The statue sat on the sideboard, its bronze lustre almost golden in the last rays of the sun. The little fellow was well proportioned, on the whole. Polished head atop a slim but muscled torso, redolent with the patina of polish and love. Solid legs held the body up from the statue's base. Bare feet, rubbed regularly for luck, were the least of the revelations. Bare buttocks, behind the body, flowed up to a straight spine. Solid brass, ancient and warm, all upstaged by the tumescent thrusting third leg.

His cock was larger than the bronze mold should have justified. Its girth was impressive, it's length just short of disturbing. The statue was polished with care and reverence. The erection was stroked with love, and sighs of regret.

Stories handed down through the generations suggested he was able to cause dreams, and aid fertility. In reality, of course, he was an interesting ornament. A good luck charm. A showpiece. A conversation starter. And finally mine. My mother had phoned and told me he was on his way to me via courier, and I'd just taken him out of his case today, and placed him in an appropriate spot. I expected many comments from my friends in the days to come.

I named him Dion, short for Dionysus. I knew that my mother, and her mother, and many generations of women before her, all had a pet name for the little man with the big cock.

My mother's phone call had not been expected. I'd talked to her the day before, explaining how it was unlikely now that she'd ever meet my boyfriend. He'd been living with me for about six months, and I'd decided it was time, when he sat me down and told me it wasn't working. He insisted it wasn't my fault, that he wasn't ready to settle down, that he didn't feel capable of commitment. He didn't believe what he said, and neither did I.

So now that I'd installed Dion, and had something to eat, the house seemed rather empty, and TV was boring. I took my book, gave the statue a polite kiss, stroked his cock like I had when I was a little girl, and wandered off, blushing a little, to bed.

The book held my attention for ten minutes. The plot was trite, the characters thin and predictable, the mystery transparent.

I put it down, turned off the light, and lay there quietly in the dark. I wasn't sleepy though. Wasn't ready to say goodbye to the world. I realised with something of a start that I was a little horny, a bit randy, in need of a little comfort.

I'd worn some pyjamas to bed, as the evening was cool, but now I didn't need them, and pulled them off under the heavy covers, wishing for a moment that the boyfriend hadn't left, and then remembering that he wasn't exactly the best in bed anyway. I'd masturbated regularly throughout our relationship, both with and without him, but it had been a long time since I'd had both the opportunity and the inclination to treat myself to a comprehensive self-love session.

As I cast my cotton clothing aside, my body felt weirdly smooth, as though I'd been polished, and my hands slid effortlessly over my body, exploring the familiar peaks and valleys. I loved the way my hands felt on my shoulders, and around my neck, the predictable caress of my smooth fingertips on the satin-like skin. I was sure I was glowing under the embrace, and after I dampened two fingertips from my mouth, I touched them lightly to my aching nipples, swirling on the two of them in unison, trying to ignore the throb from further down my body for a little longer.

My breasts were on fire with need, and I took them both into my hands, squeezing them, and scraping the nipples with my suddenly rough skin. The points pulsed with pleasure at the attention, and I could feel a tang of remorse as I left them behind to seek new pleasures.

I had never liked the idea of my lovers touching my stomach. My navel was ticklish to an extreme, and the skin surrounding it was sensitive, and unforgiving. When I was alone, though, I could treat myself the way I needed to be, sliding and digging at the surface, pressing and squeezing, trying to tickle myself.

My fingertips returned to my nipples again and again, never gentle with them, roughly manipulating them, in stark contrast to the gentle caresses on my stomach. My breasts welcomed me back every time, loving the pinch, or the tug on the thoroughly attentive skin. The skin lower down my torso provided some kind of relief, like just the right amount of sugar with tart strawberries. I thought about that, too. About a long lost lover who ate fruit from my body, spread juice over my nipples, scraped rough fruit skin down between my breasts.

I found myself unable to completely ignore the rest of my body, and my feet had begun to caress my legs, as and when they could reach, one toe sliding poignantly up the back of the opposite leg, sending sparks flying via my brain to my open, hot wet, inviting, desperate mound.

The hands that had been so happy near my navel slipped irreversibly down my torso, over that expanse of firm clear skin to a small forest of dark curly hair. Fingertips made their way through the forest, my mind remembering with another blush the way that I'd combed the hairs when I was younger. From when they'd first appeared, I'd tidied them, the bristles of the hairbrush lovely and sharp, painful at first, but in my control. I remembered the wonder, the guilt, and the glorious pleasure that spread through my body when I realised how much more I could do with the handle of the brush. I blushed again, despite my arousal, at the memory of that first time, when I'd gone beyond caressing, beyond rubbing my little clit with the handle, and had turned the brush around, and slowly, gently, but with great determination, slid it up, and inside myself. It had taken a few tries before I got there, and it wasn't entirely without pain, but it felt absolutely wonderful inside me, spread, full, and so alive.

It was like that now, too. My fingers had paused at my clitoris, to assure it I'd be back, but then slid down between my thighs, between my lips, deep down inside myself. I loved this feeling best of all, such control over my body, intimate and personal, private and secret, a part of me no one else really understood.

As my now slippery fingers slid in and out, they slipped over and around my clit, in no hurry at all, enjoying the journey as much as the inevitable destination.

My mind wandered further then. No more detailed memories of former lovers. Hell, there had been a fair number, I knew that. Not a lot, but enough. I'd loved them too, all of them. No rampant one-nighters for me. Even the one woman had been a well thought through plan, though I had no desire to repeat that experience. Somehow, despite not thinking any of these former partners were an appropriate fantasy for now, a gallery of them scrolled in front of my eyes, their eyes watching intently. I always did like to show an appreciative audience what I liked, and I smiled at that memory.

Then it came to me. I knew what I really wanted right then. I wanted a cock. Not some tender new-age equal rights cock. Not a pompous educated penis. Not even a stern uniformed phallus, though that idea featured wonderfully on other occasions. No, what I wanted was a proper, solid, large, hard cock. A prick, with attitude. Something good, and dependable. A workman, if you will. A cock I could rely on. An erection with the will, and the goods. A hard hard-on. Like the one Dion had, out in the living room. An insatiable devourer of arousal.