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Pygmalion

My home is small, sees few visitors, and houses the merest of essentials for civilised life. In a single corner of the hut is a bed, an excuse of a hearth, and a rug. I like to say I bought the bed from Procrustes himself, or I did when I last had visitors.

The remaining space of my cloister is covered in dust and miniature models of every size. Some smoothed clay, some cracked after baking for years in sunlight near a window, some carved of rough and sanded wood, and many from stone. The husks whence these figures emerged are a thick mix of dust, shavings, and splinters which litter the floor. Paths trod through the detritus have been covered by still more remains as the number of sculptures multiplied. Thirty-four years of art and labour lay upon this floor (And spread inevitably to the thin grass outside). The dust caked the air and in the dawn, salty Aegean wind painted broad orange and red swirls for me to behold every morning. My last visitor commented about the sunsets over the sea, but I think I prefer the ever-present beauty of my life-long endeavours whirling itself into a living presence.

It is good that none now come knocking. Besides the mess, their gaze would soon fall upon the miniatures which have accumluated to an absurd degree. They're now piled precariously, sorted by medium. For those without a distaste for disarray an inspection of the sculptures would quickly reveal the singular, probably worrisome state of my mind these past few years. These past five years, if I had to reckon it.

The piles and piles of miniatures are a jumble of limbs, contorted and splayed, intermingling in an uncomfortable orgy of thousands. If an even more adventurous soul were to pick up a few of their number to squint at through the dust, he would see that my sculptures have all taken a debaucherous female form.

Five years ago, I was a lout. I lived in a city far from here whose name I would like most to forget. It was a stone city of wonder and pleasure and art. I made sculptures from enormous slabs of the finest marble for not less than eight each of kings, dictators, and tyrants. I lived lavishly. If it were not for my skill I should think I lived uselessly. The coin which was amassed upon me by royals was funneled almost directly into myriad houses of ill-repute. It was said behind my back that I'd had a taste of some form or another of every working girl in the city, and plenty of hobbyists at that. I knew them all, and most of them knew me. Several brothels had women saved simply for me, in many cases I'd paid the brothel-keepers up to a year in advance for services which I'd use liberally.

Five years ago I was a lout holding a fistful of some whore's hair with my manhood buried in one hole or another. I thought she was pretty, that's why she'd had the honour. Plenty of women clambered for the coin. This one was dutiful. She moaned in all the right placed, fondled at the right times, and batter her eyes...

Five years ago I was fucking some whore and the world melted away and I was locked into the smoky eyes batting back at me. Here I was sweating and plugging away and this woman was batting her eyes. They fluttered in such a practised way. I saw the creases above and below her eyes in the dark makeup there applied. One side was a little runny from where she'd wiped away some sweat. This woman was pretty, but in a flash I saw myself with her and her tired eyes from above. I saw in us a sickness and perversion my youth was too tireless to notice.

She'd sighed when I stopped. She made a limp motion with her hips that two minutes before would have said "I want some more, sire," but which now said simply "Well?"

Five years ago I leapt back and scurried from the room in horror at the defilement, the devastation to an act most sacrosanct.

The figurines were each a sin. They each had a name, most of them false. There was fiery Lysistrata, who wore a man's armor with legs parted in a stance of war, and wielded a sword held high. A crude look of defiance was chiseled into her visage. Her enormous breasts had once titillated me.

There was the unfortunately named Proserpina who had a once delightful knack of taking a man to bed with her legs freakishly pinned behind her head or in some other contortionists' trick.

There were sisters with few inhibitions with respect to one another. One first leered at the second's neck, the second at the first's thighs.

A quartet of daughters of Sappho whom none were allowed to touch, but who slithered into the most complicated forms for their own oral and voyeur's watching pleasure.

Countless singular women whose lives as ladies in red began with the youthful vigour I'd once adored, and who promptly left the ancient profession when they more quickly made the same realisations as I.

Others were long-practised. They trod on all fours with the rear ends high the air waiting for attack, they sat on the floor with their legs spread ludicrously wide. They slurred simple instructions and agreements and encouragement, sharing watery wine with their patrons.

A few were practically ancient, lines running deep through almost every inch of their bodies.

The array of women in such positions and partaking in endless numbers of acts, some filthy, some profane, some evil. I'd had them all, and now hated them all. Not even memories of the most youthful and energetic virgins wakened me. They couldn't begin to inspire lust, and they couldn't provide what I had, five years previous, realised I needed.

It was in the light of the new day, and amid the floating dust, that Aphrodite spoke to me. Laying in my cot with cold feet I spied a face of utter symmetry crafted from the whorls. I blinked quickly and the face merely found a clearer shape. The face took on greater detail and the shape continued to form until the bust of the almighty Goddess became her entire, nude figure, standing serene with one hand resting in the other before her.

In her I saw it. I was what I needed. Her very image gave it shape. Here was love. Here was virtue, goodness. Here was every positive word and thought that could spring to mind. Her face spoke of kindness, her breasts spoke of adoration and nourishment, her hips spoke of strength and children.

When my mind turned to family and of unconditional love, I was blessed by her smile. I knew more of charity than I'd ever conceived. She turned to the centre of the room and outstretched her hand as though to show me something.

There in the centre of my home was a brilliant slab or marble. My tools were arrayed on a workbench next to it. The figurines had disappeared, though the dust remained.

Those figurines were the pale imitations of women. From this slab I would create a woman of absolute purity, of absolute femininity, of absolute grace... Words ran through my mind, but one look at Aphrodite, who'd noiselessly stepped beside the marble, crystallized it. I could still not verbalise, but I saw it. My muse, Aphrodite. My model, the goddess of love. Her figure instantly put my mind at rest. When I looked upon her I felt the confidence, I felt the certainty, and more than anything, I saw the figure within the slab begging to be revealed.

I rose from my bed. For the first time in many years I'd felt like the master of my hovel. I stood nude and approached Aphrodite who looked at me, not quite shy, not quite coy. My manhood throbbed with a painful desire, but my heart and mind were consumed with a love I'd never though I could feel. Her smile broadened as she looked down at my penis. She looked back up at me and for a split instance I thought I saw desire. She did not shy away. This was the embodiment of my sculpture, the soul within, the perfect wife. Of course she wanted her husband, and of course there was no discomfort. She'd seen and desired it and him a thousand times before in their marital bed, and another thousand places where the love told hold of them.

A second glint of desire took her eye and the soft skin of the back of her hand brushed almost imperceptibly against the ridge of my cock head. My eyes clamped shut as a wave of pleasure washed over me so intensely I thought it would cause a vein to burst from my skull. Her fingers traced the entire circumference as she walked past me and took hold of my chisel from the workbench. My eyes opened slowly and she stood before me with the tool cradled in both hands. I stared at it.

I took the chisel and looked longingly at the immense marble slab.

It was weeks before I first laid tool to stone. I'd sculpted thousands of little women, and hundreds of full-size and over-sized representations. But to carve a figure with a soul, I felt I required to learn anew. Aphrodite agreed. For hours each day, before the orange light in the morning, and the similar light of the dusk, I studied her.

She began with her face. She'd altered it. Aphrodite was not to be my wifely sculpture, merely the inspiration. Her lips grew a little more plump. Her eyes turned a brilliant blue. Her hair was worn down her back, free instead of in a done up city-style. Her nose was a little more pointed and her cheeks lost a shade of their glow. Beneath it all remained the force of nature, the highest incarnation of womanhood. It would shine through any face.

Time ended. Each task was completed whenever it was completed with no consideration but the task itself. We began with her hair. She showed me how it tumbled as she ran her hands through it. She showed me how and where it waved, how it parted, and how it smelled with fresh oils and perfumes. She showed me how to appreciate it with a loving caress from behind, how to sink my face against the back of her neck in a morning surprise that was more intimate than emptying my seed into a thousand whores. She showed me its colour and shade in the light of every source, be it the clear sky of summer or by a flickering flame in winter. Despite my initial hesitation, she even showed me the delight in my taking a handful and tugging her head back to expose her neck.

And so it was with rest of her body, mind and soul. In learning I ceased to be a presence before her who observed and listened and focused, I began to meditate and feel the sensations, live the ideas that accompanied the supple body, the sharp mind, and the soul which wavered from cruel to gentle to suit necessity.

I stared into her eyes for centuries and observed her lips for eons. Behind the brilliant blue I observed again and again the power of the goddess, and she showed me the most minuscule expressions I'd never had the keenness to see. A storming, snowy night which she knew caused the long, meandering trail up to the hovel to be impassable. She wept in fear. Come the dry next evening she wept in delight as I, fearless husband, strode into view. She ran out to this husband with sweetbread she'd baked for his return. She showed me the gaze of a wife whose husband's manhood is stretching, teasing, and pounding her formerly neglected womanhood. She winced in slight hesitation, and bit her lip with the loyal determination as I squeeze myself between her buttocks, slowly working into the rear entryway that gives a tinge of pain followed by a head-rush of incredible sensation. I even had the fortune of seeing both the dutiful look of those eyes as they would appear to a husband as he fills his blushing brides' throat with seed, and lustful look as she excitedly licks and suckles upon my scrotum. She demonstrated the entirety of experience, the most pained and most glorious of smiles. I saw smiles of condescension, confusion, awkwardness, confidence, fury, and agony. I saw the devious smile the wife gives before taking a greedy fondle of her husband's cock whilst detouring though the upstairs room of a friends' house-gathering.

I knew the slant of her neck from every angle, how her hair rested upon it, how I could see the throb of her pulse and I knew the pace quickened at the thought of a husband coming in from delivering his latest masterpiece of the royal halls in a city three days' ride away.

I traced her collar bone with my finger, my nose, my tongue, my eyes, and my thoughts.

An epoch alone did she dedicate to her chest. Another early morning in which husband must depart. An important commission is waiting in the city and I've already been delayed by two days. Finally the time has come an in cool morning air husband sees his wife, intentionally braving the the chill in nothing but clear silks, as her nipples grow firm. As husband walks away she calls to him. He turns to look and finds her pressing her breasts together seductively, achingly telling him in elaborate detail what she has planned for his return. He smirks, but she teases further by closing her eyes and tugging softly on her nipples through the fabric. The next moment she opens her eyes and her husband stands before her, naked from the waist down. Before she is aware of what's happening she is flat on her back, he husband is pinning her down in the grass with his entire weight. His cock is nestled between her full bosom. He eventually departs, but not before she has exacted her toll in cum, liberally applied to her chest, spoiling the light, barely-concealing clothing. Husband believes he's taught her not to tease.

Further along, I saw her suckling our son. She appeared bathed in light, utterly holy. To gaze upon her nourishing form is see purity and Goodness incarnate. MY heart swells for her in this moment as she drips with happiness. My penis swells right alongside and I match the feeling of love soaring through every part of my spirit with a vicious physical carnality once child is put to bed.

I spent what felt like a decade on the crease where her buttock met her thigh. She placed her weight on one leg, and bent the other slightly at the knee. I was transfixed by the singularly simple and beautiful line. I saw it close, and I saw it from far. I traced it and it's surroundings with my finger (and my tongue for good measure.) Aphrodite saw fit to transition easily to a full exploration of the nearby crevasse, which admittedly was of far greater interest to my masculine drives. I witnessed her bent over, I witnessed her stretched wide, and I witnessed her joyfully overflowing with husband's white, hot, semen.

The weeks drew to a close. I'd experienced an entire second life at the behest of my muse, the goddess of love. But it was time to begin the work. In truth I felt that the easiest part was to follow. The image of the perfect female form was so obvious to me. I could see the waves in the light clothing of the sculpture already. I could see the slight, cryptic smile in her down-turned, deferential face. I saw her posture, weighing as Aphrodite's did down on one foot while the other rested. I saw one arm hanging loosely at her side with two fingers pressed together and the others separated. I saw her right hand resting on her hip in opposition to her downcast gaze, hinting at her demanding, wanting subtler nature. She was right there and I understood her completely. She had merely to be revealed, as easily as she might from behind a privacy screen on her wedding night as she approached her husband for the first time.

The work was quick. My stomach churned, my face turned thin and sallow and I'd not noticed that Aphrodite had disappeared. My beard grew long and my eyes grew sunken as the job consumed me. Little by little my confidant strokes drew the woman encased in marble to the light of day.

***

In two years' time I was a sickly, undead creature whose purpose was so singular that it utterly endangered me. I'd had at least a dozen visitors in that time. Some passers'-by, some soldiers, an occasional man of some god or another. I'd not seen them. I'm not sure I'd even taken cognizance of their presence at the times of their arrival. They all observed the same: A man who's eyes were crazed, whose body was simultaneously frail but which moved and struck and scratched the marble with the precision of a master who'd turned back the time on his corporeal self but retained his skill. By now the figure was essentially complete. My lovely darling stood upon her altar looking down upon my hunched back with admiration. She observed me freeing her and saw that her time was close. He empty eyes occasionally locked with mine as I took pause of my work to gaze upon her beauty. Soaking up her loving gaze always gave me the drive to finish the last 8 hours of the days' labour. Before using the new infusing of energy I always gave her a long, desirous kiss upon her stone lips, having long-ago lost any sense of the oddity of placing so great a love in one so physically unrequiting. In my more delirious moments I'd made love to her as best as I could. The cold of her stone hips, and the smooth yet solid arch of her neck gave me such profound pleasure, I felt I'd never need the warm entrance of another woman as long as I lived.

***

Shortly into the third year I realised that I'd reach the end. A single remaining day of labour would not only see the completion of this godly masterpiece, but would even offer me the chance of half a day's rest. Rest. The word was once I hadn't considered in... I couldn't remember. It felt alien to think of laying in bed for any reason other than preparing my worn out muscles for the next day's task.

My version of Aphrodite incarnate was essentially complete. All that remained were the ornate details upon the alter on which she stood. I spent every morning for the past few weeks gazing at her up and down. Normally I'd find a fleck or imperfection here and there that required smoothing out. Nothing ever presented itself. She merely looked back with that little smile, hand on hip, relishing and bathing in her own perfection.

Before my work, once I'd felt the loving of this beauty was a little indulgent, I developed the habit of giving a long kiss upon each foot before setting myself to work. Today's kiss was particularly long. Painful. It occurred to me that once the work was complete I'd no idea what I would do with my time. The end was so near, it felt like as her life began mine would end. My lips held tight to bone in her ankle as the thoughts crept into my mind, and as I ushered them out. It didn't matter. Today was the day. I may not be a god, but in the warm, clear morning I would come as close as any mortal could expect.

The hours felt like a minute. When the last corner was made smooth, I felt a nauseous. I fell to the ground. Suddenly I became aware of the dust coating my lungs, the thick callouses which shrouded my hands, the fuzziness that had crept into my vision, and the spindly character of my legs. I lay as a wreck beneath the beautiful thing I'd ever created. She was complete. I was complete. The thoughts fell into my mind together. My body laid still and I slept until the wee morning hours of the next day.

The sun clutched at the horizon. It's rays barely reached the face of Wife in Repose. They caressed her cheekbones and cast the shadow of the window across her. The orange glow lit up her eyes, twisted the mystique of her smile making it more indiscernible than usual. The lower frame of the window ensured that her face was the only thing lit in the room. It hung there in my bleary vision with the mystery first presented by my patron teacher so many years ago.

I loved her and I loved to work on her. But I could only love her now. My heart imploded as the sun rose and lit her in its inexorable, magisterial light. I wept below them, my hands too weak to even reach up the altar to touch her feet. What was I to do now? Work on something else? Sell this majestic creation? How could I even consider something so crass.

Exhaustion still consumed me, but despair took a firm hold my throat and soul in addition. Sleep returned quickly and soon dreams interfered on my peace.

***

The visage I knew better than anyone returned in the whirling black sands of my thoughts. My voice croaked out her name, "Aphrodite," but she regarded me without much notice. She stood facing away from my place on the ground, once again nude, but seemingly shrouded in the dust which so often swirled in the air of my hut. She examined the statue which materialized suddenly before us. It was glowing from within, so brightly that my patron was almost invisible, a mere thin wavering shadow.

She was judging her commission. The two of them towered above me and I had to merely sit and wait. Aphrodite held a slender hand out to my masterpiece and after a pause, my darling, my creation, my perfection, extended her own hand and graciously stepped from altar to stand before her virtual twin. The examination resumed, closer and more intently. My lovely sculpture stared at her feet and Aphrodite paced around her slowly. The brilliant glow bursting from her seemed to arc as Aphrodite's eyes drew closer, becoming more rounded as her face drew close to her perky nipples, or her shoulder blades, or her nose.

The eyes of my sculpture were blue. They flitted to meet mine each time Aphrodite strode around back to place her hands on her bottom or neck, as though testing their strength or character. Around she walked again, and again the eyes darted to mine. I saw the static smile widen with natural warmth. Dimples emerged as she attempted to hide it.

Soddenly, with a thunder crack, Aphrodite disappeared. A flash of light left me reeling with spots in my eyes and ringing in my ears. I shook my head in an effort to discern what had happened. When my vision cleared I saw my sculpture performing her own examination. Freshly minted and in need of orientation, she began my staring down at her hands. Her eyes flitted quickly between her phalanges as she wiggled them playfully. The same display delighted her with her toes. Her hands clapped to her cheeks. One slipped back to take stock of her long blonde hair, while the other descended her side. As her fingers tips brushed the side of her ample bosom, she stopped as she discovered it tickled. Two fingers found a pert little nipple and took a hard tug. Those lips I'd kissed for years, once solid stone, bit down and displayed their succulence. Another hand descended backward to caress her bum and the another slipped down to her thighs. It stopped tentatively, she gave a concerned look my way, but continued shortly after. Another bite into the glistening lips.

She carried on in this way for a few more minutes, before taking a wobbly step forward. She looked like she was about to stumble and I mad a motion to get up and run to her, but somehow a stern look from her held me in place. In moments she strode from one end of the hovel to the other, and back again. She found herself back in the middle of the room and she performed a beautiful twirl on the ball of one foot, coming to rest facing me.

She stark nude. I loved her. I wanted her. It was apparent and she took plenty of notice. But I felt a bond here. When I looked at her shoulders, with hair resting upon it, I saw where my chisel had formerly rescued her from the white prison. She was my creation, and I adored her, but more even, I felt elation at her freedom and animation.

I blinked and suddenly I was laying back in my cot. It was suddenly long enough to accommodate my gangly legs. She was standing on the bed, feet resting between my knees among the sheets which felt softer than I could ever remember them being. Her body descended and she straddled me. For the first time I felt warmth.

***

My eyes fluttered open. There she was, still straddling me. I wanted to speak, but my mouth couldn't create the sounds. She leaned forward and her naked body pressed fully against mine. Out of the corner of my eye, the sculpted altar upon which she'd originated stood empty. My hands gingerly placed themselves upon her arms. Warmth. Upon her back. Warmth. She placed her lips to mine to convince my clearly sceptical mind. Warmth. Her tongue, warmth. Her hips lowered to press her womanhood to the tip of my manhood. Undeniable, delectable warmth.

She broke our kiss and whispered:
"My dearest darling. My creator. My husband. I beg of you the honour... I want to bear your sons. I want to raise and teach them with you. I want to endure a life in your arms, and I want to feel your love and your lust forever. I want to serve and adore you. Give me your seed and give me your lineage. You know my worth, you crafted it from the purest expression of love and labour. I want to return it to you this night, every night, and every day until our dying breath"

I had no words to speak. My hand forced her hips down and she was a virgin no more. We consummated our unusual nuptial with a ferocity I'd not know since my first experiences. In a fit of lust I turned my new-found bride around so that she stared up at me on her back. Her eyes fluttered and her face contorted as she felt for the first time the earthly delights. She choked out a squeal as for the first time I entered her fully. She gazed down and witnessed the thick cock of her husband spreading her wide. It was simply a few minutes before she was red-faced and begging in less romantic tones. She begged to be filled with seed. Her mind could scarcely process carnal intensity and she sputtered coarsely about wanting to see me spewing out of her.

Her desires were soon fulfilled. A bolt of pain struck deep within my pelvis as an unprecedented volume of sticky, hot cum fires from my cock. The velocity as I cum feel equal parts painful and lovely. It doesn't even occur to me that I've ever loved a woman before, at this point it seems impossible.

She squealed ludicrously as her own sex dipped over the event horizon and its spasms milked me for all I was worth. She screamed about the sensation, about her love, about bearing my sons. The final utterance spurred me to resume my assault. She welcomed it with ever-louder cries and yelps of pleasure, and further calls to unite us truly, cementing us though familyhood.

(Author's Note: This was written entirely under the influence. If you have corrections to submit, you must be female, and they must be accompanied by compromising photographs of yourself. I don't make the rules, just abide.)