The Artifact

Fiona Sprouts pushed her way into Ophelia's private gallery, claiming she needed to see the serpent artifact for a paper on ancient Egypt. The older woman pulled the thing from its case and started blabbing about temple gifts and sacred objects. Fiona corrected her fast: the latest research pegged it as the center of a cult fuck ritual, its ridged head meant to slide deep into devotees. Ophelia blinked, tried to interrupt, until her phone rang and she stepped away to argue money with some donor. Fiona didn't wait. She yanked her panties down, lifted the heavy artifact between her thighs, and sank onto it. The ancient stone felt colder than skin and thicker than most cocks she'd ridden; every carved scale dragged against her cunt walls, scraping raw. She rocked, eyes half-lidded, one hand gripping the display pedestal while her juices left glistening streaks down the basalt shaft. Ophelia finished the call and turned, catching the girl mid-thrust. "Jesus Christ," she hissed. Fiona kept moving. Ophelia's heels struck marble as she crossed the room, anger meant to turn the scene back to respectable, but the closer she got the louder Fiona moaned and the wetter the stone became. Ophelia's fingers froze inches from Fiona's shoulder, then slid lower, between parted labia, testing the slick evidence with a single drag of two fingertips. She told herself she was only verifying damage. Instead she pressed those fingers inside the girl alongside the artifact and felt the pulse of heat meet the cold relic, and whatever protest she planned to voice cracked and died in her throat.