Pygmalion
Keywords: Pygmalion,
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He also confessed the sense of honor and privilege that my allowing him to do so had conferred upon him.
"You are my Pygmalion," I told him.
As his erection entered my anus, penetrating my rectum, he brushed the hair from my neck, kissing his Galatea.
Inch by slow inch, he fed his thick, hard cock through my asshole until, at length, I felt his pubes press firmly against the lower halves of my flattened buttocks and the silk-soft flesh of his risen scrotum bobbed against my perineum. He'd buried the full length of his cock inside my rectum. I remained still, delighting in the feel my ass being crammed full with his swollen, rigid erection.
Then, I felt the drag of the firm member as Professor Higgins withdrew until only the glans of his prick remained within the portal to my bowels, propping open my anus. He paused for a moment, and then slammed his meat back through my asshole, deep into my bowels, flattening my buttocks again before his driving pubes. I felt the coarse hairs of his groin, like tiny needles, in the flesh of my smooth, bare ass. The sensations aroused me, as did the presence of his manhood inside me. My own soft, limp prick swelled, stiffening, and stood upright against my belly. I took it in hand, jiggling and squeezing it.
Again and again, Professor Higgins thrust his dick home, with increasing speed and force, making my buttocks bounce and dance and my frame shake and shudder. I gasped and moaned. My own cock was so hard that it hurt, and my balls ached. I needed release, both emotional and sexual. Tears welled within my eyes--not from pain, but from the intensity of my need to find release.
"Fuck me!" I encouraged my Pygmalion. Only with his semen inside me, flooding my rectum, and his sperm swimming through my bowels, could I become a "real girl," I thought. As his Galatea, I desired his desire; I needed his need. "Fuck me!"
His lightning cock flashed between my buttocks again, penetrating my rectum anew. Repeatedly, his penis, thick and hard, parted my buttocks, ramming and slamming its way past the smooth, inward-curving mounds of my bottom as it impaled me anew, stabbing me again and again, not only claiming, but also reclaiming, its conquest of the territory it had invaded.
Suddenly, Professor Higgins, his cock inside my ass to his balls, stopped. I felt him straining into me as he gave his hips a few, intense pumps, jostling my impaled buttocks with his heaving belly. I felt his thighs tremble, and he moaned, delirious with orgasm, as he emptied the reservoir of his semen into the depths of my ass.
Finally, spent and exhausted, he pulled free, his wilting cock sending a last streamer of white semen across my back and streaking the cleavage of my ass with the warm, sticky remnants of his molten seed.
My own prick sent streamers of my liquid seed over my breasts and belly as I felt the soft tickle of his semen trailing between my buttocks, over my perineum, and down the back of my scrotum.
He stayed inside me until I shit his cock, limp and soft, as if it were a turd. He walked me to the door, carrying my Galatea for me.
Handing off the statue I'd carved of the ideal woman, he gave me a final kiss, his lips soft and warm, and I left, promising to sign up for one of the courses he was teaching next semester and vowing to keep him company before then as well, in a more intimate way.
At home, my ideal woman safely in her rightful place, upon her pedestal, I fell asleep upon the divan in my studio, and slept as if I were dead.
In a soliloquy, the ever-philosophical Hamlet says, "What dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil?" While I hadn't actually shuffled off my mortal coil, I was sleeping the sleep, at least, of the dead, and these are the dreams that came to me.
I'd brought my precious, beautiful Galatea apples, pears, and grapes upon a sliver platter, setting these gifts of fruit at her feet, where I sat, gazing adoringly up her sleek thighs, past the ornaments of her full, round breasts, into her wide eyes, which I imagined to be blue, like the cloudless sky, wishing, with all my heart, with all my strength, and with all my mind that she were living, breathing flesh, rather than mere marble. "Live," I wished aloud. "Live for me."
I took her cold, smooth palm in my warm, fleshly hand, and, gazing upon her loveliness of face and form, I begged the ravishing beauty to move, to reach her hands toward me, to stir and to embrace me, that I might become one flesh with her, both this night and forever. "Live," I repeated fervently. "Live for me."
There was a stirring of the curtains at my chamber's casements, and a brilliant, golden light filled the room. I blinked, squinting at the brightness, and a voice, as soft and beautiful as Love, said, "Stone, become flesh; carving become woman; figure, be transformed!"
As I clutched my statue's calves against my breasts, she stirred!
Galatea lived!
I woke to the golden sunlight streaming through my bedroom window.
My beloved statue, come to life, The Perfect Woman, stood at my bedside, the silver platter of fruit in hand.
Some may imagine that, faced with marble become flesh, I might have recoiled in terror, but I could but weep with joy as, ignoring the platter, I clasped the warm, soft flesh of my dream girl, crushing her sleek curves against my own. A latter-day Pygmalion, I understood the joy that my mythical predecessor had felt, and I knew the true meaning of passion and the true name of bliss: it is Galatea, The Perfect Woman.
But, unlike Galatea in my dream, I had not actually awakened; I had stirred only in my sleep, as I found when my telephone, ringing, woke me, and I answered its summons.
It was Professor Higgins, calling his Galatea. We agreed to meet for dinner the next evening. . . . and for dessert--for endless desserts--ever after.
I am content to be his Perfect Woman, for he, like me, is flesh, not stone, and blood, not veined marble; his hands, hips lips, his cock and balls, like his love and passion, are real. Likewise, my hands, my lips, my breasts, my buttocks, my cock and balls, my love and passion, are real.
With him as my Pygmalion, I am happy to be a modern-day Galatea and to leave stone women to the likes of Amanda, who prefer the abstract to the concrete and the ideal to the real.
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Keywords: Pygmalion,