The Statue Came Too

Lois looked back at the statue, wondering where the crack had come from... Her gaze roamed over the fierce, clean beauty of the face; the sculpted breasts with their jutting nipples; down the washboard abs and navel to the jutting cock that the reporter had just been humping...and stopped and stared.

The stone prick was wet with Lois' juices, which darkened the stone so that the reporter could see just how deep she had taken the statue's schlong inside her needy quim—but that wasn't all. There was a visible crack splitting the helmet-like crown of the dick. Something black and viscous dripped from the tip, running down the smooth underside and drooping to the floor in a long, slimy string...just like...

"No," Lois said aloud, to reassure herself if nothing else. "It can't be cum. It's black...and a statue...just...some kind of oil."

The last word sounded wavering and unsure, even to her own ears. She looked down at her pussy, reached down and dipped a finger between her lips...and yes, she was wet and sticky down there. She pulled her finger out and it was covered with black, snot-like goo.

"Fuck," the reporter muttered, shoulders drooping. "This thing did not..."

But in her head, Lois was thinking: What if it did?

With a sigh, Lois stared ruefully at the stone prick. The crack was clean—like a seam that had split—perfectly bifurcating the head. The goo looked like jizz, except for the color. In her life, Lois had only known semen to be white or off-white, maybe a little yellowish if her paramour had been on a dry spell.

"Only one way to be sure," the woman said. She brought her nose close to the broken tip of that stone phallus, closed her eyes, and breathed in.

It was not in Lois' nature to sniff dicks, but until lately she had an active enough love life, and the smell of cum was not something hard to recall. It was an odor somewhere between animal and chemical, redolent of that slightly ammoniac tang like bathroom cleaners, touches of pheromones, sweat, even urine...and Lois was getting all of those notes from the black goo that slowly oozed from the statue's split dick.

Lois opened her mouth, breathing the scent in—all smells are particulate, and closely allied to the sense of taste; the reporter knew she was breathing in little bits of black goo, invisible to sight, floating in the air as it slowly oxidized...but she couldn't say that it was quite the right taste. So she extended her tongue, right under the drip...

The black goo began to coil on her tongue like molasses, and Lois resisted the urge to swallow. She let it pool, saliva building up in her mouth. The reporter wanted it to coat her taste receptors, wanted to be absolutely sure...and when she could feel it start to overrun, she brought the tongue back into her mouth.

Cum could be runny or thick and stringy as snot, it was always salty, and there was more of that ammonia-taste, like a particularly ripe cheese. Lois had never been particularly fond of the taste, but she didn't exactly mind it either, unlike some women who simply detested it. Feeling the heavy goo sit on her tongue, Lois tried to remember the last time she had taken a cumshot in the mouth, what it had tasted like, felt like...and this was tasting very familiar, she realized with a sinking feeling.

There was only one final test.

Lois swallowed.

It stuck to the roof of her mouth and the back of her throat, running down in a sticky gob like swallowing a ball of phlegm. Lois couldn't taste it going down, but when she opened her eyes again and stared at the dripping stone prick hovering in front of her face, the reporter knew what she had tried to deny.

"This fucking thing just came in me," she said out loud. In her head, Lois added: Which begs the question: what do I do about it?