a male butterfly will mate with a female just as she is emerging from her chrysalis.  My fantasy dream.

When we were naked and in his bed, I stroked his cock, relishing the fact of how swollen and rigid it was.  Oh yes, he was equine all right!  I tried to calm him down, knowing that he wouldn’t last long, but there wasn’t much I could do about that except let it happen.  I helped him with the condom and then spread my thighs for him.  He shuddered when I guided him into me and he bumped up against my hymen, or more accurately what little was still intact by that time.  I smelled him deeply—his musk, his pheromones—and whispered “It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt…”

I may have thought I knew what it would feel like, yet it was nothing like that at all.  He wanted to go fast but I urged him slower, arching my back in a way to get him deeper.  I wanted to feel all of him filling me.  I was concentrating so much on him that I didn’t realize I was cumming already; to the point that when he groaned and I felt his spasm inside me, it wasn’t a second orgasm but an escalation of the one that already began, maybe from the moment he entered me.

With a fresh erection and a fresh condom, we made love again.  I’d like to say that the second time was slower, but it wasn’t.  We fucked like wild animals, basically like how we wanted to when we first smelled each other at the conservatory.

Unfortunately I had to go home.

We talked on the phone every day.  My mom kept bugging me, wanting to know who “the new boy” was.  I couldn’t tell her he was in college though parts of me wanted to, like bragging.

Every subsequent visit to the conservatory found Daniel teaching me so much about butterflies and me teaching him about sex.  I mean, I wasn’t an expert or anything but I have learned a lot in my young life, inevitable when you have the ‘powers’ that I have.  I made him buy some porno DVDs and we watched them and tried out all the positions.  I still have a small mouth like I did when I was a girl, so I had difficulty sucking Daniel’s cock the way they do it in the videos.  I tried anyway, since when he cums in my mouth or on my face, his equine pheromones are steeped in it, and like in overdrive I orgasm and squirt at the same time.

My senior year in high school and his return to college separated us.  We kept in touch but I can’t say our e-mails were love letters.  Basically everything we shared was physical.  Pheromones only have a short ‘memory’ after all.

Like the butterflies I loved, I was undergoing my metamorphosis.  I exited my chrysalis of awkward teenage virgin-hood, cautious of the power within me and whether I had the will to control it, and pupated into the world of adulthood, losing my fears and embracing my sexuality and pheromonal clout.   I was happy in my skin, loving the imago I had become, with my red hair, alabaster, almost translucent skin, and a hint of freckles that peppered my chest and accentuated my full breasts.  Like the prettiest butterfly, men and boys wanted to ‘pin’ me down or display me like some specimen.  Mostly pin me to their beds. 

The difference now?  I was an imago; I was ready to be pinned.

A couple of the bigger guys on my high school football team were very equine.  They didn’t chase me around more than other boys in my class, they were simply the ones I wanted to be caught by.  They had plenty of stamina to go along with their physicality; however the stamina didn’t extend to their control.  Both Jake and Brad would get overwhelmed when they were between my legs and cum almost immediately, no matter how many times I’d get them back up, with a fresh condom and inside me again.

Girls were different.  Every once in a blue moon I’d meet another girl—actually, I should say I smelled another girl—who was straight yet perplexed by her attraction to me.  Sooner or later we’d be alone and the fun would begin.  ‘Sensitive’ girls were drawn to my pussy, as if that’s where the pheromones were concentrated (and maybe they were) so if we ended up in bed, they’d go crazy licking me to death—what the French call “La petite mort,” or the “little death” of orgasm.

So, ironically, by my last year in high school I’d become the promiscuous girl that I hadn’t been way back when Mr. Kimball worried that I was.

I was accepted by my first college choice, though I may have been helped by a campus visit.  I met the chair of the admissions committee or some such title, and no sooner did he shake my hand he had an erection that strained the front of his slacks.  Besides being embarrassed, I’m sure he remembered my name.

That summer before college was when I ran into Judy Lively, the librarian that got all the butterfly books for me when I was younger.  She seemed to be in a hurry to get to an appointment, but forgot all about it when she was near enough to me to succumb.  We went to a nearby coffee shop, where we wet the chairs as we smelled each other over lattes.  Up to that point in my life I hadn’t smelled anyone with comparable power.  Judy drove me crazy, and my arousal shed a light on how I stimulated everyone else.  I used the term ‘mind blowing’ earlier to describe the sex we had.  I know it’s not used much anymore, but the phrase is the most appropriate adjective to describe our lovemaking that wonderful afternoon.  I buried my nose between her sopping wet labia and creamed.  We went back and forth like that, reversing what should have been—the one doing the licking got to orgasm first.  The idea ‘lost all track of time’ applied to us that day.  Over and over again we’d cum until we were swimming on wet sheets.

At college, it seemed there were many more vulpine men than equines, although as usual porcine men outnumbered them all.  Perhaps it has to do with intelligence and maybe cunning required to succeed in higher education.  Vulpines are virile and desirable but too self-centered to be good lovers.  They seem to like gang bangs though.  I tried to avoid situations where I was amidst too many vulpines since that would only spell trouble.

One thing I did notice was that unlike in high school, there were zero bovines here in college.  Bovines were the worst!  They were the passive boys who let the world happen to them. I had no desire to be some wimp’s nursemaid, thus bovines were at the bottom of my list.

I wasn’t afraid of my power (had I ever been?) so like any college co-ed I went to parties, and watched out for the vulpine men, lest I be dragged into a back room.  Long ago I learned not to fret over seeing men pop boners as soon as I entered.  That’s how parties went for me: I’d show up and then all the guys would gravitate toward me with obvious bulges, often leaving their much better looking girlfriends alone and wondering what happened.

Occasionally I’d meet a strong equine that I liked, and fucked him silly. These guys couldn’t understand that there was no emotional attachment, so they were baffled that they were only one-nighters.

Then I met Scott and everything changed.

We were at an off-campus party when he had the same reaction every man had around me—he had an erection, and it was very obvious.  He was very sweet and apologized for his reaction.  That’s when I told him he was equine and I was attracted to him.  Like a smitten darling he tried valiantly to keep other men away from me, and I didn’t get the idea that it was only so he could have me all to himself. I sensed something different, something better in him. I didn’t sleep with him that night but I knew I would one day. I gave him my number.

We went out on a date to see a movie.  Afterwards I felt sorry for him, knowing that throughout the film he remained hard and probably leaked a lot of precum.  I invited him to my apartment and gave him my supreme, deep-throat blow job.  He was so divinely equine that the taste of his cum was enough to give me a small touch-less orgasm.

I was in love.

Unlike with other men, I explained my pheromone power to Scott.  He deserved as much.  I set about training him not to cum too quickly; however it took many ‘lessons.’  I’d never met a more understanding equine.  Even after we were engaged, he knew I often succumbed to other men but didn’t hate me for my promiscuity.  Our wedding day was amazing, but that’s a story for another time.

I’m Natalie.  I may have been in my larval stage when I was a girl, drawn to and cherished by men who were powerless when faced with my primeval capability.  Now that I was the mature butterfly, I took what I wanted, man or woman, letting the pheromones rule me like every other wild animal in the world.  I never once thought of what would happen if I had a baby girl one day.  I never once thought of the havoc such a massive concentration of primitive pheromones would inflict in the body of a young girl.

I should have.

 

The story of Natalie continues in “Olfaction”

 

Donna M.

 

© 2013

 

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