The Smithsonian Art Museum had antiquated wood floors that were polished and gave the great and wide hall of the museum the feeling of an early American settlement, the house of a governor or house of congress. It was that important. Ronaldo and Jasmine walked by the paintings self-conscious of the other and circulated a bust of a British soldier looking onward, pensive into the distance. The colors of the walls and open air expanse of the warehouse feel of the gallery made them feel…at peace. They spoke to each other easily that day. It was a first date, through friends of friends in their family, who were all originally from India. It was a long voyage for their roots to that moment when they held hands and Ronaldo said, “I have a dog. He is a small terrier. I realized one day the joy I get from walking him, spending time with him, taking care of him. There is a piece of artwork that expresses that better than anything else, the feeling.”
Jasmine felt his fingers interlacing with hers. “What is it?” Feeling his hands she wondered how she had gotten here so fast. But she didn’t see the harm in indulging it. It felt good.
“Clifford the Big Red Dog.”
“I’m thinking about it. But I’ve never had a dog. But you’re saying it’s a beautiful feeling.”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“Hmmm…”
“Clifford the Big Red Dog deserves to be in this museum. It should be here.”
“Perhaps…”
The footsteps echoed in the hall. They stopped, hearing nothing else, and realizing they had wandered into a hall where no one else was. Paintings with large ornate gold frames surrounded them. They were alone.
He debated it; he could have gone either way. In a way he felt he had to but he didn’t count on something. What was it? It was an aroma he got a whiff of, pungent, strong and that disappeared into his nostrils. It came during their kiss. That smell, that whiff, that is what made him lose his mind.
Ronaldo slowly moved his hand from hers to her waist. Gently he pressed her against the wall. A moment passed as they watched each other. Then his lips connected with hers, already open, tongue already out. Were they moving too fast? Something inside her wanted to be naked, wanted to feel his plant inside her and spread its seeds. Something inside her wanted to be wet, to be the ocean and mountains and grass gently massing that plant, it’s bulb. But were they moving to fast? Dear, she thought, she was already almost about to cum. That’s when Ronaldo smelled it, feeling the heat of her body and mouth against his in one spider form. He lost it.
“I don’t give a fuck where we are,” he cried, like a wounded animal. He unzipped his pants and let stone-hard hot dick stick out. He unbuttoned his pants around her. Jasmine looked around the museum for a moment having doubts. What if they were caught, she thought. But she wanted it; and if she didn’t get it, she didn’t know what’d she do. Her pants were black spandex that she rolled down and that instantly unfurled a hot hairy stinky pussy. Light brown skin that was covered in a short black mane, wet, already wet, stinking, like a nest of fish. Ronaldo’s dick shoved inside of her. Fuck it was wet. Fuck it stank; his nostrils flared. He fucked her harder. It felt so good he wanted to cum. Their tongues sloppily wrestled each other. But he pulled away, pulled his dripping wet dick out. “Does it matter?” He softly pushed Jasmine against the wall beside a painting of hunters out west with horses and wearing animal pelts. Ronaldo got on his knees and lifted her slight frame up at her thighs, clenching them. He pressed his mouth against the black beehive of hair juice. He ate. He ate plenty. He licked and licked. He came in her mouth. Only three people walked in on them.
***
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/7x6ur5/fucking_in_the_middle_of_an_art_museum