art appreciation
Tuesday, June 22nd, 2010
NYC did things to me no one else has been able to, in places of fantastic beauty and in wildly inappropriately public places.
I have been known to get a thrill from cavorting in semi public locations, such as in cars on rainy side streets, darkened door ways, Starbucks bathrooms, the alley behind the Roxie, and laundry-mats–to name a few. But never so blatantly lascivious as I behaved on the day trip I took while in New York.
We went to Storm King, a 500 acre sculpture park in the Hudson Valley. The ride up consisted of lush scenery, music, and lots of pussy teasing. By the time we got there, we were giddy on each other, maybe a bit still stoned and definitely high on the smell of cock and cunt that had been filling the car. The rain was teasing us. We found a spot under a sheltered tree for our lunch. From this vantage point we could see the green hills sprinkled with masses of jutting steel art objects as they protruded through tree tops, resembling metal monsters embarking on the land–an abstract takeover of the human race.
Under the tree we ate together. I like eating with you. Eating, fucking, laughing, crying–the end.
The rain never did rain, we walked, we kissed, we walked some more, played grab ass–innocent fun–looking at art allowing happiness to filter in.
Finding ourselves sitting on a bench in front of a small pond for a big sculpture–a Roy Lichtenstein, part of Storm Kings permanent collection. The mermaid racing boat used in the 1995 America Cup and the reflection it left was our view. Hand holding, became kissing, became handling, became want–then need. I needed to feel you on my cunt, your mouth, your fingers. Cock.
I suddenly had this feeling of nothing else around me being there. On your knees between my thighs, like a movie wedding proposal, except you pull aside my soaked panties. You lick and eat and begin that slow glorious finger fucking that drifts me out to sail. I have had these experiences only a few times–where reality and the wet oil painting meet. Where the sky is a blue so deep I will never see it again, where the trees become globs of varied shades of green shimmering wet paint.
“Put two finger in” I pleaded.
“I all ready got two in” is your response.
Slut.
“Well put in three” I demand.
I’m gone, lost, my head hangs on the back of the bench, through my slit eyes I watch the sky as it shifts, the blue mixes with clouds we don’t have in California. I am sure some sort of filth is spilling out of mouth…fuck me fuck more more right there….maybe I even say I love you, my mouth leaks like my pussy sometimes.
NYC has four fingers inside of me as I rumble the jimmyjane on my swelling pussy. I feel like I am pouring a continuous river of cum. I am embarrassed for a moment, but quickly let it go.
“Do it.”
The pain is sharp as the largest part of your hand pushes through. I can now feel your entire hand, fingers, fist rubbings my velvet walls–the pain is now all bliss and fuck delight. I have pulled one tit out of the top of my tank top, pinching hard down on to my nipple–moaning, whimpering, crying for release.
My mind is nowhere, I have definitely slipped into that other realm. I know it, I feel it–I want to cum, I need to cum. Slowly, I lift my heavy head, wanting to look down at you between my thighs.
My eyes come into focus, just in time to see on the other side of the pond a mini electric tour bus full of art lovers on their excursion of the park.
Everything frezzes.
“There is a fucking bus full of tourist right behind us.”
I see them looking at us, feel their eyes. We are scared still, fear and lust is frozen inside my pussy. With your fist still inside me I watch the little bus float by, heads turn. My first fisting has come to an abrupt end as you hand pulls out of me, we attempt to regain our composure and run for the hills or more precisely to the famous Andrew Goldworthy wall, where a couple can hide and fuck and find their sweet release they so desperately need, with a little bit more privacy.
