by Debra Hyde
(11/3/99)

It always pained me to see the unicorn dying, but here I was, standing before the very tapestry in which the unicorn suffered his last breath. I looked at its plaintive expression, frozen in a middle ages profile, and felt badly for him. No matter how many times I came to The Cloisters, I never overcame the tragic sense of sacrifice I saw in that one woven panel.

"You know, the unicorn's death symbolizes marriage as entrapment for the groom," said a deep, soft voice from behind me.

Recognizing it, I looked over my shoulder. Reg. It was Reg. Dressed in khaki's and a plain black T-shirt. Smiling a crooked, one-sided smile.

"No I didn't know that. How chauvinistic," I answered, turning back to the tapestry. When I first met Reg, I thought he looked like the lead male dancer in the GAP "khaki's a-go-go" television ad. I became determined to see him shake, rattle, and roll, and he turned out to be as sexy and slinky as I imagined. In the end, we became hot little fuck buddies. But my fuck buddy was also a genius. I hadn't expected that.

"Don't pity the unicorn, Grace," he said, drawing me backwards into his arms as he nuzzled my rich black hair. "Death for the unicorn is the equivalent of paradise."

"I'd rather find paradise while alive," I remarked. I pushed my rump into his pelvis to emphasize my point. A ready hard-on greeted my effort. I giggled as Reg slowly, subtly ground his hips against me.

"You look hot," he murmured.

Well, I looked like Lydia from Beetlejuice, in other words, a preppy Goth: pleated skirt, bolero jacket, barrette, stockings. All black. Only the combat boots kept the look from being too little-girlish. Well, the boots and the thigh-hi stockings. But that's what Reg wanted. In turn, I asked him to dress like the dancing khaki dude.

"So what else do you know about medieval symbolism?" I teased. I had heard such a thing existed, thanks to my tour of duty in community college.

"Lots. Some of it you might find erotic." He reached up from my waist and placed the flat of his hand on the fullness of my tit.

Not as erotic as you, I thought to myself.

With his free hand, Reg pointed to another section of tapestry. "See this part where the unicorn returns to life?"

"Yeah. That's easy -- the resurrection of Christ."

"Sure, but it's better than that. There's sex in that resurrection."

"Huh? Where?" I screwed skepticism into my tone and all over my face.

Reg laughed and pointed to the weaving. "See these? Pomegranates dripping juice on the unicorn's back."

"Yeah? So?"

"Pomegranates symbolize fertility."

My face softened. Oh cool, I thought in awe, dripping fertility. Dripping it. It made me think of other things that drip, male and female, and a deep quiver of lust shot through me.

Reg claimed my other tit with his free hand and caressed me. "And those flowers," he murmured in my ear. "The symbol of passion."

This time, a quiver shot through him and I felt his cock rise again to erection. I wanted to wise-crack something about a resurrection, but instead I asked, "The garden?"

"You bet," he answered, his breath a whisper across my cheek.

We walked through the museum, hand in hand, two innocents in love, passing through Romanesque architecture, accented with Gothic features from various eras of medieval times.

Medieval. Right now, all I could think about was how I wanted Reg to go medieval on my ass.

We found our way outside to the garden. The only historically authentic garden of its kind in America, it was pure thirteenth-century Europe, right down to the very plants in its beds. Its surrounding architecture looked like a Cistercian abbey, plain and simple and meant to encourage monks to contemplate God by denying them the distraction of decoration. Didn't work for me, though; I was already thoroughly distracted by cock.

We sat on a garden wall, alone. Without a second thought, I pulled Reg to me and kissed him. Our tongues played rough and urgent and I strayed a hand to his nipple and played with it. Reg gasped as I tugged on its ring. Sitting there, making out, made me think of how once, as Manhattan teens, we city kids invaded neighborhood parks to stake out our make-out territory. A flash of memory came to me: of Denny O'Neill's hand sliding up under my blouse and reaching for the heaven of my tit. He had gasped when he touched nirvana. To this day, I wonder if he creamed in his pants.

Reg had cut his erotic teeth on the same sort of playground, but it had left him with different, quite peculiar tastes. For one thing, he'd acquired a thing for public sex and he preferred doing it at Catholic or Catholic-looking places, thanks in part to the sisters of Saint Augustine's. Then, too, he was into uniforms. I guess I can thank the sisters for that as well.

Well, one man's desecration is another man's salvation. Especially when one man was a bad boy like Reg. Who, in mid-kiss, proceeded to unbutton my bolero jacket. My breasts spilled from it, lending flesh to his urgent petting. He slipped his hand into my jacket as he slipped his tongue deeper into my mouth. He reached for my hair with his free hand, grabbed a full handful, and pulled enough to make my head freeze in place. And my tongue. And my wet cunt. Captured, I couldn't move, didn't want too. As far as I was concerned, he had me entirely at his command.

I always love it when he pulls that stunt on me.

Reg pulled away from our kiss and looked down to see the tit he had in his hand. I knew he liked its round, robust shape, just a shade bigger than his hand, its nipple round and generous. And hard as a pebble. He bowed down to my breast, drew its nipple into his mouth and ravaged it.

Another woman might squeal and tell her lover to go slower, but not me. I loved it. Besides, our solitude could end at any given moment. Between his teeth on my tit and the fear of discovery, I wanted him to take me right then and there.

But Reg had other ideas. He pulled away from his suckling and stood, dragging me with him. He started walking; I followed, stumbling along. We meandered through the garden until we came to small tree. Reg forced me to the ground and made me kneel in its shade.

It was magic, waiting there. A slight breeze kicked up; leaves spoke to us in a gentle rustling. Reg unzipped his khaki pants and freed his beautiful, righteously hard cock.

"Open," he commanded as he brought it to my lips. I did and then dedicated mouth and tongue to sucking and slurping. I worked up and down its shaft, fluttering as I went, pausing to press and drag it over his favorite spots. While I worked him, I pretended I had a pierced tongue.

Somewhere along the way, I realized he didn't want to come this way. He was passive, holding my head lightly, but showing no signs of employing his usual face-fucking modus operandus. I wondered what he had in mind. And wondering about his agenda made me worry about getting caught. After all, the longer our little scene lasted, the more prone we were to discovery. Every time we did this public stuff, I worried about our luck running thin and running out. I lived in fear of someday hearing a security guard's voice say "back away from the cock, miss."

Still, I sucked cock and sucked it well until Reg pulled me off of him. I opened my eyes and found his glistening pillar before me. I reached up to hold it, to stroke it, but Reg caught me by the arm and drew me up from my knees.

"Turn around, bend over, and grab the tree trunk," he ordered. Gladly, I did, spreading my legs and pushing my tush out towards him to signal my readiness, my eagerness. A breeze swept past me, whispering to my nipples and making them grow obscenely hard. My cunt pulsed, gasping as my nipples ached. All of me was ready to get fucked.

Waiting there, I looked up and across the garden -- and found reason to panic. A man was there, kitty-corner to us! An older man, bearded, dressed distinctly, and wearing a broad-rimmed hat. He strolled slowly and, as he walked, I realized that he bore an uncanny resemblance to Freud.

That certainly didn't help my anxiety level any.

"Reg!" I gasped. "A man! Over there!" I could barely get the words out, the lump in my throat was so large. We'd been found out! My pulse raced and I felt stunned by fear.

But Reg ignored me. Instead of addressing the situation, he simply raised my skirt up over my hips and exposed me to the world. I felt him rest a hand on my ass while he searched out my slit with the other. I couldn't believe it -- couldn't face it, either. I dropped my head and stared at the grass.

"My, my, look how wet you are," he observed, as if he didn't have a care in the world. "I bet you'd like to get it right there, huh?" He empathized right there by pushing a finger into me, then twisting it around. I bit my lip, closed my eyes, and bore the intrusion, all the while wondering why he wasn't worried about Freud-across-the-way.

Then, curiosity beating out fear for a moment, I looked towards the stranger. I found him watching us -- watching us! He nodded, his expression flat and unrevealing. Reg dragged his finger from with me and, when I looked back, he was waving to the man with the very hand that had just toyed with me!

Did they know each other? Had Reg arranged this little tryst with more than just me in mind? I want to ask, but a snapping sound caught my ear. After a pause, I felt Reg at my backside again, this time smearing lube over and into my asshole. His finger shoved into my puckered place, and he rotated it inside me, encouraging me to accept its presence. It didn't take much coaxing. I relaxed, opening myself to it, welcoming it, moaning. As Reg 's finger left me, my awareness of the stranger flooded back to me.

"You do know him?" I asked. "Is this is on the up-and-up?"

I looked back to see Reg snap the tube of lube shut and pocket it away. He laughed, gripped his dick and aimed it at me. I looked away, staring at the tree's bark, and willed myself ready for him.

His cock felt massive as it pushed its way into me. My rectum protested but he popped past it and wasted no time in fucking me with swift, savage strokes. He pounded me, ravaged me, and I knew he had no intention of making this last. The feel of his cock hammering into me roused my cunt, which tensed and prepared itself.

I was going to come. I willed myself to come.

But before I could, Reg yanked his cock from my depths. Robbed, I cried out as I felt hot jets of come hit me square on the ass, accompanied by Reg' s quiet gasps of completion.

Moments passed, Reg regrouped, then pulled my skirt down and slapped it against my wet ass. It stuck there, making me blush in embarrassment. As I stepped away from the tree, I remembered the stranger.

He was still there, this time nodding and tipping his hat to us. Without so much as a word, he turned and left.

"Looks like I won the bet," Reg said.

"Bet? What bet?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing -- I was part of a bet! My first impression of a thought went: better've been a damn good bet.

"I bet my thesis advisor that I could find a secular item somewhere in this museum and desecrate it as if it were religious relic," he answered.

"And you desecrated what?"

Reg smiled and pointed to the tree. "That," he said simply.

"A tree? You desecrated a tree?" I was incredulous.

"Yup. A tree. But not just any tree. In the middle ages, this tree was commonly known as a Chaste Tree. I sodomized you under the shade of a Chaste Tree."

He paused, smiled, and then laughed fully, bellowing like a conquering tiger over his kill.

Didn't they call that planned irony? Whatever, I had to admit Reg had wagered a good one. But what, in fact, had he wagered? When I asked, he smirked and said, "Just you wait and see." I could only hope that the professor was offering tit for tat. And, walking from the garden, my skirt still stuck to me, I wondered whether we'd get tit or tat.