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From: David <david@innercite.com>
Subject: A Day at the Art Institute (voy, mast, m/f oral)
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The following story is fiction, any similarity to actual acts performed 
in public or similarity between this and real life is purely 
coincidental.  The following is the product of my imagination and mine 
for enjoyment of people reading on the net.  If you want to put this on 
your for pay site please contact me.  This work is not intended for minors.
Comments appreciated.
Enjoy,
David

A Day at the Art Institute
by David

Work has been really stressful and I just had to blow a day for myself.  
Hop in the car and drive.  So I headed down 94 for an hour and a half 
until I could get off and drive along Chicago's lakefront.  I like the big 
city.  It has energy.  Chicago is a favorite place for a lot of 
reasons.  Its architecture, shows, shopping, and museums.
  
My favorite Chicago museums are the Shedd Aquarium and The Chicago Art 
Institute.  I could watch the dolphins and beluga whales for hours, but 
todday I wanted to get lost in the works of man.

Today I wanted impressionists and Rodin.  I wanted armour and tapestries, 
oriental prints and textiles.  I wanted to see the "Burgers of Calais" and 
"Water Lillies".  I wanted to get lost in the details of a Durer print or 
the depths of Rembrandts shadows.  What might be hiding in the shadows if 
I looked close enough?

Being a weekday the museum was almost empty except for the 
occaisional tour group.  It was fun to stand off to the side and 
listen to the Docent explain a piece of work, or explain the artist 
behind an image.  Occasionally there was the random art student studying a 
piece.  He might have a sketch pad out trying to imitate or learn a 
certain technique.  Or she might be recording the different shading and 
colors used for a certain affect.

I was following behind one group of high school students, listening 
to their guide, when we passed a side alcove with late Renaissance 
work.  From the doorway I could see a woman sitting staring in 
admiration of a piece.  She was wearing a light sleeveless 
cotton dress. Relaxed and comfortable.  One leg was stretched out 
along the bench and the other was on the floor. Her pose had her 
skirts hem high on her thigh.  Her legs were spread wide and I 
could almost see the joint of thigh to hip.  Ok, so maybe the works of 
god were going to supplant the works of man.  Her back was to me from 
this doorway, but a few paces along my room was another entry to her gallery.

I leaned against the door admiring the painting that held her attention 
and smiled when I noticed it was something like the rape of the sabines 
or a revel of bacchus.  Nymphs and satyrs were frolicking along grape 
arbors.  Some joined in joyous coupling.  Women running from excited, 
obviously male, satyrs.  Not running in fear but in tease, with smiles 
upon their lips, and lust within their eyes.

I looked around the room slowly, appearing to admire some of the other 
works from the doorway while trying to catch a view of the woman on the 
bench.  She appeared to be still admiring the bacchanalia, and yes, her 
dress was up high on one hip.  In fact so high that I could tell she 
wasnt wearing any panties.  I tried not to stare.  Really I did.  I even 
noticed her long brown hair and dark eyes as well as a great smile.  

Out of the corner of my eye I watched as her hand trailed along her thigh 
until it was sliding beneath the hem of her dress.  She leaned back as 
her hem rose.  Her breasts outlined by the soft lightweight fabric were 
obviously without a bra's support.   Her nipples were standing hard and 
proud.  Her eyes closed as I watched her open herself to  her audience of 
one.  I gave up all pretenses of observing anything other than this 
beautiful woman as she enjoyed herself.  

She spread her labia like an opening Georgia OKeefe callalilly that I had 
just seen several galleries back.  Except this lilly's petals were pink 
instead of white.  Wisps of curly brown hair framed this blooming flower, 
and her finger slid slowly along its petals from the dark opening at the 
base to the stamen at its peak.  Pearls of moisture gathered along her 
petals, and I wished that I were a bee that could taste the honey that lay 
there.  The rise and fall of her chest became more apparent as she 
stroked her flower.  Her fingers motions increased as did her breathing 
which was now audible.

My cock was rock hard and tenting my trousers to an almost embarrassing 
degree.  I felt like one of the satyrs from the painting.
I was so intent on watching her finger play that I didnt notice her eyes 
open.  She plunged two fingers within her depths.  I smiled as her body 
shuddered in release of pleasure.  As her hand left the depths of 
womanhood, she raised her fingers to her lips, slowly sucking them 
clean.  I watched in amazement and finally met her eyes which apparently 
had been watching mine almost the whole time.  Seductively she pulled her 
finger from her mouth, smiling.  She winked and blew me a kiss as she 
rose, turned, and walked out the other door.

Now I could have just let her go.  I probably should have just let her 
go.  But she had struck my fancy and I was curious if I would get to 
witness another performanceh.  Watching her walk ahead of me from 
gallery to gallery I admired her young legs.  We were in an upper 
gallery and she led me back and through the museum, down 
into the textiles where no one seems to go.  I was trying to keep an eye 
on her without being too obvious so I tried to keep my distance.  I also 
tried to keep admiring the works of art around me.  With so much beauty 
surrounding me it was hard to keep my attention on just her.  Although 
there is no comparison between the beauty of a young flesh and blood 
woman and that of a canvas or sculpture, the love and beauty that went 
into a work of art calls out to me.  They are to be cherished and admired 
just as the beauty of a woman is to be cherished.

I lost her.  I got distracted by some Asian art and didnt notice when she 
walked out of the gallery.  I think it was a statue of Shiva.  I would 
have noticed if she had walked past me so she must have gone ahead.  I 
continued on.  Three side galleries later, in a special room for fabrics 
and textiles, she was leaning up against a wall.  Her cotton skirt above her 
hips, her top open to her navel, finger playing on her clit, and her own 
mouth sucking at a nipple.  One leg was resting on the seat of a bench 
and she was lost to the world in her own pleasure.  I watched for a 
moment and could be voyeur no more.  I slid on my knees, a supplicant to 
her passion.   With one hand, I raised her lifted leg higher, and as my 
mouth closed in on the area her fingers were attending, my thumb slid 
gently into her wonderful open and moist cunt.

She let go of her ministrations and pulled my head hard against her.  Her 
fingers entwining in the long curls at the back of my head.  Her strokes 
told me her rhythm.  Thumb and tongue did her bidding.  Her hands at the 
back of my head orchestrated my attentions.  Her nectar was sweet honey 
to my lips.  She smelled of spring, fertility, and growth.  Youthful 
exuberance and joy in living were her gifts.  Her moisture flowed as she 
started to tremble.   While my thumb slid in and out of her vagina, my 
fore finger played at her anus until the moisture seeping from her 
lubricated all in its path.  She shivered again as my finger slid into 
her ass.

I massaged her thigh and cupped her ass with my free hand, reveling in 
the touch of my callused hand against her young firm flesh.  Her hands 
left my head and I glanced up, never letting my tongue slip from its 
glorious chore.  Her head was arched back and her breathing ragged as I 
could see her stomach muscles tightening  and spasming in pleasure.  Her 
hands were above her head as she stretched like a cat.  Back arching, 
she pushed her pubis harder against my mouth.  I covered her clit with my 
mouth and sucked as if it were a little  cock.  My tongue danced upon her 
nub in a rhythm faster than her heart's beat.  Her little orgasms up to 
this point were just an advent to the one that shook her core as my thumb 
and finger rotated within her as my mouth ravaged her clit.  She gasped 
and trembled fiercely.  I could see her biting her arm to stifle a scream 
and then she spoke her first words.  "No, no more, please no more..."

Her voice was soft and imploring. Her body shivered slightly as I 
withdrew my fingers from her core.  With a light kiss I lifted my mouth 
from her sensitive bud.  Between her own masturbation and my 
ministrations I could see that it was not just pink from excitation but 
red from over stimulation.

I stood before her and looked into her glistening eyes.
"Thank you", was all she said at first as she tried to catch her breath.
"Your welcome", I replied and turned to walk away.
She grabbed my shoulder softly and asked, "is there anything that I can do 
for you?"

I smiled and debated for a moment.  Do I ask her to just keep on doing 
what she is doing bringing joy to others as well as herself? Or, do I ask 
for pleasure in return?

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