Chapter Nineteen The Artisan
Chapter Nineteen
The Artisan
My hands were cramping, constantly moving and sculpting the form. The body was rough but recognizable. The face was the most formed thing about it.
The sculpture sat upright, hands by her sides, her face tipped up at me. I worked on the face, scraping and smoothing the clay until it finally resembled someone familiar. I held my breath when I looked into the eyes before trailing down to the breasts, then the abdomen.
The small tool scraped across her chest, swirling it before letting it continue across one breast. I couldn’t remember the exact pattern. It seemed there was much to learn about her before I could properly bring her to life.
This bout of inspiration was different. It was draining, yet it tortured me with mania until I saw it through, until I was satisfied.
It was like I saw her flesh, and my imagination started reeling.
Itching to get back to work. Then once I got to my studio, anything I did paled in comparison to what I wanted to create in my mind’s eye.
Inspiration is fleeting. It’s clumsy and uncertain. There was no knowing when it would come or go, but it plagued my mind like the worst kinds of sicknesses. It would suffocate you in a fever if you didn’t know what to do with it.
I brushed my finger across the cheek, the slick on my hands and arms already dry and cracking, pulling at my skin.
The earthy scent of my creation teased my nose. Dragging my finger over her lip, I wished it were warmer, softer.
I leaned in, half expecting my inanimate sculpture to move.
One hand on her waist, one on the side of her head.
The clay was wet and damp but still malleable under my grasp.
It was in some way ironic how, every time I was around her in person, I wanted to squeeze her—out of anger, frustration, or possessiveness, I hadn’t a clue.
I lowered my mouth to the salty clay, soft enough to not disturb the form. I wished the lips were in the flesh, but much like the sculpture, I didn’t believe I could express anything, not without hurting her, punishing her for the feelings harbored deep inside.
My lip twitched as I smoothed my hands down her waist, mindlessly carving out the divots on each side of her hips, distracted by the memory of her and the form before me.
I grabbed a handful of slick from the bucket to cover the area, gently working the clay into the form I remembered, the body I strived to know.
How frustrating it was to have a desire to capture her in clay when I had only seen parts of her, never fully observed, never fully mine.
The slick dripped over the legs, and my hands glided between them.
Perhaps I could carve from memory, no matter how brief it was. The slick felt no different than the juice that covered her when I got just a small taste.
Slowly, I pressed my fingers into the clay, between the formed legs. It felt dirty, inappropriate, despite the sculpture’s inanimate state.
The wet clay felt similar, but it wasn’t the same. I curled my fingers upward, scooping out the material. How lewd.
My other hand shook as I pulled the waistband of my trousers down.
I held my cock in my hand, the divot between her legs in the other, and I closed my eyes.
I imagined her on the table again, bathed in warm candlelight, her skin pink and flushed as I stared at her while she was at my disposal.
What would have happened if I’d kept going?
If she hadn’t left? Would she have let me take her then?
It was hard to entice her when she got stuck in her own insecurity.
What would she do if she didn’t hold back? What would we do?
I spread my fingers inside her; she flinched. I swiped my cock along the entrance, teasing her with her own slick. I’m sure she would bite her lip, or her cheek, depending on if she was titillated or refusing to show me how much she liked it.
I pressed in . . . it was cold, a bit uncomfortable. As I pressed deeper, it made room for me, squeezing tight. I placed a hand on the table beside her, beginning to move.
Ah . . . Arkady, she would say. Would she grab me? Touch me?
I thrust in, the suction created by the slick making me shiver. Her hands grabbing my shirt or the tablecloth, maybe wrapping around my throat.
Would she ask for more? Yell at me to stop?
The thought made me throb harder, move a bit quicker.
My body was producing enough heat to make the cool sensation melt away.
It was so soft. I dug my fingers into the divots of her hips, burying them in her sides, the wetness making it easier to move, to squeeze.
I imagined pulling, clawing at her skin, crushing her in my grasp, breaking her open and savoring her for dinner.
I reached upward, my nails tearing through her abdomen, hooking up under her ribs until I felt it, the throbbing, withering heart. I crushed it in my fist.
I finished.
I opened my eyes, the clay a misshapen form on the table, my cock pulsing. The former sculpture ruined beneath me.
I caressed the side of the face, squeezing it between my fingers until it escaped through the gaps. I suppose I would have started from scratch regardless, no matter what I did.
“Sweet Petronille”—a heavy sigh—“how do I entice you without ruining you?”