This is my first erotic story, because HE told me to write it. So I offer it to HIM.
My steps predictably slowed as I came up to my favorite sculpture in the museum. Every day after my last graduate class, I'd visit the Albright-Knox Art Gallery that was conveniently located across from Buffalo State College. Since I had about an hour wait for the bus to take me back to my apartment, I generally killed the time in the museum about once a week. But when I came across this magnificent sculpture, I immediately bought a yearly pass and began my daily pilgrimage.
Normally, I don't care for sculptures. Well, Picasso's Satyr series I had liked mostly for the blue color (the penises on those pieces looked more like huge third legs more than an object of sexual gratification). Certain classic pieces like Michelangelo's
David
and
The Thinker
by Rodin were appealing because of their place in art history. The sculpture before me was a life-sized rendering of the mighty Minotaur, standing about six foot six inches tall– an ancient Greek mythological beast with the head of a bull but the body of a man. I couldn't identify what it was carved out of at first glance, but the identification plaque said it was porphyry with sapphire, with a jade weapon that I assumed was a cat o' nine tails in its right hand. For some bizarre reason, this piece was titled
Eros
. Eros was the Greek god of amorous and sexual love. The Minotaur was a fierce warrior, usually depicted as cruel, eating human flesh; never tied to sex or love at all. So why would the unknown artist label it that?
Now, I had always adored Greek mythology; owned a dog-eared copy of
Bullfinch's Mythology
that I bought in junior high so I recognized what the artist was trying to portray. I say trying because the bull's head was actually proportionate to a human (paintings tended to have the bull's head far too large for the body to support it) while the human portion had a very muscular, almost linebacker-ish build to it. Also, the height was for modern-day humans; ancient Greeks were not as tall as humans are now. What I wasn't prepared for was...well, how much sex appeal the sculpture had. It wasn't necessarily because the Minotaur was naked with a ..ah –
very
well endowed male member (again, the Greeks tended to smaller penises in their art), although to be frank my eyes did stay there a bit longer than normal when I was first looking it over. No, what brought me back each and every day were the eyes.
The eyes were actually blue sapphires but so very light blue! I didn't know that those gemstones could even
be
that light. The stones were technically flawed with a deep blue right where the pupils would be but obviously, they were used for that very reason. They looked very real, and I would swear on a stack of all the holy books in the world that they looked right at me. They grabbed my attention, stole my will, and ripped my very soul out. That first day I sat on the bench in front of the sculpture so long that I missed my bus and ended up walking the 5 miles home. Luckily, I lived in a fairly safe neighborhood since it was dark when I left the museum that night.
I never stayed that late again but I came back every day, to sit in front of
Eros
for an hour. No one else ever came into that part of the museum, not even the guard. Days when I didn't have class and the museum was open, I would still come at my regular time. Even during school tours, no one ever seemed to linger in the room while I was there. I would sit there for the hour, looking up into its face. For as long as my eyes would hungrily devour its gaze, it appeared as if the eyes would look back down at me with a fierceness that I had rarely seen. The look that said, "You
will
be mine!" and had always made me weak in the knees. When the very faint sunlight that was allowed to enter that particular room would hit the sapphires, I would think it would wink at me. The eyes were so very expressive; I began responding to emotions I thought I saw there. Since I was there alone, I'd often quietly talk, discussing my day, working out problems, going over class work, or planning my week. When my hour was over, as I gathered my things, I'd gaze back. And it always looked a little sad that I was leaving. Maybe that's why after about a month, I began doing more.
I began just by standing in front of it, periodically walking around it, admiring the artist's skill at depicting human form in stone. I also enjoyed the sensation of being towered over by it. After about two weeks of yearning to touch him, my left hand moved of its own accord (
when did I start thinking of the sculpture as "him"?).
Hesitantly, I touched his abdomen; that way, my own body blocked what I was doing in case anyone just walked in. I anticipated he would feel cool but to my surprise it felt as warm as skin! I opened my hand and let in run up his chest, over to his upper arms and down to his hand. From there, I gave a quick peek around me. I couldn't resist – I let my hand slip down to stroke that cock, feeling every definition the artist had included. My thumb grazed over the head then down the bottom of the shaft. I could not get over the attention to detail the artist managed to do. Pulling my hand reluctantly away, I walked around him and I stood there, gazing at him from that angle. My fingertips strayed out to graze ever so lightly the texture of his magnificently sculptured ass. My hand curved itself to him, letting it linger and sensuously stroking the stone. When I realized what I was doing about three minutes later, I jerked my hand back, startled. I stood there for a moment, imagining I saw his muscles ripple in response to my touch suddenly being gone.
Oh, that's just ridiculous,
I thought to myself.
My guilty conscience is attacking me for touching a museum piece, that's all.
I walked back around to the bench where I had left my purse. Slinging it over my shoulder, I instinctively turned around for one more look when I noticed that the Minotaur had a full-blown erection. Gasping, I fled immediately, vowing to myself never to return.
