Alexander the Great Exhibit - The Story

Alexander the Great Exhibit      
        
     The Grecian urn is displayed in a glass case under soft but insistent light whose pottery is embossed with Apollo pursuing Daphne. His rod is still risen to defy millennia of censorship.
     A curious maiden turns my head. While she explores the scene we share our voyeur’s gaze. Her eyes travel the length of his Apollonian manhood giving rise to my own response. Her fascination for the anatomical detail becomes my piquancy. I call this celestial muse, Celeste. Until her poise of Hellenic Greece sends my Argonaut on a quest to weave the wool of her golden fleece.
     I tell her, “I’m eighteen and just graduated from high school. It feels funny to look at art this graphic, especially in the presence of a beautiful woman such as yourself.”  
     She says, “This museum has an impressive Pre-Columbian exhibit upstairs. The crowd is focused on the Alexander the Great exhibit. Let’s go view the Mesoamerican rooms where we can find privacy. The primitivism of the Mayan sculpture will provide a good contrast for our museum  
experience.”
     I follow her up the stairs with my eyes fixed on her derriere which to me is the most beautiful art piece here. Her buttocks are proportioned as exactly as the woman being chased we saw on the vase. But it seems she has become my pursuer in a gender bender whose outcome is yet to be seen. We enter the dimly lit room where horned beasts made of clay greet us. Faces of Mayan people gaze from a lost world.  
     She tells me, “Look at that Sun God figure. No look closer. Gaze into his eyes. You need to squat for a better balance. We wouldn’t want you falling into it and getting sued for damages.”
     Suddenly I feel her svelte hand slip the seam of my underworld only to unzip me like an audacious courtesan of an intercessor for the Sun God into whose stony eyes I stare. She leaves my belt buckled but finagles my cotton briefs down with the finesse of a priestess. My virgin prick and balls are ready for the rites of spring. She lubricates my pole with what must be grape seed oil judging by its scent.  
     Then she says, “To add to your pleasure I have  
a French tickler condom which is turned inside out. So its design resembles an iron maiden for torture but is made of latex for pleasure instead. The tip is bulbous with the prongs aimed at your cock-crown where your nerve endings proliferate like those of a woman’s clit ever so sensitive. But before encasing your prick I will anoint its crown with a droplet of peppermint balm which will create a hot tincture as it mixes with the grapeseed oil in its slow but insistent migration down your pole.”
      With her thumb pressed into the underside of my balls, she clasps my penis with her fingers that turn it into the hardness of the statuary which gazes through the millennia at her sacrificing my virginity on the altar of the ancients who witness the ritual.
     She says, “I’m working on my Ph.D. in Mayan linguistics. But my research needs the element of applied ritual to make my dissertation genuine. Don’t worry I won’t sacrifice your life as the ancient Mayans did. Though I do have a nutcracker in my purse to give this more realism. I’m hooking this nut crusher around your bonbons not to hurt you but to establish my supremacy. None to worry, I’m in complete control of my manual reflexes.”
     Suddenly I feel cold steel against my scrotum. I think, “If she is crazy enough to reenact a Mayan ritual in a museum who knows how far she might take this?”
     She says, “I’ll only let the cracker rest gently on your delicacies so they won’t get crushed. Remember, I don’t want any sound effects. When you ride the Grand Canyon rapids let the whitewater fun be enough without any yawping.”
     My scrotum grows tight as though all my practice alone was bearing the fruit of passion building under the very real touch of an authentic woman. My eyes get misty so that the Sun God statue I face turns all blurry. She grabs my hair and pulls me back in a firm gesture of who is in charge and my need to stay balanced. My heart beats like a drum in this room of silent watchers. Only her voice interrupts the silence as she pumps me.  
     She says, “The nut wrench is strategically positioned for an act of force upon your fragile eggs to quell any rebellious schoolboy notions you have of not completing your assignment.” Soon, only the shrunken prune is palpable. She rolls the hook along with the wrinkles of my pouch. I wonder what she has in store for me as her right hand fulfills her deed while her left-hand holds the crusher to create an unknown prophecy.  
      I wonder if I should try to escape? But would I get away with my balls intact? I consider how realistic this graduate student’s zealotry might take her. With few sure options, I put my trust in her as she squeezes my piston that is the shape of the Sun God cylinder which astonishes my very eyes. The condom feels like the tentacles of a sea anemone with her grip the unmistakable maw of the predator. The peppermint balm is its pleasant sting. When the time has come for me to either lose my ability to father children or experience bliss I put my bet on my orgasm which surely must be her goal.  
     She retracts the steel wrench from my tenderloins. With the shock of a man who felt the metal teeth ready to crush his family jewels, she tucks my cock back into my briefs. But reassuringly she continues her ministration upon me until the latex breaks like clouds parting for liquid sunshine. My lips form an O through which the unmistakable deepening of moans follows. My underwear is in need of cleaning. After my final pulse, she zips me up. She says, “I told you not to make noise when your special moment arrives.”
     I reply, “Yea, maybe we shouldn’t have done this in the first place.”
     She says, “Are you giving me lip? I have no choice but to spank you. But this discipline must be administered on your bare bottom to be effective.”
     I reply, “Don’t you think we’re pushing our luck?”
     She says, “Honey, I used to be a blackjack dealer. I can feel when the odds are in our favor.”
     With a flick of her wrist, she undoes my belt, unzips me, and has both my jeans and fruit of the looms bunched up on my thighs. Her smacks are precisely aimed for a maximum sting. My vocal cords are the pipes of my organ whose melody of yeows and yikes she plays like a maestro pianist.  
     Between strokes of my ivory she says, “Your vocalizes are music to my ears. But I won’t stop until you soften the tones of your expression into something less audible to passersby.”
     I reply, “Unhhh. Ahhh. Owww.”
     She says, “In the throes of your thrashing you’ve learned self-control. That is a valuable lesson that will stand by you. Don’t ever let pain rule you.”
     Finally, she buttons my jeans only to be surprised by the effect of her swats having thickened my manhood again which she gives a goodbye squeeze.
     She says, “This event will be recorded in my private literature instead of in my dissertation. Of course, I’ll give you a complimentary copy since you were the subject of this exercise.”
     I blink several times to clear my eyes of my tears of joy. She says, “Give me your name and addy and I’ll expedite a copy of my book in which this offering to the Gods was made out of sheer reverence for their mystery.”
   “My undies are soaked.”
    “The Mayan moon goddess Ixchel would be pleased. You are ready to be a man now.”