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When I take my dinner break from the midnight security shift at the museum, I go to the Greek wing, and I sit on the hard stone bench and gaze
at the marble statues of naked, marble men. Beautiful men, frozen within the stone. Nickola is my favorite. He's tightly muscled with cropped hair that accentuated his chiseled face. As I munch my tuna fish sandwich and sip my bottled water, his eyes seem to watch me. Of course, I know this can't be true. He's only a statue. Yet every night I'm there, stroking his naked marble skin with my eyes, wondering....
One night, I'm too restless to eat and watch. I walk over to Nickola where he stands on a small block of stone. His hands are at his side, the palms turned forward as if in open surrender.
DO NOT TOUCH THE DISPLAYS. The sign is always there, but on this night, I ignore it. I reach up and run my hand across the broad width of one of his perfect shoulders. The stone is cool, but not cold to my touch. What a beautiful man he must have been. Bold now, I use both hands to explore the muscled contours of his arms, down to those vulnerable open hands, my touch lingering on his long, slightly curled fingers. I look around the room, but of course, no one is here. We turn the cameras off at night, running a scan at midnight and again at 4 a.m. No one is watching as I test the smooth chest of Nickola. I run my hands down to his waist, lower to the stone curls that frame his sex.
I kneel in front of this statue of male beauty and examine his most private parts, exposed for the entire world to observe and enjoy. He is uncut, my Nickola, just a peek of the head within shows through a meticulously sculpted foreskin. Below, as if frozen in time, generous balls lie slightly flattened against his thighs.
I long for you, Nickola. My hands, my body, my mouth, all ache for the touch and taste of you, I think as I lean forward and press my hot lips against the cool marble of his shaft. I slide my hands to his buttocks and let my fingers know the shape of them, feel the hint of muscle and power beneath my touch. As if he is alive,I grip him more firmly, slide my fingers in tight against the cleft and open my mouth over his stone cock.
He grows within the heat of my mouth. I feel the pulse of hot **** as the skin warms and stretches, deeper and deeper into my mouth. I open wider and he gives me more. Sweet taste of male, and salt, and dust flood my brain and I pull back to gasp. I don't know if this is real or my imagination, but then I hear him groan.
I am amazed. I look up the pale white torso to Nickola—a living, breathing Nickola. He is smiling, but it is a smile born of pain and regret and joy.
"You're alive?" My voice sounds loud in the big echoing room.
The palms, which moments before were cold marble, cup my face. His thumbs trace my mouth and though they are cool, they are not lifeless.
"How can this be?" I ask.
"I watch you every night, stroking me with your eyes, and I struggle to come to you," he answers. "I pray to come to you." He pulls my head back to his cock that is now long and thick, glistening with the wetness of my mouth. "Come to me," he commands and my mouth opens over the fat, glorious length of him.
Once again, he groans aloud. His feet shift from the marble block as he begins to slowly thrust into my mouth, down into my throat. His hands guide my head, but he does not **** me. He is so big now that I fear I
might choke. Yet I do not pull back. For whatever reason, I am servicing a Greek god. I am on my knees in the middle of the Pavilion of Greece with my lips and my tongue and my mouth sucking and slurping on one very hard, very real cock. I am determined to make it good for him. When he groans again, I know he is pleased.
And then he strokes one last, deep thrust into my mouth. I feel the rise of his seed and I open my throat to receive him. He is still, as if once again frozen, then a deep gasp forces its way out of his mouth, head thrown back, hips tilted forward as his cock pumps into my mouth. I swallow again and again as hot come spurts from him into me. I taste the salty sweetness of my Nickola and savor every last drop.
When he is finished, he waits, his hands stroking my head and my hair, as if he is reluctant to pull out of the warmth of my mouth. His cock begins to soften, but I hold him in with my lips and play with the helmet ridge with my tongue. I don’t want to let him go. I want to taste him forever. I want to freeze the moment in time as a precious almond. But soon enough, he slips out of my mouth and swings low one last time.
He lifts me to my feet and f the first time, I look into his eyes—pale blue, with blond lashes, his hair tumbles pale gold around his face. "I have waited so long," he murmurs.
What explanation can there be? As he walks me backwards to a solitary bench, my hands in his, doesn't matter why or how he is there. As he guides me to stretch out on my back, I think only of the pleasure that is sure to come. Naked, he kneels on the floor beside me and begins to remove my clothes.
The buttons of my uniform shirt posses no problem but his fingers stop at the zipper of my pants. "What is this?" he asks, first trying to spread the teeth of the zipper. I show him, and he plays, fascinated with the mechanism. Suddenly growing impatient, he tears off my shoes, my socks, my trousers, my panties. He pulls my plain white bra up over my head, and now I am spread before him—naked and shivering with anticipation.
His eyes take in every inch of me. 'Beautiful," he murmurs before leaning closer to suck one nipple into the pale, warm mouth. As he tugs, I arch towards him, and he lifts me up closer to his mouth, his hands sure and strong beneath my back. He feasts, moving from or breast to the other.
He is a starved man, a man denied too long. '- breath quickens and he moves up onto the benc nudging his knees between my thighs, his mouth never letting go of my flesh, his hands holding me still benea him. With a sudden thrust, he enters me. His cock huge, bigger than before, hard as the marble it was before now.
I am helpless, open to him, my hands gripping tt sides of the bench as he fills me, again and again until the room spirals down to the gasping need within me. He lifts his mouth from my nipple and smiles. "You are gorgeous he whispers into my ear, his lips a pale, glistening. "Your breasts are sweet," he says as he caresses them with one strong hand.
But I can only answer with a groan as he shoves himself in to the hilt. "Do you like this?" he asks.
"Yes," I gasp.
He frowns. "No, a woman is not complete unless she screams with pleasure," he says. With determination, he slides his hands under my butt and tilts my hips up towards him so that he is as deep as possible. I writher in the pleasure he is giving to me. His balls slap against my flesh as he begins a new, slower, fuller rhythm. I thrash my head back and forth, straining up to meet each thrust.
"Look at me," he commands. His eyes are hot crimson, his full lips now tight with a hint of white teeth between, his breathing quick and shallow. "You will come."
And I do. I do and I scream. Oh yes, I open my mouth and give voice to the total, complete pleasure that his shaft is delivering to me, even more intense when he releases his own climax, I turn my head and bite into the flesh of his shoulder as he pumps and pumps and it is so much, too much, too good. The room turns black and my breath is gone.
I wake upon the bench—alone, shivering and naked. My clothes lay on the floor, and Nickola—Nickola is back in his place, standing upon a block of stone, a man of marble once again.
By the time I am dressed, I am convinced it was just a dream—a foolish, lonely, but fantastic dream. But still, I approach the statue for one last look. And there on the marble, hard upper arm of Nickola, soldier of ancient Greece, is the clear, unmistakable imprint of teeth.