Leave Quietly

You turn away from the door, letting the couple have their fun. The moans, sounds of slapping, and gasps dissipate as you put distance between yourself and them. You continue to work your way down the ridiculously long hallway. You see another open door and you instinctually glance inside. The sight causes you to take another look and you can’t help but glance inside.

There is a large statue of an attractive man. His hard, cold, masculine features are smooth and perfect. He is completely naked, his dick is erect and pointed straight at you. The dick is ridiculously large, even after you consider it was upscaled for the statue which is probably twelve feet high. Art is strewn across the walls, of a giant gallery, and you quickly realize this is some kind of private art museum.

As you glance from picture to picture, you start to realize what kind of art museum it is. Every painting depicts a scene of a woman and a man in the throes of sexual ecstasy. Some couples are Adonis-like figurines, beautiful people with massive dicks and breasts, fucking each other in sometimes impossible positions. In one picture, a man with rippling biceps sports a cock half the length that he is tall, looking more like a third leg than a penis. The head is ripping into a woman who seems suspended in thin air. Juices run down his cock as it pushes her open, a look of admiration is on her face.

In another, a woman is surrounded by penises. The men behind those penises are dark and featureless, but she has one in each hand, one in her mouth, and two in each of the holes below. Most of these images were given titles like Venus, Aphrodite, or God of Sexual Desire.

They weren’t the only art though. There were pictures of regular looking couples too. There was a man here, he had a portly belly, but was erect, his dick being swallowed whole by a fairly regular looking girl with modest breasts, skin blemishes, and even wrinkles around her eyes.

For every breast that was pert and up in gravity-defying proportions, there was a breast that sagged with the weight of age. Men serviced those breasts, holding them up and giving them long missing attention. For every guy with giant 10-inch cock and 6 pack abs, there was a skinny guy or a portly man with a modest 5 inches. All the same, the women serviced them, taking great care to keep them erect and taking great enjoyment of being filled just the same.

There were statues too, stretched out in the middle of the room. Some of men, some of women, some of both. They were always in some kind of erotic pose. A few chose abstract art, block figures that only look like they’re having sex because that’s what you’re expecting to see. Others look lifelike in their realism. For a moment you thought you stumbled on a couple in the throes of passionate lovemaking in the middle of the floor when you realized that they didn’t move at all. The man’s face consisted of such desire, such longing for the realistic looking woman, that it almost sent shivers down your spine.

You watch painting after painting, your body becoming increasingly aroused. You consider touching yourself. You’re alone and you’re already wearing a mere robe to cover yourself. However, something about this place makes it seem wrong to defile it with your sex. As if the sex contained in this place is far better than any sexual pleasure you could possible experience on your own.

Then you notice the strangest image yet. It’s a picture of a woman, and it takes you two glances to realize that it isn’t you. The picture looks so uncannily like you that you just stare at it in shock. The woman sits, on her knees, her eyes looking up. She seems to be covered in splotches of translucent material, and it takes you a second to realize that she’s covered in semen. You laugh nervously at the thought, both because the girl looks so much like you, and because the nature of the sexual position your likeness found herself in.

A sudden scream tears you out of your pondering, and you quickly race out of the gallery. It didn’t sound to you like a scream of passion, but one of fear. You come up to a set of stairs at the end of the hallway. One set heads up onto a higher floor, the other set heads down to the lower floor. You don’t believe the scream was on the same level as you, but you can’t for the life of you know which direction it came from.