Read Online Wax Museum: An Erotic Short Story by Lexie Lashe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lexie Lashe
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temples.
“You
must be the artist,” Max said.
“You’re
very talented.” Sandra said a silent prayer her friend wouldn’t say anything
asinine to embarrass her. Max didn’t always have a filter.
The
artist looked at her. “I like your face. You would make a fine addition.”
“You…”
She blinked in confusion, glancing around. “You want me to model for you?”
“Perhaps.”
He walked away, moving to a group waiting by the front door. “But it is not
really up to me. It is the wax that makes the decision.”
“See, I
told you guys wanted you,” Max teased.
“Please,
he’s like my dad’s age. And I’m pretty sure he just said he wanted to encase me
in wax.” Sandra pushed the curtain aside and walked into the erotica room.
The
first displays didn’t really do anything for her—bondage gear, paddle spanking,
grown men pretending to be babies. The artistic details were amazing and she
could appreciate that much, but they weren’t her scene and she didn’t find them
particularly arousing. She wasn’t into men crapping in their diapers so their
nannies could change them—no matter how aroused their male parts appeared.
“To
each their own,” she mumbled, moving on.
The
displays formed a path through the room, forcing the onlookers to walk in a
single direction through the museum. There was a woman being fucked on a pool
table, her breast squished in her lover’s palm. A 1960s couple made love before
the light of a black-and-white television show. A blanket molded around their
bodies as the husband remained eternally on top, mid-thrust. Two drug addicts
had dirty sex in a dank alley. Another couple did it in a bathroom stall. A man
jerked off to the peep show dancer’s ass pressed intimately against glass.
Suddenly,
the pathway split. Two male symbols pointed in one direction, two female in
another, and then a male and female in a third. Max laughed, pushing her to
what he called the “straight hall” while he went to explore something a little
more to his taste.
Now
alone, she wandered into the hall. A small chill worked over her as the lights
dimmed. The displays became intimate—a kiss, a caress, a lingering look. There
was a lifted skirt and a hand upon a thigh. Her stomach tightened in longing.
This was what she craved—desire. More than anything she wanted to be desired.
She wanted a man to look at her, deep and sure, like the cover of some grocery
store romance novel. She wanted a man so passionate for her that he didn’t stop
to think. A real man, a strong man, an alpha.
Just as
she thought it, she came upon the perfect specimen of her fantasy—a lone man
standing before a long stretch of forest, which was cut by a dirt path. Dark,
shoulder-length hair framed sinfully dark eyes. They seemed to call to her,
beckoning her in. Behind him was the hint of a cabin. Her eyes traveled down to
a bare chest, to snuggly fitted jeans and sturdy work boots. His nipples looked
erect, matching the clear outline his hard cock formed beneath his jeans. The
man was aroused.
“How
sad for you, lumberjack,” Sandra said to no one in particular, taking her fill
of him. “Stuck in a permanent state of arousal.”
Now
this was a man—strong, outdoorsy, confident. What she wouldn’t do to him if he
was real and they were alone.
A
flannel shirt lay across a nearby log, held down by an axe. She stepped slowly
to the side, trying to peek deeper into the forest. Who was he waiting for?
More of the cabin came into view. The painted background was terrifically
realistic. She wondered how deep the display actually went. Sandra glanced
around, searching for security cameras or guards. Not seeing any, she quickly
reached forward to touch a tree trunk. The wax was firm beneath her fingers.
Then, glancing around again, she came to the man. Quickly, she reached to touch
the hard length in his pants. A giggle escaped her at the small display of
naughtiness.
“You
are a big lumberjack, aren’t you?”
“You
must be the artist,” Max said.
“You’re
very talented.” Sandra said a silent prayer her friend wouldn’t say anything
asinine to embarrass her. Max didn’t always have a filter.
The
artist looked at her. “I like your face. You would make a fine addition.”
“You…”
She blinked in confusion, glancing around. “You want me to model for you?”
“Perhaps.”
He walked away, moving to a group waiting by the front door. “But it is not
really up to me. It is the wax that makes the decision.”
“See, I
told you guys wanted you,” Max teased.
“Please,
he’s like my dad’s age. And I’m pretty sure he just said he wanted to encase me
in wax.” Sandra pushed the curtain aside and walked into the erotica room.
The
first displays didn’t really do anything for her—bondage gear, paddle spanking,
grown men pretending to be babies. The artistic details were amazing and she
could appreciate that much, but they weren’t her scene and she didn’t find them
particularly arousing. She wasn’t into men crapping in their diapers so their
nannies could change them—no matter how aroused their male parts appeared.
“To
each their own,” she mumbled, moving on.
The
displays formed a path through the room, forcing the onlookers to walk in a
single direction through the museum. There was a woman being fucked on a pool
table, her breast squished in her lover’s palm. A 1960s couple made love before
the light of a black-and-white television show. A blanket molded around their
bodies as the husband remained eternally on top, mid-thrust. Two drug addicts
had dirty sex in a dank alley. Another couple did it in a bathroom stall. A man
jerked off to the peep show dancer’s ass pressed intimately against glass.
Suddenly,
the pathway split. Two male symbols pointed in one direction, two female in
another, and then a male and female in a third. Max laughed, pushing her to
what he called the “straight hall” while he went to explore something a little
more to his taste.
Now
alone, she wandered into the hall. A small chill worked over her as the lights
dimmed. The displays became intimate—a kiss, a caress, a lingering look. There
was a lifted skirt and a hand upon a thigh. Her stomach tightened in longing.
This was what she craved—desire. More than anything she wanted to be desired.
She wanted a man to look at her, deep and sure, like the cover of some grocery
store romance novel. She wanted a man so passionate for her that he didn’t stop
to think. A real man, a strong man, an alpha.
Just as
she thought it, she came upon the perfect specimen of her fantasy—a lone man
standing before a long stretch of forest, which was cut by a dirt path. Dark,
shoulder-length hair framed sinfully dark eyes. They seemed to call to her,
beckoning her in. Behind him was the hint of a cabin. Her eyes traveled down to
a bare chest, to snuggly fitted jeans and sturdy work boots. His nipples looked
erect, matching the clear outline his hard cock formed beneath his jeans. The
man was aroused.
“How
sad for you, lumberjack,” Sandra said to no one in particular, taking her fill
of him. “Stuck in a permanent state of arousal.”
Now
this was a man—strong, outdoorsy, confident. What she wouldn’t do to him if he
was real and they were alone.
A
flannel shirt lay across a nearby log, held down by an axe. She stepped slowly
to the side, trying to peek deeper into the forest. Who was he waiting for?
More of the cabin came into view. The painted background was terrifically
realistic. She wondered how deep the display actually went. Sandra glanced
around, searching for security cameras or guards. Not seeing any, she quickly
reached forward to touch a tree trunk. The wax was firm beneath her fingers.
Then, glancing around again, she came to the man. Quickly, she reached to touch
the hard length in his pants. A giggle escaped her at the small display of
naughtiness.
“You
are a big lumberjack, aren’t you?”
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