Walking the Dog Ch. 11-13

Once Angela had made enough sketches, we went through to the studio and she began to make the clay model that would eventually form the mould. She worked quickly at first, throwing great handfuls of clay into position and roughly shaping them with her hands. Eventually she had a Trotsky-sized mass of wet clay that was only very roughly the shape of a dog. Now things slowed as she shaped and scraped until the outline of a husky was unmistakeable. Suddenly she said something in Estonian that didn’t need translation and crumpled the whole thing back into a lump of shapeless clay. She smiled at me ruefully. “It was the wrong proportions.” She started over, moistening the clay and her hands from a wooden tub of water she kept nearby for the purpose.

It was obviously very physical work and soon beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead and upper lip. She paused long enough to strip off her sweater and continued. She was wearing a sleeveless sort of vest under the sweater and now I could see the play of her muscles as she kneaded and pounded at the clay. It was a fascinating sight and I was utterly enrapt. Once more a recognisable husky appeared out of the clay. It was almost as if there was a real dog inside, pushing his way out through the clinging earth.

Angela’s face was a study in concentration. She didn’t frown as some do. Her expression was grave, her eyes focussed and lively. I felt I could almost see the force flowing out of her hands into the model, bending the wet clay to her will. At length she was satisfied. She had produced a replica of Trotsky in size and outline. Now she began the delicate task of sculpting the detail. She worked with what appeared to be a cross between a spatula and a scalpel. Soon I could see Trotsky’s face appearing under her hands. It was perfect. She captured the flare of his nostrils and the way his blunt muzzle sort of blended into the rest of his broad face. She worked faster; the clay was beginning to dry. I knew this was the critical time.

We had been in the studio for nearly six hours without exchanging more than a handful of words. The time had flown by. I had risen only once to turn on the lights as dusk fell. I heard the others making dinner but felt no hunger myself. I was utterly absorbed watching the woman I loved doing the thing she was created for. At long last she stood back and plunged her hands in the water butt to wash away the clay. Her face was streaked in sweat and her arms must have been aching like the devil but she showed no signs of slacking. “Now we must fire the model,” she said and strode across to the electric kiln to bring it up to the required temperature.

Her skin was glowing and her eyes danced with a bright and feverish light. She was exalted, lit by the creative fire within. Strangely, I didn’t feel excluded. I felt a part of something wonderful and, to me, utterly mysterious. I had watched some ancient esoteric rite, had seen the goddess summoned and the sacrifice performed. It was, in short, like magic. Angela stalked the model she had made. She stared from all angles, moving closer once or twice to administer the finest of finishing touches. At last she pronounced herself satisfied and asked me to assist in moving the model on its specially designed little trolley into the kiln. “Don’t touch it,” she warned me, “push it by the base. Slowly, slowly!”

We eased the model into the kiln and she gently shut the door. “Even the draft from that door can disturb it,” she said. The firing was to be slow at a low temperature. If the heat was too fierce, we ran the risk that the clay would shatter or be too brittle. “Now we wait.” Angela smiled at me and came to rest her head against my chest. I could feel the tension in her back and shoulders so I made her sit in the chair from where I had watched her and began to massage her. Her singlet was soaked in perspiration and she stripped it off. I used my fingers to prod and pummel the knotted muscles and watched her visibly begin to unwind. Her fair skin was smooth and silky to the touch.

She got up once to dim the lights and then slid back into the chair. “Where were we?” She murmured dreamily and looked back at me, her eyes soft now, the fierce light dimmed to a residual glow. The depth of my feeling for her consumed me, could there ever have been a more wonderful creature? I moved around the chair and encouraged her gently to lie back. I began to work on her shoulders at the front and then switched my attention to the corded muscles of her stomach. It was easy to understand now how she remained so firm and toned. The effort expended had been more than Steph could have managed in a month of workouts. “My legs, also, Martin, please, “ she said and obliged by lifting her hips so I could ease off her jeans. I went and locked the studio door and returned to start work on her in earnest.

I started at her feet, manipulating each of her toes and massaging the soft balls of flesh beneath each one in turn. She sighed dreamily as I squeezed the insteps of her feet and stroked my thumbs over the soles of her feet. Then I took each leg in turn. I rubbed her calf muscles and kneaded my hands deep into their softness. She was utterly relaxed now, looking back at me with hooded eyes. When my hands reached her thighs, her legs fell open and I worked my way into the soft tissue of her inner thighs. She shifted her bottom forwards in the chair and grinned at me. I leaned up to kiss her lightly on the nose. “Don’t stop now,” she said.

I used a lighter touch to stroke her thighs and gently rubbed the backs of her legs, lifting each one in turn. I was conscious now of the musky scent of her body. Little tufts of pubic hair were showing each side of the crotch of her panties and I made a show of tucking them back in, not quite but almost, touching her sex in the process. We were both now well aware of the game and were playing it with all our might. Her eyes had a misty cast now and a languorous smile played about her full lips; she moistened them with a flick of her tongue and I felt my mouth go dry. I stroked her hips, easing her panties down just a fraction so her pubes just showed above the waistband. Then I worked on her abdominal muscles, gently pressing my thumbs into her yielding flesh. I leaned forwards and flicked my tongue into the sweet hollow of her bellybutton. She sighed deeply and stroked my hair as I trailed kisses over her stomach and chest, pulling up short of her swelling breasts that seemed to be engaged in battle with the straining fabric of her bra.

Skipping over her bra, I kissed the swelling upper slopes of her breasts and nibbled softly at her neck. I climbed her body like a vine, nuzzled her ears and then out mouths sought it each other and we kissed slowly and deeply, our tongues wrestling and competing. I slipped my hands behind her and, after a brief fumble, unhooked her bra. She eased it off with a shrugging motion. Her nipples stood out proudly. I wet my finger and circled it round and round her areola. Her breasts seem to swell visibly under my hands and she arched her back to offer more of them to my touch. Still I stayed away from her nipples and placed a line of silken kisses on the underside of each breast. Each time I would approach her nipples but shy away at the last minute, giving the barest flick with the tip of my tongue.

Her skin had the tangy taste of salt and I covered every exposed inch with little licks and kisses. I could tell I was really getting to her and her hips began a slow undulating dance of their own. I made a sudden grab then and captured both her breasts in my two hands, stroking my thumbs over the rock-hard tips and she gasped. I caught her breast in my mouth and sucked in as much as I could cram into my eager mouth, flicking her nipple with rapid strokes of my tongue. At the same time I pushed her panties to one side and slipped first one and then two fingers into her wetness. She bucked against my hand and I rotated it back and forth against the swollen nub of her clit. All the while I was sucking on one breast and cupping the other in my free hand. She started to come and I dived between her legs to suck on her clitoris. This drove her over the top and she grabbed my head, pulling my face hard into the junction of her thighs.

She seemed to be coming non-stop. Her hips were rearing and gyrating furiously and her fingers tore at my hair so hard it made it my eyes water. At length, she pushed me away. “No more, please, I can’t stand any more, my Martin,” Her skin was flushed and there were bright pink patches at her throat and on her cheeks. Her eyes were wild and unfocussed and her hair was matted with a fresh batch of perspiration. I don’t think I have ever felt so pleased with myself. There is something totally marvellous about pleasing one’s lover to the point of delirium. I lay across her body as she came down, tracing kisses up and down her ribcage until she giggled. “Ah, that was wonderful,” she said. “Now it is my turn to drive you mad!” I shook my head. I felt no desire at all for myself just then. I had had my satisfaction from hers. “Later, my love,” I told her, “That was enough for me just now.” And if it hadn’t been, the beautiful smile she gave me then was more than enough for any man.