We spent a long time looking at the painting.

“It doesn’t quite make it,” Priss decided.

I told her I didn’t quite know what she meant by make it.

“Orgasm,” she clarified. “Those drooling disks stacking up, drooling down into the sea, but in the end...”

“No come?”

“Maybe it’s up to us,” she concluded. “Also I don’t like the chair.”

At the gift shop we bought a wall-size poster of the painting. Online Priss found a suitable chair at an upscale furniture shop, and it was delivered less than a week later.

“To do this right, I’ll need to paint my fingernails blue,” Priss informed me.

“Do what right?”

“Masturbate. Imagine my fingers circling and stroking my clit. The nails have to be the same blue as in the painting.”

I didn’t have to imagine.

“That was so good!” Priss exclaimed after she’d come. Together we watched the video I’d made. It was so good, even though Priss didn’t paint my dick blue as she’d teasingly threatened.

Next day we made a second tape of Priss watching the first video on her phone. She couldn’t resist a reenactment.

“I bet this chair is easier to clean than the one at the museum,” she mentioned, her grin big.

Next weekend we revisited the museum. “I’m so excited,” Priss whispered before we’d even entered the gallery. “I’m wetted up already.” While I distracted the guard, asking her if it was okay to take pictures, Priss sat on the chair. She spread her legs and straddled her clit with her veed fingers. Then dipped into her cunt. She came immediately.

She hopped off the chair and stumbled into my arms. Her fingers plunged into my mouth. I sucked and licked. No flavor on earth or in heaven could be better than Priss’s cum.

“Hey,” the guard said. “You can’t do that here.”

“Sorry, sorry,” I apologized. “We were just celebrating. See we have the same painting at home.” I showed her the video. “See, Priss’s fingernails are almost the same blue as in the painting.”

Priss held her hand out for the guard.

“Yeah, but not exactly the same,” she said.

For a moment I thought Priss was going to offer her a taste.

“You two be good now,” the guard admonished us. “No more of that ... celebrating.”

Priss and I nodded solemnly. We hurried away before she could discover the wetspot, giggling once we were in the clear.