Message-ID: <4154eli$9709151543@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: David Subject: A Day at the Art Institute (voy, mast, m/f oral) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: 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? -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /