A Night at The Museum

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I hold a position of some influence at a museum in the city. For reasons that will become clear, I’m not going to say which one, but you’ve probably heard of it. Sometimes, the museum will play host to a charity event or fancy gala. These events draw a pretty high-class crowd – the wealthy, the powerful, celebrities. The other night, a major fundraising event was held at the museum, and it drew one of the biggest crowds I’ve seen in the time I’ve worked there.

The event organizers made sure everyone had plenty of beer, wine and liquor, and the posh revelers certainly appreciated the hospitality. As I’m sure you can imagine, this led to quite a pile-up at the restrooms, for both sexes. Naturally, the line for the ladies room was longer and moved slower than the gents. That’s how it always goes, right? I admit to sneaking more than a few looks at these elegant and glamorous women, squirming and shuffling in their evening wear. All those fashionable dresses are designed to look great, but they aren’t the most practical of things. I imagine the ladies struggled getting in and out of them once they made it into the ladies room, and that was probably slowing things down even more. Most of these women have the resources to get anything they want whenever they want, but even their wealth and power couldn’t add more toilets to the museum restrooms!

Later in the evening, I saw a certain someone approach the restroom. I’m not going to say her name, but she’s a famous model/actress, and stunningly gorgeous. I mean, I’ve seen pictures of her in magazines, and watched her on screen, and she’s always been an undeniably beautiful woman. But in person, wow! Her looks are on another level completely. A statuesque blonde (tonight – her hair has been different colors at different times), wearing a jaw-dropping red dress that accentuated her figure in all the right places. She dressed and carried herself with confidence and class, so it wouldn’t be right to say it left little to the imagination. No, I’d say it stimulated my imagination in all the right ways!

When she saw the line for the ladies room, I saw her pause for a few seconds then scrunch her face in displeasure. She appeared to be considering her options, but what options did she have? If she needed to use the halkalı escort restroom, she would have to wait in line like everyone else. But then she continued walking down the corridor. Since the restrooms were a bit out of the way from where the gala was being staged, and most of the museum was roped off from visitors at events like this, I was curious where she was headed.

She reached the velvet rope blocking access to the rest of the museum, unclipped a segment from of its post, and walked through. She scanned the hallway to see if anyone had spotted her, then clipped it back in place. I followed, trying hard to keep my distance. I didn’t want to spook her. She was probably headed to a bathroom on another floor, but I was still really curious where she was going to end up and what she was up to. Was she so desperate that she didn’t care about the rest of the museum being closed off? Did she think the rules simply didn’t apply to her?

I also remembered some interesting things she’d said in a recent interview. When she was asked how life had changed since she became famous (a pretty standard question for young starlets), she said. “Honestly, I miss being able to pee outside whenever I want to.” She explained that growing up on a 1500 acre property in the middle of nowhere and spending a lot of her free time outdoors, that’s just what she and her family did when nature called and they weren’t near the house. She joked that she couldn’t do it anymore now that she lived in the city, especially since she was constantly under the watchful eye of paparazzi. “That’s all I need, a picture of me pissing in some alley on TMZ! Can you imagine?” she’d said.

Well, since she brought it up, I started imagining! When I read that, I wondered if she had a pee fetish, otherwise why bring it up at all? There are a million other things she could have said. Even if her publicist wanted to craft her image as “quirky” or “grounded”, she could have supplied some mundane answer about shopping for her own groceries or something like that, right? Having something a pee fetish myself, I allowed my imagination to consider many possibilities.

Keeping a respectable distance, I saw her walk past the stairs to the second floor and into one of the first şişli escort floor galleries. She moved gracefully around the room, taking her time and admiring some prize bits in the museum’s collection. Perhaps She was just an appreciative lover of art history and taking the opportunity to see these masterpieces first hand. I scolded myself for thinking what I had been thinking earlier. What must life be like for this remarkable young woman? After all, she was famous and strikingly beautiful. Nearly everyone she met probably lusted after her or was jealous. young woman. And I was no better! Our typical patrons would likely respect her space if she came to the museum during operating hours, but she’s doubtless used to being asked for autographs and hounded by paparazzo just about everywhere she goes. I couldn’t blame her for taking this opportunity to see our magnificent collection in peace.

She walked around the room, solemnly considering the works within. I thought about approaching to offer a private tour, but she seemed so deep in concentration, I didn’t want to disturb her at that moment. Then, when she reached the far corner of the gallery, standing before an enormous 16th-century Italian Renaissance painting, she started urgently drawing up her dress, gathering it in folds at her waist. I was treated to quite a show as her legs were revealed bit by bit. First her calves, looking taut and toned, even more so since she was wearing what I judged to be perilously tall heels. After a few more folds, her sumptuous thighs were on display. Then, her indescribably perfect ass. She wasn’t wearing any panties or even a g-string beneath her gown.

The thoughts I had guiltily considered earlier leapt back to the forefront of my brain. Was she really about to do what I thought she was going to do? I couldn’t believe it. But, why else come to the gallery alone and lift her dress? Then she turned around, revealing a lovely pussy, topped by a small, well-managed bit of dark pubic hair. (I appreciate a little bit of hair down there, especially now when so many women are shaved. It’s nice to have variety in the world!) She squat down, still balanced on her high heels, holding her dress out of the line of fire. She settled sarıyer escort into position, and I saw at first a few drops of liquid fall from between her legs down to the floor. Then I heard a telltale hissing noise as stream of pale golden liquid rained down. She lifted her head and exhaled sharply as an intense feeling of relief visibly washed over her face.

My heart began racing uncontrollably! This room held centuries-old masterpieces valued at millions of dollars apiece, and she was deliberately urinating on the floor. To some members in my field, this museum is about as sacred a place as one can find. They would be outraged if they found her profaning it, casually treating it like her own private toilet. I have to admit, the riskiness of her actions, combined with how fundamentally wrong it was to pee in this place made her actions even more intoxicating to me. What if she’d been caught? Would she have claimed extreme drunkenness? (Actually, she had been caught. By me! And she was lucky that I found her actions arousing, not disgusting.) In a little over 30 seconds, she deposited a veritable lake of pee topped by a slight lace of white foam bubbles onto the gallery’s wood and stone floor. When the stream between her legs finally faltered and ceased, she shook her hips then flicked her pussy a few times to dislodge the last stubborn droplets before standing. She carefully stepped around the enormous puddle she’d left cooling on the gallery floor, then let her dress fall back to the floor. She smoothed it out a few times and left the room.

As she neared the area reserved for the gala, I caught up to her and called out her name. She stopped and turned around. I introduced myself and told her that unfortunately this section of the museum was closed off tonight, but if she wanted a private tour some night, I would be happy to act as her guide. “Gallery 15 is a particular favorite of mine. Not everyone appreciates what they see there, but I quite enjoy it.” I nodded and smiled, hoping to signal what I knew and what I had seen. She agreed a private tour would be most welcome, and that she would call to arrange it later.

The entire time, her demeanor seemed calm, never betraying nervousness, excitement, or any sense that she felt she’d done something wrong or out of the ordinary. It was her right and privilege to pee anywhere she wanted to, even on the floor of a world-famous art museum! I wasn’t going to tell her different, and I wasn’t going to blow the whistle on her. It would be our magical little secret, and I wondered what the future might hold.

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