We went to an art show in the basement of the Village Hall. Local artists, according to the announcement in the local paper, and the show was not well attended; in fact we were the only visitors. And there were only about six paintings. But one of them caught our attention.

At first we weren’t sure why. The scene looked pleasant but innocuous. A pond at dawn. A duck taking flight, and a couple of ducklings swimming along. Still, it did a little something to us. More than a little something. Our nipples stiffened. Our clits twitched. Our cunts moistened.

Maybe it’s that guy at the far side, we speculated. We looked more closely. Could it be? Was he jerking off? Yes he had a hand on his cock. And a sizeable cock it was. And when we looked even more closely we could see the white spurt of seed jetting from the penis slit.

We read the card tacked to the wall next to the painting. “Extasy at the Duck’s finish.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” we asked each other. “Maybe it’s meant to be symbolic.” “Maybe we’re supposed to substitute fuck for duck. Isn’t there some saying about fucking a duck?” “Poor duck.” “Poor ducklings.”

We noted the name of the artist. We bought the painting, hung it over our bed, then invited the artist over.

The plan was that one of us would suck his tongue and the other would suck his cock, and just as he was about to come, we’d both bite. We’d both bite really hard. That should teach him not to spell ecstasy wrong.