Emet

"Oh, Galatea! My angel! My goddess! My--" further appraisals became gibberish as Emet groaned and bucked against his lover, feeling the rush of supreme pleasure as it sped up from the ends of his limbs, gathered in his groin, then burst through the tip of his spasming penis deep within Galatea's mouth. He cried out in ecstasy such as he had never known before, clutching her head close to his tumultuous groin.

Stop! Stop, my love, he thought, as her oral ministrations became too much. Suck it gently . . . bring me down slowly from the heights . . . .

As if in accordance with his thoughts, Galatea did as Emet wished, massaging his cock with slow, soothing caresses of her tongue, allowing him to soften in her mouth. Only when the sculptor sighed in gratefulness did he pull back, drawing his spent manhood from between the living statue's lips. He cupped her face in his hands, gazing euphorically upon her angelic, perfect face. A single thick bauble of milky cream decorated her lower lip.

She gazed upon his face, once again seeking direction. The dollop of fluid upon her lip dripped to the floor below.

Emet smiled beneath glazed eyes. "Come to bed with me," he whispered.

Wordlessly, Galatea rose and followed her master to the bed in the corner.

* * * *

For the first time in more years than he cared to think about, Emet Lowe was smiling as he rode the train the following morning. He had patently ignored the shuffling homeless and shiftless dealers on the way to the station -- the prostitutes would not be about for hours yet -- as if they were little more than minor obstacles in his path. Nearly all of his thoughts were directed toward his lovely Galatea, who had awakened him that morning with her mouth and hands, bringing him swiftly to erection before impaling herself.

She had ridden him with enthusiasm, and though she made no noise, she became flushed with a wanton look which served to heighten her lover's enjoyment. Emet had briefly wondered how a construct composed of three hundred pounds of clay could be so light atop him before deciding he was happy that it was so.

The owners of the various shops and stores in the Deco District were surprised and even wary to see a smile upon Emet's face and buoyancy in his step. All they had ever known of the skinny, sunken-eyed man was dourness and angst, the hallmarks of the tortured artist. The man they now met had a brightness in his formerly pale, beady eyes and a smile upon thin lips.

"What happened with you, old man?" quipped one of the collectibles dealers he met, who then jabbed Emet in the shoulder. "Don't tell me you finally got some."

The sculptor -- who often bristled when the dealer called him "old man" since, by definition, he was still only middle-aged -- frowned. "A gentleman does not discuss the details of such things, Michael."

Michael shook his head with a grin. "Well, whoever she is, thank her for all of us."

"You can thank me by making an advance purchase of my statues," Emet responded readily. "I have a feeling I will be turning out some rather inspired pieces soon."

Michael mulled the idea over. "Tell you what. Bring me something in a few days, and if I like it, I'll take as many as you got."

Emet snapped his fingers. "Done!" he declared before whistling his way out the door.

And so it went through the remainder of the morning and into the afternoon. At another store he was greeted with news that one of his pieces had sold just that morning, which resulted in much-needed money in the sculptor's pocket. After a quick lunch from the counter at a deli, Emet made the purchase of twenty more pounds of clay, in anticipation of a productive night.

In more than one way, he chuckled mutely to himself, his thoughts and libido turning to the beautiful Galatea. But he forced clarity into his mind. There is still one last stop to make.

If he had not pushed away thoughts of carnal pleasure before, they would certainly have faded upon approaching the steps of the synagogue. It had been quite some time since last he had stepped through the heavy doors, since last he had worn the yarmulke. Even with his minimal possessions, it had taken some digging through his dresser to uncover it. Somberness fell upon him like a giant hand as he settled the little knitted cap atop his head.

A faint hint of incense greeted him at the door. Through the heavy walls, he heard faint prayers from the sanctuary. No coherent words, just the haunting mumbles of devoted men. Though guilt gave him pause for a moment, he decided not to offer his own prayers to God; after so many years, what would one prayer do now?

The hallway to the offices were less austere. Emet found what he was looking for at the third door. After setting his heavy bag on the bench seat in the hall, he faced the door. His hand hesitated before knuckles rapped against the polished wood.

"Come in," a ragged but vaguely familiar voice called.

A lump settling in his throat, Emet pushed the door open, tentatively following it in. The office beyond was simple, nearly spartan. Merely shelves lined with books and a large black desk in one corner. Seated alongside the desk so that he could face the door was a man who appeared to have aged not a day since Emet saw him last.

The younger man's words were timid. "Rabbi?"

Rabbi Rausch glanced up from the newspaper he had been reading. His expression behind thick-framed glasses was at first stoic and inscrutable as he beheld the man before him. Eventually, dry lips parted and brow furrowed. "Emet. How long has it been?"

Chastisement descended upon the sculptor as he let the door close behind him. "Probably too long."

The learned holy man sat up straight and set the paper aside. He offered a curious smile. "I am not sure whether to commend God or just chalk it up to serendipity. I was just wondering about you the other day."

Emet looked admonished. "Wondering why I haven't been back to temple, I'm sure."

Rausch shrugged. "Not so much," he said. His expression and demeanor became more grave. "Are you all right? I had heard you moved into the Devil's Block."

The sculptor nodded. "It's been a rough go of it lately," he admitted. He managed a smile. "But things are looking up."

The rabbi smiled. "Well, then, I suppose I am both sad and glad to hear of it."

"Thank you, Rabbi." He shifted on his feet, looking furtive.

The older man was quick to read Emet's anxiety. He smiled assuringly. "Why don't we take a walk?"

* * * *

It was difficult to begin his narrative, but once he did, Emet prattled on with all the bubbly effluence of a teenager in describing -- without too much detail -- the circumstances of Galatea's animation and her subsequent amorousness. Rabbi Rausch listened carefully all the while as the two men strolled through a city park near the synagogue. Finally, he directed the younger man toward a park bench and sat.

". . . I know this all sounds crazy, Rabbi, but I am speaking the truth," Emet insisted as he, too, took a seat. "I carved a statue and . . . she's alive!" He hung his head, smiling wistfully, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. "She's the perfect woman."

Rabbi Rausch pursed his aged lips, the wrinkles around his eyes darkening. "Perfect, you say."

"Yes. Perfect."

"Because she does as you command?"

"Because . . . because she knows what I want, before I even know what I want!"

"On the contrary," informed the rabbi. "She is merely feeding off your desires. The more base, the easier it is for your construct to respond. You must take care, for she will act in accordance with the simplest of your urges."

Emet grinned rakishly. "I don't mind it so far."

"Then you have not thought about it," chided the rabbi. "Consider the possibilities: lust is one of the most powerful basic instincts a man possesses. But so is pride. And anger." He spoke the last two words while looking the younger man directly in the eye.

Emet swallowed thickly, agreeing slowly with the learned man. "I need to be careful, then, how I express myself around her."

"More than that. You must guard against feelings such as hate."

A dark look of realization crossed Emet's face. "Truthfully, I expected you to tell me I'm crazy," he said with a nervous laugh. "But you talk like this is nothing new."

"It isn't," the rabbi answered simply. "Do you know the legend of the Golem?"

A deep furrow between Emet's eyes was his only response.

Rabbi Rausch rolled his eyes with a huff. "You never did follow up on your studies," he lamented, then cleared his throat. "When your mother first presented you to me, I wondered as to why she chose the name she gave you. It seemed, at the time, an appropriate name, especially considering the particular spelling. The circumstances of your conception, after all--"

Emet ground his teeth. "I know all about that," he said quickly. "Mother told me just before she died."

Rausch nodded. "I cannot imagine it would be an easy thing to accept that you were the product of a violent rape. I offer my sympathies for that. I only bring up the subject to offer context."

"What kind of context?"

Rausch met Emet's eyes directly. "Do you know what your name means?"

The sculptor frowned in confusion. "Well . . . no."

"You see, the name 'Emmet,' with two Ms, means 'universal.' But your name is spelled E-M-E-T." He glanced to the younger man to insure his attention. "The word 'Emet' means truth, or life, in Hebrew. I always assumed your mother wanted that name for you, with that spelling, in order to erase the horror of how you came to be."

Emet's face darkened. "You certainly know how to brighten a man's day," he remarked with sarcasm. "But what does my name have to do with this Golem?"

"In light of what you have told me, everything," the rabbi said. "You see, in the seventeenth century, a rabbi in Prague constructed a massive statue of clay in order to protect the Jews in that city from the mayor's soldiers. That statue was a golem. It could not be stopped or killed, and followed the wishes of its creator. In the end, the mayor of Prague gave in to the rabbi's demands and spared the Jews. The golem was sealed inside an attic, where it supposedly remains to this day."

Emet blinked, waiting.

Rabbi Rausch continued. "In order to animate the golem, the rabbi needed to inscribe a particular word onto his creation. The word was 'Emet.'"

The sculptor suddenly nodded in understanding, his memory flashing back in less than a heartbeat to his act of carving his full first name upon the foot of the statue. "And I did the same with Galatea. Every artist signs his work."

"I suspected as much. The moment you did, somehow, your statue became animated. But do not think that is the same as coming to life."

Emet looked uncomfortable. The strange coincidences of his life had led to the creation of a potential monster. He did not want to admit that.

"Emet?"

The slender sculptor nodded his head only once. "I'm listening."

Rabbi Rausch inhaled deeply, then let it out as a long, contemplative sigh. "I would like to see this creation of yours."

Again, Emet nodded, then rose wordlessly from the park bench. He did not look to see if the rabbi followed him; he knew the older man would.

* * * *

Apprehensive hands fidgeted with the lock to Emet's home. With the presence of the rabbi behind him, he felt to be under scrutiny. He was not entirely sure what awaited beyond the door. A small part of him wondered if the bliss he had shared with Galatea had all been a dream.

Finally, he slipped the correct key into the slot beneath the weathered brass doorknob and disengaged the lock. Carefully, he peered within before Rabbi Rausch could see anything.

Galatea sat like the statue she was upon the cinder-block pedestal in the middle of the room. Her skin glowed with ghostly pale radiance. Her eyes remained blank, and her hair matched the color of her milky skin. She was apparently immobile and unaware of her surroundings, until Emet stepped into the room, the rabbi following.

Pale clay turned a slightly more fleshy tone and the eyes came alive with color. Her hair splayed away from the round, angelic face as Galatea turned to look upon her master. She smiled warmly, glittering eyes catching the pale light of day flooding into the room. Only briefly did she glance to the aged man behind Emet, whose presence, apparently, bothered her not a whit. There was no modesty within her as she rose in her unabashed nudity.

"There," said Emet proudly. "My Galatea."

Rabbi Rausch cleared his throat. "You, eh, certainly took a lot of care in your, eh, rendering of her," he commented, looking over the woman's exquisite form.

"She is, without a doubt, my best work."

Galatea smiled demurely, eyes boring into Emet's while she awaited his commands.

The rabbi stepped around, gingerly approaching the animated statue. "Would you mind?" he asked carefully with a glance to the sculptor.

"Of course, rabbi," Emet said. "She is perfectly docile."

Indeed, as the Rabbi approached, Galatea stood straight, arms at her sides and breasts thrust out as if encouraging the elderly man's advance. The rabbi blushed, having trouble believing that this delectable woman before him was nothing more than a clay statue animated by a combination of ancient Hebrew mysticism and distorted luck.

His hands settled to her shoulders; they felt firm and warm, like any real woman's. His touch traveled down her arms, gently pulling them out so he could see the palms of the woman's hands. As he deduced, they were as smooth as the rest of her skin. Nor did she possess fingerprints.

He glanced back to Emet with a meaningful look. "You must trust me, Emet. What I am about to do may seem painful at first glance. But, if Galatea is what you say she is, it will not affect her."

Hesitantly, Emet nodded, then watched as the Rabbi reached for a long metal awl on the sculptor's stand. Holding the fingers of Galatea's right hand, he settled the point of the awl in the middle of her palm and pushed.

Emet winced at first, but a quick look to Galatea told him she was completely unperturbed by the rabbi's actions. Rausch pushed with as much strength as he could muster, causing a spike of clay-like skin to form on the back of Galatea's hand. There was no blood, no seepage of any kind other than a few drops of clear moisture around both the point of insertion and when the awl finally broke through the other side.

Rausch let go of the awl and turned Galatea's hand over. The skin retracted slowly back along the length of the slim metal tool. He shook his head in amused disbelief. "Truly amazing," he muttered.

"It is as I said," Emet gushed, smiling broadly. "Why, this can only be a miracle sent by God himself!"

The rabbi raised a cautionary finger. "Be careful of your words, Emet," he warned. "There are miracles, and then there are things unexplained."

"But, rabbi--"

Rausch silenced the sculptor's protest with a short hissing sound. "You must keep her hidden. Do not tell anyone about her. In fact, if you are adamant about keeping her, I would suggest you locate a more secluded place to live. This neighborhood has many wandering ears and eyes."

Emet frowned. "I am a poor artist," he bemoaned. "It's good that Galatea doesn't eat, because I could not even afford to buy more food! And you want me to move?"

The rabbi's look was direct and honest. "I said nothing of feasibility," he said, then softened. "But this place is not the best for keeping such a creature. You must be very careful about not allowing her existence to be known to the world."

Begrudgingly, Emet nodded, then smiled rakishly. "So I have to keep her locked up, and all to myself, then. At least until I can afford better accommodations."

Rausch rolled his eyes, but he nodded with a chuckle. "Just be careful, Emet."

The sculptor offered his hand. "I will, rabbi. Thank you."

* * * *

As soon as the door closed, Emet heard Galatea moving behind him. There came the clattering of metal as the awl fell to the floor, and the sculptor turned, watching as Galatea approached the bed. Obviously responding to the sudden spike in her creator's libido, she crawled onto the dirty mattress, settling on her knees with her thighs spread widely apart. She bent over, stretching her arms toward the pillows at the head of the bed.

Trembling desire overcame the sculptor. He hastily removed his coat, then shirt, shuffling toward the deliciously -- and lewdly -- displayed backside of his mystical lover. His pants fell around his ankles, revealing a stiff and ready cock. Hands caressed the firm round rump of his personal goddess. His eyes settled on the forbidden treasure of her anus, which was as pale as the rest of her skin with just the slightest hint of pink at the wrinkled aperture. Emet was certain the fact that Galatea had positioned herself at just the right height was no coincidence.

He trembled in bliss at just the barest contact of the tip of his erection against the puckered, pursed opening. "Is this what you want, my dearest?" he asked her. "Do you want me . . . in there?"

Golden hair bobbed about her head as Galatea nodded.

Emet found his throat dry, head light. The devilish kink of anal sex had always intrigued him, had always been an unsatisfied fantasy. Now, on the verge of making that fantasy real, he was nearly at the point of ejaculation already. With effort, he managed to control himself, taking his cock in hand and pushing the head against Galatea's nether orifice. He was surprised to find her damp there. His creation, it seemed, had the ability to make any part of her moist and accommodating.

He watched the pale opening spread slowly around his cock, revealing deeper and deeper shades of pink as the head popped inside. Emet groaned, gripping his lover's hips. Galatea pushed up on her hands and arched her back more deeply than even the most willing whore. The snug, gripping tunnel of her anus pulled his length in, sucking like a mouth, burning like a furnace. Inch by inch, the whole of Emet's phallus was consumed.

For a long moment, he simply leaned against her, relishing the incomparable sensations. His cock throbbed almost painfully, but exquisitely so, massaged along the full length by muscular movements no mortal woman could possess. He caressed her taut cheeks, the furrow of her spine.

Galatea looked over her should at him. Her face was flushed, sweaty, eyes blazing with an expression of pure lust. Lips pouted and trembled. Full breasts heaved. To further eroticise the moment, she took one of her hands from the bed and cupped a perfectly round, firm teat, pinching the engorged nipple.

Emet moaned, reaching for a handful of his lover's luxurious hair. It felt like silk as he gathered a fistful and jerked back. Galatea reacted as if grunting in painful pleasure, but of course, no sound issued forth. That little fact did not matter to Emet. The expression was enough. It showed her submission to him, his dominance over her. Pulling back until just the head of his heated cock was nestled within her ass, he shoved home to the hilt. Galatea bucked and writhed, shaking as he pounded into her again and again.

The cool, quiet air was filled the sounds of wet skin slapping together, Emet's groans and grunts, the protests of mattress springs. Emet alternately watched his creation's sweaty face -- at one point, a tear trickled from her right eye -- and the bacchanalian sight of his penis sliding in and out of that most taboo of a woman's openings. He was not sure which excited him the most.

He nearly screamed the arrival of his orgasm, pleasurably sending liquid fire into the body of his lover, creation, and conquest. He shuddered against Galatea, slapping both hands to her quivering buttocks to keep from falling atop her body. He felt every trickle of seed leave his cock as Galatea milked him of every drop.