Speaker 1: It's Monday, September twenty ninth, and time for your daily fuck.
Speaker 1: The silence in this wing of the museum is a
Speaker 1: living thing. It's a Monday afternoon, and the only sounds
Speaker 1: are the distant echo of my own footsteps on the
Speaker 1: marble floor and the faint hum of the climate control.
Speaker 1: I'm standing in front of the birth of Venus, or
Speaker 1: at least a very good replica, and I can't help
Speaker 1: it smile. It's been a long time since I've truly
Speaker 1: appreciated the female form. Too long. My ex Joe had
Speaker 1: the body of a Greek god but the passion of
Speaker 1: a marble statue, and since him, it's just been other men.
Speaker 1: I feel a gaze on my back, a prickling awareness
Speaker 1: that's different from the casual glance of a fellow patron.
Speaker 1: I turn my head slightly. Standing near the archway to
Speaker 1: the next gallery is a security guard, a woman. She's tall,
Speaker 1: with her dark hair pulled back in a severe professional
Speaker 1: bun that somehow makes the soft curve of her neck
Speaker 1: seem incredibly vulnerable. Her uniform is crisp and tablored, but
Speaker 1: I can't hide the confident swell of her hips or
Speaker 1: the strength in her posture. She isn't looking at the art.
Speaker 1: She's looking at me, her eyes a startlingly clear shade
Speaker 1: of blue. Hold mine. There's no aggression in her stare
Speaker 1: none of the lazy and title men I'm used to
Speaker 1: for men. It's a look of pure quiet appraisal, of appreciation.
Speaker 1: She isn't just looking at the art on the wall.
Speaker 1: She's looking at me, like a masterpiece she desperately wants
Speaker 1: to touch. It had been so long since a woman
Speaker 1: had looked at me that way, let alone touched me that.
Speaker 1: In that instance, I decide I bleed her. I walked
Speaker 1: slowly toward her, my heels quicking softly. I stopped beside her,
Speaker 1: pretending to admire a nearby bust. It's beautiful. My eyes
Speaker 1: are fixed on the stone, almost makes you want to
Speaker 1: reach out and touch it. Her gaze fixed down on
Speaker 1: my hands and back to my face. A ghost of
Speaker 1: a smile plays on her lips. You're not allowed to
Speaker 1: touch the pieces, but that doesn't mean you can't touch
Speaker 1: other things. Her voice is a low, smooth contralto. She
Speaker 1: gives a subtle nod toward a massive, muscular statue of
Speaker 1: hercules tucked away in a dimly lit alcove. The cameras
Speaker 1: have a blind spot back there. My heart hammers against
Speaker 1: my ribs. This is it. I follow her into the shadows,
Speaker 1: the cool air behind the hulking marble statue, raising goosebumps
Speaker 1: on my arms. The moment we're out of sight, she turns,
Speaker 1: presses me against the wall, her body flush against mine.
Speaker 1: Her hands are on my waist, Her thumbs drive small,
Speaker 1: firm circles. I was hoping you'd come over. Her mouth
Speaker 1: is hovering inches from mine. I was hoping you'd be watching.
Speaker 1: I close the gate between us, kissing her as a revelation.
Speaker 1: It's not the demanding crush of a man, but a soft,
Speaker 1: steering exploration. Her lips are surprisingly full, and she tastes
Speaker 1: like coffee and mint. My hands come up to her shoulders,
Speaker 1: then slide down to her hips, pulling her impossibly closer.
Speaker 1: I can feel the soft give of her breasts against
Speaker 1: my own, the solid muscle of her thighs pressed to mind.
Speaker 1: It's a feeling I'd almost forgotten, and my body sings
Speaker 1: with the memory of it. Her hands are magic. One
Speaker 1: slides up my back, pulling me tight, while the other
Speaker 1: vetch hers south her palm, pressing firmly against the fun
Speaker 1: of my dress, right over my mound. I cast into
Speaker 1: her mouth as a jolt of electricity shoots through me.
Speaker 1: She grinds her hand against me, and I can feel
Speaker 1: my own wetness begin to soak the thin fabric. This
Speaker 1: isn't enough. I need to feel her skin. My hands
Speaker 1: dyed under the hem of her uniform shirt, finding the warm,
Speaker 1: soft skin of her stomach. At the same time, her
Speaker 1: hand is up my dress, her fingers finding the damp
Speaker 1: lace of my panties. She doesn't hesitate. She slips a
Speaker 1: finger underneath the elastic, finding my slick, swollen clod. A
Speaker 1: choke sob escapes my throat. Her touch is perfect, knowing
Speaker 1: she knows exactly where to press, hot to circle. I
Speaker 1: break the kiss, panting, and bury my face in the
Speaker 1: warm curve of her neck. My hips start to move
Speaker 1: on their own, a frantic rhythm against her expert hand.
Speaker 1: By turn, I managed to say, my own hand finding
Speaker 1: its way under the waistband of her trousers. She's not
Speaker 1: wearing panties. I find her just as wet and ready
Speaker 1: as I am. Her fingers dance a desperate, phantic ballet
Speaker 1: in the shadows of the museum. I'm grinding against her,
Speaker 1: She's grinding against me, our hips locked together. I can
Speaker 1: feel her clit hard and pebbled under my fingertips at
Speaker 1: the same time she's stroking mine. It's an overload of sensation,
Speaker 1: the coal marble at my back, the soft press of
Speaker 1: her breast, her fingers inside me, my fingers inside her,
Speaker 1: the muffled sounds of our phantic breathing. I'm so close,
Speaker 1: the pleasure coiling into an unbearable knot in my stomach.
Speaker 1: I look into her eyes and I can see the
Speaker 1: same imminent explosion reflected there are going to come together.
Speaker 1: Don't stop. Her voice is strained. I push my fingers faster,
Speaker 1: grinding my hips against hers with everything I have, pressing
Speaker 1: our hands together inside us, the world narrows to this single,
Speaker 1: perfect point of contact. The orgasm hits us both. Her
Speaker 1: body goes rigid against mine, a sharp cry muffled against
Speaker 1: my shoulder, and it's all it takes to push me
Speaker 1: over my own climax rips through me, a silent, body
Speaker 1: racking spasm of pure bliss. My vision goes white, and
Speaker 1: the only thing I feel is her. All around me,
Speaker 1: sharing the same shuddering release. We stay like that for
Speaker 1: a long moment, clinging to each other in the dark,
Speaker 1: our body's trembling with the aftershocks. Slowly we pull apart,
Speaker 1: a slick mess of shared pleasure. We fix our clothes,
Speaker 1: our hands, brushing the intimacy still hanging in the air.
Speaker 1: She gives me one last searing look, a look that
Speaker 1: says everything, before she melts back into the shadows and
Speaker 1: resumes her post. I walk out of the museum and
Speaker 1: into the bright afternoon sun. My leg's unsteady beneath me.
Speaker 1: I can't hear to look at priceless art. But she's
Speaker 1: the one who turned my body into a masterpiece.