Alarmed, she squealed and jumped backwards, then glanced back into the hall to see if anyone heard, but no one paid any mind to the tiny, chapel-like alcove. When she looked back at the stature, he had sat back on his haunches, knees parted, spine straight. One arm was held outwards, beckoning in a longing pose. But he was perfectly still, as though carved that way the whole time. She regarded him with a sideways look of suspicion, and walked daintily back over.
"You are real, aren't you?" She asked in wonderment. No motion or answer greeted her question. She got close enough to his hand to place her cheek in his palm, and felt the fingers mold around her face, ever so softly. "I think you are amazing," she told him in a quaking little voice. Who was this speaking for her, betraying her thoughts? Surely it wasn't she, not the girl who couldn't speak such boldness to a man if she tried. His intent stare made her wonder if it wasn't the statue himself, hypnotizing her tongue into spilling forth the truth. But, the statue remained stoic, as if he had not heard her confession at all. After a pause, she ventured another question.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" Her voice shook, and her jester bells rattled in her anxiousness. At this, the stone melted around his mouth and eyes, and he grinned a wicked, crooked smile. His silver eyes burned into her with intent, and while he said or stirred no more, it became richly obvious that the smile was a warm, sensual invitation. She squeaked again, intimidated, as she followed the lines of his chest and stomach down to his sash. The very slightest color of warm flesh was peeking out of the top, proud and hard as chiseled stone. Her innards grew warm and began to sap. The idea of groping a living statue, in this public forum, was so forbidden that she could not help herself. She shimmied out of her lace barrier, leaving it carelessly on the floor.
There, standing before him, scared and in all its brazen glory, was the flower veiled in a pale mist that he yearned to part. Her smell was more intoxicating than wisteria, the sight more beautiful than a blushing orchid. His rigid body ached, though he dared not move. He did not have to, for lifting her skirts, she climbed upon his pedestal and sat, pelvic bone pressed against his stomach and naked legs wrapping round his waist. He exhaled, and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Their hips synced in a rolling rhythm, she felt his pants sliding further down until he began to slip inside of her, almost happenstance, almost certainly intended. She gasped, sighed out loud, relieved and enthralled and in heaven, and she felt a tremor in her body when he let out a breathy moan. Throwing herself completely around him in an embrace, they rocked slowly, not speaking.
The tide came in, went out, and rolled through their bodies like gentle waves lapping the shore. Silk and skin and soaking and breathless, sculpted together like Eros and Psyche; the pair gripped each other in mutual adoration and amazement. His mouth silently searching her nipples of China rose and her hands exploring every carved muscle in his back and torso; her gasps echoing back to their pale ears in a monochord symphony from the curved marble walls of the recess in which they resided. The sweet, blessed irony, that his blushing, warm-hued cock was as hard as marble, and his marble-like skin was as soft and pliant as any man of blood and passion brought a smile to her lips. At once, he seemed in tune with her thoughts again and felt him grow thicker and harder than before, and he growled softly around the breast he had caught between his teeth. She gasped and allowed him to fill her, completely and maddeningly until he was hitting her slick pathway's end, her petals and womb tingling and blazing and glazing his stony member. They came together, in near silence, draped around each other in an almost classical pose, and rested in each others' arms. A matched set of harlequins in a dark alcove.
In not much time, a drunk couple stumbled in to the offset room, giggling at the unabashed sexuality of the statues, alabaster and marble. They noticed the lace panties on the floor, and looked back at the unmoving couple, examining with suspicion. They simply remarked at the cleverness of what they thought was a planned effect to eroticize a classic piece of art. And they agreed that it was, in fact, exquisite.
