Chaos Theory

by Dimitri Markotin
It certainly wasn’t what I planned, I must confess. What sort of person would I be if I were to attend such a lecture—the nature of chaos in contemporary mathematical philosophy—with the intention of entering into such a liaison? This I can tell you in truth: I had no idea how the weekend would turn out. I had no idea that I would end up with a prominent philosopher’s mouth caressing my inner thigh while her husband kissed me. Certainly, no one arrives to such an intellectual event in anticipation of being tied naked and willing to an oak—
     But of course, I get ahead of myself.

It is no simple task to be a man of learning without the finances to attend university. The king seems to have little interest in the commoner’s well-being—a trait I wish were reciprocated!—, and I had been caught stealing in to private lectures oft enough to have earned a certain infamy for such behavior. Infamy intermingled with a begrudging respect, I would hope.
     Thus was I absolutely delighted to hear that the much-discussed and controversial team that was Mr. & Mrs. Goldsworth was to be giving an introductory lecture in the city’s public garden, free of charge to the general public.
     I cleared my schedule—quite full it was, between writing unpublishable poetry and irritating passerby with its recitation—and pulled my finest-and-only suit jacket from the trunk at the foot of my bed.
     With joy I walked through the squalor and into the famed garden. Not even the drunken youth, with their bullying, could bring down my mood. Not even the rich in their horseless, steaming carriages, splashing mud and unhappiness onto us urban peasants.
     The gardens were in their early-summer bloom, the evening sun bringing bright the lilac and lavender—oh! lavender, that finest of flowers. It was one of those days when birds sung for the poor and shat on the rich, one of those days when the young couples could hold hands in my sight and no jealousy stabbed through my heart.
     I saw benches had been arranged under a gabled pavilion. I was early, as is my habit, and the attendants numbered two: a young man and woman—clearly, neither over my twenty-six years. The young man wore the jaunty attire of the day’s intellectual youth, much as I did myself; a smart black cap, highwaisted breeches reaching just below the knee. He might have been my double if he were not full-bearded and shockingly handsome. The breadth of his shoulders, the narrow waist, the kind eyes that begged your confidence.
     And yet his friend nearly outshone him. Her skin was two shades darker than either his or my own, with doe-eyes and fashionably short hair. She wore no bustle, no corset, and she sat with her legs uncrossed, her skirt reaching nearly to the floor.
     I’m afraid social interactions have never been my strong point; I was staring. I had walked up, seen them seated and conversing, stopped not three paces distant and looked them both up and down, hovering on their faces, oblivious to their reactions.
     He caught my eye, and I snapped out of my reverie, embarrassed. “My apologies…” I mumbled.
     “Not at all,” the woman said, offering her hand.
     “Christopher,” the man introduced himself, “and this is my wife, Sand.”
     Formalities were exchanged, with the slight casualness we youth-intellectuals—our culture needs a finer name!—had a tendency to observe.
     Within a few minutes others began to arrive, and soon the lecture began. In case you had not conjectured, these two, Christopher and Sand, were none other than Mr. & Mrs. Goldsworth themselves!
     I had earned my front row seat with my timeliness, and listened rapt while they presented. So convincing were their words, so astounding were their proposals, that I completely forgot to stare at their luscious forms. I admit, however, that at a certain point Christopher reached into his pants to adjust himself, and I was lost in brief fantasy.

“If I show you this,” and Christopher drew a square upon slate with a piece of chalk, “would you call it a circle?”
     “No!” shouted someone from the back. No question is too rhetorical for the crowd at a free lecture in the park, it seems.
     “Of course not. And this?” he drew a hexagon.
     “No!”
     “But how about this?” he drew a decagon.
     “No.”
     “And yet with each new illustration, are we not getting closer to a circle? The hexagon may have more sides than a square, but it more closely resembles the single-edged circle. Of course, no matter how many more sides we add, we will never obtain a circle.”
     Sand stood up at her husband’s side and spoke: “This is, perhaps, the crux of our argument. Science has, until now, been in the process of adding sides to squares. You’ll notice that nature doesn’t have much to say about squares.”
     “There is an interesting new hypothesis in mathematics. If one were to create a function, and give it the non-intuitive property of being everywhere continuous and nowhere differentiable—” Christopher put the slate in front of him and began to draw.
     I was lost. I looked about, and I noticed I was not the only one.
     “What my husband means is that if you take a shape, and constantly repeat it, in smaller and smaller incarnations around its edge, you have a shape that approaches infinity.”
     Christoper held up the slate. On it was a triangle, a Star of David, and what was, essentially, a Star of David with little Stars of David branching out from the spikes.
     “Well it looks like a plant!”
     “That’s nothing closer to a circle!”
     You know, although I’ve got a fair amount in common with the rest of that audience, I sometimes understand why those university types lock their doors on the poor.
     Sand handled the comments with grace. “Like a plant is perfectly right. This is how things in nature grow. These shapes, not squares, are the building blocks of nature, the building blocks of infinity.”
     I’m going to skip ahead a bit now, to some of their final points. I like what they had to say a lot, and I want to let you know, but I also want to get on with the story. I promised you “tied to the tree” and rather complex sexual positioning.
     “What we’ve got in our society is a science built on squares and right angles. These are great shapes to use when you’re protecting yourself from nature, but they won’t incorporate you into it. Our little stone cities of cubes and triangles are our eggshells, but we’d best get on to hatching, or we’ll never grow up. Or they’ll become our prison.” Sand gestured out towards the towers that cut into the skyline.
     “Right now we’ve got this useless duality, of city and nature. I’m not saying we’re going to reject science, that we’re going to reject stone buildings and clocks. But we’re going to grow up, grow into a chaotic, organic form of thinking, where we branch off our ideas, stick with the ones that gather more sunlight. Leave behind our pyramids of thought, where each generation builds on the ideas of the old, getting smaller and smaller…”
    &n
bsp;I didn’t hear the last couple sentences she spoke, because she was drowned out by applause. That’s one thing that probably doesn’t happen in the lecture halls.

I hung back and let others be the first to mob the speakers when they were done. I watched the sun set from the edge of the pavilion, thinking lyric and rhyme amidst the chatter.
     “What did you think?” Christopher asked, putting his hand on my shoulder.
     I turned and answered, “I think you and your wife are geniuses. But genius isn’t the right word… do we call the sun a genius? This lavender… is it genius?”
     Alright, look. I never claimed I wasn’t a piss-poor poet, and I never claimed that I wasn’t quite taken with thought that may seep with pretension. But if I’m going to tell a dirty story, I may as well be honest. You’ll see as much of my naked mind as my naked body.
     But Christopher smiled. I think he knew what I was getting at. “We’re doing a series of lectures this week at the University—”
     My eyes lit up in hope.
     “I can’t get you in, but… hold on a second, let me ask Sand something.”
     He disappeared and I turned back towards the sun, that dying genius of light, occupying myself in thought.
     This time, when Christopher came over he stood next to me, looked out the same way I was looking. “I just had to check. Anyhow, the University is giving us use of a zeppelin for the weekend, to allow us to go home if we desire. And we were thinking we’d go camping. We’d like you to join us.”
     I wanted to ask why? why me?, but I’ve learned by now in my life not to question such things. With all the steadiness of voice and general lack of bluster I could summon, I accepted their offer.
     Gaily I skipped home. No, not even the mud and sadness that the rich in their horseless horrors splashed onto me could dampen my spirits. I tell you in no uncertain terms that I wanted to have a place within the intelligentsia. Particularly, the section of it that gives free talks in the park, the part that uses the might of their brains to challenge and destroy the massive, structural faults of society. I wanted to be close to the beautiful, the passionate, and the wise.
     And with a growing sense of urgency, I wanted to be inside the beautiful, passionate and wise. It was with such thoughts that I relieved myself that evening.

That week I wrote sixteen poems. Whenever possible, I prefer to write a poem, perform it twice, thrice, and soon be done with it. Never let your work become precious. My mother, the potter, taught me as such. A potter will tell you that they made sixteen bowls, and no one will think them odd. Why is a poet any different?
     I was inspired, and I veritably sang as I recited. I made eating money and lodging money and even the money I needed for mead to bring on the trip.
     Friday evening found me walking up the airship tower, pondering poetry as the people shrunk beneath me. Ahead, the Goldsworths spoke in hushed tones, carrying their own luggage as I carried mine. The assigned porter looked more or less confused, and walked beside me.
     I don’t suppose one can feel as magnanimous as one does when there is a servant around whom you refuse to boss or encumber. But I don’t have much experience with such things, and I’m not likely to again.
     And we embarked, just the three of us. Christopher, as well as a remarkable mathematician, was the son of an aviator. He steered and navigated, delegating simpler tasks to the two of us.
     Yes, the several-hour trip was breathtaking, only my third time in the sky and the first time with any sort of freedom to speak of. But of more import to the story, that evening we dropped anchor—quite a thing from a few hundred meters aloft!—, lowered provisions, and descended a ladder while harnessed to the ship for safety. Right into the middle of a wild nowhere, right into a forest the likes of which I’d never imagined, but one that spoke to me in some primeval way.
     Sand was upset by the damage to the undergrowth caused by the anchor, I remember, and Christopher offered no justification. It was clear that he bore more of a love for the workings of science, and was more prone to forgive it its faults.
     We set up a single large canvas tent, one sized to fit a family of five with comfort, and Christopher began to build a fire. “I’m going to cook dinner,” he said, “and you two should get out of my hair.”
     Sand led me down a game path during the first moments of twilight, twisting her way past briars and over fallen logs whilst I stumbled behind her. “Up here,” she said, when I had fallen behind.
     I turned past the silhouette of a tree and came to a sudden halt. In front of me lay a lake, thin and long, its surface whipped about by the night’s bluster. Next to me stood Sand, her short hair revealing a beautiful neck, her working-woman’s overall-dress exposing her collarbones and shoulders. Everything lay open before me; the clouds were retreating at full bore, and stars twinkled.
     Sand bent down and picked a mushroom from the side of a fallen log. “This,” she said, handing it to me—it was barely distinguishable as yellow in the twilight—, “this is part of what we were talking about. The mushroom isn’t the plant. The plant is a vast network of invisible threads that weave their way through the forest. The mushroom is just a manifestation of those threads. It’s like the fruit on the tree.”
     I held the mushroom up to look closer, as if I could somehow see into the infinity their chaotic mathematical philosophical ideas presented by staring at the fungus. Sand placed her arm around my waist, and I was struck once more by how much I missed the touch of a person. I had been too long alone, far too long.
     “So when people decide they want something that looks like this, they build the mushroom, but not its threads. The whole forest is like the mushroom, too. This forest… we need to stop thinking about ‘this tree, that tree,’ because all of the trees here are interwoven. They depend on each other. Hell, they’re not really separate entities. Not really.”
     I think she was making a metaphorical point that bordered on the blasphemous, obscene, and potentially sexual. I was aroused.
     Sand kissed me lightly on the neck. “I bet dinner is ready.”

As the remains of the finely prepared seafood digested in my happy belly, I washed the dishes in a metal basin—and this amount of work I had only because I insisted! Next to me, Sand scraped the food remains into a hole she had dug.
     “D—,” she said after we’d both finished, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But we wanted to ask you… do you like men at all?”
     “Yeah,” I said. My eyes kept wandering down the top of her dress, where her uncovered, small breasts were quite visible, hanging petite and lovely. I did my best to look at her face, which was smiling. She seemed anxious, nervous.
     “Would you like to have sex with the two of us tonight?”
     I swallowed, and I’m pretty certain I stammered. “Yeah.”
     She unclipped one side of her overalls, and the front folded down, clearly exposing her tit. The nipple, large and
brown, stood out. She stood on her toes and kissed my mouth, briefly. “Good,” she said into my ear.
     My hand went immediately to the side of her bare waist, squeezing her gently. She stood back and unclipped the other side of her overalls and was shirtless before me. I knelt before her and put my mouth on her belly. I could smell her getting wet, I swear to you.
     She put her hands into my hair, and tousled it while I licked her hipbones and massaged them with my thumbs. She was very thin, almost bony, but carried enough weight on her hips that it was a joy to knead and touch.
     She tightened her grip on my head and told me to take her dress off. It was awkward, working the fly buttons with my head so close to them, but I had no desire to move my face from that lovely smell. Eventually, the buttons were undone and her heavy canvas dress fell down of its own weight.
     “My bloomers too,” she said, and my hands were quick to the ties at the side. These too soon lay at her feet. I ran my hand up her legs, cupping the mound of her cunt as I happily licked her belly.
     I heard Christopher come up behind me, and for a moment I hesitated. What if he didn’t actually want me pleasuring his wife? But then he was pulling my shirt off, and I raised my hands to let it go.
     The slight breeze was chill against my bare skin, and soon a bearded face was kissing my shoulder. I moved my mouth lower and started to lick Sand’s cunt, but it was an awkward position.
     Christopher departed—I could tell because his mouth was no longer working its way around the back of my neck—and returned with a leather camping mattress, which he unrolled beside me. I lay down on my back, and Sand knelt over my mouth, facing away from my feet. I grabbed her bare thighs, dug in my nails, and began to lick her in earnest.
     It was, of course, all very sudden. But how do you work out the playful introduction to sex—the caresses and light touching—with three people, in the forest? I’ve little experience in such matters. And I certainly had no objections. Kissing and holding would come in due course.
     Christopher stood above my head and held Sand’s hands, helping her balance as she rode my face. It was, in its way, quite romantic for the two of them, as I think of it now. But at the time, I was quite blissfully licking and fingering a most marvelous cunt, one whose taste still lingers in my mind.
     I was, of course, frightfully hard, and it was a pleasant surprise when my boots and pants were removed in much the same manner as my shirt had been. Christopher knelt over my knees and began to fondle me, starting with my balls (with an aware gentleness that—no offense to the few women who’ve allowed me to love them!—no woman has matched) and thighs. Soon he had a loose grip around the base of my cock and began to move it around in circles.
     All of this came at the expense of poor Sand’s balance, however, and she stood. A small part of my senses heard her walk away, but for the most part I heard only my own panting, thought only of the hand that was fondling my cock. He paused to lick his hands and look me in the eyes before his wet palms began to jack me off.
     There is something remarkable about being touched—one moment it may simply feel grand, a fierce massage. Yet the next, it is sublime. Fire runs through you and you are nowhere, no one. As I lay on my back in that forest I flickered into heaven—the only heaven I will allow to exist—and I was no one, an empty mind.
     He put his mouth over the head of my dick and I returned to my body, happy. He ran his teeth—so gently!—up and down the shaft while one hand stayed firm on the base. Suddenly, he looked up, released me, and stood.
     I turned and I saw his wife standing above me, so tall and beautiful and tauntingly naked, a length of cordage looped in her hand. Christopher strode over to her, stripping off his shirt, unbuttoning his pants.
     “Bring the mattress, will you?” he asked of me, and the two began to walk away, behind the tent.
     I grabbed the mattress and followed, watching their hips sway in time, hers bare and his still tauntingly clothed.
     Behind the tent I saw only silhouettes. Christopher took me quite bodily and pushed me against a tree as wide across as I am tall, kissed me hard. His beard was fuzzy and warm, his lips soft, but his tongue was relentless as it explored my mouth for that wonderful second. He overpowered me, held my arms back.
     Sand began to tie a knot around one of my wrists.
     “You can say no anytime you’d like,” Christopher whispered as he held me back.
     A hint of fear grew, but it only aroused me further. I said nothing.
     Sand walked around the trunk of the tree and tied the cord to my other hand. As soon as I was secured, Christopher released me and stripped off his pants. His dick, released, protruded in front of him—of admirable size, I confess, the perfect size to put into your mouth, but thicker than I’d want in my ass.
     Sand approached and placed her hands against the tree on either side of my head. She kissed me softly, and suddenly let out a gasp as Christopher entered her from behind.
     I nearly whimpered in desire as she moaned directly into my face. She put one hand on the back of my neck and gripped me hard for support.
     I could see his hand on her hip, driving them together. With each thrust she dug her nailless fingers deeper into my neck. Tied as I was, I could not put my hands on myself, yet it seemed my groin was screaming at me to do so.
     He groaned as he slammed into her, less gentle now as she was increasingly wet. She screamed once in the midst of her moaning, a high wail of pleasure not three inches away from my face.
     Suddenly he stopped and pulled out, and she collapsed against me, kissing me like a hungry woman.
     “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” she said into my ear, in between fierce bites to my neck and chin.
     The next moment she was a good six inches taller. In retrospect, I know that Christopher had placed the rolled-up mattress beneath her.
     She put her hands behind my back, supporting her weight with her hands. The ropes dug into my wrists. She raised one leg to the side, stood on her toes, positioned herself, dropped down onto the flats of her feet. To my surprise and delight, it worked. I slid into her.
     She couldn’t fuck me, not really. I bucked against her as well as I could from my position tied to the tree, and it felt sublime nonetheless, but soon she stood up once more and I was out of her.
     I must have whimpered. How could I not have?
     Christopher unrolled the mattress and she went onto all fours, her mouth near my thigh.
     He began to fuck her again, slower this time, from on his knees behind her. She reached up and grabbed my ass, supporting herself by holding me, fondling my dick with her mouth. She rocked to the rhythm of his thrusts, now screaming in earnest, her cries waking every creature imaginable.
     She scooted forward, sat up a bit more. I never realized, but sex with three people is remarkably
complicated, physically speaking.
     He sat down on his heels, his knees out before him, and she sat back onto him. She put my dick in her mouth, grabbed the shaft and jacked me off while she fucked him.
     For one moment I saw a look in Christopher’s eyes, one of pure love for Sand. The way he held her hips while she rocked on him, the way he watched her back… a simple love.
     Then Sand switched hands on me, intentionally slobbering down the base of my cock, and I threw my head back. Fire coursed through my veins. I found myself fantasizing that it was me behind her, fucking her. Then I found myself in reality, and my dick was in her mouth, and her beautiful lover was fucking her, and I watched the muscles in his chest and I watched the look on his face, and I fantasized that I was fucking him.
     She pulled off of me to scream near-climatically, then was back to sucking me, and I moaned a final time, my hips shaking as I shot cum into her mouth. Her whole body was shaking—as was my own!—and she tightened her grip, pulling from base to tip, squeezing out the last of me.
     Afterwards, she spat discreetly and the two of them lay on the mattress, making love in a more traditional manner. I watched, enthralled, even as my erection shrank.
     Not long after, Christopher stood up and stepped towards me, shaking, his hand on his cock. He smiled, kissed me, and shot his load onto my belly.
     “Thank you,” he whispered into my ear, his voice wracked still with orgasm.

That night we ignored the tent and slept on bedrolls near our kitchen, counting on the woodsmoke to keep the bugs at bay. I lay on my back between them, each with their head curled onto my breast. I looked at the stars and fell asleep, dreaming of chaos.



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