Archive for June, 2013

The Nuclear Option

It was midnight over the Arctic Ocean, and the moon, my oldest and best friend, shone down from a cloudless sky, casting her soft light over miles upon miles of shattered ice. A wide white frozen ocean, still as death.

“The whole back cabin is empty,” the stewardess leered down at me, “if you want to stretch out your legs.”

She could have been my age, or older, or younger. It was hard to tell under the flame-retardant polyester uniform, the caked-on makeup, the frazzled, hairsprayed hair. She might even have been attractive, I honestly couldn’t tell. Plastic-looking freckled cleavage peeked out at me from under her blouse; the top two buttons were undone and I could see the black lace of her bra.

Why does everyone always assume I’m a lesbian? I’m not, though I was momentarily tempted to take her up on her offer. I hadn’t been properly laid since I split up with Travis, my New York City boyfriend. He couldn’t deal with all the travel; he couldn’t deal with the academic knife-fighting; he couldn’t deal with having an open relationship; but he could deal with fucking nineteen-year old undergrads behind my back.

I wondered if she shaved her kitty. She probably did. Everyone does these days, everyone but me.

It was a charter flight and there were only us three passengers, and we were all up in first class where the comfortable seats are. Bud was sprawled across three seats, reading a book and chewing gum irritably. Tiger was dicking around on his computer. If I slipped back into coach with—I read her nametag: Christie—the boys would never let me hear the end of it.

I smiled and shook my head ‘no’, and asked for another bottle of water. Christie brought me a small Evian and gave me a smile and a look that said ‘Offer’s still open. Are you sure?’ I was sure. I closed my eyes for a while and pretended to sleep, and nearly succeeded in fooling myself.

We touched down in Narita just as the sun was rising, and I wanted to curl up and dry-heave, but I pulled my carry-on out of the overhead compartment and got off the plane instead. Christie squeezed my hand and gave me a pouty look on the way out. Her loss.

Our plane was waiting for us across the terminal. Another charter. We got on and sat for an hour while they located the pilot, and then deplaned and sat around the airport for another six hours while they replaced a bum hydraulic line.

Bud got drunk. Tiger alternately napped and dicked around on his computer. I went exploring.

In an out-of-the-way corner, past a forlorn Pizza Hut and a kilometer of empty gates, I watched a young Japanese couple fuck.

They were young, early twenties maybe, and good-looking in a non-descript sort of way. Their clothes were neatly folded up on the floor next to a courtesy phone. They didn’t look like the type to screw in public at the airport; they looked like a pair of eager go-getters working their way up the corporate ladder. Mitsubishi, Sony, Honda. Middle-managers or junior project leaders.

He had tan lines, which I suspect is rare in Japanese businessmen; a sunken chest with a few stray hairs around his nipples; and a really big dick, which may or may not be a good thing in bed, but certainly makes for entertaining watching. She was a petite little thing with small, conical, bouncy breasts. She didn’t shave her pussy either. There was a thick, dark triangle of hair between her legs.

He was flat on his back, behind an empty Nakanihon service desk. She was straddling him, bouncing up and down on his oversized penis. He wasn’t wearing a condom, and his dick was slick and shiny with her juices. She would lift herself up so just the head was nestled between her plump lips, and then slowly drop down until the whole appendage was buried inside her cunt. I was kind of shocked that the whole thing fit inside. Guys get to brag about having a big dick, but girls don’t get to brag about having a deep pussy. Personally, I like them medium or smaller, and I like girth. But, damn, it was hot to watch. She enjoyed every inch of it. Her tits shook as they fucked, and I felt my own underutilized pussy getting wet inside my pants.

She noticed me watching and tittered behind her hand in that inimitable Japanese way, and whispered something to her partner. They switched positions, so they were both facing me: her down on her hands and knees, and him fucking her from behind. Her little tits dangled down and jiggled with every thrust. I could hear his cock squelching in and out, I could hear them both grunting and gasping. I stuck a hand down my pants. I was soaked.

He pulled out and she spun around, and he jerked off into her open mouth. He came silently, his face screwed up in a Noh mask of passion. He pumped pearly-white semen onto her outstretched tongue, and she clearly relished it, gobbling it all up and cleaning his penis after, lavishing her tongue up and down and all around as he slowly wilted. God, I missed that! Not that particular act so much, but the intimacy of it. Double-As will only get you so far. I missed sex. I missed dick.

Grinning stupidly, his huge cock now very much reduced, he slumped against the wall. The airport P.A. system rattled off a warning about leaving luggage unattended in seven different languages. My hand was still busy inside my pants. She smiled shyly at me, spreading her legs to show me just how wet her pussy was. I could actually see her clitoris, which I thought was pretty hot. She nodded eagerly and beckoned. Why does everyone think I’m a lesbian?

I turned around and fled, losing myself in the labyrinth that is Narita. Stepped into a ladies’ and changed my panties. Maybe I should have licked her pussy. Maybe I’d like it. I’ve been told that before. Maybe I’ll try someday. At the moment all I wanted was to get some dick and finish my dissertation. I’d been called out for fudging some numbers, just a little, just enough to make the dataset fit the predictions, and my advisor had totally lost his shit and my funding got pulled and now it was back to square one. Or maybe square zero.

They got a new plane for us, and we crawled onboard like refugees and took off. Mercifully, I slept a little on this leg: weird, surreal, semi-erotic half dreams of fucking in airplane bathrooms and airport corridors. Riemann sums and zeta functions and beta particles and oversized cocks.

The landing in Damascus was one of the scariest things I’ve ever experienced. We came in steep and we came in fast, and when the gear hit the tarmac, I thought the plane had broken in half. We taxied to the gate, and they hustled us off the plane and onto another charter, an aging A300, and it was one more flight to Tehran, through Iraqi airspace up above a thick layer of cloud that could have been anywhere in the world, and then it was a quick puddle-jumper turboprop to Ardakan, and then a bouncy ride in a white SUV with black tinted windows to the hotel. My insides felt like microwaved scrambled eggs.

When we got off the plane in Tehran, they had given me a veil, and now, stepping out of the SUV into the brief intense Persian sun, I put it on. I felt faintly ridiculous, like I was getting dressed up to go trick-or-treating, and I had to suppress a wicked case of the giggles.

As we schlepped into the air-conditioned hotel lobby, the azan was called, piped in through loudspeakers, calling the faithful to prayer. We stood around in the plush lobby, feeling like fools, weary and jetlagged fools, the only people in the room not kneeling down and facing Mecca.

Prayer finished, and we were shown to our rooms, and then we were brought down to a conference room where Farhad, our contact, apologetically told us that he was waiting for the paperwork to come back authorizing us to do our work, and that there would be a slight delay. That was fine by us: we had been ready to go to work on the spot, but they were paying by the day, and if they weren’t ready for us, that was their problem. He advised us to go up to our rooms and get some rest; the matter would certainly be cleared up by the morning. That sounded OK by me. Farhad glanced at me, and his look contained a question and a suggestion that would probably have made his Supreme Leader blush and might well have earned him a public whipping.

I didn’t seriously consider inviting Farhad back up to my hotel room; I may have been horny and hungry for dick, but I did have standards and Farhad wasn’t my type. He was slick, greasy, and effeminate, and he had a big black bushy beard. I returned his gaze with a look of uncomprehending indifference. Anyway, I needed my beauty sleep.

Up in my hotel room, I stripped off all my clothes—I always sleep naked, when I’m not actively bleeding—and luxuriated in the fresh, clean high-thread count sheets. I briefly considered masturbating, but before I could even get down to business, exhaustion won out over jet lag, and I fell asleep. At least for a while.

I was woken up by a tapping at the door, soft but insistent. Outside, it was still bright and sunny, a fact that punched me in the gut. I assumed that the paperwork had come through, and Farhad was summoning us to the facility. I sleepily pushed the button next to the bed that unlocked the door.

It was, in fact, Bud. Hunky, beefy, gruff and taciturn Bud, with his Fu Manchu mustache and soul patch that our hosts seemed to find quietly hilarious.

I didn’t know Bud all that well: we were acquaintances academically, and had worked together a couple times now, but we’d never hung out or talked much. I knew he’d been drummed out of MIT for, of all things, boinking an underage undergrad.

I realized, belatedly, that I was stark naked. I realized, as well, that Bud was just fine with that fact.

We retreated to an entrenched position on my bed, where we proceeded to set about kissing and making out, for what seemed like a very long time.

I really liked being held in Bud’s arms; he was strong and solid. I really liked the way he kissed and touched me. I liked his hands. I liked the attention he was paying to my breasts. The only thing I didn’t like was that I was undressed and he wasn’t. So I took it upon myself to remedy that situation.

He had a firm, round belly, a deep navel, and a short, fat dick. The crown was juicy red. It felt really nice with my hand wrapped around it, and Bud’s kissing took on a new level of urgency. His large, hairy hand slipped between my legs and found my scalding hot slick wet pussy.

There was a knock at the door, a sharp rat-a-tat. Definitely Farhad this time. Well, he would just have to wait until I had an orgasm. My hand was moving insistently up and down Bud’s stout, stumpy erection. One of his fingers had just slipped inside me, and it felt delightful. My clit was bulging up and out, eager to join the fun.

I certainly didn’t buzz him in, so Bud must have. It wasn’t Farhad after all, it was Tiger, and he moved purposefully into the room, as silent and focused as a hunting cat, letting the door clunk shut behind him.

I didn’t know Tiger well at all. We’d worked on one project together before, that was it. He was young, crazy young for a post-doc student, in his very early twenties at most. He was short and angular, with spiky hair and intense brown eyes behind square glasses. I don’t know what he’d done to get booted out of Stanford, but it must have been pretty awful, because he was genuinely fucking brilliant.

He stalked silently across the room, almost gliding. He shed his clothes by the side of the bed. He had a nice, taut body; chunky muscles like he worked out in a gym; a fluff of dark hair on his chest and under his arms; a shaved set of cock and balls. His dick popped out of his tight white briefs, nice and hard already; not too long, with an aggressive upward curve, a drawn bow. I wondered what that serpentine cock would feel like up inside my pussy. Pretty damn good, I bet, especially with Bud’s stubby one lodged in my butt.

He crawled into bed with us. My hand found his dick, and I squeezed. He was hot and hard and smooth. Bud’s finger was moving incessantly in my cunt. I was in heaven: a nice thick dick in each hand! I rolled over onto my back, spreading my legs wide. Tiger’s hand joined Bud’s, and now I had two fingers, belonging to two different guys, up my twat. I wanted some of that dick inside me, and I wanted it, like yesterday.

Bud broke off our kiss, and Tiger leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth. The two boys necked while I continued to jerk them both off. Then they squirmed away, sliding their wet fingers out of my gasping, engorged, juicy wet cunt.

The boys maneuvered into a 69 position next to me on the bed: Bud on the bottom, Tiger perched on top, feeding each other cock. I had an excellent view of fat balls, hard wet dicks, slurping tongues, tight buns and assholes. The only thing missing from the picture was me. I stroked Tiger’s compact little ass while my finger slowly circled my own swollen clit. I watched as Bud licked Tiger’s crinkly, hairless ball sac and tongued his tiny little asshole.

They rolled over, dicks wet and hard and urgent, and Bud scrambled around, manhandling Tiger into position. One hairy paw on the boy’s throat, the other one guiding his own cock. There was no condom. I wondered if they’d done this before; the routine seemed practiced and familiar to them both.

Bud speared Tiger with his short, fat dick. Tiger grunted out something unintelligible as Bud penetrated him. It might have been “more”. Bud started fucking his ass, nothing slow, nothing subtle, slamming his asshole hard and viciously. He had one hair in Tiger’s black hair, the other was wrapped around his curvaceous dick, busily jacking him off. I lounged against the head of the bed, watching the show, diddling myself slowly. I didn’t want to come until they did.

It didn’t take long. Bud was huffing and puffing like a prizefighter, fucking Tiger hard, handling his lithe young body like a rag doll. He growled and skewered Tiger one last time, crammed his thick short dick all the way up the kid’s anus, and held him close while he came deep inside his asshole. Then he yanked his dick out, spun Tiger around, and wrapped his lips around the livid red crown of his cock, frantically jerking off Tiger’s C-shaped shaft. Tiger threw his head back and roared, shooting off into Bud’s mouth. Bud sucked it all up, I didn’t see one drop of semen escape his lips.

Very conscious of the guys watching me, I started to masturbate in earnest. It didn’t take me long either, I was way too worked up. I wished I had a dildo, or maybe two dildos, or at least a vibrator, but of course I had packed nothing of the sort. I slid a finger up my own asshole, jammed a finger up my pussy, and used the palm of my hand to grind against my swollen clit. I came, and I came hard, writhing on the bed, riding the wave that rolled through my body, tossing and tumbling over me, overwhelming me with pleasure.

We fell asleep like that, though it was only late afternoon and the sun was still shining; a sticky, sweaty, intertwined mass on my bed. When I woke up, it was dark and they were gone. There was no sign that they had been there at all. The whole episode might have been a dream, a hallucination brought on by jetlag and pent-up lust. I lay in bed the whole night and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. I whacked off again, and while it felt good, it didn’t help. I lay there under the soft hum of the air conditioner, staring at the ceiling and pondering sketchy numbers and fudged datasets and enriched uranium until long after dawn.

As predicted, the paperwork came through bright and early. Farhad packed us all off to the facility, past big, stony-faced men in robes with beards and Kalashnikovs. We made the necessary adjustments to the centrifuges. It didn’t take long; their own grad students should have been able to do the work, but we weren’t about to say anything. This would make a nice fat dent in my student loan debt; the fee would come from a Swiss consulting firm that nominally provided services to the Brazilian aerospace industry.

We were whisked back to the airport and aloft, back home via Indonesia and then Amsterdam; a big fat credit lodged safely in our bank accounts. Back to New York City;  my messy studio apartment, my laundry basket overflowing, my sails in rags, my dissertation shattered, my drawer full of sex toys, my ex-boyfriend who might or might not be up for having casual sex with me.

Deep down in my abdomen, I felt the first twinging cramps of my impending period. I gazed out the small oval window of the airplane and saw the moon, my oldest and only friend, flying high above the languid waters of the Arabian Sea.


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David and Aphrodite

The first time I ever saw her was on a junior-high field trip to the City Museum. I remember it clearly, even though most of the rest of that period of my life is an unpleasant adolescent blur, a hormonal hangover.

I was already enough of a geek that I was really into the museum. Other than my friend and fellow dweeb Emily, my classmates all thought it was boring, or just a chance to goof off. I loved the old artifacts, the pottery shards and medieval weapons, the old paintings, especially the portraits of people long dead, and the big moody romantic landscapes of mountains and tangled dark forests.

And then I saw the statue. It was toward the end of our excursion, the other kids were hungry and irritable, and the teachers were frazzled. She was carved out of white marble, and sat atop a low pedestal. She was looking over her shoulder, as if she was checking to see if anyone was watching, and she was completely nude. Her breasts were out there for anyone to see.

I was at the unfortunate age where the sight of bare breasts was both unbearably fascinating, and somewhat mortifying. The sculptor had done a fine job with hers: they were beautiful, petite and round with perfect little nipples. Her legs were crossed, but you could see, just below the slight swell of her belly, the etched suggestion of pubic hair.

There was a slight smile on the statue’s face, a mischievous look, and I swear her eyes twinkled.

I left the museum feeling deeply self-conscious about the hard-on that was jutting out from my crotch like a signpost. Apparently my classmate Emily, friend, fellow nerd, and sometime co-conspirator, noticed. According to her, I narrowly missed losing my virginity later that afternoon, or if not my virginity per se, I might have at least gained some valuable carnal experience. All I would have had to do was say something. But I didn’t.

I didn’t see my statue again for several years. But I didn’t forget her either. Sometimes when I masturbated, alone in bed at night, she’d be there, peeking over her shoulder at me. As if things weren’t confusing enough.

It was another field trip. This time it was Art I, a high school elective, and we were supposed to pick one thing from the museum to sketch in our notepads. I went straight to her, half afraid that she’d be gone, or that I had made her up in the first place.

She was still there. She hadn’t moved. Or had she? She was in the same place, a non-descript corner near the exit, and she held the same pose; still naked and looking over her shoulder with that ghostly smile on her face; but this time I noticed that her legs were slightly parted. If you looked, you could just make out the crease of her labia. And I did look.

I sat down and tried to sketch her. It didn’t go very well. First of all, it was hard to sit comfortably with an erection bulging in my pants. And secondly, without really meaning to, I kept sketching all her naughty bits in excruciating detail. I’d start trying to capture her neck and shoulder, and find myself drawing her breasts; I’d work on the line of her legs, and end up focusing on her half-hidden crotch. Eventually, I gave up and tried my hand at copying one of the renaissance portraits that I loved. It was harder than it looked.

Emily caught up with me after class. “I saw what you sketched today,” she said. I turned the color of a ripe tomato.

“It’s OK,” she giggled. “I thought it was a pretty good drawing. Can I tell you a secret?”


“Meet me back at the museum after school. I’ll tell you then.”


I hustled my butt over to the museum right after sixth period algebra, but Emily was already there waiting for me. It was close to closing time, and the museum was nearly empty; all that remained were a few old ladies and a more-or-less equal number of security guards.

“What’s the big secret?” I wanted to know. She just smiled guiltily and told me to follow. She led me to the Hall of Antiquities.

We stopped in front of an out-of-the way statue in a far corner of the Hall. It was a white marble figure, a young man carrying a bucket. The plaque next to the statue said ‘The Water Carrier”. It seemed like a pretty innocuous statue; he was nude, but they all were. You could see his penis, but it didn’t seem like anything to get excited about: a small and limp-looking noodle resting on a round bulge that suggested his scrotum. But Emily was blushing furiously.

She looked quickly around, checking for little old ladies and security guards, but the coast was clear. Then Emily reached out and touched the noodle with the tip of her index finger. I swear to God the statue twitched.

She stroked it, like she was petting a tiny baby kitten, drawing her finger lightly up and down, back and forth; and slowly but surely the stone penis engorged and grew erect. I was fascinated. It was big, but not huge. It was roughly the size of my own gear. Eventually it was standing straight up, the white marble head peeking out from inside the white marble foreskin. The statue had gone from an ordinary, unremarkable figure study to an obscene pornographic masterpiece, fit to give a House Republican conniptions.

“Lick it,” I heard myself say, and after another quick check to make sure we were alone, Emily did. She bent over, stuck out her tongue, and flicked the tip of the statue’s cock with the end of her tongue. I swear, the statue twitched again, and his penis seemed to grow another half inch.

“Come on,” Emily said, “Let’s try yours!”

We waited while a little old lady with an oversized black umbrella shuffled past. My statue looked perfectly ordinary, her legs crossed primly, her head turned, looking over her shoulder behind her. The octogenarian finally tottered out the end of the hall, and when I looked back at my stature, something had changed. Her legs were no longer crossed, but were in fact slightly parted. The hint of a crease between her thighs was no longer just a suggestion, but a carven valley, a crevice between puffy sculpted labia. When I looked closely, I could even see a tiny white marble clitoris.

“Touch her!” Emily urged.

Hesitantly, I reached out my arm and did just that, insinuating my outstretched arm between her thighs and petting her stone crease. She was cold and hard and smooth as polished glass.

As I ran my finger up and down her stone labia, she blossomed. It was like watching one of those time-lapse films of a white flower, a lilly say, blossoming. Her lips puffed and pealed back, her clitoris emerged from its carven marble hood.

“Put a finger inside!” and I did. It felt weirdly non-erotic, my finger slipping into a tunnel of finely polished marble. The statue sighed softly and her legs parted a little wider.

Just then, the loudspeaker informed us that the Museum was now closed, and a security guard ambled along to kick us out. We high-tailed it out of there, double-time.


I still can’t believe we did it; I can’t believe how easy it was; I really can’t believe we got away with it. We just ducked into the Museum later that same night through a propped-open side door while a security guard took an illicit smoke break.

Once inside, we both got a wicked case of the giggles. “Who goes first??” We couldn’t decide, so we played rock-paper-scissors for it. Emily picked rock. I picked paper.

Together, we went into the Hall of Antiquities. Our footsteps seemed to echo all out of proportion.

We found ourselves in front of Emily’s statue. He looked normal and unassuming. His penis had returned to its original state; small and flaccid but not soft.

“Touch him!” Emily said, and I did, reaching out and petting his marble penis. He twitched visibly under my touch. “Lick it!” Emily urged. Why not, I thought, it’s only a statue. I got down on my knees, stuck out my tongue, and slurped the marble of his penis. This time he definitely twitched, jumping and growing in response to my touch. I gave him another experimental lick. His dick was pointing up at the heavens now, carved in exquisite detail and, of course, hard as stone.

“I think that was the sexiest thing I’ve seen all day,” Emily said. “I’ll just take it from here.”

I moved out of the way, and she got down on her knees and starting slurping up and down the statue’s penis, taking him between her lips, swallowing most, if not all, of his shaft, swirling her tongue around the alabaster head, playing with his stone balls. My own cock was at least as hard as the statue’s.

I opened my big fat mouth. “You should take your shirt off.” Emily stopped what she was doing and gave me a sharp look. She didn’t say anything, but she did pull her t-shirt off, up over her head, and she unsnapped her bra.

Her breasts were small, freckled, almost conical affairs, with tiny, dimpled, pink nipples. They jiggled as she moved. I thought they were beautiful.

Emily sucked his dick a little bit more. By this time, his penis was straining skyward, fat and thick, and it glistened with her saliva. She got up off her knees, glanced around and shrugged. “Here goes nothing.”

She shucked her black pants down around her ankles. Pink panties emblazoned with white unicorns followed. She had a fluffy puff of pubic hair, and I could see her pussy pouting open. A glistening strand of wetness lingered, stretching from her pink pussy lips down to the crotch of her panties. This is actually happening, I thought, this is for real. It was far and away the sexiest sight I had ever seen.

She waddled forward, stood up on her tippy-toes, and nudged the crease of her pussy up against the tip of the statue’s cock. “Mmmmm,” she whispered to me, “Shit yeah. It feels amazing.”

Slowly, gingerly, Emily lowered herself down his dick, impaling herself. “Shit yeah,” she said again, “It’s so fucking good!”

She started moving up and down, lifting up until his penis was just barely nestled between her labia, and then plunging down again. Faster and faster she moved, her breath becoming husky, her breasts bouncing, her skin flushed, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. She looked gorgeous like that, awe-inspiring. I wanted to touch her, but I was afraid. I wasn’t sure what she’d think.

“Oh,” Emily cried in a small voice, “Oh, I’m coming!”

She bore down hard on the statue, burying his entire cock in her pussy, scrubbing hard between her legs with her head thrown back, her eyes clenched shut. Her entire body shuddered. It was amazing to watch.

Finally, almost sheepishly, she disengaged herself from the statue and pulled her pants back up.

“That was SO hot!” I told her.

She gave me an unreadable little smile, located her bra, and pulled her t-shirt back on.

“Your turn.”

My statue was back to her more-or-less prim self, lounging with her legs crossed at the ankles, looking back over her shoulder with a secret little smile. I swear I saw her legs part a little bit as we approached.

“Lick her pussy.” Emily told me. The way she emphasized the word pussy punched me in the gut.

Indeed, the statue’s legs had parted just enough that I could squeeze in between her knees. I crawled in between her stone thighs, and found myself face-to-face with the crease of her marble vulva.

I felt faintly ridiculous, down on my knees, licking the sculpted marble. It was cool and smooth under my tongue, and tasted like nothing at all.

My licking, however, had an immediate and dramatic effect. There was no shade of primness now, my statue’s legs were splayed wide apart. Her pussy was wide open, her marble clitoris was bulging out, and her inner lips practically glistened.

“Fuck her,” Emily urged. “Fuck her pussy.” She savored the word, enjoying the sound of it rolling off her tongue.

Feeling a little bit self-conscious, and more than a little bit ridiculous, I unzipped my jeans, and fished out my straining erection. I could feel Emily’s eyes on me as I maneuvered myself in between the statue’s wide-spread legs. “Here goes nothing,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. I slid my dick straight up that stone pussy.

The sensation was amazing. At the time I didn’t have anything to compare it to, other than my own hand, which it felt nothing like. She was smooth as silk, hard as granite. It was a little like fucking a tube of Reddi-Wip, straight out of the refrigerator. It felt so damn good!

My statue’s head was now lolled back. Her nipples strained out, her toes pointed at the ceiling. If Emily’s statue would give House Republicans conniptions, my stature would give them a collective heart attack in its current pose. I glanced over at Emily. She was staring at my cock, watching it slide in and out of the white stone portal. One hand was down the front of her pants.

“Play with her asshole,” Emily whispered.

I reached under the statue’s buttocks and found her carven anus, which yielded to my probing finger.

“Oh fuck Emily,” I swallowed hard, “I’m not going to be able to last much longer…”

“Fuck yeah,” Emily responded, never once taking her eyes off the action, “Come inside her. Come in her fucking pussy.”

I was already there. It just felt too damn good! I was fucking her faster and faster, grinding my cock in and out of her tight stone orifice, bucking my hips in an over-excited frenzy. A part of me felt like I must look ridiculous, a goofy-looking kid with his jeans down around his calves, humping away like a madman at an old Greek statue; but mostly I just surrendered to it. I came, gasping and grunting, pumping what felt like gallon after gallon of semen deep into my statue’s vagina.

When it was all over, when my dick was finally waning soft, I reluctantly withdrew. My come leaked from the statue’s vulva like the trail of a slug. My heart was thumping and I was all sweaty and sticky. I felt sheepish and un-sexy, but Emily was grinning from ear to ear!

“Now, THAT was the second-sexiest thing I’ve seen all day!”

While I put my dick back in my underpants, and pulled up my jeans, Emily got down on her knees and gingerly stuck out her tongue and lapped a little of my come off of the marble pussy. She noticed me watching and turned bright red. “I just wanted to know what it was like!”

We slipped out the back of the museum, out into the night. It was late and the stars were out and the moon rode high above the city. We walked along cracked and deserted sidewalks, hand in hand and hip to hip. I don’t know about Emily, but I felt like I was glowing.


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