Buttercup

Prologue

“Miss me?”

Silvio sat up in his rickety tent chair. Her voice beckoned. Like the opening of a song, those two words, ‘miss me’, rose softly above the drumbeat of his pounding heart.

The warm fragrance of sweet kettle corn and roasted apples blew in from the midway through the loosened flap at the front of the tent. Carnies taunted townies to test their luck, get their fortunes read, or become one of the chosen few to bear witness to the never seen before oddities of man. However, here under the cover of a patchwork carnival tent, it was just Buttercup and him—alone. Silvio swallowed. His nerves, a ball of conflicting emotions, had lodged in his throat as he stared on, riveted. He had found her. Beyond a stage curtain made from tattered, wash-worn sheets strung up by fishing wire, she called for him. Seduced him. Damned him.

Buttercup drew closer, her shapely hips swaying in a wondrous slow motion with each step. She worked the momentum, causing the adornments that circled her small waist in a low-slung belt to sing with soft chimes. Silvio knew she wore nothing else beneath her garment. She never did.

She was as he remembered.

Buttercup possessed an untamed wildness to her beauty. The thin shroud of cover between them could do little to conceal it. She drew closer. With the lights of the carnival outside the tent as her backdrop, her dark silhouette approached with the grace of an African Goddess. He wiped his hand down his face. There was only so much he could withstand.
Silvio’s arousal almost reached its peak when she began her tease. Her movements suggested the cupping of her breasts and the squeeze and pinch of oversized nipples he once remembered sucking to hard nubs. All the while, she allowed her hips to roll in sweet provocative circles. It was beginning. With a sharp intake of the sweltering air of the tent’s confinement, Silvio narrowed his focus on her shapely form and acknowledged the hard punch of lust to the center of his chest. She released one pert nipple to run her hand down her midriff and then lower. He was certain that she was now pleasuring herself.

As the urges he resisted churned in his gut, Buttercup began to dance. A gyration of hip thrusts that worked up a frenzied tribal shake. Her arms flew up with palms pressed together and raised above her head. The belt of bells and possible feathers rang a melody that went through him. Silvio yearned in his core to posses her and to rediscover all the pleasures he once felt with her. Tortured, quick, impatient, gasps of deep breaths escaped him. He shifted in the chair, and it creaked on its weather worn legs. He laid a hand to his groin, applying pressure. Under the dark shadowed solitude amongst empty tent chairs, he rubbed out the swelling.

Damn the curtain. Damn them all for keeping her from me for so long, he thought. Six fucking years is far too long to be without her, and it's all this cursed carnival's fault.

“Miss me?” her beguiling whisper asked once more.

Silvio’s throat torched from the inside. A heat wave of forbidden desire boiled the blood in his veins, and his passion for her bulked between his legs. He rasped out a barely audible reply. It came out in stuttered expletives. The touching of himself helped, but this deliverance was short lived. The ache moved through him, settling in his heart. Buttercup would show no mercy. Denying him the pleasure of the visual, she wound her heart shaped ass in another frenzied shake. This he could only perceive behind the cover of the rag-tag stage curtain. But perception was everything. Silvio shuddered. His lids fluttered and then shut. The friction of his britches brushing against his neglected cock sent another spasm of wanton lust through him. He relished his undoing as ribbons of pleasure, threaded with hot searing lust, pumped blood through his shaft. Buttercup proceeded with finesse and wicked skill to seduce him further through her dance. Silvio's chest seized with tightness.

The wild beating felt as if his heart would punch a hole through his ribcage. He was cold and hot, all at the same time.

Buttercup spun in a half circle. Wringing her hips, she dropped and then came up with a
fierce roll of her rump. Silvio licked his dry lips, which parted a fraction to allow in a much-needed breath. He miserably neared his end. Then Buttercup stopped.

Silvio exhaled, keeping his eyes shut. Sweat beads dotted his furrowed brow. And despite his efforts, a lonely suppressed tear escaped the inlet of his eye and trailed down the outer contour of his nose. He dropped his head back on the top rung of the chair, slumping further down. Yes, he suffered, and it was all because of her.

She waited.

He was grateful for the short reprieve. He willed himself to look upon her again. His pulse rate normalized and so did her dancing before it came to an end. No woman should be able to exude such control. Buttercup did. She posed behind the thin sheath with her back to him, arms crossed over her enticing chest. Her head gave a slow turn, and she peeked at him from over the curve of her left shoulder. The lift of her chin spoke to the awareness she foolishly thought remained concealed. He knew she was smart. Despite her color, and lot in life, she was damn smart. He'd be a fool to forget that fact.

“You’ve bewitched me,” Silvio rasped.

“Show me. Be a bad boy for me, Silvio 'Blood-shot' Garelli, a bad, bad, boy.”