He’d had connections, I supposed. Perhaps a cousin who worked as a curator or a friend from college who worked as an event organizer – some inside connection. We’d taken a black town car down fifth avenue and arrived at The Met around nine at night, almost four hours after the museum had officially closed.
The sprawling floors and soaring arches within looked majestic in the low light, and even more so without the crowds flocking from display to display. My awe was made apparent by the low gasp I let out as we entered the vast expanse of the entry hall.
We quietly chatted as we explored, my high heels making a pleasing clock clock clock sound as I walked the floor. “What a date,” I thought to myself. What an impossible thing, to be free to observe and marvel without interruption at the art and culture that surrounded us.
“She’s beautiful,” Jack whispered to me, over my shoulder, into my ear. We stared upon a life-sized sculpture of a woman in the buff, titled “Clytie”. She was beautiful. Her nipples stood erect on breasts that looked as though they would be supple and soft if you were to caress them. Apart from the braids permanently affixed to the sides of her head, she was hairless. Her graceful fingers clutched a flower. “Mm,” I answered Jack’s comment. “But not as beautiful as you,” he whispered back as he pulled my hair away from my neck and gently kissed the pale flesh there.
I felt my heart flutter and my cheeks flush. I turned to him and intertwined our hands, pushing my forehead against his jaw. I felt him untangle his right hand from my left, he brought it to my cheek and softly stroked my face. We kissed deeply, our lips pressing together and our tongues dancing with the lithe grace of ballerinas. I softly moaned in the back of my throat and felt Jack’s body tense against me. I could feel his erection pressing through the fabric of his suit trousers and the thin material of my skirt. He kissed more urgently, with more animal ferocity. His hand knotted into the delicate curls of my hair.
After a moment he pulled his mouth from mine and said, almost silently, “shhh,”. He grabbed the hem of my skirt in his agile fingers and begin to hitch it up over my hip. His hands were cool on my flushed skin, shivers ran down my spine. He gently cupped my ass, exposed, wearing only a thong. Then, without warning, he picked me up, one arm under my ass, the other wrapped around my back.
In the middle of the hall sat an upholstered bench, all in black leather. Before he sat, he expertly undid his belt and pants button. I was perched in his lap. My heaving breasts almost at his chin level, his cock pressing up against my quickly moistening pussy with only the thin fabric of my thong blocking its way. He reached around me and pulled my underwear to one side. “Yes?” he whispered, always the gentleman, asking permission.
“Yes,” I moaned quietly, gyrating slightly to show my enthusiasm. In a flash, he’s in me, on me, caressing every exposed inch of skin, kissing me and softly biting at my lower lip, as I bounce in his lap. I could feel his cock throbbing deep inside of me, sending wave after wave of excitement through my body. I could feel my nipples pressing against the lace of my bra, erect in arousal.
After a time Jack turned and lowered me onto the bench, onto my back. I looked up and saw a massive, circular skylight, letting in the glow of the city. As he lowered himself onto my body I wrapped my arms around him and began to kiss his neck and bite his earlobe, my excited breath coming in quiet gasps as he started making love to me again.
The eyes of a thousand paintings and a hundred sculptures found us, and the building silently applauded us as our moans echoed against the stone walls.