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Max walks through to the next gallery. “Classical Greece” the sign reads. He takes in the room in before him. It’s alright, he thinks. Though, a lot of pale statues resting in rather similar poses. Max supposes they have a sort of cold beauty about them, frozen, clearly the result of skilled craftsmanship.
The room itself is rather bare. Just the usual museum white walls and overly bright lights. It’s almost clinical. Well, except for the smell. Max notes something vaguely sweet, almost like powdered sugar on his tongue. He finds it pleasant.
Max walks up to one of the signs,
hoping the plaque might offer something more interesting than the blank-faced nude before him. Spear-bearer, circa 400 CE, Marble, the most copied piece of work by Polykleitus, the young man stands in contrapposto… For a moment, Max’s eyes linger on the man’s exposed lower body.
The sharp lines of his adonis belt seem to create a funnel for his eyes to reach the man’s cock. Though small, it seems almost obscene, his short dick resting on his similarly sized balls, carved hair framing the top. It’s still, yet it feels as though the man is shoving it in Max’s face. Max takes another breath of sugary air, and he blinks. His mind flashes with an image of himself, on his knees, cold marble fingers in his hair, forcing his head towards the stone protrusion with an unbreakable grasp. Max opens his eyes and it’s gone, nothing remaining but an odd tingle in his stomach.
Max rubs his eyes, unsure of why he’d blanked out for a second. He sighs and turns away. Max came to the Louvre today on a whim, deciding it was probably something he should see at least once, but it’s seeming less and less worth it as he goes on.
He’s always been a bit of a history guy, especially geography. In fact, he enjoyed the previous egyptian gallery, with all the relics from death rituals and entombments, especially the inscriptions from rulers and battles of a nation long lost to the sands.
Now, however, the statues just don’t seem to tell the same stories. Sure, they are impressive, but to Max they lack the interest of the previous gallery. There is simply less to learn, in Max’s opinion.
Max meanders past white marble after white marble, but an odd feeling bubbles within him. The sweet scent seems to be getting stronger. Around him, the pupil-less eyes of the statues seem to see through him, and he feels a shiver go down his spine. Though, also, a matching one settles low in his stomach.
It’s quiet. Quiet and still. Max looks behind him to the larger room and realizes he is completely alone. That seems… weird. Max is sure there had been others in the previous gallery with him. Where did they go? Max peaks into the surrounding rooms, but still finds not a single soul. Max supposes it isn’t entirely odd, given it’s not exactly high time to visit, not at this hour of the evening.
Max’s face heats up now that he’s looking around the room fully. Every statue around him is nude. More than that, every statue is male. Being surrounded by this display of masculinity is making Max feel… odd. Max, the lone clothed man in the room. These stony men, all basking in their virility, hard lengths urging Max to do something. What, he doesn’t know. Again, heat sparks low in his stomach, and his breaths become slightly heavier.
Suddenly, Max feels overdressed. He doesn’t need all of these clothes on! He should be like these men around him, with their hard lengths begging to be stroked. Arousal simmers low in Max, and he absentmindedly begins to rub his dick over his jeans. Max shudders at the sensation as his dick begins to chub up, tenting the front of his jeans obscenely. He should- Max should- reaching up the length of his shirt he unbuttons the first-
Wait. Hard lengths? Max looks around again, hands falling away from his body, forgotten in his new discovery. Every statue in the room has a dick carved at the moment it was flushed full with arousal. Max knows enough about roman statuary to know they wouldn’t have carved these statues to have dicks that are hard, nor ones that are as big as some of these men seem to possess. Is it some kind of special exhibition? Maybe there were signs at the entrance of the gallery Max missed.
Max turns towards the far end of the gallery, hoping to glean some information about the nature of the exhibition. He turns towards the end, takes a step, looks up, and freezes.
It’s beautiful.
He’s beautiful.
Marble skin that looks pale and soft to the touch, downy hair that frames his face and makes Max want to run his fingers through it. His mouth is quirked in an almost mischievous smile, scrunching his eyes just enough. There is a slight stubble on the man’s dimpled cheeks, which shows more clearly on his upper lip. And his eyes, bright, clear, and staring straight at Max.
Max suddenly finds himself 10 steps closer than he was, as though his body is drawn towards this stony man, before his mind can consciously choose.
Now much closer, Max is able to admire the man in even more detail. He can nearly imagine the visage of the man this statue was carved of. Dark hair, brunette, definitely. Textured only slightly, just enough to curl around his ears and behind his neck, soft to the touch. His skin, pale but lightly tanned from time spent in the sun. Rosy too, especially beneath his eyes. And his eyes. Max can see them clearly. They’d sparkle like the mediterranean, framed by dark lashes and smile creases. His smile. Max knows, immediately, inherently, was the kind of thing men started wars over.
Closer now, the sugary scent is much stronger. Max eyes trace the single scarf-like fabric that winds across the statue’s body, leading his gaze down to the statue’s waist, across lean muscle and smooth skin. Max pauses on his adonis belt and the soft-looking hair dusting his lower torso, before he finally drifts his gaze down just a bit further.
Max gapes. The statue has a huge cock, at least seven inches, girthy too. And the veins… each one in obscene detail. It isn’t even hard. Would it be bigger if it was? Max feels his own dick stir. He’s entranced. Slowly, he reaches out and ghosts his hand lightly down the length. The shaft is velvety smooth, and heat pools low in his stomach with each ridge he uncovers. A small sound escapes him.
Max suddenly realizes the cock is cold to the touch. And that it’s a statue. Max is running his hand down a statue’s cock. In a museum. Max jerks his hand away, his head whipping back to search the greater room. No alarms are going off…
Max feels his erratic heart rate slow, slightly. He takes a few breaths and turns back towards the man. It’s almost as if his whole body is pulled towards the frozen figure, and he’s simply helpless to stop it. Max raises his hand again. Nothing happened the last time he touched it. No alarms, security, he’ll be fine to... do it again.
This time, Max reaches for the statue’s head. He smooths his hands across stubbled cheeks and feels the marble warm beneath his touch. The statue’s eyes still watch him. Heart racing faster, he drags his thumb over the man’s bottom lip. For a moment, Max feels almost as if the plush lip gives a bit beneath his fingers. But, no, must be his imagination. It’s a statue.
Right?
Max starts to lean closer to the statue. To inspect it. Of course. Just to make sure nothing is off about it. Certainly not to press his own lips against that perfect marble face. No.
No.
Max watches as if outside of his body as he slowly leans in to the marble man. He is helpless to stop himself as his hands tighten around the statue’s head, as if to hold him in place. Max’s breath ghosts over cold stone, and he’s mere centimeters away.
Heart racing, breaths quickened, Max leans closer
closer—
closer——
“Ow!” Max cries aloud, shattering the quiet of the moment. He pauses where he is, feels his panting breath as it puffs out from his chest, and the warmth from his flushed cheeks. He smells the sugar in the air, and sees the pale marble before him. Slowly, he brings his hand to his hip, where something pokes deep into the bone of his pelvis.
He flinches as his hand brushes cold stone. That doesn’t make any sense? He tentatively presses his hand more into the protruding object, feeling a thick, round shaft. Max knows what he’s holding in his hand.
Again, an image fills in his mind. Backing himself onto the cold marble cock, his own dick bounces up towards his stomach with each frantic thrust. He sees himself, nude as the statues around him, but flushed and warm. The contrast is delicious. He imagines his desperation, the way his hips frantically rock back in an attempt
to take the marble as deep as possible, to hit that spot in him that makes stars fill his vision over and over and over. He hears the way his lewd cries echo in the empty room.
Max’s cock begins to chub up. He wants to be put to work by the statue, having to derive both their pleasures himself. Sweat from the exertion would drip from his forehead and down his chest, his round pecs glistening as they shake slightly from the force of it-
Max looks down.
The statue’s dick is hard and shiny. The veins now even more pronounced, as if the statue is not only hard, but straining, eager to fuck. Max can imagine the angry red color it would take on.
Max looks at his hand still wrapped around the length. His fingers touch, but barely.
With Max’s heated palms wrapped around it, the marble shaft begins to feel warm to the touch, as though it’s no longer marble, but the real thing. Max runs his hand up from the head to the base. He reaches the hair nestled there, and he grazes his fingertips over that too, feeling the coarse roughness of the detailed sculpture. Max grips the base of the dick hard in one hand, applying pressure as he drags his hand back down to the head.
That’s odd. Max looks a little closer, and he swears the lighting makes it so the tip looks, well, wet. Like Max’s touches are eliciting small globs of precome to drip from the would-be throbbing mass. As if it’s the real thing. Arousal swirls in Max at the idea that he’s somehow turning this statue on.
Slowly, Max rubs his thumb over the tip-
and immediately jerks his hand back. “What the-“ Max murmurs, confused. He brings his thumb up to his face. Sure enough, sitting right in the center of his digit, lies a pearly white, opaque droplet.
Max’s face flushes.
Surely not. He moves his thumb, ever so slowly, towards his mouth. His open, panting mouth. Saliva is pooling on his tongue, and the rational part of his brain, the functional part, tries to tell him to just wipe it off and leave the room, but with each sweet heaving breath that part gets quieter and quieter. Max is curious. And he has never been one to give up halfway.
Max brings the liquid to his tongue, closing his lips around his finger.
Max sucks.
A flavor distinctly like the bitterness of cum floods his taste buds, yet it’s sweet like the air around him. Not even just pineapple sweet, but a sweet that leaves him aching, craving for more. A sweet that makes him strain against his jeans as heat explodes low in his stomach. He sucks his thumb hungrily, trying to eke out just a little more of that saccharine flavor.
The small taste leaves him hungry for more, and his knees go weak, aching to buckle to the ground so he can be face to face with the spout of that sweet fountain and drink its sugared nectar.
Max stumbles backwards. What the hell is going on? He doesn’t have thoughts like that- His heart is racing, and he is panting heavily. He feels tingly all over, and flushed with arousal. This is- something is wrong- He turns away from the man, hoping that a break from the stony perfection clears his head. Unfortunately, this just means Max is now facing a room full of statues.
Statues, which are all facing him. Ten cold gazes, all turned towards Max. It should feel eerie. It should freak him out.
Max does shiver, but not from the stillness of their gazes, but for the feelings they cause to bubble up within him. The heat started by the sweetness is only increasing as he stares. If he stays in this room, if he gives his body what it aches for, these men would witness his defilement. Max could give them a show.
The marble men continue to watch Max.
He likes it.
Max wants them to watch him, wants witnesses to his debauchery. To the pleasure he’s going to derive using the statue as his own personal dildo.
Max turns back towards the beautiful marbled man. His gaze had been set directly on Max from the very beginning. Watching him, challenging him. Like he’s known the outcome of their meeting from the moment they first locked eyes.
Max can do nothing but fall to his knees with a soft thud beneath the weight of that stony gaze.
He looks up. The statue’s smirk seems smug as he looks down at Max, daring him to walk away now. Max flushes even redder as shame pricks up his spine. Here he is, submitting to a statue. In public. Mijn Godt, Max gets even harder.
With effort, Max breaks eye contact with the heavenly deity. He drags his gaze down the sculpted body, taking in rippled abs and lean muscle definition. He wants to drag his tongue along the figure until he can picture it in his mind from memory, know every bump and ridge of muscle. Create a map of this god carved by men.
Instead, Max’s gaze falls downwards. On his knees, supplicant as he is, Max is eye level with massive length before him. The sweet smell has never been stronger. God… he needs it in him.
Max should stand up. He should stand and leave and forget about his lapse of judgement and statue-induced hysteria. But the sugary residue still echoes on his tastebuds, fills his lungs, and as Max continues to stare at the marbled cock, he realizes that the tip is wet again, even more now. It globs heavy at the small opening, and Max watches as it droops heavier and heavier. It continues to pool on the tip, gravity beginning to pull it down.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Well, that would be a waste.
Max’s tongue shoots out of his mouth, catching the droplet seconds before it falls. Unable to stop himself, he surges forward and laps up the rest of the liquid that still remains on the head of the marble cock. His mind blanks as he kneels, knowing nothing more than the beautiful statue above him and the nectar on his tongue. Max’s dick blurts precome into his pants, creating a dark spot on the front of them.
Max hungrily laps at the tip of the dick, but he starts to get frustrated. He drags his tongue harder and harder, yet the liquid flows like honey, dripping slowly. Max uses both his hands to grip the appendage as his ministrations get increasingly desperate. Max needs more, more, more, more, more! He wants enough so that it fills his throat and spills out the corners of his mouth.
Max leans forwards, balancing himself with a hand on the statue’s hip, keeping the other on the base of the dick. With this, he can balance as he takes the cock into his mouth. The smooth surface is still slightly cold to the touch.
Max wraps his lips fully around the stony appendage, feeling the veins with his tongue, slippery and wet from his drool. He lets the cock fill his mouth as he takes it down as far as he can.
Max’s eyes fall shut as he looses himself in the sensation, hollowing his cheeks and sucking.
Arousal blooms hot inside of Max as the flow of the opaque substance increases with his eager efforts. He hums around the cock in his mouth as all thoughts leave his mind. Satisfaction settles in the places where his thoughts left. All he needs is to keep sucking, keep drinking the sweet, sweet liquid.
No, not liquid. Cum. Because that’s what it is. Max is sucking the statue off, and in return he’s rewarded with his sweet cum.
With that thought, Max can’t help himself, he begins truly sucking in earnest. Max’s tongue laves the underside of the dick, and he bobs his head up and down.
“Mmmfffgh,” Max moans around the thick cock in his mouth. His grip on the marbled man’s hip tightens as he tries to take more of the stone dick into his mouth, wishing the man could pound the back of his throat, leave his voice raw so that he carries a reminder of what he’s doing.
Sitting beneath a statue, holding the statues dick within his mouth and drinking deeply, Max doesn’t think he has ever done something so terribly erotic in his entire life. Max’s hand leaves the man’s cock and snakes down to his pants, where his own rock-hard dick tents them obscenely, wetting them slightly. He’s positively throbbing with need.
Max nearly rips the buttons off in his frantic attempts to wrap a hand around himself. His dick bounces against his stomach as he releases it from the confines of his boxers, splattering precum. Max doesn’t think he’s ever been so achingly hard before, the tip of his dick purpled with the need to be touched.
Max’s first touch of his hand to his own dick has him moaning loudly around the dick that still rests in his mouth, though he’s stopped sucking while focused on freeing his own cock. He is simply too aching, too desperate to finally get a hand on himself to remember he’s supposed to be sucking as well.
Max starts out stroking himself slowly, knowing how he usually enjoys it. Running from tip to base, skimming over his balls. Applying just too little pressure, so that he has to rut his hips slightly with each stroke. With every touch, relief runs through him like ice, and he momentarily calms down. But it’s not enough. His touch simultaneously burns and barely scratches the surface of what he needs. The ice melts fast, and Max has to start roughly stroking himself instead. It exactly what Max needs. Yes, yes, Max should’ve been doing this sooner. He feels the waves in him growing and growing, and it spurs him faster. He is so close, so close. He gasps as his pleasure increases, drawn on by his frantic motions.
Except, instead of air, his involuntary suck draws more of the cum into his mouth.
Just as quick as they came, the waves recede within him. Suddenly, the ache that he’d thought he’d eliminated when he had started jerking off reappears tenfold. He tries to quicken the pace of his hand on his dick again, but he’s already moving as fast as his wrist allows. Relief is suddenly like water through a sieve, unattainable and empty
Max is nearly rubbing his cock raw, making noises of frustration around the marble in his mouth. He’s panting, sweating from the exertion. His face is red, not from pleasure but from the pure physical toll of his useless efforts. Max needs to cum so bad, but it’s like each increase of his pace, his desperation, only makes his release slip further away.
Annoyed, Max releases his hand from his dick and pulls his mouth away from the marble cock. He watches the trail of spit connecting his mouth to the tip as it slowly splits and falls. He huffs, panting heavily, and the back of his neck prickles with the sense of being watched. Without turning around, Max knows it’s the statues throughout the room.
Max feels the ache that settles deep in his being. The phantom sensations on his cock from his frantic touches are still far from what he needs.
Max fumbles with his buttons and lets his pants fully fall from his hips and pool around his knees. He leans forwards toward the cock in front of his face and wraps his lips around it yet again. Softly, purposefully, he sucks more of the liquid into his mouth. Immediately, every part of his being urges him to swallow, to give himself back up to that sweet burning heat. Some trickles down his throat, and he nearly blacks out from the warring needs within him. Instead, Max swiftly pulls off the marble cock with the cum still sitting on his tongue.
He brings his hand beneath his chin and lolls his tongue out of his mouth. The sweet, opaque liquid fills his hand, dripping from his fingers. Tentatively, he brings the hand around to his back, slowly reaching towards his hole. Almost immediately, as if all Max needed was to finally acknowledge its presence, Max’s whole being throbs with the devastating need to be filled.
His hesitation gone, Max rams his first finger as far as it would go into his ass. He sinks all the way down to the second knuckle. “Haaaaah-!” Max gasps out. This. This is what Max needed. The cum on his finger makes each area he touches tingle pleasantly. Without prepping himself, Max shoves in a second finger, stretching his rim to something nearing painful but just on the side of exactly what Max needs.
Max brings his other hand back to his dick, and this time, from the moment he begins, Max knows it is different. His two hands work in tandem to draw out exquisite sensations throughout his body. He couldn’t stop moaning if he tried. Max can barely decide whether to rock forwards into his hand or backwards onto his fingers, each sensation somehow more overwhelming than the last. Still though, Max doesn’t feel full enough. He looks hungrily at the cock in front of him, mouth open already from the dual sensations.
Hand still pistoning within his own ass, Max takes the marble cock within his mouth yet again, sucking hard.
The heat immediately begins again in Max, and he continues to sloppily thrust his fingers in and out of his ass, feeling himself clench around his fingers each time he drives in deep, like he doesn’t want to let himself go. He’s filled from both ends. Max feels warm all over. He can barely contain himself, every thrust has Max pressing hard against his prostate, making himself see stars. Noises Max has never heard himself make are muffled as they escape out of his mouth, mixing with the consistent wet sounds from his fingers in his ass and the cock in his mouth to create an audio more pornographic than any of the videos Max has ever watched.
As waves of liquid hit his tongue, he continues to use the stuff already on his hand to pound his own ass. Max feels the heat within him burn. He has three fingers within himself now, but he wishes it was the marble man’s cock instead. He can picture it. The man, over him, shoves Max’s shoulders into the hard floors. With just the sweet cum, the man’s long fingers open him up. The man would want to be tender, but Max would urge him faster, harder. The man would chuckle at his impatience, the sound soft. Maybe he would usually make Max wait, make him sit with just his fingers until he’s positively aching for it, until he can think of nothing else but his need.
Max, now, pounds his fingers harder and harder, desperately chasing his release. He sucks the liquid deep and lets it multiply the arousal coursing through his veins. In his head, Max continues the fantasy.
The man’s huge cock would feel as if it is going to split Max in two, but he’s taken it before, knows he can do it. In one swift thrust, the man would bottom out within Max.
Max wails, and he falls off the marble man’s dick. His shoulders touch the floor, his hands too busy pleasuring himself to hold up his shaking body. He barely feels the fall. Ass up, Max’s fingers never leave the warm clench of his hole, slickness dripping down his thighs.
With a jolt, Max realizes he is presenting to all the other statues in this room, and anyone who might walk in. Anyone could grab Max’s waist and sink their cock deep into his sloppy, gaping, needy hole. Max knows the statues are all watching him as he pleasures himself, masturbating his cock desperately while he fingers his ass and moans like a whore.
Max imagines the statues all unable to stop themselves from stroking their marble cocks at his obscene display, coming because they can’t contain themselves at the sight of him lost in the throes of pleasure. He crooks his fingers, moves his hand just right on the tip of his cock, presses hard against his prostate-
Max’s orgasm is ripped out of him.
He’s never come that hard in his entire life, cum spewing out of his cock. It’s like his soul is exiting through his dick. His mind blanks. Aftershocks course through his body, and he has to pull his hand away from his dick as the continued stroking goes from nice to way too much.
Still, Max can’t bear the thought of being empty, so he firmly keeps his fingers tucked into his hole, despite the awkward angle. He sighs happily into the feeling, satisfied at last. Finally, the burning ache leaves Max. He goes limp, and his trembling form falls into the puddle of still-warm cum he made beneath his torso. He’s about to pass out, he knows. Max just wishes the marble man would hold him as he did.
*** ***
Max comes to, slowly, to a bright light in his eyes. There’s a voice talking to him, he thinks, but he can’t make out any of the words. He thinks the voice might french. Well, no duh, he’s in France. Max giggles at the thought. Or he tries to, it might have come out more like the dying gasp of a fish.
His eyes open slowly, but his vision remains blurry. His senses come back online in fragments, and he can make out the sounds slightly better. The voice talking to him is melodious, the man’s soft vowels washing over Max like a lullaby. He nearly shuts his eyes again, but he realizes the voice seems… worried? Max blinks his eyes harder, trying to clear his vision. All of a sudden, the world comes into sharp focus. Bright museum lights nearly blind him, but a figure blocks them quickly. Still struggling to see, Max can sort of make out the features of a man with rather ruffled hair, black-rimmed glasses, dimples, and what Max thinks are the most gorgeous green eyes he’s ever seen. He knows this face. “Mijn standbeeld?” Max croaks out.
“Hello? Hello! You are talking that is good! My name is Charles, are you okay?”