The world isn't perfect at all. With the exception of my ass, that is, but
we'll come to my ass later. If the world was perfect, I wouldn't have been
running through a forest in the middle of the night. And, to make matters worse, during a
thunderstorm like I had seldom experienced before. I wouldn't have been soaked
through either, there would have been no water squishing in my shoes, no cold water
running down my back, into the crack of my ass which is, as I have already stated before,
perfect.
No, in a perfect world, I'd have been lying in bed, tightly tucked under, snuggled
in, the fingers of one hand probably between my legs, the others on one of my tits,
squeezing and teasing it. Of course, if the world were really perfect, I mean not just
better than it actually is, but "it's-a-fucking-good-world-perfect", then I
wouldn't have been lying in bed all alone to begin with.
Nope, in a really, really perfect world, there'd be a nice guy, or not so nice, but
at least handsome and he would not only have been well equipped, he would also have had
the stamina to keep doing it the whole night. Yeah, he'd fucked me the whole night
and I'd fucked him the whole night too. Maybe, if I'd felt really good, I'd
have allowed him to fuck my ass, or maybe I'd have given him head. No, not maybe, I
would have certainly sucked him. Because, you see, I quite like to suck off a guy.
In a completely perfect world he'd have tied me up and fucked my brains to mush
while I was helplessly bound. Yup, that would match my definition of a truly perfect
world.
But as we all know, the world is far from perfect. Imperfection is one of the
foundations it is built upon. You can rely on imperfection. Hell, even the chicks in Vogue
or Playboy or any other of those glossy magazines aren't perfect enough and need to
be pimped in Photoshop. Ever seen a dimple or a spot on one of them? Eh? Yep, that's
what I mean. Nobody's spotless. Nobody's perfect. Not those chicks, not me
(forget about my ass for a second, please), and certainly not the world as a whole. And
because the world isn't perfect, my life, particularly my sex life, wasn't
either, I wasn't tied up nor was I getting fucked. Instead, I was running through a
dark forest in the middle of the night. In the pouring rain. Just because I couldn't
sleep.
Nothing worked, not counting sheep, not lying still, not even masturbating. I
couldn't even summon up some nice images in my head. For a couple of minutes I forced
myself to think of rough sex with two guys, preferably while being tied to the bed, but to
no avail, it didn't work, my pussy remained dry, una fica secca. Frustrated, I
crawled out of bed, trotted through the dark towards the toilet and swore when I hit my
toe on the door sill. The sound of the rain hammering against the windows accompanied the
sound of my peeing and the wind rattling the shutters drowned out the drip, drip, drip of
the faucet that needed repairing.
The sky outside of the small window had been pitch black except for the flickering of
the occasional lightning far away. I wiped myself, rinsed my hands and went back to bed,
knowing that I wouldn't be able to find sleep. So I shuffled back to the bed and slid
under the covers, tossing and turning for a couple of minutes. Then I switched on the
light again, looked for a book, found the newest novel by Nick Hornby, read a page and put
it away again. I contemplated watching a crappy soap on the telly, which would at least
have distracted me. Or maybe I should go out for a walk. In the end I slipped out of the
skimpy nightie and put on a pair of leggings, a sports bra and my running shoes. I knew
I'd be soaked in a matter of minutes in this rain, but it was warm and if I kept up
the pace I wouldn't be cold.
The streets were deserted as I stepped out of the house and started running. Nobody
would go out in such weather, not if it wasn't an emergency. The street lamps were
swaying in the wind, the pools of light beneath them dancing on the ground, shadows
jumping like dervishes, the black trees looking like dead spidery giants. I had stepped
out of the cover of the tiny roof above the entrance door and started jogging. Thick,
heavy raindrops falling from the branches of the plane trees which lined the street on
either side fell on my head and shoulders, smaller ones were driven against my face by the
wind. I didn't mind. I hadn't run a block when my t-shirt was soaked through,
another couple hundred metres and felt the cool water pooling in my shoes. Not paying
attention I kept running until I reached the end of the street, where it narrowed to a
gravel path that was swallowed up in the darkness of the forest just a couple of metres
ahead. But I didn't need any light, I knew the path and the forest by heart, I had
been jogging here every other day for the last couple of months, since I moved from the
big city to this little village. Whether it was smart for a single girl to go jogging in
the darkness of a forest in the middle of the night wasn't much of a concern. A
rapist who was waiting for an innocent victim in this kind of weather was very likely too
stupid to find his own dick, even in broad daylight.
A cool rivulet of rainwater sneaked its way down my back and into the crack of my ass as
my eyes slowly got used to the dark. It wasn't completely dark and if you knew the
trick of how to look at things in the darkness it was possible to make out the lighter
black of the path against the darker black of the underbrush. The trick is not to look at
what you want to look at, but a couple degrees off. It's easy once you know how to do
it, but most people have no clue. The path slowly rose until after two miles it reached
the top of the flat hill at the centre of the forest. After a while I felt my heart
hammering in my chest but I didn't slow down, kept on running until I felt the
metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I was near the top of the hill; I knew that to the
left was a steeper slope, a scarp a couple of metres high. It was there where I thought I
saw some shimmering light and reduced the pace.
Humm, strange. Was there indeed some dumbass rapist waiting in the middle of the night
in the middle of the forest for a helpless woman? Or just a hobo trying to keep warm and
dry? But the light didn't seem to come from a fire, it was a purplish white and it
didn't flicker like a light of a fire would. For a moment I broke my run and stopped,
squinting at the light spot, trying to make out what it was, but then I resumed my
running. However, once I had reached the top of the hill and turned around to run back, I
stopped again. Curiosity is my middle name and a purple shimmering light at one
o'clock in the morning in the middle of a forest and during a thunderstorm was way
more than my curiosity could withstand. I ventured off the path, water squishing in my
shoes, and made my way through the underbrush. Twigs of small trees hit my face, burs and
the occasional branch of a blackberry tugged at my shoes, once some thorns scratched my
leg. But I kept on going nevertheless. It was like something was pulling me towards the
light now. As I got closer I saw that the light was coming out of a cave, which was about
three meters high. This was very strange, because there had never been a cave here. I knew
that because I had picked blackberries just on this very spot. But now there was a cave,
and not just a hole in the ground as one would think, but a beautifully decorated
cave.
There were several statues guarding the entrance on either side and as I looked at them
closer I saw that they were in fact not just statues you'd expect to guard the
entrance of a cave that didn't exist a couple of days ago, but more like statues
you'd expect to stand in the garden of some very fancy and exclusive sex club. Not
that I have ever been to a fancy and exclusive sex club, but if I had been asked to
describe the statues in such a club they would have looked like those on either side of
the cave's entrance.
One was of a woman, her head thrown back and mouth opened as if in ecstasy, her nipples
standing out prominently, legs slightly parted, the middle finger of her left hand on her
clit, the right hand on her right breast, squeezing it. It looked exactly like I would
have looked if I had lain in bed masturbating instead of running through the night. She
even had the same hairdo as I had, about the same height and the same posture. Taking a
few steps and looking at her from close up I realized that she in fact looked very much
like me. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought that I had modelled for this
statue myself. But I hadn't, I was pretty sure about that.
The statue on the other side of the cave's opening was a couple, a guy standing,
his hands buried in the hair of a kneeling woman, pulling her towards his erect cock, her
puckered lips almost touching the tip of an enormous cock, her hands holding a chisel and
a hammer as if she herself was cutting him out of the stone. And indeed, the guy's
legs ended in rough chunk of sandstone, the statue not finished yet. This woman too had a
disturbing resemblance to me. I couldn't resist the temptation and stepped closer to
the statue of the single woman. Gingerly I touched her shoulder and my hand immediately
jerked back. The statue was soft and warm. It felt like touching a human, real skin over
real flesh. And what was even stranger was that the moment I had touched the statue's
shoulder, I had felt something touching mine. I tested again, touching her flank this time
and again somebody touched my flank. A last test convinced me that I was experiencing
exactly what I did with that statue.
Now would probably have been an excellent time to get out of there and go home, but I
didn't. No idea why I didn't. Well, that's not entirely true. I was even
more curious than I had been before, and to be honest I was also getting a bit aroused,
and once I am aroused I tend to do silly things which don't make sense.
I stood back again and watched the statues for a couple of minutes, transfixed, feeling
the arousal building inside me whenever I looked at one of the female figures in their
passion and ecstasy. OK, not fooling anyone here, the arousal had a lot to do with the
giant cock, too. A thought popped up in the back of my head and I tried to suppress it but
it kept coming back, grew bigger and stronger until it was all I could think about. I felt
myself being pulled towards the cock, felt the desire to touch it, see whether it was
kinda real too and as much as I fought the desire, it was stronger than me. OK, to be
honest, I didn't fight it that much. I am, after all, just a girl. A girl with a
thing for big, erect cocks. So, yeah, I more or less willingly - OK, OK, eagerly - gave in
to this urge to touch the cock and hell, when I gingerly wrapped my fingers around it felt
as real as ever a cock has felt.
Next thing I knew was that I was kneeling beside the statue of the girl. I looked at the
cock, my hand still wrapped around it, feeling it pulsate and throb slightly in my grip. I
glanced at myself, I mean, the statue that looked exactly like myself and wondered for a
moment whether my expression was as longing and cockhungry as that of the rocky image of
me. It was pretty obvious that I looked at myself and that I was longing to suck this
cock. The weirdness of it all didn't really register; all I thought about was that I
wanted to suck this cock. And so I did. It wasn't too comfy or practical, with the
carved statue of me ready to suck cock getting in the way, but somehow I managed it. The
guy, or the statue, or the guy in the statue or whatever didn't need too much time,
just a couple of strokes with my hands, some tonguing, kissing and licking and just when I
wanted to take him into my mouth as far as possible I felt the cock twitch. Thick wads of
what seemed to be genuine semen shot out and landed on my face where it mixed with the
rain to run down my throat and into my shirt. I opened my mouth to taste and swallow the
last couple of shots and lo and behold: It was sperm. I did what I always did when some
guy's spunk landed in my mouth: I swallowed, licked first the cock clean and then my
lips before I got up again.
Bye then the rain had soaked my clothes completely, but I knew that I had just gotten
even wetter while I had given head to the sandstone cock. As I looked at it again I saw
that it was still erect and I realized that I wanted to have that cock inside me, but with
me, well, the sandstone-me, kneeling in front of it that wasn't possible. I put my
hands on the shoulders of the statue of me and pulled and pushed, but it wouldn't
move. All that happened was that I felt someone pulling and pushing on my shoulders too.
This was useless. I stood back again and finally looked at the rest of the cave. The rock
of the statues seemed to glow from the inside, just like the whole cave did. I stepped
forward carefully, looking for something or someone inside the cave, but there was a curve
and I couldn't see all of it. The cave was about ten feet high and thirty long until
the bend. Both walls as well as the ceiling were covered with explicit erotic and
downright sexual reliefs, just like some Hindu temples in India I've seen on pictures
once in an issue of National Geographic. Except that all the women looked exactly like me.
Somebody clearly had an obsession with me.
I wondered what this was all about. To go on further in didn't seem to be the
smartest thing to do. Who knew what was waiting inside, or who? I was about to turn when I
heard a whisper. Only then did I notice that it was completely quiet inside the cave, the
sound of the rain falling on the leaves and hitting the ground outside didn't travel
inside the cave. I turned and looked to see whether the rain had stopped, but it
hadn't, I could see sheets of rain in the purple glow just outside.
Again there was a whispering, and this time I thought I heard something. My name, to be
exact. Uh oh. That surely wasn't a good sign, was it? To hear your name whispered by
something or someone that made it sound like a sea breeze while standing in the middle of
a cave designed by some sex-crazed heir of Escher was surely not a good sign. Either I was
still asleep, except to my knowledge I had never fallen asleep in the first place, plus
the water in my shoes did feel much too real for a dream. Or I was going nuts, a notion I
didn't like very much either. Or it was some very sick and elaborate prank.
"Rockssssssyyyyy," I heard the whispering again. OK, my name isn't
exactly Rocksssssyyyyy, but it was close enough to know that the voice was calling me.
Despite, there was nobody present but yours truly. "Come to me,
Rocksssssyyyyy."
I didn't really want to, but firstly, it's difficult to argue with a
disembodied voice and secondly I was almost at the bend in the cave so it wasn't too
difficult to make the necessary two steps to see what was behind the curve and get to
where the voice seemed to originate. But most of all, I couldn't help it; I was drawn
to that voice as if I were a puppet on a string.
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