Moved by Art
They hoped something would rub off on them. Been checking them all out. They wanted to fuck in one of the writers’ beds. You know how it can be with people of their ilk. Writers. They can be so weird.
They were both very horny. All those sheets, all those erotic thoughts soaked into the thread counts.
“Back to the gallery” came the whisper.
They entered the space. In the center was a bed, as if onstage. Their bare footsteps echoed against the white walls.
“You sure you want to do this? I don’t know what time the gallery opens.”
“Nobody will ever know. It’s already messed up. Besides, the thought of fucking with art kinda turns me on.”
“Wear the slippers for me?”
“Whoa, that’s kinda kinky.”
Soon they were tangling in the sheets. Tied their hands together with the pantyhose they found – one leg for each set of hands. That made it hard to move, but that just made them hotter. No fingers into orifices, it was just mad grinding going on. At one point they almost fell off the bed.
“Oh baby that feels good don’t stop oh God I think I’m gonna come!”
Just then the lights flicked on. They froze, their legs jutting from under the sheets.
“Would you look at that? Seems every night the artist has to come in here and make changes to the piece.”
“Wow, those dolls do look real don’t they?”
Sunday, April 26, 2009
In the bed I made
When Alison Tyler asked for bed photos, I knew which one I had to send. It was a couple years old, but still. What I didn't know was that she would use it to introduce a new contest. One in which we were to choose one of the bed photos that various folks had sent her and write a story involving it. I didn't choose mine of course, I chose this one. Here's my dive beneath the covers.