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From: taria29b@aol.com (Taria29b)
Subject: REPOST by REQ: Art Appreciation Pt. One by Taria

Please move right along if you are:
(a) Under the age of legal consent for erotica
(b) Under the influence of Dworkin and McKinnon, who think I am just      
perpetuating the oppressive patriarchal social construct, or
(c) Under the impression that "erotica" is just "porn" misspelled.

I personally find this story very arousing, which makes sense, since I
wrote it.  But it has a lot of words and spends some time setting the
scene, and if you want more instant gratification you should try Mike
Hunt, who seems like a good quick cure for what ails you.  The rest of you
are welcome to join me, and read on.
_________________________________________________________
Art Appreciation, Part One
by Taria

	He was late, this time by about forty minutes.  Not only is my
husband rarely on time, but he is also extremely forgetful, and the longer
I stood the more certain I was that he had forgotten all about our dinner
plans.  "Damn him anyway," I thought, shifting from foot to foot in the
chilling cold.  The steamy breath rising from between my clenched teeth
was a perfect match for my fire-breathing mood, and I remained there
another five minutes, alternating between fuming and freezing.  

	Finally, I turned on my heel to march off in a huff, and noticed
that I had been standing my lonely vigil in front of an Art Gallery. 
"Cooper Gallery," the sign read, with a small clipped advertisement
touting "The Photographs of Andres" taped to the inside of the window.  I
couldn't really see inside, because the windows were mostly fogged up. 
"Warm," I murmured, and forgetting everything else I swung the door wide
and entered.

	After basking in the blessed heat for a long moment, I opened my
eyes to see a tall coffee-colored man sitting behind a desk.  He flashed a
small smile at me as I thawed out.  "Welcome," he said quietly, and he
gestured toward a bound guest book, which I signed, smiling back.  He
gestured with his head--I caught the sparkle of a metallic earring out of
the corner of my eye--to his right, and with a quick "thank you" I
followed his head-shake and walked with measured steps (my feet were just
getting feeling back, and I was in heels) into a large, carpeted room
sectioned by grey cubicle walls.  "Andres Presents the History of Sex,"
read a plaque to the left of the entrance, and I began to wonder exactly
what I was in for.

	Nudes, mostly, or so it seemed to me at first glance.  I walked
slowly around the room, mostly unseeing, my senses dulled in the muffled
environment of the padded walls and thick carpets.  Idly I paused before a
portrait of "Alessandra," a lantered-jawed, tanned brunette who gazed
directly back at me with pursed lips, the fingers of her big right hand
resting on her bent knee.  Musing, I noticed the odd effect caused by her
chiselled face and jaw, her broad nose, and then down to her curved
shoulders, thin arms, and large breasts, the brown erect nipples pointing
out in different directions.  

	As my eyes continued their downward journey I noted the lighter
patch of her bikini area, her massive-looking thighs...and suddenly I
blinked.  I rubbed my eyes twice and stood a little closer, bending at my
waist as I brought my face close to the photograph.  Yes!  There it was--I
DIDN'T imagine it!  Hanging between Alessandra's spread thighs, directly
beneath the round, tanned breasts, was a penis!  

	And not a tiny, shrivelled little one, either, but a life-sized
downward-pointing shlong--I couldn't repress the word--jutting out from a
patch of pubic hair, with one testicle showing behind it and to the left. 
My head spun for a moment, and I stepped back to take in the total effect
of this shocking image.  Of course--the masculine face, the large hands--a
man's hands--but still...nothing looked fake either.  From neck to waist I
saw a woman's body, the heavy breasts and hairless torso narrowing down
toward the waistline.  Hormones?  Some kind of bizarre surgery?  The
unexpected pink penis-flesh at the lower center of the image, covering the
flat mat of pubic hair I had expected to see and even imagined at first
before I really looked carefully, had put me all out of whack.  In a daze,
I turned away from Alessandra to the next large, glossy photograph, and
all my breath went out of me with a whoosh.

	A couple stood before me, again staring imperturbably out of the
picture directly at me, their heads tilted to face me and their bodies
faced to the right, so I stood looking at them from the side.  Two young
lovers, both in their late teens, blond, Nordic-featured.  "Christiaan &
Rose," the caption read, and I drank them in.  She stood behind him,
snuggled up against his back with her arm curled underneath his and her
hand bent up, resting on his muscled shoulder.  Her long hair, parted in
the middle, hung down behind her face, which displayed the barest of
smiles; his head, framed by close-cropped hair and his lips slightly
parted, rested against hers.  

	They were gorgeous, young, beautiful naked bodies, his chest and
her breasts modestly shielded by their loving, interlocking arms.  Below
his impossibly chiselled waist I could see the curve of his buttocks, from
the side; in front of them his penis--so much like Alessandra's, I could
not help thinking--emerged from a fine spray of light brown pubic hair. 
And behind him, her hips slightly angled away, was his lover.  Her hips
were framed within a black V of two leather straps, her pubic area covered
by a patch of black leather, and with a bright white penis--no, a cock,
surely--angled down, resting, it seemed, between his buttocks.

	My face grew hot, and suddenly I felt I could not breathe. 
Dabbing at my forehead a little I casually shrugged myself out of my coat,
glancing quickly all around me to see if anyone was watching me, staring
at me.  There was no one...but it did not matter, for I could not look
away.  My eyes were riveted by the image before me--Rose, who was smiling
at me, yes, I could see that now, clearly.  And Christiaan, his head
tilted slightly back and resting on hers, his lips parted perhaps in
passion, in pleading?  "Yes, Darling...take me now"...I imagined his
moans, his desire to open himself to be penetrated, be entered. be
fucked...by Rose, his Lover, perhaps under different circumstances his
Woman.  

	And she, her hips tilted back but ready to thrust forward, and up,
and in, to fill him and fuck him and do him and push into his body until
the two of them were connected at the genitals, but with her behind him
and her pubis against his ass cheeks and the depths of his body filled...I
was flushed, and shaking, and aroused beyond belief.  Somehow I tore my
eyes away from the sight of the young lovers and staggered to the Ladies'
Room, washed my face, and stared into the mirror.  Rose looked back out at
me, smiling her blissful half-smile.  I emerged quickly and headed
straight for the door, and was leaving but, without knowing why, stopped
and turned back to the man at his desk.  "Uhmm..." I cleared my throat,
and moistened my dry lips.  "Excuse me...was there some kind of a
catalogue of  this show...for sale?"

	I stepped out into the freezing cold with my catalogue, concealed
in its nondescript bag, still blushing.  And then...a coincidence,
perhaps, or fate?  As I stood in front of the gallery, bemused, two young
women emerged from behind me, pushing me a little as they burst out of the
door, all energy, hands clasped tightly together.  Like me, both girls
were flushed, but they were also giggling, their eyes dancing as they
laughed together.  One of them turned to say "excuse me," and as she did
her coat fell open and I saw a white t-shirt with purple lettering: THE
GARDEN, it said, in flowery script, and then they were gone. 

	A long-ago memory from a friend's bachlorette party resurfaced,
the image of several phallic packages being passed around as we
raunchy--embarrassed, really--ladies giggled and blushed and drank white
wine.  The wrapping had said THE GARDEN too, and I even remembered the
street address because it was in the next building over from my husband's
office in those days.  With a sudden shock I realized I was just down the
block from the store.  And gripped by a sudden impulse I could not resist
I made my way there, got buzzed in the front when I pressed the bell, and
took the elevator up two floors.  The staff were all women; so were most
of the customers.  And after standing awkwardly for twenty minutes,
chatting with an amazingly matter-of-fact salesgirl for five minutes more,
and then steeling my resolve, I handed over my credit card.

	When I got home I crept in like a philandering husband returning
home at 4 A.M., my shoes dangling from my fingertips and my packages
bundled up inside my coat in my arms.  "Honey?" I called out, hoping and
praying that my forgetful spouse was working late again, engrossed in his
latest Big Important Project.  Luck was with me that evening, for noone
answered my tentative hellos.  Dropping my shoes and coat, I practically
ran into the bedroom clutching the crumpled paper bags and their secret
hidden treasures.  I immediately decided upon the perfect hiding-place: an
upper shelf in my closet already cluttered with hair accessories and other
detritus, seldom-used junk I simply could not do without.  

	But wait...was that the front door?  In a rush of fear, an
agonizing moment of potential discovery I simply could not handle, I
froze.  I snapped out of it and stashed my bundle away in an instant as
quietly as I could, and then called out in a slightly quavering voice,
"Sweetie?  'Zat you?"  It was, of course, and he was hungry, tired, and
put-out at me for leaving my stuff all over the place in our clean living
room.  "Can't you put your things away?" he grumbled as always, neatening
everything up as he made his way through our apartment.  I was so relieved
that he suspected nothing that I completely forgot to reprimand him for
his thoughtlessness in standing me up.  We ate and then went to bed early,
and he was out like a light.  I was so wound up I barely slept a wink all
night.

	The next morning I waited anxiously for the chance to be alone. 
When my husband finally cleared out I picked up the phone and called in
sick to work.  The empty apartment was big and quiet as I stood in my robe
and sipped my coffee.  Out of sheer willfullness, and maybe a little fear
of the unknown, I bypassed the bedroom and headed for the bathroom, where
I drew a hot bath, sprinkled it lightly with some scented oils I almost
never use--who ever has time for a bath, anyway?--and sank into the tub
with a deep sigh.  I deserve this, I thought to myself.  When do I ever
take a day off, anyway?  Why shouldn't I indulge myself?  And so I soaked,
and I washed myself slowly and lethargically.  

	But I knew why I was home.  And when I soaped and rinsed my
breasts I tingled; and when my hands ran down my soapy arms and up my legs
I felt light-headed; and when I washed my pussy my fingers lingered there,
lightly caressing the lips and folds and making a small circle with my
index finger just inside the entrance; and I felt myself raise my hips off
the tub bottom so I could insert a soapy finger inside my anus, and my
muscles clenched and tightened around the unaccustomed intruder and I made
a small moan, a barely audible "oooooo."  And then I opened my eyes and
awkwardly got to my feet, the water splashing over the edge of the tub and
my body tingling and chilled by the outside air.  Quickly I toweled off,
and since I could stand this no longer I left the bathroom, headed for the
bedroom, and opened my closet door.

	Standing on my tiptoes, my hair still dripping down my back, I
rummaged around with my hands until my fingertips made contact with a
paper bag.  Leaving the flat package of the catalogue on the shelf, I
grasped what I wanted and pulled it down.  My hands almost trembling, I
uncrumpled the small lavendar bag and shook it out over my bed.  Out
dropped a triangular patch, with a few buckled narrow straps dangling. 
One more fevered shake, and out came a pale simulated penis and scrotum,
with a round base.  I tried to remember the arrangement of the straps as
the salesgirl had demonstrated; when I couldn't quite get it, I jumped up
again and fetched the catalogue from its hiding place on my shelf, and
skimmed the pages rapidly until I found Rose and Christiaan.  I fiddled
for a few moments, adjusting and rebuckling straps and looking intently at
the strap arrangement on Rose's hips.  I tightened a little more, and then
moved over a little to gaze into the full-length mirror on the closet
door.

	Standing before me was me, looking ridiculously naked except for
the black-and-white contraption strapped around my middle.  "This is
silly," I muttered, feeling the discomfort of the straps and the weight of
the thing pulling at my pubic area.  I moved a little closer to the mirror
and turned to the side, and suddenly I didn't feel so ridiculous any more.
 I turned my head and looked at my reflection, at the curve and swell of
my left breast, with its pink nipple; at the slight rounding swell of my
belly; and then at the length of the pale erect cock that seemed to extend
from my body.  The image was undeniably erotic, and I felt myself tingle
all over as I stared.  I watched myself in the mirror as I raised both my
arms slowly over my head, arching my back sexily so my breasts stood out. 
My cock, as I was coming to think of it, stood up as well, bouncing a
little as I moved.  Slowly I lowered my arms, my hands first caressing the
sides of my neck, then down to my breasts.  I watched as I rubbed them,
kneading and squeezing softly, the sexiness of the action heightened by
the sight of my erect cock protruding out.  My fingers played lightly with
my nipples, which had already hardened perceptibly--no surprise there, I
thought--and then caressed the underside of my breasts, lifting them
slightly away from my body.  I felt the cool moistness there that remained
after my bath, the wetness that my quick towelling motions had not dried,
and I moaned softly, my eyes narrowing slightly as I watched how I
caressed myself.  My hands moved down my sides now, to my hips, where they
encountered the thin leather straps I had buckled there.  My fingers
followed the straps to the harness, and then I watched myself in the
mirror as my right hand touched the penis I wore, clenching around it,
encircling it, rubbing it.  

	The new latex didn't feel like any cock I had ever held in my hand
before.  It was cool, not warm and pulsing like a man's, and it seemed
like my hand stuck to it slightly with its newness, its plasticky feeling.
 I reached into my bedroom drawer and found a crimped tube of K-Y jelly
that my husband and I sometimes used.  I squirted a little out into my
palm--it was cold and felt a little greasy--and as I watched I returned my
hand to the cock and began to pump slowly.  The lubricant helped a lot,
and I held my body still as I watched my hand moving up and down,
masturbating the cock I wore on my body.  I closed my eyes and kept
pumping, trying to imagine what it would be like to jerk off my own hard,
erect cock, and involuntarily I thrust my hips forward a little, fucking
my hand as it pumped up and down, up and down.  When my eyes opened again
a laugh bubbled up from within as I thought of Freud, and "Penis Envy" and
what my old Psychology professor would think of all this.  But then, why
be envious?  I really did have my own penis now.

	Just thinking about my cock warmed me up again, and I realized
with a moan that my adventure of the day before, my sensual bath, and my
activities in front of my mirror had aroused me beyond belief.  I tried to
sneak a hand behind the straps and harness I wore, but that was no go:
everything was too snug and too tight.  Reluctantly I loosened them,
driven by my rising need for a release of all my pent-up sexual energies. 
As the cock and harness came free in my hand, I lay down on the carpeted
floor before my mirror, my head propped up a little on a throw-pillow so I
could see my reflected image.  With my left hand, I roamed across my
breasts, rubbing and stimulating.  I watched as my right hand, still
holding the cock in its harness, moved down to my legs.  Slowly and
carefully I touched my pubic hair with the cock moving down my
bush...lower... lower...suddenly, shockingly, the cock slipped inside me
almost halfway, meeting with no resistance as its lubricated length
encountered my pussy opening, moist and hot from my arousal.  I gasped for
an instant, and then pulled it out almost all the way, leaving only the
simulated cockhead still inside me.  My left hand abandoned my breast and
joined my right, and using both hands I pushed the cock into myself once
more.

	Mmmmmm.....yes.....that was it.  Slowly I fucked myself with the
cock, pushing it in and out, first shallowly, then deeply.  It was a
comfortable size, not some massive Superdick twelve-inch monstrosity, but
instead about the same size and thickness as my husband's, some six
inches, according to The Garden's clerk.  I opened my eyes and peeked
through my spread knees at the mirror, watching my hands as they pushed
and pulled the cock in and out of my pussy, which was now glistening with
the wetness of the lubricant and my own juices.  I kept thrusting with my
left hand, harder now, as my right moved up to touch my clit, finding the
familiar nubbin and rubbing hard, stroking faster.  From a distance I
could hear the growing volume of my moans and sighs, the "oh yes" and
"fuck me" and "ohhhh" that I could not hold back and did not want to.  My
pussy and my clit were the total center of my existence; my entire being
was focused on the hot passion I felt, the overwhelming fuckingness of my
masturbating universe.  I rubbed and stroked and thrust and fucked and
fucked and fucked and yes and yes oh yes oh
yesohyesohyesFUCK...ME....YES....The cock was jammed into me as deep as it
could go and my hands rubbed frantically at my clit and I came and I came
and my pussy muscles throbbed and clenched around the cock and slowly it
ebbed and my hands fell back to the floor soaked and the cock still in me
began to slide....out...and it dropped out of my pussy and a tiny trickle
of moisture followed it, dripping from me.

	I put the cock on twice more that day, once in front of the mirror
and once on my bed.  I masturbated four times more, fucking myself twice
with it, once on my back and once on my knees, my right arm stretching to
its limit to pump the cock in and out of my pussy from behind.  By that
night I was exhausted, totally fucked out, and still aroused.  As a dildo
my cock had its uses.  But that was not the reason I bought it.  As my
husband slept beside me I remained awake for a second straight night,
thinking feverishly about Rose, Christiaan, me, and my cock.

(To Be Continued)

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