Pulsating labia: the Courbet's secret

Your Honor, I swear: that night I did not drink even a drop.
It happened. During the usual night ship guard in the rooms of the museum, in soothing light of safety bulbs, I felt like a low moan coming from one of the walls. I turned on the flashlight and tried to illuminate the point where I had heard the noise. The beam of light slid down the wall and at first indifferent passed over the painting by Courbet, but then, as recalled by something strange, it went back over and just then it happened what in many years of service never happened to me but that much I had wanted to happen. Within the frame of the painting two delicate female hands had appeared: they were slender, manicured and had moved away the curly pubic hair of the model and had opened the labia of the beautiful vulva. I could distinctly see, now, living mucous membranes and, after an initial squeeze of my eyes that I hoped me back to previous reality, pulsating. Yes, Your Honor, pulsating. They seemed to invite me to approach them. The right hand went up from her labia to her clitoris and, mild, began swirling it. The choked groan I had heard, first became a maliciously mocking giggle and then a delicate gasp of pleasure. I realize that it is difficult to believe me, Your Honor, but what would you do in my place? I tried to limit myself to follow the movement of the beautiful hand faster and faster; I was mesmerized by the labia swaying from side to side and in this passage they divided for a moment the vivid mood that had formed and now overflowing inside the vagina. I did not resist as well. I threw myself against the canvas and began to lick the oil at that point. You know the rest: the alarm, the colleagues, the prison and, perhaps, the nuthouse. But I swear, it was all Joanna fault: she provoked me.
Cursed be the day I was hired as night watchman at the Museum d'Orsay.