The Fraternal Order, Part 8 (Remastered Edition)

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The Fraternal Order, Part 8: Collateral Damage and Conspiracy Theories (Remastered Edition)

By Zapped!

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The Hall of Statuary

Jack Claussen and Vernon Kessler managed to slip away from the drunken crowd and their dozen static contenders for Miss Pygmalion. As if on cue, the double-hung doors to the Great Room parted in the middle, and a uniformed attendant stood beyond. He held the doors open, acknowledging each of the men with a polite nod as they passed.

“Thank you, Higgins.”

“Of course, sir.”

When the pair made an immediate right (as opposed to turning left toward the entry hall), the attendant asked, “Going for a stroll, gentlemen?”

“We thought we’d take a little trip down memory lane.”

“Ah, time well spent, sir.”

With that, Higgins closed the doors behind them. His watchful eyes tracked the men as they walked further down the passage. After a long moment, the advisor returned to his post, crossed one gloved hand over the other, and braced at attention…

Up ahead, a dividing wall with a stone archway separated the passage from the darkened corridor beyond. A granite tablet on the wall at left bore the words SERVO A RIGOR LABRUM (keep a stiff lip), while a granite insert at right announced “The Hall of Statuary.”

Jack had been through this part enough times to know what treasures lay ahead.

“I haven’t been through this wing in ages.”

“Well, the content is always here for reflection when you need it,” said the dean.

The crypt-like space beyond mimicked the design of the entrance hall itself. Gas lamps set on low barely illuminated the space, casting their meager light on the flagstone surfaces and red carpet runner below. Seven-foot-tall alcoves lined the walls on both sides of the chamber, gradually fading off in the gloomy distance.

But it wasn’t the gothic styling that piqued Jack’s interest this time around; it was the shadowy but discernible female forms that stood within each of those alcoves.

Dean Kessler reached for a brass control panel at his right and began to roll the dimmer with his fingers.

Claussen looked on with growing anticipation. Each enclosure slowly brightened, leaving the stony passage awash in a bluish glow. Appearing just beyond the glass viewing panel of each of these recessed niches― a life-sized female statue.

All of the previous Miss Pygmalion winners are put on permanent display here.

Each figure stood upon a raised dais with a polished brass plaque affixed beneath her feet. Engraved into the surface of each of these plates were the years 2004, dating all the way back to the 1950s. Some of the sculptures bore hairstyles and bathing suits specific to their era, while others were tastefully presented in the nude, yet they all shared the same white porcelain finish.

No matter how many times Jack saw them, he was still taken aback by the extremely lifelike detail that the artist had captured within each figure, from the finely textured hair on their heads to the distinct roundness of each areola. Even the ridges of the cuticles on their hands and their little toes had been perfectly rendered.

As the professor moved from one static masterpiece to the next, his pulse quickened. The sheer excitement of seeing so many stilled beauties displayed all around him was nearly too much to take in all at once: blank eyes stared into infinity; stony lips remained pursed; feminine hands curled, splayed, or cupped in the most elegant positions. Some of the figures were posed in an almost seductive “come hither” sort of way, while others simply stood at attention, their arms relaxed at their sides. Every one of them seemed like they might thaw at any moment, step forth from their glass-covered enclosures, and join in with the tour.

“Goddamn, he was good,” Jack remarked. The professor was admiring a beautiful example with a tightly curled poodle cut wearing a ruched front maillot (to reflect more conservative times, no doubt). Her rosebud lips were carved in a perfect Lucille Ball pout, while her white-washed eyes stared out over his shoulder, seeing absolutely nothing.

“A true master of his craft,” the dean added. Then he paused for a moment, as if considering his next words carefully. “I think the apprentice has finally caught up with, perhaps even surpassed, his mentor.”

“Apprentice?” The professor commented with a chuckle.

It was hard to imagine Gerald Bushwick as a young and impressionable student, completely enamored with the mystery of the female form, and capturing it with his own hands for the very first time. But after four decades, the acclaimed artist was still improving his methods, creating new pieces almost monthly.

God bless him.

Jack paused in front of the next recess to his right. Displayed behind the glass panel was another statue in white porcelain, this one sporting a tiara and a Connie Francis bouffant. Her sculpted attire consisted of a two-piece, high waisted swimsuit with a pageant ribbon draped from her right shoulder down to her left hip. One hand was braced against her curvy waist, while the other was raised and cupped in a parade wave as if to acknowledge her imaginary judges.

The brass plate below announced: “Miss Pygmalion 1955, Sharon Kay Ritchie”.

Sharon had been on display like this, completely isolated from her viewers, for more than half a century.

Now that’s what I call dedication, the professor thought.

Sharon’s neighbor was similarly accessorized, yet her hair was styled in a flip with an Alice band arching over the top. Jack couldn’t help but think of a young Nancy Sinatra (all that was missing were the iconic Go-Go boots and back-up dancers).

And if she’d been turned into a porcelain statue.

The plaque on her base announced: “Miss Pygmalion 1960, Deborah Elaine Bryant”.

Across the aisle, the dean cleared his throat to draw the professor’s attention away from the static display.

“So, when are you going to donate that other Ansco camera?” he asked. “We could always use a backup for the cause.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed in irritation.

“You were lucky enough when my father donated the first one.”

Kessler flashed a crooked half-grin in his direction.

Lucky indeed.

The dean turned his head to peer through the glass at yet another motionless beauty. This statue had more of a shapely build, the detail of her lady bits somewhat blunted by the gossamer-thin gown that cascaded down over her lush curves. One arm cradled a bouquet of presentation flowers, and the other held a red rose up to her nose to inhale its scent.

This figure’s plate announced: “Miss Pygmalion 1970, Phyllis Ann Barnes”.

“Come on, Jack; that old Ansco is probably sitting up in your attic somewhere covered with dust,” the dean remarked. “And besides, what’s a guy like you going to do with an old antique like that? You know you can’t sell it to the public—that would be illegal.”

“Oh, I still dig it out every now and then if I’m looking to add to my collection,” the professor admitted. “And trust me; it still gets the job done.”

Kessler pursed his lips and shook his head in frustration. Of course he’s still using it, you numbskull; who wouldn’t?

Sensing that it was time to change the subject, he cast out a line to see if the professor would bite.

“You know, you should come out to the sticks sometime and visit Bebe and me,” the dean invited. “I’ll give you the official tour, and you can see what a real collection looks like.”

“I’d certainly look forward to that,” the professor admitted.

“I can promise you won’t forget it.”

The pair passed several more figures that represented the seventies and eighties. A stunningly attractive example in a flirty halter-top, hot pants, and roller skates beamed at them from inside her enclosure. Her voluminous locks had been feathered and curled in true Farrah Fawcett style, forever memorializing the era of roller discos and excess.

In stark contrast, the statue in the next enclosure sported a side ponytail and sweatband. She was positioned in a typical aerobics pose with one arm stretched high over her head (in an effort to show off her taut midsection, no doubt). The artist had even fashioned leggings, legwarmers, and a high-cut leotard onto the figure’s athletic form. She made for a fitting tribute to other spandex-clad icons from the 1980s, including Jamie Lee Curtis, Jennifer Beals, and Olivia Newton-John.

Up ahead, two more additions from the 1990s stared through each other from opposite sides of the aisle.

As outstandingly beautiful as they all were, Jack felt himself moving along at a faster pace than before.

The dean had noticed the professor’s growing sense of urgency as well.

“Is there someplace you need to be, Jack?”

“This is great and all,” the professor granted, “but I need to know; is she still here?”

“She is,” Kessler answered.

The professor breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Would you like to see her?”

“You know I do.”

The dean flashed a perceptive grin and motioned with his hand, “Follow me.”

One of the platforms presented a sculpture with long, flowing hair that reached to the small of her back. She was kneeling on the dais in an upright position, legs parted, one hand cupped over the gap in between her thighs. Her other hand was raised in front of her gaping mouth, the fingers curled as if air-stroking an imaginary penis.

Talk about purposeful.

The dean gave Jack a peculiar wink, as if he knew exactly what he was thinking.

The pair moved onward.

The next display featured a subject with stacked hair who posed on all fours. With arms braced like tent poles and her rump raised high, she revolved around in slow circles to offer her admirers 360° views of her fabulous body. Nude, collared, and leashed, she looked like an obedient pet waiting to be taken for a walk.

Jack looked back at the dean and wiggled his eyebrows with approval.

Another display featured a figure leaning against the wall with both arms raised above her head. Her back was deeply arched to further highlight the protruding curves of her tight bottom. Affixed to the stone beside her was a framed black-and-white photograph by Herve Lewis. Titled “Nu Cambre Aux Stores,” it was the same image that she mimicked.

And then there was the statue of a hippie girl with a crown of braided hair encircling her head. She was noticeably on the heavy side, with chubby cheeks and a soft jawline. Her bare breasts were perfectly round and full, with plump and oversized areolae. She was seated in a cross-legged position, as if practicing the Buddha meditation pose. A colorful tie-dye tapestry served as her backdrop.

The inscription on the brass plaque affixed to her platform said “Weightless.”

“So he’s now doing full-figured ladies?”

The dean gave him a nod.

“She was acquired after staging a protest a few years ago. Campus security cuffed her and hauled her off, but the order had other ideas in store.”

Kessler looked around the chamber, as if someone might overhear, and then he cupped a hand to the corner of his mouth to whisper, “Progressive Liberal.”

“Ah, no further explanation is necessary.”

And then Jack immediately froze in his tracks. His mouth gaped a little wider as his eyes locked onto a point beyond Kessler’s shoulder. As if moving in a trance, the professor sidestepped the dean and slowly approached the glass display case, his eyes completely fixated on the content within.

“My God, talk about a sight for sore eyes.”

“A sight indeed.”

The figure before them didn’t share the same porcelain finish as the other’s, nor was she based on some fresh-faced student from the university’s athletics program. No, this subject epitomized the Hollywood sex symbol with her provocative dresses, champagne blonde tresses, and breathless, almost whisper-like manner of speaking. Her iconic look made her one of the most photographed and famous women on the planet.

“Goddamned Norma Jean Baker,” Jack murmured beneath his breath.

“Fresh as the day she was sealed in that dustproof case,” Kessler added.

To most, Marilyn Monroe’s storied life came to a tragic end on the morning of August 5^th, 1962. With several empty bottles of prescription pills found by her side, her death was declared a “probable suicide.” But the ambiguity surrounding the case, combined with rumors of affairs with both John F. and Robert Kennedy, sparked off decades of conspiracy theories that Marilyn was murdered.

Only the Pygmalion’s and a few discreet members of the CIA (now deceased) knew the actual truth.

Like the brotherhood, the government couldn’t afford any loose ends.

Jack threw up his hands. “Hey, who are we to ruin a good rumor?”

The dean snickered at his comment. “I still can’t believe you guys acquired her in the first place.”

“It’s all about networking and making the right connections,” the professor admitted. “Religious leaders, organized crime, the President of the United States. The bigger the fish, the bigger the favor.”

“Well, I think we got the better end of that deal.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

The pair looked back at the star with admiring gazes.

Marilyn stared out from her glass enclosure with unseeing eyes and her chin slightly raised. One wrist was level with the swell of her hip, the digits seductively splayed across her upper thigh, while the other fingers held onto a white fur coat. The infamous “Happy Birthday” dress clung to her womanly curves like a nude sheath, the shimmering rhinestones catching the spotlight just so. Rumor had it that the blonde bombshell chose to wear nothing underneath it to ensure a seamless fit, and that it was so tight that she had to be sewn into it before taking the stage. The actress was fully aware of the controversy that the dress might bring, including stirring up rumors about her affair with the married president.

That was the least of her worries now.

The professor chuckled, no rhyme or reason behind it.

“What is it?” the dean asked with a curious look.

“Oh, nothing.” But after a brief pause, a warm feeling of nostalgia seemed to come over him, and he began to laugh at the distant memory.

“Come on, just tell me,” Kessler insisted.

Without any further hesitation, Jack began to tell the story...

“So back in ’63, our fraternity decided to throw a toga party. The Omega Theta Pi house was a preppy stronghold; they were hosting their own event the same weekend, strictly for jocks and their stuck-up girlfriends. Pitt gets the idea of stealing Marilyn’s body, wrapping her up in a sheer toga, and then putting her on display as a party trick.”

“Holy Shit, you have got to be kidding me!”

“I’m not! ... So I decide to take it one step further; I’m talking about a prank to top all fraternity pranks. A stunt with so much prank stamina that they could only bow in respect.”

“So what did you do?”

“I thought; what if I steal my old man’s Ansco camera, sneak into the sorority house, flash freeze the Omegas’ girlfriends, paint over their naked bodies, and then display them as Greek statuary to draw even more people in!”

“Oh, fucking brilliant!”

“I know, right?”

“Wait, so what did the Omegas do once they found out?”

“Pulling such a stunt nearly got us killed, but it was well worth it. I just wish I could’ve seen the looks on their faces after we were done with them.”

“Why, what did you do?”

“We stole one of those old industrial flatbed carts with the cast iron wheels, stacked them up like firewood, and then rolled them out into the courtyard in front of Galene Hall. From what I hear, the effects of the camera began to wear off sometime after dawn, and then they began to thaw one by one... Imagine a bunch of screaming coeds running for cover to try and hide their nakedness!”

Dean Kessler burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Sounds like you guys raised some hell back in the day.”

“Oh, most definitely.”

The dean let out a long sigh in despair. “And to think I missed out on all the hijinks by a couple of semesters.”

“They were the best of times, for sure.”

After a long moment, Kessler clapped his hands as if signaling that time was of the essence.

“Hey, we better get going; I’ve got something else to show you.”

“I can hardly wait.” Claussen replied.

As the professor followed the dean down the stone corridor, he looked back over his shoulder. A spotlight dimmed behind him, leaving Marilyn in the near darkness once again.

Rest easy, my love...

* * * *

Back in the Great Room...

The overwhelming smell of Cuban cigars, strong cologne, and good booze, (not to mention the steady din of excited voices) was already getting to Stanley Pitt. The publishing magnate could hardly walk straight, let alone think. But the one thing he knew for certain: he needed some form of release―And bloody soon!

He spotted one of the bunnies: That bi-racial bird... A Wall Street type with slicked-back hair had backed her into a corner of the dining room. He knew the man by sight but couldn’t remember his full name.

Belfort or something.

Pitt watched as the stockbroker seized both sides of her head, grew envious as the cocoa-skinned beauty sucked him all the way in. He marveled at Kiersey-Bunny’s total lack of a gag reflex as he repeatedly thrust into her blankly staring face.

The bloody conditioning on the K.R.I. must’ve done that to her.

It wasn’t long before the broker’s head fell back on his shoulders and he let out an appreciative moan.

Whether it be from jealousy or pure vindictiveness, Pitt let out an audible “Hmpf!”

Bugger’s got a good lookin’ piece at home; what’s he shagging the hired help for?

The publishing magnate pivoted around on a heel, and that’s when he spotted another bunny: That raven-haired doll with the big knockers. Unfortunately for him, the gangsters from Jersey had spotted her as well. The bigger of the two had just saddled up and was in the process of giving her ass a lengthy squeeze.

Eh, a couple of dodgy blokes anyway.

A muffled moan suddenly came from the opposite direction to divert Pitt’s attention.

Stanley’s head swiveled around to the diamond-shaped window on the kitchen door. With the shifty approach of a Peeping Tom, the old man snuck up to it to take a peek inside...

And then his bloodshot eyes quickly widened.

“Blimey, just look at that; it’s that blonde bird with the fine bum!”

Indeed, Kimmy-Bunny could be seen inside, her uniform yanked down in apparent haste and bunched up around her narrow waistline...

The randy chef had “acquired her services” in the kitchen, and now they were both on top of the stainless-steel service counter; she mounted reverse cowgirl style, while he held onto her narrow waist, carelessly bouncing her up and down on his rigid cock. Kimberly resembled a broken rag doll, arms at her sides, and her pretty little head bobbing around on her neck like a bobble head toy.The coed showed no signs of being aware of her predicament; she simply stared ahead, impassively, as her exposed tits whirled around and around on her chest.

“Gah! Even the bloody chef’s gettin’ his todger wet!”

Pitt downed the remains of his drink and carelessly tossed the glass to the carpeted floor. He made his way over to the double-hung doors, and with some considerable effort, he managed to open one of them to exit.

Out in the hall, the attendant broke from his reverie to see the man out.

“Ah, there he is,” Higgins said while reaching for the heavy door. “Heading out for the evening, sir?”

“Nah, I just need some fresh air.”

Looking rather disoriented, Pitt initially turned to the left. After a few wobbly steps, he caught himself, cursed, and then quickly did an about-face to the right, heading off in the same direction as the Hall of Statuary.

“But sir,” Higgins called out as he pointed in the opposite direction, “the parking lot is that way.”

Pitt raised a hand over his shoulder and waived it dismissively. “I’m taking the scenic route, ole boy.”

The expression on the attendant’s face went sour.

Wonderful.

Higgins returned to his station and crossed one gloved hand over the other. In addition to seeing everyone out, he could add sanitizing the displays to his long list of chores.

* * * *

Stanley Pitt was in heaven. He’d just entered the Hall of Statuary, a chamber-like gallery filled with statuesque women. There were a dozen or more, each figure representing a winning Miss Pygmalion from years past and presented in chronological order. A stroll through the gallery was like taking a trip back in time; from the conservative maillot of the fifties to the body-baring high-cut thong of the eighties, each example represented a cultural change in mood and style as well as the artist’s own interpretation of such events.

But Stanley could’ve cared less about any “artsy-fartsy” translations...

The businessman drunkenly rambled from one viewing panel to the next, his hungry eyes taking in every dip and curve of exposed (albeit porcelain-glazed) flesh.

1950… 1955… 1960…

The poodle cut, the bouffant, the beehive...

Long legs and pouty lips...

A few he recognized in passing (at least one of those by name from his rowdy college days). The rest were utter strangers.

“Ooh!”

Pitt stopped dead in his tracks when a particular example caught his eye.

The brass plaque below the statue’s feet announced: “Marjorie Jean Bolen, 1965”.

The Yvonne Craig lookalike stood proud in the classic braced-legs and hands-on-hips stance. Her chin and nose were tilted upward in a pose that exuded confidence and power, as if she were ready to take on all comers. Her attire consisted of a hip-hugging one-piece with a revealingly deep V-cut down the chest (inspired by Barbara Gordon’s beach bunny scene in the episode Surfs Up, no doubt). Despite her racy attire, the businessman couldn’t help but picture her in a ginger wig, a yellow cape, and a purple Lycra Batgirl costume.

Stanley pressed his hands up against the glass, his hot breath fogging up the surface. Marjorie’s expression was decidedly neutral; her lips were set in a solemn line, and her white, iris-less eyes stared out into the distance unseeingly. The tycoon’s own gaze shamelessly meandered up and down her porcelain body. She was breathtakingly beautiful, more so than anything else in this wing of the collection.

Pitt closed his eyes, imagined being trapped inside with her, and creepily stuck out his thick, slimy tongue and pressed it against the glass as if to run it over her pale curves.

Marjorie held perfectly still; it was all she could do.

By the time Stanley opened his eyes, there were trails of spit streaking the glass.

Pretending wasn’t going to cut it; he needed to touch her.

Pitt ran the tips of his fingers up and down the seal, desperately searching for a place to pry it open. He retrieved a gold pen from his jacket and stabbed it into the seal until it bent in half. It didn’t take him long to lose his patience. He slammed his shoulder into the glass once, twice, and three times, but to no avail.

Fucking tempered glass!

“Is everything okay, sir?” A voice shouted out in the distance.

Bloody Higgins!

“Y...eah...yes, everything is fine, mate. Just a bit of a stumble, that’s all!”

Momentarily deterred, Pitt moved further up the aisle. Despite his inebriated state, he was fully conscious of the women on either side of his vision, held captive in their glass enclosures, their smooth-like-china faces staring out at him with visionless eyes. Now and again, he’d glance over to the left or right to look at one. The hairstyles had progressed to reflect 1970’s fads: Farrah Fawcett’s long, feathery shag and Dorothy Hamill’s classic wedge were well represented here. Next came the “me” generation of the eighties, when massive teased-up hair was all the rage. As the years rolled on, swimwear continued to be more and more revealing: thongs; string bikinis; cut-out one-pieces; and even sheer suits were all the rage.

Pitt came to a second archway; the chamber beyond opened into a much larger cavity with a domed ceiling. The walls here, like those in the Hall of Statuary, were made of flagstone, with subdued lighting provided by gas-lit sconces. But there were two major differences here: the previous figures were kept behind glass and illuminated from within; these figures were out in the open, presented on low-lying pedestals, each illuminated from above via spotlight.

At least one of them was rotating around in slow circles.

Pitt’s worried expression immediately brightened. His voracious eyes swept over a cornucopia of breasts, navels, and rumps on display. As he considered his many options, it was hard to choose just one, at least until he remembered that he could have his way with any one of them.

Perhaps all of them.

Stanley stumbled drunkenly from one display to the next, his liver-spotted hands pawing desperately at the frozen statues, his lips leaving blotches of spittle on porcelain breasts and thighs. They were so perfect. So firm. So, so― blooming cold!

Pitt didn’t care; he’d been walking around all evening with his cock-up and a belly full of whisky, so he was ready for anything. Even a harmless wank or a simple ol' fashion would suffice! As he continued to wander through the room, he noticed another difference in the intent of these sculptures: the figures on display in the Hall of Statuary were merely ornamental.

These were more utilitarian in nature.

Pussy lips and asses gaped open (Stanley envisioned an artist using a speculum to open the interior walls as his subject hardened in place around it). Jaws hung slack, lips forming convenient O’s...

Pitt came to a stop in front of a low-lying pedestal with a young woman on her knees, legs parted, one cupped hand filling the space in between her braced legs. Her other hand was raised, and the fingers curled around as if jerking off an imaginary penis. He likened her to a baby chick in the nest, her neck craned and beak wide open, waiting for a worm.

Bloody ’ell, I’ll give her something to eat.

“Isn’t that right, Jaws?” The old man taunted. “―Jaws, heh-heh!”

Pitt immediately got to work, unlatching his belt and unzipping his zipper. He yanked his pants down to his ankles with such haste that he nearly fell over. With his dick in hand, he zealously stroked himself to hardness, a devilish grin spreading across his lined face.

“Be patient while I catch up, Luv.”

It was a joke, of course. Jaws waited before him with all the patience of, well, a statue.

“Speak of the devil,” he said, looking down at this ridged member. “Alright then, let’s give it a go.”

Pitt stepped up on the display base, locked his legs in a spread-eagle stance, and then carefully worked his hardened member up into Jaw’s ready hand. Her curled fingers felt cool, smooth, and solid. Maybe too solid; there’s no bloody give at all! But that didn’t stop him. Before long, he was thrusting his hips into her willing palm, enjoying the bird’s-eye view of the head appearing and disappearing within her firm grip. Pre-cum began to ooze out of the tip, and after a while, he smeared the clear liquid around with the pad of his thumb to provide a little lubrication.

But the feeling of smooth porcelain on his skin wasn’t the issue; the constant thrusting motion of his hips was killing his lower back (not to mention his legs felt unsteady from all the drinking).

Why am I doin’ all the work ‘ere; she’s got the iron fist!

Stanley stopped thrusting his hips and grasped the statue’s shoulders with both hands. He started moving the figure itself back and forth on the base, the constant rocking motion of her bent knees producing a grating sound that further added to the validity of her solidified state.

“You’ve got the hang of it, Luv!”

Jaws unknowingly obliged, her curled hand providing the necessary friction and dutifully stroking the length of his leaky member. Pitt quickened his pace, rocking her faster and faster, the delicious tension in his loins building more and more.

But like all womanizers, Pitt was easily distracted. Even as he fucked her fixed hand, his attention began to wander, and his eyes flicked over to the display adjacent…

“By god, check out the arse on that one!”

The statue just kept rocking back and forth, stroking him devotedly. She couldn’t offer an opinion or see the ass in question. But as far as Stanley Pitt was concerned, his next choice was perfectly clear.

The entrepreneur immediately withdrew his erect member from the statue’s sticky fingers. He hopped down from the platform, his movement so swift and abrupt that it caused his ex-lover to wobble in place in the background. Despite her dedication, she was quickly forgotten…

Meanwhile, Pitt was waddling around like a penguin, his pants pulled down around his squat legs, his erection bobbing around like a buoy in rough waters.

The statue in question was also mounted on a low-lying platform, but this one revolved around offering 360-degree views of her feminine peaks and valleys. Posed down on all fours, rump raised up high, and with snowy thighs widely parted, her splayed sex was visible to all. A studded leather collar wrapped around her porcelain neck. A leash had been attached, inviting admirers to take her for an imaginary walk.

Stanley looked like a frustrated kid trying to mount a moving carousel, making several failed attempts only to watch the crack of her glorious ass rotate around again well out of reach.

“What a fucking load of rubbish!”

Pitt toddled along the platform’s circumference, timing his steps just right to drop a knee on board. “Hold on, missy!” He yelled, grasping at her thigh. His free leg dragged along on the floor until he managed to swing it onboard.

“You’re not an easy bird to get a hold of!”

Facing the opposite direction and utterly oblivious to his comment, the figure completed another rotation.

With a whistle of admiration, Stanley kneeled in behind the statue and prepared to offer worship. His fingers swept over the dimples at the small of her back, glided up and over the twin humps of her glossy cheeks, and then dipped down into her crack to trace the puckered rim of her anus. The lips below it were stretched so obscenely wide that the shadowy-white cavity was nearly as fascinating to see as it was shocking. It was as if she were presenting the very depths of her womb for inspection (whether it be by her gynecologist or anyone else who happened by—all seemed more than welcome).

After his last experience, Pitt spit on his opened palm a few times, spreading his saliva around the length of his member for lubrication.

“Sorry,” he apologized, as if that might change anything. It certainly wouldn’t cover what he was about to do to the poor thing in front of him. The figure wouldn’t question anything, of course...

Taking his dick in hand, Pitt began to rub himself up and down the deep crevice of the statue’s buttocks. He poked the head against her sex a few times, as if requesting entrance, before carefully working himself up inside. Like the curled hand that pleasured him before, it was a peculiar feeling to be completely enveloped by the cold, rigid walls of the statue’s pussy. He grew to enjoy the sleek feel of glazed porcelain against his raw flesh, all slippery, smooth, and unyielding.

Because of her doggy-style positioning, the figure’s solid breasts hung down from her chest like udders on a cow. Pitt reached forward, seized both within his hands, and then rubbed over them, savoring the feel of her rock-hard nipples as they scraped across his opened palms.

Talk about firm.

“Nice pair of jubblies,” he praised from behind. The figure didn’t respond, but his cock responded for her with an eager twitch.

Then another.

After a while, Pitt’s hands slipped away from her hardened mounds, slowly gliding down along the sides of her sculpted torso. His opened palms came to a rest on the wide swells of her hips, and he tightened his grip as if clutching the steering wheel on his Bentley. An animalistic sneer twisted Stanley’s lips, and he growled softly as he pumped into her at a steadier rhythm. Slowly in, slowly out...

The statue herself wasn’t moving, but the leash hanging from her neck was swaying back and forth, making little tinking noises as it made contact with her olidified breasts.

In, out… In, out… In… In…In

“Oh, that hits the spot, Luv!”

Pitt let out a low moan, his grip tightening around the statue’s hips, picking up the momentum this time and rocking her faster and faster. He grunted with pleasure as his heavy midsection ground and slapped against the figure’s flawless white ass. All the while she remained silent, gazing forward stonily.

Stanley had no idea how satisfying humping a statue could be—the intense sensation of her hardened cunt locking around him, making his cock thrum.

In and out, faster and faster...

He pounded into her with rough strokes, his wrinkled old buttocks flexing and rippling. Loose change fell out of his pockets and was rolling across the floor.

“Almost there!” Pitt gasped. He was banging away now with such fervor that her bent knees were rising up from the dais and making thumping noises whenever they returned to the surface.

Thump―Thump―Thump―Thump―Thump!

“DOH!”

Pitt let out a feral grunt, and his face contorted in pleasure. He bucked against the statue’s backside again and again, his body shuddering from the sudden release of tension that had been building up inside him all night. When his climax finally ended, he literally collapsed on top of her from exhaustion. He just laid there, boneless, for a very long moment. Now and then his body would twitch and jerk from aftershocks, his head hanging limp over her shoulder.

When Pitt drifted back down to earth, he expelled a deep breath and propped his head up on top of hers. The sharp smell of ejaculate hung in the air, and he could already feel his cum oozing out of her solidified snatch and running down his balls. He flashed a lazy smile, secretly hoping he didn’t create too much of a mess.

Bullocks; that’s what the hired help is for.

He watched the room rotate around them, the other statues silent and unaffected by what just happened.

The very idea made him twitch again. He lowered his head and put his lips to the figure’s ear as if to share a secret.

“First time I’ve used a statue to get off.”

Sure, Stanley had his own collection of frozen beauties at home; he’d be the first to admit he’d had sex with them countless times. But he’d never gotten off on a porcelain statue before. Considering her rigid state, the sex had been unpredictably, well, intense. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that and didn’t really care.

He’d gotten off, and that was all that mattered in his mind.

Pitt felt his heart thumping against the statue’s back as he lay there, his member slowly wilting inside her. He felt so comfortable like this that he really didn’t want to get up. With a contented sigh, he slipped his arms around the figure’s waist and held onto her possessively. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and he let the memory of their tryst replay in his mind…

* * *