They called her statue Modesty, but as it stood on her tomb, Cecilia Gaetani dell’Aquila d’Aragona felt anything but.
The likeness of her body presented a woman aroused. Silk clung to her skin by the sweat of her lust, exposing her as a decadent whore who left herself otherwise bare for easy access. A turn of her head drew eager eyes downward, toward her sensuous curves, precisely where the sculptor wanted. He wanted people to remember the cloth dipping into her navel. He wanted visitors beckoned to rub her rock hard nipples, teasing the woman within while they felt its grain. A few astute onlookers might even have heard her moans echo all around to their touch, and quickly dismissed them as the chapel showing its age.
"Release me," she whispered and whimpered faintly.
Below the roses at her waist, Cecilia's pussy sweltered for a dicking it could never have. Layers of unworked marble locked those carnal needs between her legs where nothing could reach. Her right hand still hiked up her skirt as if hoping someone would chisel her a rocky cunt and bring relief denied to her for centuries. In time, her spirit lost sense of where her real desires ended and the statue's began. This perversion of her memory warped her from Raimondo di Sangro's late mother to the very essence of a cockteasing slut.
PACI AETERNAE, her tablet said. To her eternal peace. Something she would never know, tormented forever by a horniness too intense for her to be allowed in Heaven. But the tablet had more to say about her than that.
GRATI ANMI ET AMORIS MONUMENTO SINT INSIGNIORA MATRI INCOMPARABILI TUMULUM EXCITANDUM CURAVIT
Her son may have used the inscription to call her an incomparable mother, one whose statue existed to make her deserved distinctions more conspicuous. To the sculptor, however, it was perfectly clear that her breasts were the only distinction she deserved as a monument of love. And he most definitely made them conspicuous enough to eclipse any virtues she might have had in life. No one who visited her now cared about her elegance, her manners, her intelligence, her piety. They only saw her for the pair of stiffies on her chest.
Cecilia didn't altogether care anymore, either. She was too busy appreciating the wads of cum that a couple men had broken in and deposited on them. To her caretakers, it was an insult to the art. To Cecilia, it was the closest thing to bliss she would ever have.
Reblogged
Sent!
This blog contains adult content. In order to view it freely, please log in or register
and confirm you are 18 years or older
They called her statue Modesty, but as it stood on her tomb, Cecilia Gaetani dell’Aquila d’Aragona felt anything but.
The likeness of her body presented a woman aroused. Silk clung to her skin by the sweat of her lust, exposing her as a decadent whore who left herself otherwise bare for easy access. A turn of her head drew eager eyes downward, toward her sensuous curves, precisely where the sculptor wanted. He wanted people to remember the cloth dipping into her navel. He wanted visitors beckoned to rub her rock hard nipples, teasing the woman within while they felt its grain. A few astute onlookers might even have heard her moans echo all around to their touch, and quickly dismissed them as the chapel showing its age.
"Release me," she whispered and whimpered faintly.
Below the roses at her waist, Cecilia's pussy sweltered for a dicking it could never have. Layers of unworked marble locked those carnal needs between her legs where nothing could reach. Her right hand still hiked up her skirt as if hoping someone would chisel her a rocky cunt and bring relief denied to her for centuries. In time, her spirit lost sense of where her real desires ended and the statue's began. This perversion of her memory warped her from Raimondo di Sangro's late mother to the very essence of a cockteasing slut.
PACI AETERNAE, her tablet said. To her eternal peace. Something she would never know, tormented forever by a horniness too intense for her to be allowed in Heaven. But the tablet had more to say about her than that.
GRATI ANMI ET AMORIS MONUMENTO
SINT INSIGNIORA
MATRI INCOMPARABILI
TUMULUM EXCITANDUM CURAVIT
Her son may have used the inscription to call her an incomparable mother, one whose statue existed to make her deserved distinctions more conspicuous. To the sculptor, however, it was perfectly clear that her breasts were the only distinction she deserved as a monument of love. And he most definitely made them conspicuous enough to eclipse any virtues she might have had in life. No one who visited her now cared about her elegance, her manners, her intelligence, her piety. They only saw her for the pair of stiffies on her chest.
Cecilia didn't altogether care anymore, either. She was too busy appreciating the wads of cum that a couple men had broken in and deposited on them. To her caretakers, it was an insult to the art. To Cecilia, it was the closest thing to bliss she would ever have.