The Curator's Collection

Late Summer, 1889

As the carriage rolled to a stop, Catherine Wright peered through its foggy windows, barely able to make out the tall, ionic pillars that marked the entrance to the country's finest museum. Even through the evening mist, she could she it: gleaming limestone, manicured lawns, and an ornate, wrought iron fence.

With a curiosity not becoming to a lady of her station, Catherine had always wondered what lay beyond the other side of that fence. Now, finally, she would discover it, with the museum's most knowledgeable—and perhaps dashing—keeper as her guide.

"Here, Kitty," Mr. Thomson said, his voice silky but playful. He extended his arm as the carriage doors opened and she took it reluctantly, her cheeks coloring in embarrassment.

Kitty. No one had called her Kitty since she was a child, and despite their engagement, it was far too informal. She attributed Mr. Thompson's boldness to his rare degree of charm—somehow, his mix of a reserved manner, steely blue eyes, and heaps of inherited wealth had allowed him to run the museum's collections without so much as a whisper from London's high society. It was also, Catherine suspected, why her mother had permitted such an improper excursion in the first place.

This was, Catherine realized, the first time they would be alone together. The thought struck her with a visceral mix of excitement and nervousness; although she had been acquainted with Mr. Thompson for several months, she still didn't truly know him. Pleasantries at high-society dinners would never allow for that. Tonight, she hoped, would foster a greater degree of intimacy.

As they walked the cobblestone path towards the entrance, Catherine took in the smell of the grounds' rhododendrons—sweetly fresh with a note of something early, like nutmeg—and studied the man before her. The way he walked was, like all of his mannerisms, a mix of class and cockiness—he had a way of undressing her with his eyes one minute, then playing the chaste professor the next. And although the fabric of his tweed suit was rough, his touch was gentle. Every minute, he'd find some excuse to bump into or brush against her, occurrences that Catherine was not foolish enough to consider accidents.

When they entered the museum, though, these touches became less and less frequent as Mr. Thompson became absorbed by his other infatuation: the artifacts. They strolled past a trove of wonders—twinkling Bohemian glass, delicately painted sarcophagi, crumbling Roman statues.

After a while, Catherine couldn't help but notice herself reflected in the display cases. Her rigid, silk evening gown made her the picture of a perfect, refined lady, and her wispy, blonde hair was tamed under a smart, ostrich feather hat. How she longed to let it down.

With a start, she realized that her blue eyes were not alone in their appraisal of her figure—behind her stood Mr. Thompson, his studious gaze fixed on the small of her back. Even though he said nothing—did nothing—she could practically feel the ghostly sensation of him unlacing her corset. Catherine had to hide an aroused shudder.

"Well, my darling," he whispered, his face three inches too close to hers for any vestige of propriety, "Should we thrust on?"

Again, Catherine felt a tingle course through her. Surely, there was innuendo in his words. Surely, her civilized mind was incapable of forming such thoughts on her own.

Catherine tried to compose herself as Mr. Thompson lead her through the museum's cold, stuffy halls to a heavy set of oak doors.

"This," he said, grunting as he pushed them apart, "Is the Secretum."

Catherine struggled to process what she was seeing. Before her, in a wide, brightly-lit room, were the most obscene objects she had ever seen. There was a Roman chalice engraved with a man buried deep inside another man, paintings of eastern courtesans wrapped in blue, flowing robes, an ancient Mesopotamian couch with kissing lovers molded in relief.

"Lecherous, isn't it?" Mr. Thompson said, smoothing back his dark hair. The facade of politeness was gone—now his handsome face was covered in a smug, predatory grin.

"This—this is sinful," Catherine stuttered. She could feel her breath quickening, and she noticed Mr. Thompson watching her closely as her breasts began to heave.

"Gratification with mutual pleasure is never sinful," he responded, his tone serious. "it's without that is."

As the looked around at the room's contents, Catherine started to think that perhaps he was right. There was no sign of forced or unwelcome advances. Mr. Thompson stepped back, hands in his pockets, as she cautiously examined the exhibit.

There were numerous prints; some near eastern, some far. On one, she saw an Indian couple tumbling in bed together; in the next, they were entangled on a swing under the stars. She saw all combinations of lovers—male and male, female and female, or both, like one where a concubine kneaded the breasts of another woman as she took the thrusts of an ambitious client. The most scandalous of all, perhaps, was a far eastern print of a woman, head thrown back in ecstasy, being pleasured by the tentacles of two octopi.

And, of course, there were the Italian engravings. In one panel, a curly-haired man embraced a nude woman, their legs intertwined in a mesmerizing puzzle. The lovers' lips were locked, and so were their eyes—heart thudding, Catherine wondered what it would be like to experience such intimacy. The next panel, though, was as not so gentle—features scrunched in passionate concentration, the man threw his lover upon his spear, impaling her with his cock. In the last, he had her shins pulled up between his shoulder blades and was dutifully pounding into the far reaches of her canal. Shamefully, Catherine couldn't help but imagined herself being filled so deeply, farther than her explorative fingers could have ever reached.

What surprised Catherine the most was the variety of erotic objects—the corroded hilt of a Roman sword, ancient coins, phallus charms. In the corner of the room lay an item seemingly as old as time itself: a couple facing each other, legs bent together, roughly carved in white calcite. She didn't know a lot about history—only as much as she could glean from her father's books before he discovered her reading them—but this figurine, she knew, was thousands of years old. How could intimacy so eternal be sinful?

"Do you want to see my favorite?" Mr. Thompson whispered, his smirking mouth almost touching her ear. Distracted by the artwork, Catherine hadn't noticed how indecently close he had gotten to her. Perhaps she should have been offended, or intimidated, but mostly, she was just aroused, taken in by his magnetic presence. All that composure she'd practiced as a perfect society lady was slipping.

He pointed to the display nearest to them, and she saw it: a beautiful, white dildo, carved out of ivory and mounted on the wall. Hesitantly, she picked it up and ran her right hand down its cold, polished length. Mr. Thompson's blue-gray eyes sparked with interest.

"I'm sorry, darling, but I realized I've misplaced something," Mr. Thompson said, his voice calm and far too casual for the circumstances. "Give me a moment to fetch it."

With that, he sauntered away, leaving Catherine alone in the Secretum. She waited for the echoes of his footsteps to fade, then inspected the object in her hand, shiny and appealingly girthy. She had no time or motivation to question Mr. Thompson's absence—the area between her legs ached with need.

There was nowhere to sit, so Catherine slumped against a pillar, then slid to the marble floor, legs spread scandalously. Gingerly, lifted up her ruffled skirts and ran her index finger over her slit, only to find it already moistened. She then readied the toy before her entrance, suppressing a shudder as she noticed the temperature change between her warm, ready body and its cold, hard head. Gasping, she shoved it in.

As a proper lady, Catherine had never dared touch between her thighs—well, not much, anyway. Sometimes, her fingers had minds of their own, but this, this was different. She felt stretched to the brim, completely filled, as she carefully pumped it in and out of her. Occasionally, a runaway finger would brush against that spot, sending lightning bolts of pleasure through her veins, but gradually, she found her rhythm, sliding the toy in and out of her sopping canal, the pleasure mounting, building up to to a crescendo—

"It would be ungentlemanly of me to not offer a lady my arm," Mr. Thompson cooed, his familiar, mocking voice stopping Catherine cold in her tracks. For a moment, she was still, legs wide open in front of her, ivory toy between her fingers, as if the lack of motion would make the scene less incriminating. But when he melted down next to her and grabbed her chin, pulling her in to meet his mouth, any hint of shame floated away. She could feel the stubble of his strong chin against her cheek as his lips overtook hers; his hands moved from her chin, to her arms, to her waist, to her nether region as he picked up where she had left off, pushing the dildo deep into her depths. When it slid back in, he watched, letting out an appreciative groan as it sunk even further.

"You know, they say this instrument was discovered in a convent in France, crafted almost a hundred years ago." Mr. Thompson said, breath short as he worked dutifully. "It must've been very expensive."

"A nun ordered it?" Catherine gasped, equally from shock as from Mr. Thompson's ministrations.

"A nun," he confirmed, again flashing that devilish, irresistible grin. "Since working on this collection, I've learned that all women are whores—" Catherine squealed as he pinched her clit—"you just have to learn to press the right buttons."

Suddenly, the lightning sensation returned, and this time, it was a full storm. Catherine dug her nails into Mr. Thompson's arms, concentrating on the feeling as he pleasured her, alternating between controlling the toy and circling her clit.

"What—were you looking for earlier?" Catherine puffed, trying to distract herself, trying to slow her fall.

"This," he said, swiftly pulling the dildo out of her and replacing it with two of his long fingers before she could mourn its loss. He then curved them inwards, in a rolling motion, and Catherine came undone.

The pleasure crashed over her with a dizzying rush, and she shrieked, crumpling into a heap in Mr. Thompson's arms as her lower body shook with the sensation. While she waited for the feeling to subside, he showered her forehead with kisses and smoothed back her hair, loosening the chignon at the nape of her neck. Somewhere along the way, she'd lost her ostrich feather hat, but propriety seemed hardly a concern at a time like this.

"I knew you would like the Secretum," Mr. Thompson whispered, and she smiled. He did know. And somehow, he had predicted that given just one moment alone, she'd pleasure herself. At all those awkward dinners, while she had been fighting sleep over her soup, he had been watching her, intently. Maybe he did know her. Maybe he knew her better than she knew herself.

After a long, peaceful moment, she clambered onto him, the fabric of his pants rough against her bare thighs as she straddled him. Rolling her hips along his groin, she felt her face light up with satisfaction as he elicited a deep, needy moan.

"I want to take you," Catherine said, kissing him fully, then pecking the corners of his mouth.

"I know," he responded, smirking.

"Oh, really?" She asked, brushing a hand along his bulge. Instantly, he sobered up.

As Catherine undid his trousers, Mr. Thompson unlaced her corset, freeing her pale breasts to his greedy hands. His cock sprang free, too, already erect, and she sunk on to it, throwing her arms around his neck for support.

She buried her head into the collar of his shirt as she rode him, and smelled sweat mixing with dust and a hint of the fragrant rhododendrons outside—it was a deep, earthy smell, a smell of thousands of years of history, and art, and fucking—deep, primal fucking.

It was easy to lose herself in such a smell. One moment, she was an Egyptian queen, nibbling dates as a servant lapped at her pussy; the next, she was concubine wrapped in gauzy fabric, shivering under a sultan's length. As she pushed him deeper, Catherine balled his shirt into her fists, whitening her knuckles with the strain.

With his strong arms, Mr. Thompson pushed her back in one smooth movement, rolling over on top of her for better leverage. In this position, she felt him even deeper inside of her, beyond where the dildo had gone, and the pleasant soreness made her crave more. She bucked her hips towards him, moaning and pleading and begging.

He matched her moans with a few of his own, and after several minutes, his rhythm increased with desperation. As he crashed his hips into her, filling her to the hilt, she wrapped her arms completely around his back and played with the tendrils of hair on his neck.

It was too much for Mr. Thompson to take, and with satisfaction, Catherine watched as his eyes darkened and his thrusts quickened. Suddenly, she could feel him spasm, and he grunted heavily as he spilled his warm seed deep inside her.

As they lay together on the floor of the museum, Catherine realized it was a much homier place than she had given it credit for. Even here, in the building's most guarded room, were vaulted ceilings, gilded handrails, and rich oil paintings. She stared at the decor, in amazement and appreciation, until their breathing evened out, and the waning sunlight indicated it was time to go.

As carefully as possible, Catherine laced her corset, smoothed her bodice, and retied her hair, placing her ostrich feather hat squarely on her head in the hopes that it would cover up any suspicious ruffling. The results were not especially convincing, but Catherine didn't care—being a proper lady was exhausting. She'd rather be an adventurous one.

Shakily, she stood up.

"Here, Kitty," Mr. Thompson said, extending his arm for the third time that night.

She met his smile and took it, and again they walked through the museum's polished halls, footsteps echoing innocently after them.