When I was getting my Ph.D. in Art History, my dissertation focused on modern odes to classical Greek and Roman statues and how the semiotics of sculpture change over time.

A sculpture in the past might have once symbolized a historical figure (man as subject), but modern recreations are more fixated on the ancient statue as an object in itself (sculpture as subject). The art form becomes self-referential, and modern odes to ancient art simultaneously act as medium, object, and observer.

If that sounds like a lot of pretentious twaddle, that’s because it is. I love academia, but even I can admit scholars are frequently insufferable. But I’ve always enjoyed the challenge of improving on the theories of prior generations. It’s like switching the colored lens on an old film camera — you might be looking at the same image, but a slight change in perspective can bring out new details you never noticed before.

What does this have to do with a crazy sex story, you ask? Well, the tale begins partway through my Ph.D., when I traveled to Italy to spend time with sculptors who were creating odes to classic Roman statues. One was attempting to modernize the wet drapery effect, while another was sculpting modern figures in the style of ancient politicians. But the one that fascinated me most was a man named Giovanni. His remote studio at the base of the Italian Alps specialized in marble reproductions of ancient statues, but Giovanni emphasized the eroticism of those nudes even more. He created exquisite stone renditions of couples copulating, masturbating nymphs, even statues whose anatomically correct genitals fit together as if they were making love. Gone were the limp-dicked Davids of the past — his specimens of male perfection now had sizable erections, carved down to the smallest detail. You could even order custom marble dildos from his shop.

I’m a fairly horny woman, and it always seemed a shame that so many statues of the Greeks and Romans showed the tiniest, saddest little willies. Where were the throbbing members of the past? For all the fornication that went on in ancient myths, the statues never went beyond allusions to the carnality of those stories.

I arrived at Villa di Marmo — a fancy name for a simple house with a detached studio warehouse — one Tuesday morning with my suitcase, excitement fluttering through me. Because Giovanni was such a recluse, I’d be staying in his guest bedroom for the week. There hadn’t been a picture of him on the website, so it was a shock when a stunningly attractive man emerged from the studio. He had rakishly long dark hair, bronze skin, and smoldering eyes. He greeted me with two cheek kisses, and as his stubble rasped over my skin, I shivered.

He pulled back, and there was an aura of mischief to his gaze now. Clearly he knew his effect on the opposite sex. “Ciao, bella,” he said with his sexy accent. “How lovely you are.”

After I awkwardly introduced myself, trying not to fixate too much on his muscled arms, he took my bags inside and gave me a tour. The studio space was massive, with enormous sliding doors to accommodate deliveries of raw materials. Half-finished nudes littered the floor, and one long table was filled only with dildos. A line of completed works stood along one end of the shed, their nude forms glittering white in the light falling from the skylight.

His technique was exquisite, and it was startling to see the forms I knew from history books take on such sexual connotations. The Lottatori — the wrestlers — no longer depicted a wrestling match, but an explicit sodomy scene. Marcellus as Hermes Logios still had a hand raised and cloth draped over his arm, but now he wielded a fearsome erection. The gods fornicated with each other in a variety of physical forms, and not a single fig leaf was to be seen.

“Do you like it?” he asked when I paused in front of a modern reimagining of Venus and Mars. The war god’s fingers were deep in the goddess’ marble pussy, and her head was thrown back in ecstasy.

“I do,” I said, although that wasn’t the entire truth. The art turned me on. Scorching-hot scenes had been crafted from cold stone, and Giovanni had the hand of a master, an apparently filthy mind, and a detailed understanding of the female body. It made me even more aware of his sex appeal.

I spent the next few days watching Giovanni work. It was a titillating sight. His muscled forearms flexed as he chipped stone away using ancient hand tools, his fingers displayed a level of precision that made me sweat, and I was riveted to the firm curve of his ass. While the details of his latest project came to life — Venus being penetrated by the thick cocks of both Vulcan and Mars — I fantasized about Giovanni’s thick cock instead.

He caught me staring a few times, and a little smile curved his lips each time. “Bella,” he would say, “is there something you want to ask me?”

Each time I shook my head, embarrassed at how obvious I was being in my interest. I couldn’t exactly say I wanted to compare his cock to a statue’s, could I?

One night, rather than retiring to the house, he arranged a picnic for us in his workshop. We sat on a blanket, sharing grapes, cheese, pasta, and wine. He was flirting with me, I realized with giddy delight. When he finally kissed me, I sighed and sank into the sensation. “Let’s go to bed,” I whispered when he pulled back.

That wicked smile was back. “What do you like about my art?” he asked.

I frowned, confused by the change in topic. “It’s sensual. Compelling.”

“It arouses you.”

My cheeks heated. “Yes.”

He pulled me to my feet. “I wish to see how aroused it makes you.” He led me toward a marble Mars whose muscled torso and lean hips framed an impressively large erection. “Go,” he said, nudging me toward the statue. “Art is meant to be experienced.”

I stared at him, wondering if he was truly suggesting what I thought he was. Then he cupped me between the legs and guided me to straddle the marble cock, and there was no question. He wanted me to fuck the statue while he watched.

The idea was stunningly, shockingly arousing. I trembled as I stripped off my dress and shoes, followed by my bra and panties. Giovanni murmured words of admiration for my nude body, and when I began rubbing my pussy against that straight, hard stone, he stripped and started masturbating his own impressive erection.

The stone was cool, and the juices from my pussy made it easy to slide back and forth. Soon I was impossibly wet. When I adjusted my position, backing up to the tip of the stone dick and bending over, the head of it breached my opening. It was so thick and unyielding, more cock than I’d ever taken before, but I pushed back, and the stone slid all the way inside me.

I groaned as it filled me, stretching me to my limits. Giovanni stared, seemingly awestruck, while I worked my hips so Mars’s cock slid in and out of me. It felt so fucking good, and the cock was so big and exquisitely rendered that I felt the bump of every vein and the flaring cap rubbing against my sensitive skin. I rubbed my clit roughly as I took the stone dick for Giovanni, and when I came with a scream, he moaned.

He pulled me off the marble with shaking hands, then guided me to a reclining figure. Hercules, lean and nude. Giovanni pressed me down on top of the sculpture, guiding my hips as I wiggled onto the new cock. The marble curved at just the right angle to press my G-spot, and I writhed on top of it, choking on moans of pleasure.

Giovanni helped me take the cock for a while, his hands moving my hips, but then he whispered a filthy question in my ear. “Do you want both of us at once?”

I’d never done anything like this before, but there wasn’t even a doubt in my mind. “Yes,” I begged.

He left me to ride Hercules for a few minutes, then returned with a condom and a bottle of lube. I watched over my shoulder as he rolled the condom on, doused it with lube, and then knelt over the statue behind me. I leaned forward, taking Hercules’s sharp push against my G-spot, and then Giovanni’s cock was pressing at my anus.

He penetrated me a few inches at a time, pausing to let me get used to his size and the feel of both cocks in me. It was a stunning contrast — warm, living man in my asshole, cool, slippery stone plumbing my vagina. Soon they were both fully seated, and I gasped at how full I felt. They were crammed into me, taking up all the available space in my body.

Giovanni started fucking my ass with firm, unrelenting strokes. He held me in place with a hand loosely banded around my throat, and I moaned at such utter domination. My body jolted and shuddered, driven forward and back by his forceful thrusts, and Hercules’s cock slid in and out with it. The swirl of little stone curls on the statue’s groin rubbed my clitoris with each stroke, and with the combination of G-spot, clitoris, and everything else, it didn’t take long before I orgasmed, screaming to the rafters with the intensity of my pleasure. I came until the marble was soaked in my body’s moisture, and then I came some more.

Giovanni cursed in Italian in my ear, then rammed into me one last time, shaking as he came. If we did this again, I wanted it without the condom so I could feel his hot come filling up my ass while my pussy juices dripped down the marble.

He pulled out and gently removed me from the statue. Hercules’s stone cock gleamed with my wetness, and more had pooled around it. The sight was so stimulating, my pussy fluttered again, still beset by tiny contractions from the orgasm of a lifetime.

“See?” Giovanni asked, kissing my neck. “Art should be experienced.”

I looked at his collection with new eyes, realizing that many of the statues had been designed to accommodate a real woman riding them. This building was full of carnal possibility.

Giovanni and I fucked again and again in that room over the course of my stay, and when I left at the end of the week, I vowed to come back. And I have. Every summer for the last six years, I’ve returned to him and his creations, letting them fuck me together.