The Sculpture

sculpture
Image by Dr. J.

“Oh, sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Marcy apologized profusely for stopping so abruptly that the man behind her bumped right into her. He swore, gave her a dirty look and mumbling under his breath, walked away. The swearing man was far from Marcy’s mind when she looked back at the shop window.

A blush formed on her cheeks when she ran her eyes over the sculpture. She forces herself to look away, to study the angels on the shelves, but soon her eyes followed the lines again. From the stretched leg, over the hip, towards the breast, the shoulder, the slender neck. Her eyes briefly rested on the erect nipple, the soft-looking belly, the stretched arm. It was the head thrown back in passion that did it for her.

Marcy pushed her legs together. A tingle ran up her spine when her clitoris reacted to the pressure. Behind her people rushed by, most of them on their way home after a long day at work. Her day of meetings was all forgotten as her eyes were drawn downward.

Gently Marcy pushes the woman’s legs, spreading them, revealing the hidden treasure between her legs. Her wetness is echoed in the cunt before her. Eyes are watching her as she softly kisses the thighs; the mons; the labia. Her tongue gently licks from bottom to top; their eyes lock in understanding. She circles the clitoris, tasting the desire and want. As she sucks and licks she hears sighs and moans, until the head is thrown back in passion, the mouth opens in a silent release.

Sudden wetness pooling between her legs brought Marcy back to the present and she realized that her hand was inside her blouse, her fingers pinching a nipple. Her cheeks colored crimson as she looked left and right and quietly sighed that no one seemed to have noticed.

One last look at the sculpture, and Marcy turned away to continue her way home. She stopped a couple of meters further and yet again someone bumped into her. This time she didn’t apologize but fought her way back to the shop window, while searching for her phone in her bag.

Night after night the picture was her masturbation fodder; night after night she repeated the same scenario in her head. Night after night the sculpture turned into a soft, luscious woman she made love to in her mind, until one day she walked past the shop, glanced inside and gasped.

The sculpture was gone.

Gone!

For weeks she couldn’t bear looking at the image. It was like she had lost a lover; like her heart had been broken.

The magic was gone. The fantasy she lived seemed silly.
It all disappeared with the sculpture and the image became just that: an image of a sculpture.

© Rebel’s Notes

Friday Flash

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