The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Stone that grew a Man

by Maximilian Cummings

Chapter 2 — Mary

How many countless girls had climbed up to ride him? How many, urged on by their sisters and friends, had let their peplos fall to the ground and stepped forward naked in the bright Greek sunlight to mount? How many young virgins had he deflowered? The mingled blood and girl-oil dripping from his member to the dust below. How many young girl hands had ceremonially cleansed him with water from the cool spring by the Temple leaving his body and phallos shining white in the sun ready for the next impalement?

And then the awful day when the temple had been sacked, the single stroke and the uncouth barbarian laughter as the proud upstanding phallos had been knocked from his body to lie in the dust below. The first dreadful act before his whole body had been smashed with hammer blows; the beautiful, centuries, old statue broken, his wings shattered into a thousand pieces. His colourful taenia dirtied in the dust.

The phallos had lain in the dust for centuries, kicked aside and then left. Once or twice goats had moved it as they nosed around for grass. Several had urinated upon it. It had been a hard time after centuries of girl mountings.

The man and his daughter had come. They had moved in the bright sunlight and he had felt an appreciation of his temple after so many long centuries. Not quite worship but something akin. He had felt the man’s appreciation of the damaged beauty of the structure despite its ruinous state. He had rejoiced in the clearing of the overgrowing vines bringing what was left, so tumbled and ruinous, back into the sunshine.

The man had identified the pieces of the statue—or what he could find and had tried piecing it together but it had been the girl who had found the phallos. They had camped in tents nearby and it had been her, up in the early dawn, who had found the once proud male organ. Beautifully carved long ago in such detail it was lying beneath a small half dead bush barely visible and half buried in the ground. The girl in her long skirt and blouse with sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her hair escaping from a severe tying, had crouched and reached for him.

For the first time in more than a millennium he felt the touch of female hands to his phallos. The so remembered gasp of wonder he had heard countless times from girls delighted him. She had recognised the stone for what it represented—indeed was holding it at the angle it had stood for centuries.

He had felt the rain countless times—and the goats’ urine—but now his phallos was washed entire. It was like the ritual washing of old. The cool water fetched by the girl from the self same spring by the temple where the girls had found and brought water for the ceremonial cleansing.

Her fingers upon the cold marble, the very same tracing of finger tips he had felt so many, many times from the young virgins discovering in marble representation, exquisitely detailed carved marble, what the upright, erect phallos of a man was like. So very different from the kynodesme tied organs of the men and boys at the running track. Perhaps they had heard from mother, elder sister or friend, how much larger the erected phallos was—magnificent and hard—and they would be seeing a perfect representation for the very first time, complete with the normally hidden smooth bulb of the glans penis and the taut fraenum so perfectly carved in the marble, unobscured by the posthe and akroposthion—the prepuce.

Light feminine touches as the girl turned the phallos this way and that in the bright sunshine. Without a body the feelings stayed within the phallos, surging back and forth along its length unable to infuse the whole marble body with its energy. The girl had touched her finger to the tip where were carved the twin lips of the opening to the male body, for both the male and female need to urninate and the male need to release that precious substance of nature.

She had hidden the phallos, not shown it to her father. The girl had wrapped it in a cloth and hidden it in her tent and only when dark had fallen had she unwrapped it again and gazed on its beauty in the moonlight.

He had recognised all the signs, the shivering and the sighing of aroused young femininity. She had risen and gone to the spring and washed herself in the cool water. Face, hair, limbs, her marble white breasts with their little hard nipples and the places between her legs, the dark curls that grew in such profusion, the places where she performed basic bodily tasks and the special womanly places which she had found more and more difficult not to touch despite the warnings of her school mistresses.

The prospect of being married to Spencer Frossington had been much on her mind of late; it was not just she missed his engaging company, as lovers would, but there was something more—an excitement about what happened between man and wife and, in the course of time, would be for them. More and more she had lain in her tent all alone in those hot Greek nights, and thought about what it would be to lie with a man—specifically Spencer Frossington. What would it be like when naked together. What would it be like when he lay atop of her on their wedding night? Nothing between their naked bodies except... his phallos.

She had walked back from the spring naked in the moonlight—an unheard of thing. From her father’s tent came snores. There was no one to see her naughtiness but the crickets and night time animals.

In her mind’s eye Spencer Frossington standing naked by her tent, his hard body so clear and white in the moonlight and there, rising from his hips the so different thing, the male sexual organ, erect and powerful, and looking so like the marble phallos lying on her cot in her tent. Perhaps on their wedding night he would be standing by the bed like that ready to take her maidenhead. Would that hurt? She had wondered often. Such a rite of passage. The man making the girl, his new bride, a woman.

In the morning after the wedding all the people knowing. Everyone they met would know what had happened in the night before. Would know the groom’s phallos would have grown large and been inserted into his bride—perhaps with difficulty, perhaps with pain—and consummated the marriage. It was a very natural act, she had seen the bull and the cows, the ram and the ewes but, but so awful to see the eyes of people and know they knew.

Better by far for the ritual to be performed in secret, indeed why not by moonlight as she was now on a hillside in Greece. The air warm and conducive to nakedness. She, ritually bathed, greeting her new husband and his phallos. Perhaps she should drop to her knees and kiss and fondle it, as she had touched and fondled the phallos she had found.

She was on her knees making to crawl into her tent. The moonlight from behind her illuminated the marble phallos lying on her cot. It looked big and strong, as she hoped her husband’s would be. She reached and held it in front of her as if it was indeed Spencer’s. Holding it in one hand erect she ran her fingers over it with the other, just as she imagined doing to her new husband and then bent forward and kissed it, like she imagined a new dutiful bride should do. It was cold on her lips: she rather thought Spencer’s would be quite the opposite—warm or hot with the surging blood within.

A thought came to her; did women perhaps...; it would fit and...; it would be like... Unlike her sexual opening which was closed by her maidenhead, her mouth was open. She leant forward and took the rounded marble end into her mouth. There was no one to see the intense naughtiness of her act. What would her school mistresses have said? In her mind the idea of the phallos—Spencer’s—entering her and being inside her between her legs. She suspected her mouth would be a poor substitute for that.

The phallos wetted by her mouth shone in the moonlight. It was no good, no good at all—her feelings were too intense. She was going to have to disobey what her school mistresses had told her and touch herself and see if she could make that wonderful thing happen. The thing which made her want to cry out in pleasure and necessitated stuffing her mouth with something to prevent her father hearing and perhaps waking. She giggled to herself—Spencer’s phallos, now that would stopper her mouth well and truly.

She put down the phallos and reached under. She was all wet there; she knew it was her body readying herself for sexual intercourse, making it easy for a phallos to enter—and it could do that but for her maidenhead. Lovely to touch and diddle and think of her man to be.

What of their ritual first night? She had got as far as meeting Spencer at the tent and kissing his phallos. Would he take her in his arms and carry her up the hill and take her at the summit. It was a fair climb and, perhaps, more realistic for them to walk hand in hand or... she reached and grasped the stone phallos again... or walk holding Spencer’s phallos. She liked the imagery. The new bride now with a man to support, protect and cherish her. And what more symbolic than to lean on his ‘staff’ as he took her up the hill to the marital bed?

The idea of being taken first time right on the top of a hill or even a mountain had a degree of romance to it. Different from an hotel room. But what would Spencer think, and would he be prepared to wait the several week’s steamer passage to Greece or another hot enough country? Unlikely—and could she wait that long before she was intimate with him once they were married? No! It was a dream for a different place, a different people. The hotel room it would be, but she would want Spencer naked by the bed awaiting her.

But there was no reason why she could not pretend. Her father was asleep, the world was asleep; she knew the way up the hill and it would be easy by moonlight. She reached and grasped the marble phallos, crawled from the tent and stood. Before that night she had not been so much as a outside her bedroom naked before, let alone out in the open miles from anywhere. Hand grasping the phallos as if it was a real man—Spencer—beside her, she set off up the rocky track to the top of the hill.

It was strange but the higher she climbed the more she felt as if there was a man beside her, as if the phallos was supported by a real but invisible body, as if should she release her grip it would stay standing in the moonlight rather than dropping to the dust and rocks at her feet. It was a strange feeling but so was the lust she felt for a man—Spencer—as she climbed. It was an animal feeling, delicious but naughty, the desire to engage carnally with a man—Spencer.

With her free hand, when not reaching to steady herself on tree or rock, her fingers probed and diddled twixt her thighs. So wet—so wet indeed that she felt she must be leaving little droplets of her wetness in the dust below her as she walked. The touching was lovely and she knew she would make that special feeling happen.

At the top of the hill she stood as if standing with Spencer, a still erect Spencer. Around her the quiet of the land. The air warm and so clear. Above her the blackness of the firmament dotted with myriad pinpoints of light—the stars. The ground below her was hard unlike the soft hotel bed, but she lay down imagining the man preparing to lie atop her. She opened her legs as she knew she would for Spencer when the time came. She touched the marble phallos to her nipples, each in turn. The marble was cold but felt good, really good. She brought it to her lips and again opened and took it in. In her mind the thought of taking in the real phallos. Perhaps women did do that. She could see she would rather like holding the real thing between her lips.

Her hand brought the stone phallos lower and touched herself with it. The coldness of it on her hot wet sex was such a contrast but nice. The feel of its hardness against her softness delightful. She pressed it a little lower imagining Spencer pushing his phallos against her, preparing to take her maidenhead. She bit her lip realising she had placed its smooth rounded head right up against her entrance. It was exciting feeling, it pushing at her or rather she pushing it at herself.

She rubbed it up and down her wetness, feeling its firm smoothness gliding. Did men do that before the penetration? Would Spencer rub her like that first before seeking entrance? The stone was warming as she felt herself getting nearer and nearer to that special feeling. Again she pushed the end of the phallos against her entrance just as Spencer would do on their wedding night when they were finally alone.

Man and woman naked together. Would she be shy when it came to it? But she did not want to be within the sheets when Spencer came to her. She wanted Spencer standing with his phallos high so she could walk to him and kneel.

She pushed the stone phallos at herself, a gentle rhythmic pushing just as if Spencer was readying himself to really thrust at her. The feeling was building, she could feel the warmth spreading across her body. She spread her young thighs the wider. How awful if a young shepherd was to come across her. Young, olive skinned and handsome. Could she resist if excited by her display he did the manly thing? Her lust and desire were at a peak. Thoughts in her head of Spencer erect; thoughts in her head of the olive skinned lad casting aside his clothing revealing his dark, olive phallos, all strong in the moonlight; at her sex the stone phallos pushing—pushing hard.

All of a sudden movement, as pressure became too much and the stone phallos lurched into her; a ripping of her maidenhead—unheard but felt its going as a sharp stabbing pain; the delight of suddenly being filled; the feel for the first time of a phallos within her; she shuddered, her eyes clenched and her arms shot backwards as she arched her back pushing her hips, her sex upwards towards the sky and at the stone.

It seemed as if the stone phallos was moving of its own accord, pushing in and out, travelling deep within her. She could do nothing but pant and shudder as the orgasm, one beyond any she had felt before, rippled through her.

What had she done, what had she done? She lay there in the moonlight not daring to move, feeling intense pleasure and remorse. She had taken her maidenhead herself rather than given it to Spencer. Between her thighs, within her body, the ancient stone carved phallos. It had taken her.

She felt with her fingers. The phallos was well lodged. Had she really pushed it so far in? She remembered the movement, the thrusting of the phallos but was not at all sure she had done that. She was suddenly frightened. There was little of the phallos outside her that she could hold but despite the slippery wetness she managed to extract it. Even by moonlight she could see it was covered in red blood—her maidenhead.

Unsteadily she rose to her feet, thinking how unwise she had been. Remorse for her lost maidenhead but never, never had she felt like that. Never such a feeling of lust and abandonment as on that night naked under the stars.

Naked she made her way down the hillside and bathed herself and the phallos in the cool water of the spring by the temple, the water running red for a moment.

In the moonlight she held the white marble phallos aloft. She could not deny how much better her diddling had been with a phallos, not a real one but a beautifully carved representation and then... the feeling of it inside. What pleasure she could have in her tent night after night with it... only... only.

How old was it? Her father had dated the temple to 400BC. Was the statue the same? What was the purpose of a statue with an upstanding phallos? She could not ask him—he had not seen the phallos.

It was beautiful, an epitomy of maleness. Once again she felt the desire to take it in her mouth. Her lips closed over it, cool once more from the water. Lovely and smooth. How she would want to do this to Spencer again and again. Squatting she reinserted the phallos into herself and looking between her thighs she could see it going in and out of her body. She pulled it right out and then pushed it in again, the smooth roundness of the glans penis so right for opening her.

Again she reached that special feeling. Fingers to her wetness and with the other hand working the phallos. Again the blood. It had not finished flowing. It was as if a second maidenhead was being taken by the phallos. It almost seemed to pulse in her hand.

Once more she washed herself and the marble phallos in the spring. Her limbs as white as the marble phallos.

Remorse and still pain but, now she had done it once why not again and again on other nights? No, it had been wrong. The remorse built and with a cry she dropped it and heard it roll down the hill a little way. In her tent she cried herself to sleep.

There was regret the next night that she had not kept the phallos. She was surprised at her desire. It was stronger than other nights. Thoughts of Spencer but also the white marble phallos. There was no point searching for it in the moonlight.

She could not find it the next day when she took a break from helping her father. He for his part was his usual meticulous self but before nightfall she noticed an unusual excitement. After the evening meal she found him with his many finds working on the bits of a statue he had found.

He had been shocked at seeing her looking in the tent and told her to leave. There was something there she should not see but she had seen it: the stone phallos, somewhat reunited on the bench with its body or rather the shattered fragments of a pelvis.

The embarrassment of her father as he had tried to explain.

“Himeros or in the Latin, Himerus, yet another son of Aphrodite and Ares. One of the Erotes. Like his brothers, he is depicted with a bow and arrows, to create desire and lust in people. Himeros represents sexual desire or unrequited love. You are to be married soon, your mother, had she been with us, would have explained that men, that Spencer, that their... their penes become engorged.” He picked up the phallos with distaste. “Like this, the carving is so good but so wrong... not in its anatomical accuracy, my dear, but in just depicting this salacious, vulgar thing. Men become engorged so they can inseminate—enter the woman’s body through the... the vagina and plant their seed.”

“It is something I do know, father. Am quite prepared for it. I have seen beasts in the field. The goats only yesterday.”

The old man looked relieved. “Quite, yes, that is good, Mary. Himeros is depicted usually as a winged youth or child. It is a beautiful statue apart from... such delicate carving. It would have looked wondrous in the ancient sunshine. Perhaps painted and certainly wearing a taenia, a colourful headband around his forehead, the sort worn by athletes. You see here the fragments of wings but it is a youth, a young man by the musclature, stature and, alas, his virility. I have not seen a Himeros with an almost Priaptic organ. It is most unusual yet the Greek means ‘uncontrollable desire’ and so perhaps...”

The old man seemed to muse, “Perhaps an aberration, a local aberration best forgotten. Who knows what pagan rites were undertaken before or on this statue? Terrible, terrible! I shall take the statue home but not the phallos. I shall destroy it. It is an aberration.”

“No, father, you should not decide what is right or wrong, just bury it. Leave it here where it belongs.”

The old man nodded. “You are right, Mary. I could not have brought the hammer to it.”

In her tent, in her cot, Mary tossed and turned. Between her legs she was damp, very damp. Thoughts of Spencer in her mind but also a winged youth, white as marble with the sweetest smile, a colourful headband around his head but otherwise beautifully naked and strongly erect.

Night after night the same images in her head and the same hands pawing at her breasts and sex. Each night that powerful feeling attained and each night she wanted once more to feel that so beautiful carved phallos in her mouth and sex. She knew where her father had buried it, stood looking at the place in the daylight, almost feeling it calling to her. She dared not dig it up, though the thought of doing that just for one night and then washing it in the spring and burying it again was strong.

But she did not want to go against her father’s wishes.

It was only on the last day of their expedition, as they were packing that her mind had changed. Her father was far below in the valley and she climbed alone up to the temple and unearthed the phallos. It was besmirched by the dust. Mary washed it in the cool spring water so once more it glistened and shone in the strong Greek sunlight. She, herself, felt grimy and, stripping her layers of clothes—skirts and petticoats from her, bathed naked in the spring as if a Greek maiden from Ancient Times.

Mary stood in the temple ruins naked before the plinth where her father said the statue had once stood and held the phallos where it would have been. It would have greeted visitors to the temple, been at eye level. And who she wondered had come to the temple. Was it men? Did they come alone to the temple, wash in the spring and enter the temple naked. Did they, like the statue or her thought of Spencer by her marital bed, stand with phallos raised. Did men come together to the temple and enter all with their organs raised and large? She shivered with a strange excitement at the thought. Naked men tumescent. What strange rituals might they perform?

Might they bring a young virgin with them and perform some strange ceremony of maidenhead taking on the statue just as she had done with the phallos? The girl unresisting as the men disrobed her and washed her in the cool spring water.

Himeros, the god of uncontrollable desire. Mary could imagine the excitement of the men at removing the girl’s clothing and at the washing. Their desire would be very visible, perhaps a shock to the girl as her breasts and sexual parts were touched and washed by so many men all perhaps with their organs extended. Perhaps she would be handed from one man to the next, perhaps rested on each phallos in turn before being handed on. Would a single man have the honour of lifting the girl up and onto the stone phallos to ritually take her maidenhead or would she do it herself whilst they watched with desire, or would they all crowd together and lift her up for her impalement?

Mary did not know. Her father would not know. Who now knew what the rituals had been? Were men there at all? If they were what did they do to the girl after the taking of the maidenhead? Was it an orgy of uncontrollable desire? Once lifted from the statue, her maidenhead now sacrificed, would the uncontrollable desire be unleashed? Man after man taking the girl in an orgy, or did they perhaps release their seed ritualistically as they watched the girl still upon the statue, or would the women waiting outside join their men all around the impaled girl riding the stone phallos?

Perhaps it was just the girl alone who climbed the hill to sacrifice her virginity, or with a few young female friends, perhaps these accompanying girls not yet deflowered. Girls learning the ritual for when their time came. A temple where only virgins could enter.

Mary’s thoughts were intensely sexual. Her desire—yes, her uncontrollable desire—came to her and she lowered the phallos firstly to her lips and then her hips. Wonderful to feel the hard coldness against her sex, feel the parting and the now easy entry. She turned and stared out from the ruined temple across the hills, bright green with the pines and grey with the rocks and above it all the sky so blue, a Greek blue.

Up and down she pushed the phallos, was it Spencer or Himeros she thought of standing behind her thrusting at her? The strong phallos moving in and out. Of course the feeling came. The feeling she had only felt in the secrecy of the night before but now came in the full light of the day.

Again the ritual washing of the phallos. But she could not bear the thought of burying it once more: instead, returning to the almost broken camp, she wrapped it in cloth and hid it in her luggage ready for the mule pack.

The ship steamed out of Piraeus bound for England. Her expedition, workaday clothes discarded and now in a fine dress, Mary walked the sun deck looking back at the steadily shrinking harbour and the land that had been her home for a time, Greece. It would be her last expedition with her father. Her marriage to Spencer would end that freedom. She would need to be the dutiful wife and follow him. Perhaps his diplomatic work might take him again to Greece. She hoped so.

In her cabin that night, in her nightdress Mary unwrapped the phallos. In the hold of the ship, in packing cases safe for the voyage the rest of the statue destined for a museum. In her hand it looked so beautiful in a manly way—a manly way she knew very little about! Only when she was married would she be permitted to see Spencer in the same way. She yearned for that and the handling. In the meantime though...

Having the cool, hard marble was better than her fingers. Its touch to her nipples, even holding it squashed between her breasts was good—did women do that to men? Did men like it? Its poking around in the warm, wet, heat between her thighs; cool at first but then warmed by her, its hardness was a delight. She pushed it in and rode the lovely feeling as she stroked, pulling it and pushing the stone, in and out. Mary even brought it from her, wet from her, and licked and suckled it. There was something remarkably wanton about taking it into her mouth wet from her own body. If, she wondered, in bed with Spencer she put her fingers inside herself would he lick them wet from her? If she suckled his phallos—as she so intended—would he wish to kiss and tongue her secret places before insemination? There was much she did not know about what men and women did together.

Had she had a travelling companion they could have shared thoughts and secrets—perhaps even the stone phallos, passing it between their beds. Utter badness but to have watched and shared... The thought excited her the more.

In and out, in and out, such a delicious regular movement as the special feeling built. As it reached its climax she pulled her hand away and just lay there shuddering in the pleasure of the feeling. What was strange was it almost seemed to her as if the phallos had kept on moving a little after she had taken those fingers away.

The same thought the next night and the one after. Moreover it seemed more as if there really was a man lying atop her in the darkness. A wonderful feeling of male hardness between her spread thighs, not just the marble phallos inside her but as if a man’s hips were there pressing down on her. Thoughts of Spencer indeed.

Such a joy, each evening, to be able to enter her cabin for the night, remove all her clothes, wash and slip between the sheets to play as, before long, she and Spencer would play. Lovely to take the stone phallos from its hiding place, such excitement at unwrapping it and seeing the perfectly carved marble and then placing it ready and waiting for her upon the bed. Did Spencer’s look the same? Did the male organ vary much from man to man?

Would Spencer like it when she took his organ in her mouth as she did the marble? Would he be surprised she would want to do such a thing. Carefully she placed the stone in the centre of her bed and bent and kissed it as she knew she would Spencer’s organ. She would do that on her wedding night, kneeling before him in her nightdress as he stood tall, naked and so manly. She imagined the scene. She in virginal white, a flowing nightdress, kneeling and looking up at her new husband standing above her. His phallos erect—it had to be erect and surely it would be most manly? Surely it would be erect at the thought of her and what would follow? She imagined herself, bending her head, and taking it between her lips. It excited her, the idea of the dutiful wife kneeling before her new husband and taking his organ between her lips. Symbolic, ritualistic and intensely sexual to her, the thought so right, so what she wanted. Between her legs she was flowing as she thought of her wedding night.

But Spencer was not there—the stone phallos was. Mary extinguished the lamp and in the darkness her lips closed, not on the hard maleness of her intended, but the surprisingly warm marble of the statue and Spencer was forgotten.

The intensity of her passion frightened her. Her desire for the hard marble: when she should have been thinking of Spencer. She had seen the perfect beauty of the statue in the tent, had seen beyond the jagged joins and missing pieces to how the statue must have looked in antiquity. She knelt on the bed with thighs spread and brought the phallos upwards. Rather than being ridden, she was doing the riding. It was an intense experience. She was a young woman used enough to horse riding or donkey riding across Greece. Used to using her thigh muscles but not before to lift herself up and down upon a phallos. At first she held it in place but when she let go, to touch her breasts, rather than it dropping out from her down onto the bed it stayed with her, embedded in her vagina.

Mary’s body was on fire, heat spreading from her loins outwards into her body, a creaking from her cot as her hips rose and fell. It was as if she was riding a real man. Between her thighs she could feel his body. Her thighs brought her up and down upon the smooth marble, her wet soft flesh caressing the stone, but it did not fall from her, instead it stayed firm, a pillar upon which she rode.

And then she was turned—turned in the darkness. She was sure it was not her doing, turned so her back was flat on the bed and she was no longer riding but being ridden. Her hands outstretched above her head and the weight of a man pushing down upon her, his phallos sliding backwards and forwards within her.

Terrifying? It was not, Mary felt a tremendous calm as well as lust. No thought of Spencer, no fear of what man was doing this to her, just the animal feel of a rut. At the moment of orgasm far from squeezing her eyes shut, she opened them and in the darkness saw the faint, phosphorescent outline of a man upon her. A young man naked and, it did not surprise her one jot, a young man naked and with wings. It was, without question, the figure, the representation of the statue, not cracked and broken but beautifully entire.

Her orgasm just seemed to go on and on as the male hardness slid within her, her hips making feeble thrusts against its strong movement.

Perhaps Mary fainted but she awoke in the early hours with the phallos still between her legs. Pulling on her nightdress she slipped it warm between her breasts and fell again into sleep.

Again the next night. Not just wet slidings upon a simulacrum of a penis but almost the real experience of sexual intercourse. Not imagined with Spencer, but experienced with the phosphorescent shape of a perfect youth upon her. And again the night after, Mary not simply pressed into the bed but taken just like she had watched the goats on the hillside, she on her four limbs and the phallos and statue taking her from the rear..

Mary was learning, learning what men and women did. As she sat up in bed each morning she worried Spencer might find her more knowledgeable, more experienced than he might expect from a blushing virgin. She was hardly a virgin now. The stone phallos in her hand had seen to that. It had repeatedly entered her and give her pleasure. She was frightened by the lust the stone had aroused. Would Spencer be prepared or accepting of just how passionate she got when her private parts became liquid? Her friends had said that she would not find it ‘too awful’ and would have to lie still and be accepting of the man. She was anything but still and more than accepting!

Mary knew it was the fault of the statue. She should have left the phallos safe and buried, not brought it with her. Her father would be angry: but he must not know. It worried her as their ship closed upon England. Worried that perhaps Spencer might not live up to the pleasure she received from the phallos—indeed even in the early hour of the morning she was tempted to slide it into her body. Would she find herself secretly using the phallos when Spencer was absent or perhaps asleep? What if she found him dissatisfying and unwrapped the phallos again and again?

Perhaps she should show it to Spencer after they were married and ask him to use it upon her, bring it into their marital bed. The thought of Spencer’s penis in her mouth whilst moving the phallos between her thighs was arousing. Too arousing. Once more she slipped the warm marble into her and began to pleasure herself.

It was too much. Obsessed by the phallos not just at night but in the morning. She was quiet during the daytime and her father had commented upon it more than a few times. At the night she was unable to resist unwrapping the phallos and using it. Her lips closed upon it again and again. She stroked her nipples with itand pushed it into herself.

Too much and England was approaching. Once more the phosphorescent sight of the young, winged man. Beautiful to look upon with his perfect curving phallos. She had been taken all ways and her orgasms had been plentiful. Utterly exhausted, knowing she would never again feel like that, Mary made her decision.

Rising from her bed she lit the lamp and looked at herself in the looking glass. Dishevelled damp and, yes, wanton. Would Spencer like to see her like that?

The phallos was lying in the warm dip in the bed where she had so recently lain. Just the stone phallos, damp and glistening in the lamp light, not a hint of the man behind it. Just so perfect, so beautiful., so strangely desirable Gone the phosphorescent body of the young man: it was just the phallos. She bent to it and sucked, tasting herself and then wrapped it once more in its cloth.

Mary stood on the deck of the ship in the moonlight, her coat wrapped tightly around her though naked beneath. The captain had passed her as she stood at the railings and actually spoken to her, asked her if she was unable to sleep, had pointed out the lights of England, now not far away. Tomorrow she would be setting foot on its soil, the day after she would be seeing Spencer, her intended. The thought thrilled her yet she feared what was happening.

Alone on the deck she brought the phallos out into the moonlight. White and perfect, so beautiful, so frightening.

The phallos was held for a moment and then it slipped from the girl’s hand, there was a faint splash below her and it was gone.

The beautifully chiselled phallos, the work of some unknown and forgotten master Greek craftsman in antiquity, sank down and down through the water until it lay on the soft sand pointing upwards. Pointing to the sky, as it had always done long, long ago before the statue had been smashed into pieces, now erect on the sea bed. Above it the ship with Melanie and its cargo sailed on. The beautiful statue and its phallos now being increasingly separated. The phallos now a prisoner of Poseidon’s domain.

Storms come at sea and not even the deep is immune from their effect. The phallos was uprooted from its proud position on the sea bed, rolled in the sand, pushed hither and thither and, as has happened to all the myriad pebbles on the beach, the sea rubbed and gently abraded it, removing the exquisite detail as it rolled to and fro in the sand and pebbles, a strange and wrong stimulation to the organ, eventually reaching the shore only to be picked up by a young girl.

Melanie stood at her window looking out on the stillness of the garden. Her aunt and she had had a lovely day on the beach once more. The very beach where she had found the stone. Yes, the stone. Melanie knew she would not resist its pleasures again that night, knew she would not be able to help herself, knew she would bring the stone from its hiding place and stimulate her body with it. Perhaps her friend Penny was taking pleasure with her supposed boyfriend at that very moment somewhere in the Maltese Islands. Enjoying the pleasures of a real man though Melanie could not think it was any greater than what she was experiencing from her stone

Yet it frightened her. It was so clearly not simply an ordinary stone, not just some stone that had been strangely shaped by the action of the tides so that it looked rather like a man’s erect penis. It had changed, it no longer looked somewhat like a penis: it had become the most perfect representation in marble of a man’s organ—sinuous veins, wrinkled prepuce and everything. Michelangelo could not have bettered the work

Where had it come from? Why had it changed? Changed for the better, perhaps, but stone does not change like that, a stone can be broken or worn away, a stone can be carved but it seemed the stone was not so much being carved by persons unknown as becoming again what it had once been. Supernatural forces were at work, Melanie was sure, and that, rightly, frightened her. Was it magic?

It was not just the physical change to the stone but, Melanie was, sure it was having an effect upon her mind. It was not just her own mind and body that reacted to its maleness, its sexuality, but, she was sure, it was having a gradual but incessant influence upon her bringing out her natural need for sexual release to something more.

Melanie turned from the window and found her stone and stood looking at it in the moonlight from her window. So perfect, so lovely to move it in her hands, rotate it upwards if it was rising as it erected to stand ready to take a woman. The perfect roundness of the head looked so, yes, suckable. Again a thought of her friend Penny, was she sucking, over the seas in Malta, upon the soft flesh of a man’s penis, feeling it big and rounded in her mouth?

Between her legs wetness was forming, her body readying itself for sexual intercourse as Melanie brought the stone to her lips. Melanie knew her aunt was in the house, indeed undressing or already in bed. There would be no one in the garden to see the girl at the window sucking upon a representation of a man’s penis.

Was Penny perhaps at her window in Malta looking out at the stars or perhaps on a balcony. Was her young man with her? It excited her to think of Penny standing naked and with her young man naked beside—or indeed behind her—his penis standing and ready. Perhaps he might take her from behind, standing looking over her shoulder as he entered her body, his hips pressed against her bottom.

Melanie wondered what it would be like being taken from behind—not that she had been taken from the front, or anyway in fact. She moved the stone under her and presented it as if approaching from behind. It entered easily and Melanie held it with her thighs as she looked out of her window. Lucky Penny, if only…

A gasp and she felt the stone move all by itself—a wonderful feeling as it began to thrust against her sex. Melanie did not dare to look but she could feel the press of a body behind her. Slightly cold and certainly firm. She stared out at the moonlit garden, at the sundial in the middle of the lawn, the sundial she had danced around as a little girl, playing little girl things: she was not playing little girl games now. Again she did not dare look down as she felt cool hands on her breasts, rubbing her nipples. The stone penis moved within her, pulling her sex, moving her clit. The feeling of pleasure just grew and grew. Melanie shut her eyes tight, frightened at what she might see.

Melanie could not believe the pleasure, the sheer electric ecstasy of her orgasm or rather orgasms. A man, naked against her bottom, a man’s hard penis within her. A rippling tide of peaks with not much troughs. The shear pressing desire for sex. She did not hear her wetness pattering on the floor but she was sure she was literally dripping. What she did hear was the clattering, bouncing sound as of marbles hitting the floorboards as she felt the stone penis withdrawing. A loud sound in the stillness of the night. She had felt it coming inside her, though how a stone penis could come was quite beyond her: yet, she knew, the sound was of drops of marble semen falling from her vagina to the floor.

Melanie opened her eyes in time to see just the faintest phosphorescent image of a young man behind her reflected in the window glass. White as marble, as beautiful as a man could be, smiling and with, of all things, wings. Supernatural yes but nothing suggested evil about what she saw. Appearances can be deceptive but Melanie’s impression was one of love... and of desire, the young man was beautifully, and it was the word in her mind, erect.

She turned but there was no one there at all but the stone lay upon her bed, wet and perfect. She had not placed it there. Upon the floor, around her feet, pellets of marble, so like frozen drops of liquid. Melanie wrapped the stone and hid it. She gathered the drops of marble and dropped them one by one, there were many of them, into the jar before falling into a deep sleep

It came as something of a shock. Melanie had been happy enough, the next day being so cold and rainy, to go to a museum with her aunt. A surprisingly large museum in a grand old civic building in the town with an unexpectedly large and authentic collection of Greek antiquities, bequeathed years and years before by a local collector. It was whilst she had stood before a marble statue, not one of a half clothed Greek woman but of a completely naked young man—rather strangely with wings—that it had come to her.

There was more than one statue in the museum that had been mutilated and certainly many that had been restored having lain in pieces upon or under the ground for centuries. The striking off of little manly appendages seemed to have been the hobby of some people centuries ago. Melanie had actually been less than impressed by those that remained. Remarkably small penises seemed to adorn those which were intact. They did not impress a young girl interested in virile young men.

The winged statue had clearly been damaged by the striking off of his organ but the shape of the ‘wound’ seemed familiar. The more she looked at it the more she thought it matched that of the stone she had so carefully wrapped and hidden at home, a stone she was so intimately familiar with and knew so well. At first the ‘wound’ to the stone had simply been rounded and shapeless from the sea but as the days had passed had become much more distinct as the penis itself had become so much more detailed.

Melanie returned more than once to the statue. She was as sure as could be that her stone belonged to... to... her eyes sought and read the explanation: Himeros, one of the Erotes (plural of Eros), winged Greek god of sexual desire.

The description did not exactly surprise her—sexual desire was all she had felt since finding the stone. But why had her stone metamorphosed into, seemingly, the statue’s missing penis? Was it actually the statue’s penis somehow lost at sea? How had it come to be in the sea?

It was a wrench. A difficult thing for Melanie to decide to do. She knew she should not keep the stone: knew she must not keep the stone. It was having too strong an effect upon her. It was dictating her actions again and again. To take it back home from her aunt’s risked discovery. Her parents’ house was not the rambling size of her aunt’s. Perhaps she could have left it there at her aunt’s for another visit, even buried it secretly in the garden but would it have let her? She might so easily arrive home and found, rather than leaving it buried, she had wrapped it carefully and placed it in her suitcase. The beautiful stone dildo... no, piece from a statue, lying there wanting to be used. She was not sure the stone dildo would let itself be left behind and buried.

It was the next night that made her decision. It was not she who sought out the stone but the stone that sought her. Bathed and in her nightdress, with just moonlight flooding through her casement window to see by, she suddenly felt she was not alone in the bedroom. In the darkness advancing upon her the clear semblance of a young man, winged and beautiful. Not the mere phosphorescent outline of before but a clearer shape. It was not simply the penis, though that was there, upstanding, white and solid, but the whole man, shining with phosphorescent light, that brought her desire to almost fever pitch. Never had her arousal come so fast. One moment at rest, the next she was dripping, her knees buckling and she was on her knees before the advancing apparition.

Was Melanie dreaming, was Melanie hallucinating or was the vision real? It was certainly real enough to Melanie. The advancing young man with his, at eye level, sexual organ. It swayed slightly as he advanced and the testes swung in their sack as if no longer marble but flesh. Closer and closer it came until the head of the penis was an inch or so from her mouth.

Melanie’s lips parted and her mouth opened wide.

The young man before her so clearly the semblance of the statue but with the penis.

Her eyes closed and she leant forward feeling the knob of the penis slide between her lips. No longer did it feel like stone but flesh, warm and soft yet with a rigidity within. Melanie sucked, enjoying the feel and then began to slide her mouth back and forth just as if her mouth was her vagina engaged in coitus. It was lovely, the intimate feeling, the so close involvement with the male organ, so filling and so strong in her mouth. Was perhaps her friend, Penny, sucking upon the penis of some brown skinned holiday boyfriend, doing it for real, holding his cock and sucking it, its big rounded head in her mouth? A real cock rather than one she had found in the sea: but, to Melanie, the cock in her mouth felt anything but unreal. She did not open her eyes, did not want to spoil what might just be imagination yet, when she reached, she felt hanging balls. Not hard stone marbles but warm flesh, mobile at her fingertips.

She felt and grasped firm male buttocks, holding them as she moved the penis in her mouth to and fro, ‘fucking her face’ in her own words. And then it happened.

For the first time in young Melanie’s life she felt the spurting of a man within her mouth. Not a simple stream but the rhythmic pulsing of men. Hot pulsing semen filling her mouth. It was that special thing men did and it made Melanie’s body tingle with desire. An ejaculating cock!

The flow ended as it must and Melanie drew herself backwards to sit on her heels. Her mouth was full of semen. Should she swallow as she and Penny had talked about so naughtily together? But already she could feel the gelatinous, salty fluid hardening, she leant forward, and when she opened her eyes she watched, falling from her opening mouth into the upraised palm of her hand, tear shapes of marble dropping one by one to fill her hand.

Melanie looked up. The apparition had not faded into the night, her stone dildo was not lying on her bed waiting her, but there before her, shining with phosphorescence was the young winged man, so beautiful and so erect. Not for Himeros the drooping of a man after coitus or ejaculation: rather a god of sexual desire with his ever ready staff. His lovely ever present erection, there for her. She rose and went to her bed and lay upon the sheets with arms spread and thighs open. She offered herself to the statue and the young man moved forward with wings fluttering and penis extended.

Her offering was accepted.

Melanie sat up in bed and blinked at the strong sunlight pouring through her open casement. She had not drawn the curtains the night before. She shuddered at the memory. What ecstatic sex, what pleasure but what was happening to her? This was not at all the holiday romance she imagined Penny to be enjoying. This was something quite different. It could not go on.

She got up on her knees and spread them a little and felt drops of marble pitter pattering from her sex to the sheets. It was late already, she had overslept but the sex had gone on and on. How many times had she come? How many times had she felt the penis surge inside her? The marble drops were plentiful. The memory of the winged youth upon her—in so many ways—was sweet.

One more day before she returned home from her aunt’s. One day to become free—was that how she saw it? One day to be free of the stone.