Every girl needs maintenance
The heavy metal door clicks shut behind us, the latch engaging with a final, echoing snap that cuts off the hum of the museum corridor. I stare at the placard hanging on the inside of the glass—Exhibit Closed: Maintenance in Progress—but Joel's hand is already wrapped around my wrist, his fingers digging in hard.
He doesn't care about the sign. He didn't care when the security guard turned his back, and he certainly doesn't care now as he drags me deeper into the Reptile House.
"Joel, the sign," I hiss, pulling back, but my feet scuffle uselessly against the polished marble floor.
"Quiet, Vanna," he mutters, not even looking back, "Nobody's coming down here."
The air in here is different—cooler, heavier, smelling of preserved formaldehyde and animal skins. It's dim, the only light coming from the floor-level LEDs that glow with a sickly, swamp-green hue inside the displays. Long shadows stretch across the floor, cast by the skeletal models of pythons and crocodiles suspended from the ceiling on invisible wires.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matches the clicking of my heels on the floor as I stumble after him.
We stop in front of a massive diorama. Inside, a lifelike replica of a saltwater crocodile sits half-submerged in murky water, its glass eyes reflecting the green light. Its jaw is agape, rows of needle-sharp teeth frozen in a permanent, terrifying grin. I stare at it, my breath catching in my throat. There's something primal about this room, a silence that feels predatory.
Joel pulls me close, his chest pressing against my back. I can feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the chill of the exhibit. He wraps an arm around my waist, his hand splaying out over my stomach, pulling my hips tight against his groin. I can feel he's already hard, the thick ridge of his dick pressing into my ass through the fabric of my skirt.
"Look at him," Joel whispers, his breath hot against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold air, "Just waiting. Watching."
"It's fake, Joel," I breathe, but my voice trembles.
I look around the room. To our left, a wall of glass-fronted cabinets holds jars filled with yellowing preservative fluid. Inside, wet skins of cobras and vipers float suspended, their scales dull and ghostly. Below them, rows of drawers labelled Touch Cases sit closed. It feels like a mausoleum for monsters.
"Doesn't matter," he says, his hand sliding down from my stomach to the hem of my skirt. His fingers are rough, calloused from the building trade, and they graze the bare skin of my thigh.
"It's the vibe. Dangerous. Out of bounds."
My pussy clenches, a sudden, sharp throb of arousal that makes my knees weak. I hate that he knows exactly what this does to me. The fear of getting caught mixes with the thrill of his dominance, swirling together in a potent cocktail that makes my head spin.
I reach back, gripping his thigh to steady myself, my nails digging into the denim of his jeans.
"Someone could walk in," I whisper, turning my head to look at him.
I add, "Fuck we could trip off a security alarm! Sheez, the room could have cameras!"
His eyes are dark, fixed on the crocodile, then shifting to the reflection of us in the glass.
"Let them," he growls.
He grabs a fistful of my hair and tilts my head back, exposing my neck. He bites down on the sensitive skin where my shoulder meets my neck, hard enough to make me gasp. His force will leave a trophy hickey.
The sparks of pleasure shooting straight down to my clit.
"You think they'd stop us? Or do you think they'd watch?"
The image flashes in my mind—a guard standing in the doorway, flashlight beam cutting through the dark, catching us in the act.
My face burns with shame, but my body betrays me. I can feel the dampness soaking through my panties, my pussy leaking for him. I rock my hips back, grinding against his cock, desperate for friction.
"Fuck, you're wet," he groans, releasing my hair.
His hands move to my waist, and in one rough motion, he bends me over the steel rail, the waist-high barrier in front of the crocodile exhibit.
My hands slap against the cool metal to catch myself. I'm staring right at the fake reptile, its dead eyes seeming to judge me.
"Joel, please," I whimper, though I'm not sure if I'm begging him to stop or keep going.
He flips my skirt up over my hips, exposing my ass to the dark air.
I hear the sharp sound of his zipper lowering, the metallic rasp loud in the quiet room.
Then, his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, dragging them down roughly until they catch around my knees. The restriction forces my legs together, heightening the sensation of vulnerability.
"Spread your legs," he commands.
I shuffle my feet apart, the panties stretching wide at my ankles.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. The position is humiliating—bent over like this, ass in the air, face inches away from a glass cage—but the throbbing between my legs is unbearable.
I need him inside me. I need to be filled.
He kicks my feet wider, stance dominant and controlling. I feel the blunt head of his cock nudging against my slick entrance, teasing me. He slides it up and down my slit, coating himself in my wetness, the friction making me moan.
"Oohh, Oohh! Yes! Mmm, mmm, yes! Oohh!"
"Look at the snake, Vanna," he says, nodding toward the next exhibit where a massive anaconda is coiled around a tree branch.
"He's wrapped around his prey. Squeezing the life out of it. That's what I'm going to do to you."
He thrusts forward, burying his dick balls-deep in my pussy in one stroke.
One hand on my hip, the other at my throat.
"Ah!" I cry out, the sudden stretch overwhelming. He's thick, and the angle is deep, hitting spots that blur the down lights.
My hands grip the railing until my knuckles turn white.
He doesn't wait for me to adjust. He sets a brutal pace, slamming into me with enough force to rock my entire body forward. The metal barrier rattles against the glass of the exhibit, a rhythmic clanking that echoes through the room. Every thrust drives the breath out of my lungs, my tits bouncing with the impact.
"Uugghh! Ugghh!" My primal response.
So deep. So fuckin' deep. So marvellously pussy stretched and impaled.
"You like this?" he grunts, his hand gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks.
"You like getting fucked where anyone could see you? You dirty little slut."
Okay, I recall our manic recent effort at the top of the Carnival Ferris Wheel. The risqué brings the best orgasms.
"Yes," I gasp, the word torn from my throat. "Yes, I love it."
The smell of the room—the chemicals, the dried former life—fills my nose, mixing with the scent of our sex.
I can hear the wet slap of his skin against mine, the lewd sound of his cock pistoning in and out of my soaked hole.
The puck, puck, fuck, puck, squelch. Our bodies join in slick fluids.
It's filthy. It's wrong. And it's the hottest thing I've ever felt.
He reaches around, his fingers finding my clit. He rubs it in tight, harsh circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
The dual sensation is too much. The pressure builds at the base of my spine, a tight coil of pleasure ready to snap.
"Aahh! Aahh! Sweet Jesus! Keep going! Aahh! Aahh!"
I beg, pushing back against him, "More," trying to take him deeper.
"Oohh, Joel, I'm gonna cum."
"Cum for me then," he demands, his voice rough.
"Cum right here in front of the fucking crocodiles."
He pinches my clit, and I explode.
"Orrghh! Hnggh! Ooohhh!"
My orgasm rips through me, violent and uncontrollable. My pussy clamps down around his dick, pulsing and milking him as waves of pleasure crash over me.
I scream, "Ooff!" the sound muffled by the glass in front of me, my vision blurring.
He fucks me through it, prolonging the ecstasy, chasing his own release. With a final, guttural roar, he buries himself deep inside me and cums.
I feel the hot spurts of his load filling me, coating my insides.
He holds himself there, his hips jerking slightly as he empties himself into my trembling body.
We stay like that for a moment, both of us breathing hard, the only sound in the room our ragged gasps.
The crocodile stares back at us, indifferent. Dead.
Yeah, that poem from school: birth, sex, dust. And brass tacks and facts. Fuck, I'll take the copulation. The crocodile has the death. Screw the birth, that's what the pill is for. Guys like Joel never pack condoms.
Slowly, Joel pulls out, and I feel the trickle of cum running down my inner thigh. I wipe my slit with my palm. I let my slick shine on the rail.
I pull my panties back up, trapping the remaining fluids, his and mine, against my skin, and flip my skirt down.
I straighten up, my legs shaking, leaning back against him.
He kisses the side of my neck, a gentle gesture after the roughness.
"Best exhibit ever," he murmurs against my skin.
"What, my dripping pussy?"
I let out a breathless laugh, my heart still racing, the thrill of the forbidden still humming under my skin.
"Oi, you two, out of there now," the security voice said before the torchlight hit directly on our faces.