The Curator

There were hundreds of them. Gold statues of women, nude and lewdly posed, life-size and astonishingly lifelike. Their expressions varied widely, from unbridled lust through almost comical astonishment to bleak horror. This was no terracotta army, but rather a macabre whorehouse, albeit cast from that most precious of metals as if the contents of Fort Knox had been moulded into an inhuman orgy of lesbian pleasure.

The curator of this private collection, this secret and singularly themed treasure hoard whose existence shocked as much as excited me, was a middle-aged man with a generous beard that looked as well curated as his private collection of erotic excess. He had a Mediterranean cast to his features, and a trace of an accent that I couldn't quite place beneath the more familiar and predictable Oxford-bred sophistication. No, he would not have seemed out of place in those ancient college hallways.

His hand idly caressed the bare metallic cheek of one young maid, frozen forever, it seemed, with her lips wrapped about an absent cock. Beside her, another sat with legs spread wide, her labia spread wide too, her vagina gaping like some impossibly expensive sex doll. I wondered if the curator had ever been tempted to use her that way.

It brought to mind the tale of Aphrodite of Knidos, Praxiteles's famous nude statue of the goddess of love, and the young man who lusted after her until, one night, he abused her divine form and was driven mad. Surrounded by polished, gleaming curves of timeless beauty, captured moments of obscenity made priceless by the material of their sculpting, I was not immune to their dread allure.

Like Odysseus and the Sirens, I was drawn to certain doom; unlike that ancient hero, I had no chain to bind me to safety. My hands caressed skin, almost expecting soft warmth rather than cold metal. My fingers teased lust-swollen nipples and delighted in their hard desire. My lips brushed lips that ached to be alive, though my kisses lacked any fairytale magic.

The curator guided me through the collection, his hand increasingly familiar with my own curves as he showed me each scar and imperfection of the artistry. "See how the sculptor has left his mark on each," he said, placing his hands into matching impressions in the golden flesh. I could almost imagine him as part of each tableau, the male counterpart visible only in the negative space.

Room after room, scenes of craven lust met my eyes as unseen men ravished frozen beauty. I was not immune. I was no unfeeling statue. I was human flesh and blood in awe of this eternal pleasure. My guide, the curator, was no less aroused, the prominent bulge in his dark suit trousers brushing against me too frequently to be by accident - and I, seduced by the potency of the perverse collection, chose to allow it.

Every open mouth, every gaping pussy, every hideously stretched anal ring, seemed to invite my exploration. My fingers slipped teasingly into a hundred dark holes as I wondered at the improbable length and girth of the supposed invaders. Such men existed only in pornographic fantasies, such as the one I walked through. Such men...

The curator was such a man. There was no denying the impressive size of the hard member that threatened to burst his zip. Nor was there any denying its extraordinary dimensions as I yielded to temptation and released it from captivity. Never before had I held a cock with both hands at once and felt so insufficient. Never before had I undressed in such indecorous haste, trembling with both desire and fear at what would be demanded of me.

I had never needed a man more. I needed to feel the ecstacy I saw echoed in the gold-cast expressions all around me. Kneeling, I wrapped my breasts joyously about the curator's prodigious length and sought to encompass its huge head with my mouth, my jaw stretched wide to the limit.

I wasn't a slut, I wasn't a whore, I was a queen serving her lord and master, the king, worshipping his royal length and drinking the divine nectar that flowed copiously and spilled from my lips. No passive companion, the curator thrust with ever greater strength, the proud, veined shaft gliding against my smooth, slippery skin, the weeping head seeking to penetrate ever deeper - until with a roar he climaxed, cum flooding my adoring mouth.

Hours later, it still dripped from my gold, inflexible lips.