Alison couldn't speak. Her fingers dipped in and out of her soaking folds, teasing and stroking her swollen clit.
"You're very wet, aren't you, slut? I know you are, you can't help it any longer, you're too far gone. Pushing those fingers inside, rubbing them around that clit, making that pussy so dripping wet. . . . Tell me, slut."
She arched her spine, her head falling back against the couch, "Yes, I'm so wet, oh, god, Mallory . . . ."
"It's because you're not in control any more, and that's the most exciting thing in the world. But where is that control coming from?"
Mallory's long sigh came through the ear-piece again.
"No, I'm the sculptor."
Alison jerked herself against her fingers; ass grinding; juices staining the old leather.
"The control is your hunger, your lust. Your deepest, darkest desire. It controls, slut, because you want it too. It doesn't matter who it is pushing your buttons, pulling your strings, it makes you so very wet because you want them to do it.
Alison pulled her knees and ankles up off the floor, wide open, feeling her desire control her, feeling her fingers fucking herself in obedience.
"Tell me now, I want to be very sure you understand this. What's your sculpture of?"
Alison bit her lip.
"Tell me, Alison. Tell me, slut. What are you really?"
"I'm a slave." Slave's hips bucked against her hand. "Oh, god, I'm a slave."
"Then you know what to do, slave."
The phone went dead.
* * *
The rope looped tight around slave's breasts, constricting them and pushing them up as she arched her spine back. The friction of the rough hemp knot against her clit made her shiver, the rope carving the lips of her sex.
Slave kept arching, her arms pressed back and up between her shoulder blades. The burning pain in her arms stabbing heat down into her core. Mind dripped out of her, alongside the juices from her sopping cunt.
A small guttural moan escaped as slave let thought go.
The sculptor's voice came in whispers as the sculpting knife scraped across slave's soul. Slave twisted and bent as the sculptor revealed the true form inside; an empty abject thing of lust and desire and obedience. Slave's breathing stilled, the flesh sculpted.
Head thrown back, mouth open in a rictus of ecstasy. Back impossibly arched. Arms painfully contorted between shoulder blades. Thighs wide; knees on the podium; the wanton smell of obedience in the air.
Slave's eyes rolled white.
The sculptor talked to slave about the gallery, about the men and women who would see the sculpture there, about how much they would pay to own such a work of art for themselves. Slave quivered as the knife scraped skin and cut ropes. Neither shape nor form changed, just as the sculptor intended.
Deep inside the sculpture, orgasm blossomed; flowering from out of the core through the pelvis, liquid pleasure pouring out through the limbs. From inside the first flower, another blossomed and then another. Sweat sprang from the skin and ran down to pool around the thighs. Heavy sobs of submission echoed in the studio.
* * *
Slave heard sounds amidst the ebb and flow of pleasure.
A voice in the studio—not the sculptor's—a voice that created a tiny flickering ember of consciousness inside slave.
"Oh, god, she's . . . ."
"A work of art. It's everything I told you about, isn't it, slut?"
"Yes, oh, god, oh yes . . . ."
"You could be different, you might take a different form. Or . . . I can give you the same one . . . . I'd like to have you both be the same actually, I think I can sell you for more as a pair, . . . can you imagine that? The two of you sold together?"
"I . . . . Yes." A pause; and then the sound came of clothing whispering to the floor. The tiny ember in slave glowed in faint recognition.
Slave heard the sculptor's voice once more, soft and low.
"To be perfectly honest, I'll do what I want anyway, but it always intrigues me what the sculpture wants inside. . . . What form do you want, slut? The one she's having or something else? Tell me."
The ember faded as the sea of obedience drowned slave's last conscious thought. The new slut spoke with an English accent.
"I'll have what she's having."