Statue in the Alcove

They both wore a mask, and exchanged a glance. She a jester of snow white and silver, and obvious sweet, living flesh. He a Venetian creature of poised, rigid marble—almost indiscernibly human unless, like she, you caught the slightest flicker of his silvery eyes.

The grand music hall for the Masquerade was extensive, lined in beautiful drapery and full of alcoves in which several living statues resided. Each almost belonged in a Cathedral, with carved granite pillars, stained glass and candles surrounding the dedicated actors. Many were fooled by their unmoving perfection, and so, almost, was the wintery jester girl. Until, upon wandering into the dark alcove alone, the male harlequin blinked.

Each seemed genuinely surprised at the other. She walked all the way round his rigid body, which knelt, shirtless, on a pedestal. He was simply clothed in wide pants that quite convincingly mimicked a white and silver marble, complemented by a sash round his waist. He also wore a simple, silver half mask, exposing his mouth and coiling jester's hat.

The breath that caught in her throat was slight at observing his cut form, but it echoed against the walls. The reverberation reached his ears, and he darted his eyes slyly towards the owner of the sweet-breathed feminine sound. She looked like a mated match to his costume, and he could not help but blink as he followed her alabaster and silver face down her open bolero front to her fluttering, slender pale stomach that was exposed to her pelvic bone. Her skirts were long, white and sheer enough to glimpse a creamy white lace thong beneath them.

He wished it were not there. He would funnel all his stony concentration to discerning the delicate pink folds of her inner flower from the sheer folds that draped temptingly over it. He moved his eyes upwards again, hoping she didn't catch the infinitesimal movement. This time he noticed her smaller, but still beautifully round bosoms had no brassiere beneath the opened vest to hold them from him. There was only delicate silver jewelry that wrapped in a maddening, coiling fashion around her pale pink nipples.

Involuntarily, his finger twitched. And immediately, she lowered her face to his, examining. He didn't drop his eyes when they met hers, and prayed for the girl not to notice the growing humanity beneath his stone-colored pants. She was equally hypnotized. Such a perfect, thin face and slender, corded body. He was such a convincing actor, too. She reached out, in awe and touched his face. It was warm. Behind her, the party still ran its course, strangers making out, dancing, hands finding their way beneath skirts. But none out there appealed. It was hard to find the mystery she wanted amongst the obviously human. At first, she felt guilt about what happened next...but with all finding love and sensuality behind a mask everywhere around her, she thought, Why not I? And why not he? She leaned into him, and placed her hands around his head and face. "Normally I'm not one to kiss statues," she whispered, "But you are a particularly exquisite work of art."

Nervously, she placed her lips on his, pleased at their warmth. A shuddery breath escaped the stone man, but otherwise gave nothing else away that would betray his flesh. She opened her eyes and searched his. She was sure that the silvery color was contacts but the effect was mesmerizing just the same.

She circled him again, one hand dragging two fingers along his arm and back, examining his slight muscular twitches at her intimate exploration. Coming back around to his face, she stood for a moment, his eye level even with her breasts. Neither his head nor neck moved, as she looked down the expanse of his shoulders and back, admiring...but she suddenly felt something warm and slick run up between her exposed breasts.

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.