“Happens to all of us. Long nights, too little sleep… you know,” But, he thought, she just might. The illusion flickered but didn’t die-he held it, looking at her pretty face, and smiled back. Maybe -
“Too well. Sometimes I think the only thing that keeps me going is the joe,” she said. She held it, the dream of him kissing her, of his broad chest, his strong thrusts, the chills and wonderful shivers of him inside her. Not tonight-no, but there’s always the next day.
“Good dreams. See you in here tomorrow?” he said, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice, the precious grip on his dream from slipping. It was a good illusion: so real and… too complete not to give it a try.
“It’s a date-I’ll just follow the moon,” she said, swallowing back an octave of pleasure. Not today, but maybe later-maybe sometime soon, maybe even tomorrow.
“See ya,” he said as she got off the stool and picked up her handbag.
“Bye,” she said as she passed him and walked towards the glass doors.
He watched her go, and smiled At the doors she looked back, and returned it.
Perfection by Charisse
Perfection. Greek sculptors mastered their art: realistic carvings in every conceivable way. Astonishing. Mesmerizing. I enjoy touring the ruins and have walked the museums, but never before have I been so lucky as tonight.
It is one of those “friend of a friend” connections that allows me to wander the storage area of a little known museum that houses the newest discovery from ancient Greece. The very male athlete stands, from head to toe, just over six feet. Just like his brethren, there is a tangible realism to his features; he very well could have been a victim of Medusa! There are no identifying marks to credit a sculptor and there is no support signaling a Roman reproduction. Perfect balance, perfect craftsmanship, perfect…perfection. His musculature is well defined. His body poised.
But he is different from all the rest. Where the others follow a contrapposto form, he does not. Neither does he stand rigid and straight. No, there is a real…character…attitude… something in the way he stands. His head is slightly tilted, his face drawn down, and a very faint serene expression rides his visage. His sole arm extends downward, with a slight outward angle, as if he is reaching for something. His shoulders are wide with very obvious brute strength, and yet…and yet he appears tenderly loving.
He is intriguing. But wait! Loving? I step back and look again at the entire statue. From a few feet away he appears to be reaching for something off a table, but up close…
I allow my eyes follow down his body and admire the sculpted abs. This is an Olympian athlete without question! I return to my close inspection as my eyes lower. As with his brethren, he is nude, and very much male. The marble phallus glistens and I realize I have dropped to my knees and gotten a little too close. But is this too close? Never before have I objectified a work of art, but tonight…tonight I am drawn…and I need to understand why!
Just one touch? A single touch cannot harm this masterpiece. The limp carving begs to be caressed. One solitary kiss will not hurt. The moment the thought strikes, my lips press forward. Cool white marble shocks my nerves, but I do not pull away too far. I frown at the aftermath of my momentary peck; bright red lipstick screams from the surface of the stone. I reach up and gently brush my left palm slowly down the smooth shaft. A smile twitches my mouth; I am being gentle because this is a work of art and it is ancient, I tell myself. While a man is the most useful to a lot of women when he is hard, I find the softer moments to be a prized pleasure. Engulfing him and feeling him grow inside my mouth is a wonderful experience! But this is not a real man, I admonish my thoughts. To which, I reply, Oh, but to try!
While I argue with my irrational urges, my hand continues to wipe at my lipstick. I watch as my hand closes and begins to stroke the marble cock. I watch in silence, for my thoughts cease to exist. It is a full minute before I realize my fingers are fully encircled and touch my thumb. I know that means something is wrong, but I cannot place exactly what that something is. My hand is a slight shade of pink, the faded lipstick soaking into the stone acting as a lubricant for my stroking. I lean forward and close my eyes as my lips pull the tip of the statue into my mouth. It has been warmed by my hand and continues to melt on my tongue. I expected a rocky taste, but receive a pleasant flesh flavor dancing along my taste buds. My right hand instinctively rises to cup his balls. As I suck, they become soft in my grasp. A moan escapes, sending chills down my spine, tightening my nipples, and soaking my panties. With a full mouth and full hands, I look up. The sight that meets my eyes is amazing! He is not reaching for something off of a table, he is reaching to run his fingers through my hair!
This thought excites me more than I could ever imagine — a one of a kind Greek statue that is not meant as an offering to the gods or as a tribute to an athlete, but as a simple reminder to a wife of her husband’s love! The view from this angle is splendid! His face, his arm, his stance is so life-like. As I close my eyes, I fail to notice how the white marble is slowly disappearing. A tan radiates from his groin outward, pulsing with my heartbeat.
As the tan deepens, flesh appears. The focal point is the quickly growing cock deep in my mouth. My mouth feels to be shrinking, but it is only the limp cock waking, stretching, and my throat opens to accommodate the larger intrusion. My eyes flutter open, the chills once again spreading through my body. I look up as fingers brush over my head and a smile greets me in his softening face. I slowly pull my mouth away, letting my right hand take over stroking as my left switches to the soft pouch beneath his delicious cock, but before I can release the tip, he halts my head with his strong hand.
“Please, do not stop,” rumbles through the room. His voice is deep, gravelly, warm, and tender. How can I refuse? I once more lower my lips toward the golden hair at the base of his cock. How long had I been sucking on flesh with hair tickling my nose? When had the marble faded?
Questions are useless and annoying when there is a simple pleasure at hand. I ignore my thoughts and concentrate on the enjoyable task. His hand releases his tight grip and his fingers splay through my hair once more. He begins to moan, a deep thunderous yet melodious music to my ears. My panties are no longer simply wet; my jeans, as well, are soaked through. I have had orgasms while giving men pleasure before and I can feel the tell-tale signs of one beginning now. My stomach tightens, butterflies dance inside, and all I can do is moan. He is getting close, too; I can feel him swell and begin to throb.
Just as I begin to cum, just a second before he releases himself down my throat, he whispers, “I am sorry.” I do not care why, the ecstasy flows.
He stared down at the marble statue of a kneeling Greek woman, face raised with her only arm held up, as if drinking water from a nonexistent fountain. His low voice echoed through the storage room, “The Fates are cruel, but I thank you for your gift of life. May the gods favor you and allow you to shed the curse of Medusa as I have.”
Level of Difficulty by Jhada Addams
“Just — trust me. Most comfortable seat you’ll ever have.”
I eye you, wary, as you pat your lap.
“It’s an important conference call this time.” I take a step towards you, your expression mildly amused as you grin back at me. “You gonna behave?”
A low chuckle rumbles out of your throat. You don’t even try to bullshit me. It’s one of the things I like most about you.
“You sure you want me to?”
A tremble goes through my body, and my voice shakes as I respond.
“No.”