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From: taria29c@aol.com (Taria29c)
Subject: RP Ancient Taria: Art Appreciation Part One
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Over 18 only please.

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. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Continued in Part Two)

For all of this story and others, see Slowhand Luke's site:
http://www.superior.net/~poopsie

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