Willard Quarry

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A married woman finds true beauty and hatred.
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Deadwood
Deadwood
71 Followers

Willard's Quarry St. George, Maine 1927

Abigail Kinealy rose from her slumberous state, and stretched her frame across the darkened parlor. For the third straight night she had fallen asleep upon the sofa listening to the entertaining stories of the radio crackle across the great expanse of space and time. Now only the sound of the pendulum swaying in the mount of the grandfather clock made any sound, and Abigail knew her husband must have shut off the radio before retiring to their bedroom upstairs.

As she prepared to ascend the staircase to join her husband, a yellowish glow of a lantern flickered across the road and reflected in the looking glass of the hallway mirror. As she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and watched the reflection bounce and frolic, she found herself stepping closer to her front window.

Through the thin window pane, Abigail could distinctly see the glow of a kerosene lantern, then the murmur of man and a mumble of many oaths, but all in a foreign tongue. Grabbing a nightgown off the hallway deacon's bench, Abigail stepped into a pair of stylish mules and let curiosity lead her steps closer and closer to the light.

"Who's out here," she demanded when she could see the silhouette of a man struggling about a giant piece of granite? "Who dares steal from the quarry of my husband and I"?

"Please, please Mademoiselle, it is I, Andrew Ehrstrom."

"Ehrstrom," she asked, knowing the foreman of her husband's granite quarry quite well. "What are you doing toiling with rock at this hour? You surely cannot be on the payroll ledgers," she asked?

"Mademoiselle I cannot tell a lie. I am stealing, stealing this granite block, but please, please do not tell your husband I am taking it."

"Steal a rock, but Ehrstrom there are thousandths of granite blocks. You do not need to steal I and certainly not at this hour. I am sure if you asked my husband, he would give it to you. You are a good employee, a gifted stonemason..."

"No madam. I have asked, and his answer was no. A strong no I am afraid." Abigail only nodded slowly. She knew her husband well, and knew he was a steadfast man in any negotiations. "But this...this is not merely a rock," he said as he began to get excited. "I saw it yesterday from the top of the quarry no less. This block, it's flawless in every way. Feel its texture, so very, very fine," he said running his hand along its cleft face. "And see the color, even in this dim lantern light...see how it shines so silvery, a smooth medium gray," he added as he took her hand and ran it along its smoothest face. "This block, it's unblemished; too beautiful to be pulverized into a hundred paving stones. Its discovery, its destiny is to be a sculpture mademoiselle."

Abigail laughed a full hearty laugh.

"Ehrstrom, you make me laugh. You talk about it as if it is human. It is merely a hunk of rock, but since you have been an excellent employee, and my husband can be difficult, I'll tell you what. Have the Teamster's move it to your workshop, with my permission of course. Quinn will be in Thomaston on business tomorrow, so be sure its move is completed by the time Quinn returns."

"Oh thank you Mademoiselle. Thank you so very, very much."

*******

For a week Ehrstrom stepped into the makeshift workshop outside his shanty and gazed upon the granite block. Thousands of times he began to place his best chisel to the stone, but each time he hesitated, telling him the flawless stone had a higher calling.

"Ehrstrom I'm disappointed at you," Abigail said as she slipped quietly into his workshop. She had been watching him for several minutes, intently staring blankly at the block of stone, but not once making a movement towards it with his hammer and chisel. "Your reverence for that granite block; your passion to save it from paving blocks, and yet you stand here for a week and do nothing but stare at it. I do not understand you Swedish workers. I will never understand you."

"I don't know what to make of it Madam. Yesterday I thought perhaps a giant rose, but today I thought maybe the Cross at Calvary, but atlas I just can not place my chisel against it with any conviction."

"Oh Ehrstrom, the idea will come. It's not unlike a writer who strives too hard for perfection from his poetry. You must begin with a chip here, and a chip there. Inspiration will strike you," and then she gave him a kiss upon the cheek, not that of a lover, but that of a friend. As the wetness still dabbed his skin, she turned and left the man peering once again into the depths of the granite's grain and color.

As Ehrstrom looked at the piece of granite lying idle upon the heavy sawhorses, he could see past it and out the small window of his shop. Just past it lay a small patch of grass, then an outcropping of rock that overlooked the sea. With the warmth of the Spring day sun warming the patch of rock, Ehrstrom watched as his employer's wife slipped off her shoes and let the warmth of the rock warm her soul as she looked out across Muscongus Bay.

As her summer dress spread around her on to the rocks, Ehrstrom saw the woman strike her natural pose, but more importantly, he saw her pose in the granite block. As Abigail stretched out her legs and let the heat from the rock warm the soles of her feet, she heard the first report of Ehrstrom's hammer and chisel. Then another and another until the sound of steel upon rock was continuous and deafening.

For three weeks, Ehrstrom spent every moment he could spare chiseling and carving a sculpture from the dense granite block. Despite his lack of sleep, his lack of food and his tiring days working in the quarry, his devotion to his sculpture never wavered. Every whack of his hammer, ever chip of his chisel, prodded him on to make another until the minutes turned into hours, and hours into days.

"Ehrstrom, you found your inspiration," Abigail said as she dropped into Ehrstrom's workshop late one evening. Ehrstrom had been concentrating on his sculpture so intently, he had not saw Abigail's approach and her presence jumped him. Ehrstrom turned, dropping his hammer and chisel to pick up the canvas cloth that he kept close to cover his statue. Unfortunately his movement s came to slow, for as he turned, Abigail could see the stone coming to life, the tendrils of hair, the heart-shaped face, the lines about her eyes...Abigail's mouth dropped upon seeing the image of herself cast in solid stone. But there was more. A lot more, for below the nape of the neck, below the shoulders of the arms, the stature jettisoned out in two pronounced bulges, for the statue was a likeness of her own image...nude!

"Ehrstrom how could you. There's no question...no question in the world that is me...without...without clothing."

"Mademoiselle, I meant no disrespect. This...this is art. I was at a loss. A complete loss until I saw you that day upon the rocks. Your form...the female form...was just what this granite was. The texture, the lines, so much like a woman...a beautiful woman. This granite, it could be carved into nothing less than a beautiful woman."

"I don't declare. You are trying to seduce me Ehrstrom."

"No...no madam, on the contrary. That is the physical pleasure of the woman. This...this statue...this is the sensual...the beauty... the essence of a woman. You are thinking of lust, a temporary, even vile thing. This...this my dear... is alluring...is enduring."

Ehrstrom paused to see if his words were having any effect upon the woman. Rather than speak, she moved forward, reaching out to touch the soft lines of her likeness, an amazing feat considering the hardness of the granite. She peered at the detail, the thousands of light, delicate strokes of the chisel, the speed and deftness in which the statue was made. Then, and only then did she turn to look at its creator.

"You are a very gifted stone mason Mr. Ehrstrom. I am impressed."

"It could be better Madam."

"You are too modest. The length of the toes, the high arches of the feet, the protruding bone at the ankle, they are mine, but cast in hard stone."

"You were barefoot that day. The ankles, the calves, the thighs, they were of my imagination, even now they are vague, they are trite, surely yours are not."

"Are you implying..." Abigail began to ask, but already he was placing a wooden chair beside the massive stone block.

"I could not possibly ask madam. Not a woman of your class, of your caliber, of the wife of my employer..."

"But to create, you need to see," she said finishing his sentence for him? Ehrstrom only looked at the thick planks of the wooden floor. He could not speak for an immigrant with his status, his class, had no authority to ask a woman such a thing, much less a married woman. Abigail watched his eyes move to the floor.

Making her decision, Abigail began to shake as she began to pull the buttons from around the fabric of her dress. With each button that was pulled free, Abigail felt the constricting material begin to ease around her body. A second later, she felt her arms pulling through the short puffy sleeves and then closed her eyes as the flowery cotton dress slid down her torso only to pause at her hips. At this, Abigail gave her frame a little shake and sent her dress cascading the rest of the way down her legs until it was puddled around her shoes. The latter of which she promptly removed, tossing both her shoes and dress aside and tried to pose in a similar manner to that of the granite likeness.

Ehrstrom immediately went to work amazing Abigail with the speed and skill in which his chisel and hammer removed chips of rock. Even more amazing was how Ehrstrom looked at her, never once did he show lust at her nakedness, just taking in the subtle curves and lines of her body and then transferring them to the granite mass. Never in her life had Abigail let a man stare at her naked body for so long, and yet not once did Abigail feel shameful at what she was doing. In fact only a euphoric feeling welled up inside her as her true feminine beauty manifested itself in the granite rock. It was a feeling that not even her husband had ever given her, and as she sat upon the hard wooden chair in her solid pose, a damp spot began to emanate from the apex of her legs.

Abigail was slowly becoming more and more conscientious of dampness. Not only was the wet spot growing in size on her skin, but the aroma of her sex began to whiff upon the coastal breeze and began to fill the small workshop with her womanly scent. Twice she blushed red from the fragrant infraction, but Ehrstrom seemed oblivious too it, and twice when he retreated to the backside of the granite stone, Abigail ran her hands down her flat stomach and lightly touched the tiny folds of her womanhood. The last time, Ehrstrom had emerged from around the vast stone quicker than Abigail had anticipated. Their eyes locked as he saw where her fingers had progressed too.

With only a smile upon his face, Ehrstrom put down his hammer and chisel. It was the first time he had ever halted his work and lightly grabbed her hand. Out of embarrassment, she had brought her hands back up to the sides of the chair, but Ehrstrom took her left hand and gently brought it down her body. Over the flat of her stomach, over the hairiness of her neither region, and placed them delicately upon the folds of her labia. Abigail quickly pulled her fingers off her mound with shame.

"I couldn't possibly...a proper woman would never..."

"Abigail, please. Self discovery of a female is perfectly acceptable, even pleasurable. Enjoy what you and only you can give yourself," he said and softly placed her fingers onto her labia with deftness.

Abigail thought about his words; even thought about the shame as she tried to will her hands away from her pleasurable spot, but she could not seem to pull them away. Instead she closed her eyes, thought of the warming sensation that her fingers elicited from her mound as she circled and probed.

Abigail could feel her cheeks becoming hot and her nipples protruding in the yellowish washed light of the lantern. Ignoring Ehrstrom, her fingers continued their journey, sliding through her downy pubic hair and seeking out the soft folds of her labia. She teased herself, letting my fingers drift extremely close to her pleasure hole, before drawing back to her stomach. She tried to hold them there, to will them into a neutral position, but she could not more refrain from fingering herself than Ehrstrom could from chipping away at his masterpiece.

As her hand slid lower, her fingers detecting the presence of a light sheen of excitement and sweat upon her skin, and she lowered both hands shamelessly into her sex and began to press with firmness and direction. She swooned at the feeling and let her head fall back against the high backed wooden chair, the feelings of power and pleasure intermingling as her fingers danced upon her sex.

As Abigail did so, she traced light circles over my mound, an erogenous zone that welled up from the rush of blood and stimulation she was providing it. She learned that by varying the pressure and speed, waves of simple pleasure would overwhelm her, not unlike that of her husband, when he planted himself within her. But this feeling was much more intense, for it came in time with her feelings, her ministrations, her needs...

Abigail bit her lip, trying to remain quiet as she fidgeted upon the wooden chair, but her attempt was in vain as she let out a little squeal from a wave of sensation that overtook her. She squealed again as her fingers pressed harder, one finger on her left hand pressing firmly up inside the hole that her husband plundered with frequency. And then came a moan, soft and low and teeming with the need for release.

"Let it go Abigail. You need this, just as much as a woman needs a baby, you need to know the pleasure you can obtain from your own ministrations..."

Abigail withdrew her teeth from her outer lip and moaned loudly, her sexuality echoing loudly into the small workshop. Never in her life had she felt so powerful, so free, so uninhibited and pushed the sensitive tips of her fingers into her one special spot she never realized could produce so much power.

Abigail allowed herself to moan out loud now, feeling the complete understanding of Ehrstrom as her dampness grew to stronger levels, matting her pubic hair as she looked up at Ehrstrom. The look was unmistakable, the invitation as open as her legs, and yet Ehrstrom merely picked up his hammer and chisel and returned to work.

She had never felt so much seduction, so much control, and yet so much contrast against her own feelings. Never had she imagined a time where she would have allowed a man that was not her husband, to take her; to mount her so lewdly and without remorse. Now she rubbed herself harder and faster at the knowledge that this man was so much greater than her husband, so much more knowledgeable about women than her husband would ever be.

With one final moan, Abigail tensed up, stretching her small frame straight out, her toes pointing towards the bay as the feeling of dynamited granite began at the tip of her toes and ran recklessly right up to her strumming fingers. She let out a scream as she came; her eyes too tightly shut to see Ehrstrom smiling at his model's final release.

*******

As Ehrstrom's sculpture began to take shape, the rumors around the quarry began to circulate. His extreme exhaustion, lack of ambition for his quarrying work, and eagerness to leave the quarry as soon as possible began to feed the rumor mill. Rumors abounded, some more elaborate than others, but as word spread even the owner of the quarry was not immune.

Late one evening, Quinn Kinealy decided to investigate himself the reason for his employee's distraction for the past few weeks. Slipping quietly out of his home, Quinn walked the mile of gravel road to the shanty town of his quarry workers. At Ehrstrom's house, he peered inside one of the grimy workshop windows. What he saw amazed him.

Working by lantern light, Ehrstrom toiled feverishly at his work, fleshing out the form of a naked woman. The tendrils of hair, heart-shaped face and long slender frame was none other than his wife. Beside the great statue stood a chair, now empty, but there was no question his own wife had sat upon it for many an hour, posing for Ehrstrom.

Inside Quinn seethed, his veins bulging as his heart rate increased at the thought of his trusted employee staring at the undressed body of his wife. And yet, as he raged inside, he formulated a plan, a plan so evil, so sinister that he sprinted from the workshop window and retreated to his quarry.

By the light of the moon, he swung the door of the explosive's shed open and clutched a case of dynamite. Pausing only long enough to grab the detonator caps, he rushed back to Ehrstrom's workshop. With the exception of more granite rubble littering the floor, Ehrstrom had hardly moved. His chisel still sang out mechanically, and he paid little heed to the presence of a man behind him.

Quinn rushed in quickly, punching his nemesis squarely across the chin. As Ehrstrom withered from the punch, he fell unconscious to the floor as Quinn struck again and again at the man in rage. Then he picked up a hammer and a drill. Again and again the sound of a steel hammer upon a steel drill sang out its repetitious song. Again and again the star drill sank deeper and deeper into the stomach of his statue. With rage surging through his veins, the hole sank deeper until there was enough to place a stick of dynamite.

Ehrstrom was still groggy when he awoke from the smell of acrid smoke filling the small workshop. Looking up he had just enough time to see the disfigured hole Quinn had pounded into his statue's stomach, a red and white stick of dynamite protruding just barely from the hole, a length of detonator cord streaming out of it, the latter of which was burning shorter and shorter.

In a rush to save his masterpiece, Ehrstrom forced himself off the floor, rushing towards the burning cord to smother it with his hand, desperate to stop the explosion. And yet, just as he arose, the cord flashed for the last inch of length, and there was a terrible bright light, and then the sound of granite fragments flying through the air. Ehrstrom's mind only had enough time to register the heat, register the force of the explosion as he body was tattered by the flying shrapnel as the workshop blew up with horrific force.

*******

Just as Abigail opened the front door for her husband, a loud explosion came from just over the hill. As the blast sent a shock wave that tossed the giant elm's around the front yard with ease, Abigail was taken back by the sound.

"What was that," Abigail cried out as she looked at her husband, his clothes disheveled and spattered with granite dust?

"That my little whore, was your lover."

"My lover, what ever are you talking about Quinn?"

"Your lover, Mr. Ehrstrom, the man who chiseled your naked body into a block of rock. The man you have been posing for these last few weeks. Your lover, the statue, I have blown it up so that no man should ever lay eyes upon it."

"Quinn, how could you?"

"You strumpet, you concubine, you whore," he said and slapped her hard across the face.

Abigail had never been struck before by her husband, and was taken back by his derogatory words and his battery. In fact, he hit her so hard her small frame reeled back from the blow and then fell to the floor. As one shoe went scattering across the oak planked floor, he began to kick her, targeting her stomach and her legs.

"How dare you pose so provocatively?"

"Quinn. Oh Quinn, you do not understand. It was not like that. It was not fornication. He never even touched me. It was art. It was something so lovely, something so beautiful, that you would not understand."

Deadwood
Deadwood
71 Followers
12