It’s 3 A.M.
The only sound you can hear is your own footsteps, echoing through the tall, marble halls. Cold, stone faces stare down at you from all angles, illuminated by the soft exhibit lights hanging from the ceiling, and the hard glare of the torch in your hand.
This is the night shift: the sun goes down, the people leave, and for 8 hours, you’re locked inside the museum with nothing but ancient relics to keep you company.
Some company, you think, scoffing to yourself. If only the statues could step down from their pedestals and actually speak. Imagine the stories they might have, the things they’ve seen over the centuries. Instead, they stand, perfectly still, while you patrol the dark, empty rooms. Not a soul in sight.
The loneliness eats away at you like a disease. Sometimes, you wish someone would break-in, if only to give you somebody to talk to. Sleep is out of the question; every time you close your eyes, you get the sickly feeling that someone—that something is watching you…
A CRACK. You spin around. “Who’s there?” you cry, waving your flashlight into the darkness. Nothing. Only the hollow echo of your own voice.
Probably a rat, you think as you turn around. But just as your fear begins to subside, another CRACK. It’s coming from the end of the hall, where an impossibility white marble statue of a Roman Soldier stands, watching guard.
You tiptoe forward, careening your light around the statue, searching for the source of the noise. “I’m armed!” You call out. You’re not, and your hands are shaking with anxiety.
Now just feet away from the statue, you can make out all its perfect details: the deep-cut lines on the soldier’s abs, the impeccably carved patch of pubic hair above his flaccid penis, the curvature of his arms as they tightly grip a centurion’s sword and shield. The image of male perfection, and behind him… nothing.
There’s nobody there. But the cracking persists. Louder, and more frequent.
Then you realize: it’s coming FROM the statue.
You stumble back and watch as the centurion’s alabaster muscles begin to ripple and flex, creaking and cracking as they come to vivid life.
Impossible. It must be the light playing tricks on you, your lonely mind hallucinating in the endless silence. But then the statue fills with color, the cool white marble turning sandy and warm as the soldier’s chest heaves up and down, cracking with every breath. The expression on his face changes from strong determination, to shocked surprise, as he begins to move his arms and legs for the first time in centuries.
You watch in terror as the statue you saw just moments ago steps down from his pedestal, now a man of flesh and blood. Except that every perfect detail carved into the marble has stayed the same: his abs are still carved deep into his skin, his biceps still flare and flex as they grip the sword and shield. The only thing that’s changed is his dick, now standing straight up in a massive, throbbing erection.
“You there!” the soldier says, pointing his sword at you. You back away, tripping over your feet in the process. As you tumble on your back, the centurion swaggers forward, sword pointed directly at your neck.
“I am Marcus Acuitus,” he says in a booming voice that shakes the very ground you lay on, “Leader of the ninth legion, champion of Rome. Tell me, what is this strange dwelling in which I’ve found myself?”
“The… the museum of ancient history…” you stammer.
“And you,” the soldier continues, “are you the centurion of this museum?”
Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod your head. “Very good,” Marcus says, and with that, he stabs his sword into the ground, shattering the tile, and drops his shield. “I feel as if I’ve been asleep for very long,” he says as he stretches and flexes, showing off the body of an adonis, “tell me, where is your nearest brothel?”
“Nearest… what?”
The soldier laughs. “I could use a glass of wine and a warm body. The women at this museum, are they as beautiful as some of these statues?” He waves to the other exhibits.
You shake your head. “There are no women,” you say. “This is the night shift. It’s only me.”
Marcus’ face contorts with disappointment. And then, he begins to eye you, staring down your blue security outfit, drenched in your sweat and clinging tight to your body.
“You… you could wait until the morning!” You say, thinking of some way to distract him, “there are tons of… brothels around town. Maybe they’d be open then!”
But Marcus simply stares down at his dick, which is so hard now that it might actually still be marble. “Tell me,” he says, quieter, “have you ever felt the touch of another man?”
Your throat turns dry. You shake your head, and the centurion chuckles. “Back in my legion, when we were out on the battlefield with no women to keep us warm at night, I would call the biggest, strongest, most fearsome man into my tent.” He removes his helmet, letting his long, shaggy brown hair fall to his shoulders. “Do you know what I would do with him?”
Again, you just shake your head. But you already know the answer.
“I can show you, if you’d like,” Marcus looks down towards his throbbing meat, “I sure know I would.”
You have never fucked another man before. You’ve dreamt of it, many times. Of being taken by a tall, muscular beast, used until your asshole leaks with his warm seed. You long to be touched, to feel another man’s body pressed up against yours like hot coals, breathing heavy into your ear as he mounts your willing hole.
“I… I would. Like it.”
And with that, he takes you. Right there on the cool museum floor. In seconds, you feel his strong, trained hands tearing open your blue, button down shirt, and exploring the hot, sweaty skin on your chest.
He kisses you, and you taste the burning sands of ancient Rome on his lips. You close your eyes, and feel him tear the pants straight from your body. He grabs your legs and hoists you into the air. You straddle his wide chest, and feel his hard cock bobbing up against your needy hole.
He takes you to a leather couch sitting in the middle of the exhibit hall. His body presses against yours, and while he cradles your head with one hand, he begins to finger your ass with the other.
“Slow,” you manage to squeak out. Even just two fingers is enough to send you reeling. You’ve never had anything larger than that up there before.
Marcus grins. “I wasn’t just known for my skills in battle,” he says, placing both of his hands in yours and guiding your arms above your head, “I’ve been told I’m a wonder in bed.” With both hands up, he runs his fingers down the length of your arms, down your pits, and over your chest. As he does, he lowers himself down, kissing every inch of your stomach. His hands, now at the base of your hips, take your legs and spread them wide, exposing your leaking dick. He kisses the base, sure to savor every molecule before grabbing your cock and swallowing it whole.
The museum ceiling fills with stars as your vision blurs. Endorphins rush through your bloodstream, and you writhe uncontrollably as Marcus’ trained lips work the head of your penis. With one arm, he presses down on your chest, holding you and steadying you. He’s so strong, you think, looking down to watch him bob up and down, milking you to the very brink.
You hear a loud “pop” and the cool air of the exhibit hall graze your wet dick. Suddenly, he is straddling you, and you’re staring up at all 10 inches of Roman meat.
“Swallow,” he commands. And you do. His cock might be as hard as marble, but it bears the salty taste of flesh. Sweat trickles from his chest onto your face as you suck the centurion’s dick. He reaches around and continues fingering your taint, this time squeezing three thick fingers into your ever expanding hole.
Marcus’ cocky smile bears down at you from above his pecs. “I think you’re ready,” he says.
For what? You think, but you don’t have time to ask. He’s throwing you around like a rag doll, laying you facedown and kicking your legs apart. Exposing your hole.
You hear him spit on his fingers, and feel him massage it into your ass. “Are you ready?” he asks.
But it doesn’t matter if you’re ready or not; you NEED him inside of you. You nod, and feel a splitting pain as he guides his cock inside of your hole, and your hole swallows it up.
You cry out, in pain, in pleasure. But no one can hear you. The halls of the museum reverberate with the sounds of your moans, his grunts, and the wet slap of his body as he pile-drives your hungry cunt. This is how the Romans fucked; like animals, wherever they could, with whoever they could find.
The wet leather of the couch sticks to your chest as he holds your back, riding you like a prized horse until the cum spills from your cock and onto the tiled floor. He literally fucked the cum out of you.
But he’s still going. By now, your hole is loose and worn. He picks up the pace, his thrusts fast as machine gun fire, and before you know it, you’re cumming again. Orgasmic waves blur your vision until the museum becomes a wash of colors. Time begins to speed up, and you begin to wonder…
How long have you been fucking?
You start to lose feeling in your body, numb from being used over and over and over again. Marcus’ cock moves so fast, you can’t even feel his thrusts. Only and endless stream of orgasms, cum flowing from your cock in an eternal stream. Like a fountain that never ceases.
You watch as the world rushes past you at an unimaginable speed. Thousands of faces staring at you in wonder. In disgust. In pleasure. But you don’t care. Nothing matters but the feeling of Marcus inside of you, pleasuring you, using you for all eternity.
“And here we have a… controversial piece. It depicts the famous Roman Centurion Marcus Acuitus and an unknown guard sharing an intimate moment before a battle.”
“It’s very graphic. Where did you say the museum had it on loan from?”
“We believe it was a gift. It just… appeared one night. We suspect it was a generous donation.”
“That wouldn’t happen to be the same night that security guard stole that statue would it? Could they be related?”
“I doubt it. Although, the statue WAS of the same Roman general…”
“Marcus Acuitus, yes. Did you ever recover that? Or ever find the security guard?”
“No. He was never seen again. Shameful, running off with such a priceless piece of art. I hope he’s satisfied with himself.”
Yes… yes he is…
