The Stone that Grew a Man Ch. 02

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.