One hundred and fifty years since the death of Hiram B. Heron was hardly the most important of anniversaries, he knew, but at least it was something t...o promote. And at least Rodwell knew he had come up with the ideal, eye-catching, centre piece to pull in the crowds. Maxine Connor, the museum's curator, probably wouldn't approve, of course.By celebrating Heron, Rodwell knew he would earn some kudos with the College. Heron had been one of its founding fathers, so anything with a Heron. All clear. He smiled and furtively fished his cock out, greeting the head with a moist thumb, teasing the slit, running it down the shaft before gripping it hard, pulling it free from the constricting denim to stand proud. Public masturbation had never occurred to him yet he acted on impulse, giving himself time to enjoy the sensations building in his balls. His imagination conjured scene after scene of erotic images in a sexy slideshow; the nubile little bitch who lived two doors down, on her. I loved every last second of that delight dancing through me. I enjoyed every moment of him fucking me.He pounded me with such passion.He rose toward cumming in me. He wanted to release all his seed in both my holes. He wanted to breed me. That was how lizardmen reproduced, of course. I loved him thrusting to the hilt in me. It was just a magical moment.My orgasm built and built as he thrust away at me. The bumpy texture of his cocks stimulated my snatch and asshole. My anal sheath clamped down. Surprisingly, Loren no longer seemed to be the centre of attention of a large group. I found her sitting on someone's lap with her legs spread wide open and draped across the woman's legs. There was a hand in her pussy rubbing her clit, and another hand roughly working over one of her breasts. Her head was tipped back, rolling back and forth, and it was obvious that the woman holding her was about to make her come. Loren didn't seem to have too much energy which made me wonder how many orgasms.