Sucked In

a short story by Dan Standing


I could feel myself getting flushed. This was why I never showed up until the last sixty minutes of the museum’s hours. I could be alone down here, undisturbed, and stare.



The hallway was a dead end. At the end, just to my left, was a wide wooden door from the Victorian era, the red paint of its carvings barely visible. Behind me was the large mirror noted to be from a Middle Eastern palace, its glass stained and the gold frame faded. Other large pieces and oil paintings ran down the hallway to my right, where the thin space opened into one of the larger gallery rooms.

I’d never thought I was an art person. I’d perused these university museum halls with a sort of indifference a liberal arts student wasn’t supposed to have. Literature was my thing. My fateful trip to this hallway was spurred on by the search for an art history topic. My doleful stroll had stopped fast when I set eyes on my obsession.

Entitled Sappho and Friend, it was an oil painting recreation of an illustration done by Edouard-Henri Avril. The little fact board to the right of the frame said that it was believed that it was painted in 1929, but that the artist – most likely acting without the approval of then then-deceased Avril – was unknown.

The paint before me depicted a woman – Sappho, I assumed – reclined on a large stone at a beach. Her hair was a dirty blonde and curled up around her head. Her figure was full and sensual, healthy and sexy. Her breasts would have over overflowed a man’s hand, each laying spread-out over her ribs. Red nipples stuck up from her pillow-like chest. Her beautiful face had the expression of casual but fulfilled pleasure.

Perhaps that was because of the woman lapping at the tuft of fur between Sappho’s legs. I assumed this was the “Friend” in the title. Some odd looking mermaids frolicked in the water – and in each other – but none seemed terribly invested in Sappho. It was this woman, this Friend, sprawled across the sand and lovingly tending to Sappho’s fertile valley that had gotten me to stop and stare.

Sappho’s body was the opposite of mine. My dark hair was long and stringy, a description that could actually describe most of me. My chest was flat; if not for my nipples one almost wouldn’t know where my breasts were. My waist was the same thin width that my chest and hips maintained. I dreamed of having the full, soft body reclined on that stone.

And the soft lips and tongue between those legs.

There was something deep down inside of me that this picture had been slowly drawing to the surface. The answer to a question I’d long held close. The more I came back and soaked in the image of Sappho being enjoyed by her Friend, the closer I felt that answer was to me.

And more than once I left with my panties soaked. This was why I’d started coming down to the hallway when I was certain no one would be around.

I’d found pictures of the painting online, scans of the original illustration by Avril and photographs of the oil painting the museum held. But none of them did for me what standing in front of the actual painting did, with the lights glistening over the individual brush strokes still visible if you looked hard enough. More than once I’d brought my eye close enough to the canvas to set off the beep of a proximity detector.

I’d visited the painting so many times I’d lost count. Today looked no different than any of the rest. I was standing in my t-shirt and jeans, toes stretching and curling at the edge of my sandals, my hands trying hard to not touch any part of me they shouldn’t. I only wore a bra to the museum, otherwise my achingly hard nipples would show through. I’d actually put on another pair of panties over the pair I’d first pulled on that morning. I was already thankful for that forethought.

I stared. My eyes lingered over every sensual detail of Sappho. Although I knew not who had created the oil painting, they’d copied Avril’s illustration perfectly. I silently thanked him for the luscious curves on Sappho and her Friend.

As I usually did, once I’d stared for a while, I closed my eyes. I could smell the beach. The water. My arousal. I could almost feel a tongue getting closer and closer to my-


I opened my eyes. I’d started to lean backwards and gotten too close to the mirror across from the painting. Flush of arousal was taken over by flush of shame, and I quickly sidled down a few paintings to hide my real interest. I stood still, with my hand to my chin, looking like I was fully interested in some 1800s portrait of a portly business man. Another student, a strawberry blonde girl who was the usual museum volunteer for this floor, casually walked over. I maintained my eyes on the portly painting’s.

I always wondered why she was down here. The way her blouse and skirt rested on her I thought she was better suited for some frat wet t-shirt contest. I had the body for a museum volunteer, kept underground with a bunch of people more interested in looking at everything but you. She paused for a moment, making certain nothing looked disturbed, and then the girl wandered off, satisfied that no one was touching the exhibits.

What she didn’t know was that touching the exhibit was exactly my plan.

When I was certain she had retired to the other corner of the larger gallery room I side-stepped back to Sappho. She was so beautiful. She had everything I wanted in body and experience. I felt like I was so close to accepting my epiphany. All I needed was one extra push. Just a gentle brush, my finger on her bosom ever-so-softly petting to her stomach, feeling the brushstrokes, before pulling back.

And then running. Probably lots of running. I could outrun the volunteer; she wasn’t wearing a sports bra, and I didn’t need one at all.

Even if I did get away I’d still probably be expelled once she filed her report.

But it would be worth it. I just needed do it fast. Gentle, but fast.

I took a moment to pump myself up, taking deep breaths, feeling the hot flush replaced by cold sweat and a pit in my stomach. This was something I would have loudly spoken ill of had I seen anyone else doing it. You don’t touch the art! But I was going to.

My arm moved quickly. I intended to achieve my goals in the length of time it took for the beep to start and end. My finger came into contact with the rough surface of the painted canvas. I could feel the soft ridge of a brushstroke beneath my fingerprint. I went to move my hand, complete my caress, but found that I couldn’t.

My finger was stuck fast to the paint! I couldn’t move it! Oh shit! Was the paint wet? Was there a varnish I hadn’t noticed?

Oh God, had there been a beep? I had to get out of there, but my finger held fast. The canvas didn’t seem to be moving at all as I struggled. I was about to grab my wrist and pull harder when suddenly I felt light. It was if gravity had released me, and I was now floating in front of Sappho and her Friend. My clothing was still effected by gravity, and it fell to the ground…passing right through me, as if I wasn’t even there.

Suddenly the painting was rushing towards me – or I towards it? The world went dark for a moment, and my form was changing. I was getting smaller – no, flatter – no, spreading out – no-

Suddenly I could feel again. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped, but now I realized I had and now I could feel again. A cold, hard surface was beneath my back. There was a cushion between me and the – no! I was the cushion! My, my body was soft, and full! I had a wonderful pillowy ass and plush flesh gently resting on what must have been a large stone underneath me.

Slowly I could feel more and more. My breasts were heavy and hung to the sides of my ribs. My one hand was raised and resting on a cold rock. My other on a thin rod. My left leg was propped up on another stone, and my right leg was in the sand.

Then I felt something else. Something warm and soft was wrapped around my right calf. I could feel something pushing down on my pubic hair. And between my legs…something moist was pushing against my clit!

Mmm…that felt marvelous! I felt a swell of arousal wash over me. I felt warm, and could feel an orgasm begin to grow. The feeling became more and more intense until I was practically at the peak…and then it held there. I was just short of orgasming, but couldn’t! I tried to move an arm, shift at all to get that wonderful teasing something to do more to me, but nothing would respond.

Then my vision started to fade in. Gradually I began to make out something…a rectangle of some sort. No – a mirror! Wait, I’d seen this mirror before, it was the one hanging across from the Sappho painting! But why was I looking at that? Clearly I wasn’t in the museum, I…hold on. What is that?

The mirror was reflecting something. With the brown stain that ran across the reflective surface it was at first hard to tell what it was. Then I realized I was looking at the Sappho painting. Then I realized something else.

I was in the museum.

I was in the painting.

This is a faithful photographic reproduction of an original two-dimensional work of art. The work of art itself is in the public domain for the following reason: This work is in the public domain in those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 80 years or less.

This is a faithful photographic reproduction of an original two-dimensional work of art. The work of art itself is in the public domain for the following reason: This work is in the public domain in those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 80 years or less.

With this realization suddenly I felt something new. In addition to the stone against my back I could feel the canvas behind me. I could feel how my flat, painted body was stuck to it. I could feel the slight draft of the museum caress my brush strokes and cracks. I could tell I wasn’t breathing, and had no heartbeat. I was Sappho in the painting, both physically and metaphysically!

God, that idea made me both hot and terrified at the same time. The feeling of impending orgasm intensified for a moment, but I still didn’t cum.

I could see Sappho’s Friend – now my friend – lapping at my bushy pussy. No, not lapping, just one lap. It was human nature to give action to a still image, but there was none. That’s why I couldn’t cum, and certainly why I couldn’t move. I was stuck in mid-action, in a moment in time. I could think and I could see, but all sensations had been locked at this erotic instance captured in oil.

God, now I really wanted to cum. Would this beautiful, soft woman be forever between my legs? Was this all I had wanted, in both the most wonderful and terrible way possible?

As I lay there, my mind pleasantly tortured by the unalterable pleasure of my body, I noticed a motion in the hallway I had only recently been standing in.

Hey everyone! It’s been a while since we had an audience weigh-in on the ending of a story! Comment and let me know how do you want this to end? Should it be;

a) a nude woman who looks exactly like Sappho rises into view
b) the art museum volunteer comes back
c) another student walks up
d) other thoughts?

Log your votes below and I’ll reveal what I’ve been inspired to do next week! ~dS