I’m breathing hard as I follow Cam and Jean up a short run of stone steps. They’re already at the top waiting for me, but I don’t hurry. The longer it takes me to enter this massive building the better. They whoop and cajole but I pay them no mind. I’ll get there when I get there.
No matter how slowly I place one foot in front of the other, though, my ascent has to come to an end. By the time I take the last step the bones in my legs feel like spaghetti. I shove my fists into my dress pockets so that Cam has to put an arm around my shoulder instead of taking me by the hand. He’s delighted that I’m affording him such a liberty in public. If only he knew I’d done it to stop him finding out how sweaty nerves have made my palms.
The museum doors are open wide and a security guard scans us as we walk through them. Jean and I roll our eyes and walk on, wondering what item of Cam’s has upset the metal detector. We only get half a dozen paces when he catches up to us.
“Mummies,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument. “I’m here for the Egyptian gold and corpsery, and nothing else.”
Sarcophagi and rotting, bandaged up dead guys? That’s fine by me. Jean isn’t overly interested, he prefers dinosaurs, and I’ll happily do that next, then the insects Cam will remember he wants to see, and then I’ll look at the paintings Jean loves after that. I’ll encourage all of their interests in the hopes that they’ll be so excited they’ll forget to ask me what I want to see.
I’m following the excited pair through an arch when my feet suddenly become glued to the floor. The boys head to and through the next arch on the right, but I’m still standing still. I start to breathe through my mouth. My eyelids feel heavy, but not as heavy as my groin feels as I shuffle forward and veer off to the left.
It only takes me a dozen seconds and a dozen steps, but by the time I reach the piece that has commanded my attention I feel like I’ve been walking non-stop for hours. My thighs ache, my legs feel leaden.
As I inch around the base of the statue I suddenly become hyper-aware of myself. Of my body and what it’s doing on both the inside and the outside. I know that my feet are getting damp in my ballet pumps. That my nipples are scraping at the lace cups of my bra, the fine hairs on the back of my neck are prickling with static and the cotton gusset of my knickers is slowly becoming saturated with sticky, clear fluid.
I don’t know if I made it happen or if it just did, but one side of my shawl falls off my shoulder. As it happens my gaze lands on the bone-white hand of the towering sculpture in front of me. Taking a deep breath, I move closer, studying the creases in the knuckles, the wide nails on the ends of the thick fingers. I lift my gaze, taking in the bend in the wrist, the sinews in the forearms.
When I let out that breath a deep shiver follows. Bumps race from my nape to the dimples just above my ass. I reach around, pretending to have an itch that needs scratching, but I’m really stroking the small of my back, making that thrill shoot right back up my spine.
I’ve never hated anything as much as I hate the red rope that hangs from golden poles to prevent me from getting too close. If I could touch it, I would. The sandal-clad foot would be the perfect height for me to perch on without my feet leaving the floor. With some discreet wriggling on my part the big toe, slightly curved up, would rest right against my knickers. Against my labia. It would easily part them, pressing the fabric into my cunt, just a little.
I’d rock my hips, feeling the cold stone chilling my hot juices until, eventually, I’d have been sat there long enough to transfer some of my warmth to it. As I have the thought my clit twitches, making me gasp. An old woman passing by gives me a concerned glance but I just smile and shift to the other side of the statue.
From this angle, I can see a wide expanse of muscled chest. Smooth and colourless with two small but well-defined nipples. I imagine how hard they’d be beneath my tongue. How cold that solid pectoral would be against my cheek. My heart starts to patter out a staccato rhythm when I imagine wrapping my arms around that unyielding neck and settling into that tight thighed lap.
When I drag my gaze away from blank eyes, letting it skim over a slim nose, pouty lips, and proud jaw, the muscles in my cunt flutter. There are only two places left for me to look, now. I could go around the other side and imagine running my hands over each rise and fall of that perfectly sculpted back.
Or I could do what I’m doing. I take two steps to my left and swallow a moan when I see it. A very small, very limp cock. It droops over to one side, too small to even touch the thigh. Every inch of it would fit in my mouth. The tip of my nose would feel every curl of the thick thatch of pubic hair as I ran my tongue around the little hole in the tip of that minute, solid dick. I imagine myself doing it, pushing my tongue into the hole and maybe finding out that there’s a sneaky head buried beneath the foreskin.
My hand wraps around one of the gold posts and I pant, still staring at the statue’s tiniest part but watching myself in my head. Imagining myself straddling it, cupping the statue’s cheeks and staring into its eyes as I try to fuck a dick that will never rise for me no matter how desperate my pleas get. I imagine myself trying to shake immoveable shoulders, yelling at this marble man as if telling it I’d be better off fucking its feet would somehow offend it enough to make it respond. To make it teach me – a breakable little human – a lesson.
My eyes snap down and I press my lips together, hoping that people will think my thigh scissoring means I need a bathroom break. I do need a bathroom break but I’m not going to make it. I can’t help myself. There are only two feet between me and those feet. Twenty-four inches between me and that protruding toe.
With my heart making a break for my throat, I lean over and touch it. Just the tip of my finger, just the tip of the toe. As soon as I feel that hard, freezing cold stone it happens. I slap my hand over my mouth and feel wetness trickle down my leg, forced out by the waves of pleasure that roll from my solar plexus to the entrance of my cunt.
When the orgasm is over I look around sheepishly, hoping no-one noticed. Oh. I feel my face get hotter as I meet Cam’s eyes. He pushes away from the column he’s resting against and his smile broadens with each step he takes toward me.
Once he reaches me he takes my sweaty hand in his and tows me gently away. With a quiet laugh, he says, “Damn, girl. First, it was the big titted figurehead at the nautical museum, then it was that crucified Jesus at the cathedral, and now it’s this muscly Greek fucker? We really can’t take you anywhere, can we?”