The Sculptor: Natalie and Helena

The Sculptor: Natalie and Helena

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One of his models, Natalie, came into his cavernous third floor studio towards the end of the evening, clearly agitated.

"I'm pregnant," she told him.

"Congratulations," he said, looking up from the wax he was working on.

"You don't get it. I think its yours."

"Nonetheless, congratulations."

"What?" She looked confused now.

"What makes you think its mine?"

"Umm. With my husband, we've been trying for two years, and its never... And the timing, it fits exactly! That last piece I modelled for you..."

He stood up and padded over to her, standing on the rug in the middle of the spacious fourteenth floor studio, surrounded by hulking statues in plaster, bronze, wood. Men, gods, twisted trees and beasts. But mostly women, scores of them.

"Let me see," he said.

"What?" she said again. This didn't appear to be playing out as she'd imagined.

He gestured with a hand. She fumbled with the zip down her back and let the dress fall. Out of habit she slipped her knickers down and stepped out of them too.

He took her in. "You're starting to show. I'd maybe not have noticed yet if you'd not told me. But now I do. Motherhood is bringing out your femininity, as it should."

"What am I going to do!" she wailed. "My husband will kill me! And a sharn't be able to model any more!"

"Come here."

She did.

He put a gentle pressure on her shoulder and she let her self drop to her knees on the thick rug.

He had a knack with his models. Well, with all women really. With anyone at all in fact, except he cared nothing for men, as a rule, in any regard. His life obsession was women; he tended to look on other men as irritations or conveniences, almost wraiths. Women, however, were hyper-real.

"Shall I tell you what to do?" he asked.

She nodded up at him while she unzipped him and busied her pretty mouth. Even under these circumstances she knew her role in the studio. He'd taught her to love it, amongst many other things. It relaxed her to be on her knees in front of him, pleasing him, waiting for his instruction.

"He wants a child? Tell him its his. The dates will be close enough."

"Mm."

"No speaking with your mouth full." He continued, "You'll make him feel like a real man. Why would he question it? Give him his cuckoo to raise and he'll love you for it."

She released for a second, and asked, plaintively, "But modelling for you..?"

"As it happens, I have a commission I've been sitting on for almost two years. Its not a simple one. You'll be perfect. In truth, you've done me a great favour, and yourself too."

She seemed much happier, bobbing her head with enthusiasm, doe eyes wide and fixed on his. He couldn't tell which pleased her more: continuing her marriage or continuing to model for him. She probably didn't know either.

"This piece, it'll immortalise you," he gasped, as he shot down Natalie's eager throat.

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It was an ambitious commission, certainly. He'd not been sure he'd be able to take it on.

The client was an old hippy: a lady-of-a-certain age, vague spirituality and not insubstantial means.

She wanted a henge of sculptures, progressing around clock-wise, each sculpture around the circle to be composed of two nine feet high figures, two girls. At each point the figures are visibly more pregnant and intertwined. By the last sculpture they were to become as one figure, melded together.

A faux-ancient faux-pagan fertility calendar, about two thirds the scale of Stonehenge. symbolising something to do with land, the seasons, maternity, sisterhood. He had attempted to grasp the religiosity that this was presumably drawing from, but found it muddled. New-age crap confusing incomprehension with profundity.

However unconvincingly she had gotten to the concept, she had nonetheless stumbled upon something. He imagined standing in the middle of his fertility henge at dusk. He would give it his own take so that, once on the inside of the circle, it completely arrested one's thoughts and filled one with a deep flush of intimacy. She would see her shallow daughters-of-the-earth wonder projected onto it, and he would allow her to see that.

It would cost her a small fortune. She was admirably blasé about that.

And it would require a lot of time and planning. He never did art by halves.

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For some reason married or engaged models were always notably less careful.

When Natalie came back for the first session, it was with Helena. They had met before once or twice, but not modelled together.

They made for a good contrast. Helena was only five years older but had old eyes, was willowy rather than curvy, had almost black hair to Natalie's blonde, and was considerably sharper. Both white, but Natalie the English rose, whereas Helena must have been part Roma.

Helena's pregnancy was perhaps a month further along. She and her fiance had not been trying for a child, so it had taken a little more persuasion on her part to get him to accept it. More than Natalie had either had to attempt or, most likely, was capable of.

They got started and he talked them through the commission and his interpretation, softening it somewhat, for now, leaving out just how intimate it was going to become. They were nervous nonetheless. Neither of them had been with another woman before.

This was rather the point, as he told them. The progression around the circle was meant to represent earthly, seasonal force-of-nature change, not a series of tawdry snapshots. It *needed* women innocent of each others' bodies; it needed to show exploration; it needed to take time and he could give them time, as much as they wanted, months at least; it needed the slow unfurling, blossoming and conjoining of their femininities as their bellies grew.

They saw his vision and realised how beautiful it would be, how it would document and celebrate them as new life grew within.

They agreed to it--- for the art, of course.

They always did.

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The circle would include eighteen pieces, six for each trimester. For the first trimester he wanted that uncertainty, as though the subjects were freshly born of the soil themselves, emerging adult and perfect and yet already pregnant, finding themselves next to each other and knowing nothing else. Forced together, frightened of their surroundings.

The first session he held on the cold oak floor in the middle of the studio, surrounded by the more dominating and cold examples of his prior work, which glowered down at them like gods watching a couple of sacrificial lambs. Hi kept it scrupulously unsexualised and they were tentative and awkward with each other. They held hands but didn't know whose hand went on top. They interlocked legs in deliberately odd poses they couldn't hold. They avoided each others' gaze.

It was perfect; the first piece required nothing less.

He told them this, but kept the progression to himself. He didn't want to break down down their reserves too fast.

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It didn't last.

They came back once a week. In the early sessions he had them exposed in the centre of the huge studio, with floor to ceiling windows looking out over the city at night. Anyone could have looked in, in theory, at least if they were several storeys up.

Then as the sessions went on he began to surround their central area with hanging cloth; firstly in white, then red. He put down rugs, too; basic mats initially, then on to the thick and luxurious. He was cocooning them together.

His method was to always capture motion; he had no interest in stillness in his models; his statues were frozen motion which seemed to encapsulate whole vignettes. If Hogarth were the Devil, he might have been the sculptor...

So they moved through various scenes and movements --- some that he thought up, some that just seemed natural to them --- while he moved around them observing and drawing feverishly. Pages of paper flew left and right, often with only a few lines on them, or nothing.

They held each other, laughed, tickled, played tag until they felt stupid (but stupid together), massaged each other.

Within the second month he had them eating out of each others hands.

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Paint each other's arms with honey and lick it off, he told them. They took that bare instruction and the rest of the evening was all theirs. Honey ran down arms to hands and fingertips, chased by lips and tongue. Then they would shower and try it again.

They got more daring and the honey got everywhere. Shoulders, stomachs, toes. Then necks and thighs. Those last two went on for quite a while. Helena actually climaxed, lightly, with just the smallest shudders, though she laughed and denied it.

In between these sessions he worked like a demon, every hour he was sent.

He had ordered huge redwood tree trunks for the piece. As they arrived they were arranged around the working area of the studio until, by the eighth week, there was the full set, waiting to be transformed into women, crowded much closer together than they would be in situ at the henge's final location.

He carved the girls into the wood like they were Titans; fully nine foot high, roughly hewn, elemental. Thereafter during the sessions the two models were looking up not at his older works --- the hostile and cold gazes --- but at their immortalised forms, replicating over the weeks, but in each trunk both figures completely ensconced the the gaze, feel and the touch of the other.

He was seducing them with their own images. They were seducing each other with their immortal wooden forms.

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After the honey it was pretty clear now their boundaries were gone, or at least that they were looking forward to breaking down the last few.

He'd avoided any physical contact with them at all so far. They were both usually his lovers, at least at work, and he wanted to turn their attention away from him inwards to each other. He also wanted to build the tension.

They mightn't admit it, but they modelled in no small part because he made them feel desired and womanly --- before, after, sometimes during --- like they didn't feel anywhere else. So they had expected him to have them, and he had so far refused.

But now, though, his art demanded different.

In the next session there was no pretence and little build up. A little awkwardness would make this piece scrappier, which he wanted. Not a smooth progression around the circle--- that wasn't how life worked, life had seismic changes that built up and released suddenly and without grace.

Firstly, they kissed and felt every inch of each other. They didn't need encouragement. As ever he moved around them and sketched.

Then he told Helena to lie on her back and Natalie to go down on her as he stripped off.

Natalie looked uncertain of herself as she slowly leant between Helena's legs and kissed down her stomach, but as she got lower she hesitated and looked back at him.

He was knelt behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder blades and bent her over into Helena's lap and pushed his cock in, hard.

He fucked her in long, punching thrusts. He held her head down and Helena couldn't pretend passivity any longer. She lifted her pelvis up into Natalie's face until Natalie relented and ate Helena out, without really knowing what she was doing.

Natalie might have been sweet, a bit innocent and far from the sharpest, but Helena certainly wasn't. Unlike Natalie, she'd known what she was doing when she let the sculptor take her unprotected every time. It had turned her on to know she'd be carrying his child not her fiance's.

The child of the man she served; who was beholden to no-one and took exactly what he wanted. Not the child of her fiance, the man who served; served his bosses, paid his bills, served her, played his meek role.

And he'd told her about this commission a while back too, in passing, so she had had an idea of how he wanted it to play out, of what he might be doing when he stopped pulling out. She'd let him without a word.

She'd never been with a woman before, it was true, and she'd known the commission would require that, in some way.

But every girl's a bit curious, right? It was such hit and a turn on to know she was going to be immortalised in this elemental monument, to know that people would be able to wonder into the middle of the henge and see her body in its every aspect, surrounding them on all sides. She'd do pretty much anything for that, including women. And anyway, who wants to die knowing they were only every curious and never tried?

So when she felt Natalie's tongue hesitantly flick across her pussy lips and Natalie's breath on her inner thigh--- at that moment the whole fucking thing came back to her in a rush. He knocked them up just because he could, because it was convenient for a commission for fucks sake; her fiance didn't know and was going to raise a cuckoo; she was going to be deified as a nine-foot-high goddess of fertility and lust and be admired and desired for ever; and there was a pretty airhead girl between her legs, made to eat her out while the father of both their children fucked that pretty airhead harder than she'd ever seen anyone get fucked before.

She felt Natalie's inexpert tongue go deeper every time he sunk back into her. Something snapped and right then she knew how much she wanted this girl. She wanted to have Natalie like he had Natalie--- on her knees, practically on a leash, and totally, completely owned.

So she pushed her hips up and grabbed the back of Natalie's hair and she fucking *fed* her. She ground her pussy against Natalie's pretty face until the girl was mewing and gasping for air.

Helena was so turned on, coming so hard, she almost suffocated the poor thing. For weeks she'd admired Natalie's cute nose. She had enjoyed how Natalie's face scrunched up in mock surprise when she'd kissed it earlier. But she had not, until just then, realised how pleasurable it would be to get herself off by grinding that pretty nose into her clit.

Shortly afterwards he let himself go too with a low groan. Helena lifted Natalie's head up by her chin and asked her how it felt and he clawed her waist and pumped come into her, but Natalie was too punch-drunk to answer.

They collapsed and lay there in silence. Seemed Natalie must have climaxed too, as she was almost out cold, not moving except a constant quivering and these little moans, muffled by the carpet.

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He was the first to move. He reached over to his clothes and pulled out a fine felt-tipped pen.

Getting up onto one elbow he began casually sketching in long sweeping strokes across Natalie's back, holding her down firmly by her neck so she wouldn't move and disturb his lines.

Natalie didn't react, but Helena sat up to watch. She loved seeing his drawings reveal themselves. As she watched, the whole scene came alive again on Natalie's back.

He was practically absent from the sketch. Everything he drew revolved around Helena's hips, her stomach, her legs, her hands, and Natalie's head and arched back between her legs.

Helena kept her eyes fixed on the dancing lines, put a hand between her thighs, and knew she was going to make herself come again as she watched him paint Natalie's defilement across her own back.

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*Author's note: Let me know in the comments if you would like to see this continued.*