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Every now and then, I liked to visit the museum of art after college in the quiet hour before closing time. There was a new installation there, an alabaster sculpture of a girl of beautiful craftsmanship. ‘Reclining Venus - Lorenzo Bartolini - 1820’.
A peculiar sensation of being watched overcame me as I stooped over the sculpture to examine its beauty. Oddly, while the rest of the artwork had ‘Do Not Touch’ signs, the one attached to this one read 'Please Touch'.
“Go ahead.” A woman, dark-haired and beautiful, stepped into the room. “You're welcome to touch it. Don't worry, she won’t bite. She won’t do anything. She’s just a statue.”
“I figured it was a misprint.”
“Not at all. We're encouraging all our visitors to interact with this particular piece. We find it's the best way for them to truly appreciate the artform. Go ahead.”
I shrugged and placed a hand on the statue's knee, appreciating the startling realism there before trailing my fingers slowly up the thigh. The stone was warmer than I’d anticipated, almost body temperature, and not quite as smooth as it appeared. Instead it was slightly granular, and it left a white, chalky residue on my fingertips.
The woman watched with an eerie intensity as my fingers investigated the anatomical-detail of the marble musculature that made up the buttocks. “Did you say something?” I asked. I could have sworn a soft moan came from somewhere.
“Must be the wind,” she soothed. “Pretty, isn’t she? She's such a pretty little thing. Don’t you think?”
“Whoever made her had quite the eye for female anatomy."
"Would you like to own her?"
"A little out of my price range I'm afraid," I laughed politely. Her strange manner unnerved me a little. "Do you work here?”
“My husband owns this collection.”
“He must be a rich man.”
“Very. Marcellino Vecoli, you may have heard of him. He worked hard all his life to assemble these pieces. But in his retirement he is somewhat more… reclining. He found that money did not buy him satisfaction.”
“What does?” I asked, making polite chit-chat. Something about the woman put me on edge, though she was beautiful enough to tolerate. Perhaps it was something about the room I didn't like.
She smiled enigmatically at my question. “What do you think about the chest? Please, take your time. The nipples were made by a master artisan.”
In the hope that complying would make her leave me alone in peace, I obliged, cupping the marble mammaries. Again, they were warmer than I expected stone to be. My fingertips examined the nipples, circling them studiously.
“There’s that wind again,” I muttered, withdrawing my hands quickly. The muffled orgasmic grunt from somewhere in the room was undeniable that time. I mumbled a 'thank you for your time', and quickly left, staring uneasily at the chalky residue on my hands.
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Gabriella Vecoli looks down at her husband frozen in plaster and spray-on marble. “Did you have fun there, darling?”
The statue gives a soft groan of affirmation, shifting its stiffly painted hand with effort to unveil something stiffer - the fleshy, pink, unpainted cock standing proud and throbbing between its alabaster thighs.
“Liked him, did you?” Gabriella croons, taking the cock in her hand. “Why don’t I finish you off and then we can get you out of this.” She leans in to whisper as she slowly jerks her encased husband to completion. “Or maybe I’ll keep you in there and sell you to the nice young man.”
Her statueified husband gives a gurgle of delight around his concealed oxygen and feeding tubes at the thought, as a spray of cum coats his marble skin.
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