Author's Note: The original draft of this story appeared in a competition which assigned participants random movie quotes which had to be turned into the first and last lines of a story; hence some readers may already recognize the first and last lines of the following story from elsewhere.
"Where does he get those wonderful toys?"
The little boy vroom'ed his lovely red wooden car along the rubberized surface past Alison's feet, while her niece, Abigail, chortled in pursuit with a blue biplane on loaner. They ran a circuit around the climbing frame while Alison watched from a bench beneath a tall willow tree; Mallory, the boy's mother, sat with Alison.
"Oh, I make them for him," said Mallory. She pushed a stray strand of long, black hair back behind her right ear, pinning it down with the dark frame of her glasses.
Mallory blushed slightly and smiled, "yeah, my father taught me carpentry as a kid, I kicked on with it. Actually, I'm a sculptor, met Bobby's father at an opening. Bobby's father has money, but he can't make toys."
Pretty blue eyes looked at Alison from behind the glasses, Mallory's full lips curling at the corners.
"That's great! I'm a writer," said Alison. "Mostly blogs and stuff, some free press, you know. Trying to write a novel."
Mallory nodded, her smile broadening; her thigh brushed lightly against Alison's. A hot tingle ran down Alison's spine and sparked her pussy.
Alison spoke a little too quickly, "My wife's English actually, Tasha, she's an attorney. We met when she came over here on vacation."
Mallory's thigh moved away, which made Alison slightly hollow, but relieved. They chatted while Bobby and Abigail shrieked. Alison caught herself brushing her blonde hair back. She tried to check herself, but eventually gave up. Mallory's thigh didn't touch again, so there didn't seem to be any harm in it.
Eventually, Mallory announced that Bobby had to leave to be picked up by his father. Seated in his stroller, Bobby wailed about leaving, while Abigail joined in about the loss of the toys.
"So pleased to meet you," said Mallory, after dealing with the miniature drama induced by the announcement of playtime over. "Some folk need a nap."
"Yeah, they sure do, take care," said Alison. She twirled a blonde strand around a finger, feeling happy to be taken, but still desirable.
Mallory suddenly fished a card from out of her pocket, "Here, give me a call if you feel like being a model." Her pink tongue darted between her teeth for just a second. She grinned and waved as she pushed Bobby's stroller out past the railings.
Alison swallowed and her cheeks burned. Had she been that obvious?
She glanced at the card and moved to chuck it, but Abigail pulled at her sleeve, demanding her aunt compensate for the loss of playmate and toys. Alison shook her head and laughed; she stuffed the card into her baggy shoulder bag and forgot about it as she started to play tag.
* * *
Tasha got home late as usual, "Hi, luv! Sorry, prepping for a new client tomorrow. How's Abigail doing then?"
"Great! We went to the bookshop, had some fun at the playground, then I took her home. Bill and Deb say hi, we should come over next weekend."
Alison thought about mentioning Mallory, but dismissed it. It didn't feel quite right. Tasha disappeared into their bedroom to strip out of her business casual and into her comfy sweats. Alison sidled in after her, licking her lips at the sight of her wife's pale skin.
Alison arched her back and pulled on her hard nipples as Tasha's tongue moved between her legs. She shut her eyes and gasped, but she couldn't quite get there. She grasped Tasha's short brown hair and rode her lover's mouth. Tasha sucked on Alison's clit and swirled her tongue. Alison whined. Right on the edge. She couldn't stand it.
She thought about long, black hair and full lips curling in a small smile; beautiful blue eyes.
* * *
Later, Alison listened to Tasha's gentle breathing in the dark, "Sweetheart?"
No response. Guilt ate away at her conscience; Mallory's card lay in her baggy shoulder bag waiting for her to do something with it. Throw it out, obviously.
Alison slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Tasha, and snuck into the kitchen. Her bag hung amidst the clutter of coats on the back of their apartment door. She lifted it down and rummaged around inside, but couldn't find the card. It had to be in there.
Alison took the bag across to the big wooden table in their kitchen. She emptied the bag's contents carefully out onto it.
She still couldn't find it. A cold clammy feeling trickled down her spine. It had to be in her bag. She turned the bag inside out. Nothing.
Alison shook the bag furiously and the card fell from a hole in the lining. She sighed out loud.
She placed the card to one side and replaced the contents of the bag before hanging it back in place on their door; Tasha wouldn't notice one single thing different.
Alison pursed her lips. Why should Tasha need to care? The card had to go.
She walked back over to the table, picked up the card and then opened the cupboard door to the trash under the sink. She glanced at it; it just said "Mallory" and a phone number.
Alison decided to make a decision in the morning.
* * *
"Mmm, great coffee, thanks, Mallory."
Mallory's lips curled, her bewitching blue eyes looking over the top of her coffee mug from behind her dark frames, "My pleasure, Alison."
The late afternoon sun filtered down on them through the high windows of Mallory's studio apartment; they sat at an old circular table in the corner.
Alison could see red brick warehouses and a turn of the river from where she sat facing the windows. Tasha should be coming home in a couple of hours, so Alison had her excuse to leave in a little bit after a perfectly innocent and pleasant chat with a fellow creative. Tingling heat teased her damp pussy. She ignored it.
"Would you like to see some of my work then?" said Mallory.
Mallory gestured to the long black curtains that closed off half the studio space, hanging off rails set in the ceiling.
"Oh, I'd love that," Alison beamed. Butterflies danced in Alison's stomach. Mallory hadn't mentioned the possibility of modeling for her again and disappointment nagged about that. She'd been thinking about it ever since walking through Mallory's door. Maybe even before that. Tasha wouldn't mind her pursuing an artistic collaboration, even if being a sculptor's model might be a little different from her usual forays.
They got up from the table. Mallory drew back the curtains.
Alison's breath sucked in sharp.
"Obviously, I keep the curtains for when Bobby is here," laughed Mallory. "Although when's he's older I expect he'll get the same kick out of my art that his father does. . . . Well, unless he's gay. I only ever do guys for special commissions. Hah."
Alison blinked, shapes and forms and images almost too much to take in.
Figures in metal, stone or wood, some finished, some obviously works in progress or smaller clay models, dotted the space. Naked flesh bent and twisted in abject submission, empty of everything except aching lust. Bodies perverted by desire. Some of the sketches on the walls showed women encased in leather and masks, others nude and bound by elaborate knot work. She saw photographs pinned up in one corner, female faces lost in orgasm, distorted in sharp monochrome. Her eyes darted, not daring to look too long for fear Mallory might think she had some interest.
No way. No way could she model for something like this. Somebody like this.
Mallory spoke again, but Alison didn't catch it.
"I'm sorry, uh, what did you say?" said Alison
Mallory smiled at her and picked up a sketch pad and black pencil, "Why don't you stand on the podium? Let me sketch you a little bit?"
"Um . . . ," Alison's eyes glanced to one side at a bronze sculpture of a nude in high heels, bent forward on her knees, ankles crossed, her hands reaching back to . . . . "This isn't really my scene, Mallory, I mean, it's incredible, just incredible, but I don't think I could pose for this."
Mallory laughed gently and Alison shook her head, losing the fight to not join in. A wicked flame licked up between Alison's thighs, her lacey panties starting to soak through. Mallory's long, black hair fell forward framing her astonishing blue eyes as they giggled together.
Alison imagined that hair stroking across her breasts, teasing her stiff nipples, as Mallory bent down to . . . .
* * *
Alison pushed first one, then another finger inside her dripping pussy. The wet lace of her panties clinging to the back of her hand. She loved the way it constrained her movements as she arched back against her pillows. She closed her eyes and thought about posing for Mallory.
She'd let herself be directed, her arms behind her back, her nipples so clear and hard beneath the cloth of her tee. Mallory hadn't said a word, but Alison thought she'd seen a little smile that made Alison's pussy molten.
Splaying her legs out across her bed, Alison's thumb teased across her clit as she thought of standing there on the podium, letting Mallory sketch while she spoke to Alison about sculpting.
About how, when choosing to make a sculpture, the sculptor started with some idea of the form- a vision of the final work—but then, as the sculpture shaped beneath the knife, the true form emerged. The truth always emerging from within, something that the sculptor merely brought to life, so that the art became a blending of the sculptor's desire and the elemental desire of the sculpture's true nature.
Alison mewled. She pinched her nipples with one hand, using her other hand to stuff her juicy cunt.
Incredible blue eyes. Long, black hair. The sculpting knife scraping. Twisting in obedience. She started to cum.
Alison heard a loud cough and opened her eyes. Tasha stood at the doorway to the bedroom, already half out of her business suit. Her eyes ate up Alison's wanton display.
"See you decided to start without me, luv. I'm glad we're both feeling the same way today."
They fucked each other till the sheets soaked through. Afterward, they lay arm in arm. Exhausted and content.
"You got home a lot later than expected," said Alison. She pondered what might have happened with Mallory if she'd known.
"Yeah, sorry, luv, new client left a lot of work to go through after the meeting this morning," said Tasha. She rolled over and curled up, her slender back to Alison. "Really need to sleep now . . . I love you, darling."
Alison reached out and touched Tasha's shoulder, "Love you too."
She lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling. Making as little sound as she could, Alison ran her fingers down over her stomach, down to deep between her thighs. She pushed her knuckles in her mouth and bit down as she came.
* * *
Alison's breath burned, the heat prickling her skin as she stared into nothingness, listening to the scrape-scrape of the sculpting knife. Her bare breasts rose and fell with each breath, her pink nipples puckered into hard points.
"Not quite right," said Mallory. Alison turned cold hearing the disappointment in Mallory's voice. The sculpting knife whispered again then paused. "No, not quite right."
Alison turned her head, "Is there something I can do?"
"Don't break pose."
Alison flushed as she faced forward again. Naked to the waist in her low-slung jeans. She held still, holding her wrists behind her, back arching slightly, shoulders back, offering her big soft breasts to the onlooker. When Mallory had suggested she pose topless, it had almost come as a relief.
Whenever she came to Mallory's studio now, Alison stared at the submissive women in the figures and pictures. She dreamed about them, about what it would be like to be one of them. Empty, ecstatic, abandoned.
Mallory never said a word about them, she just asked Alison to stand on her podium while Mallory sculpted. Obeying Mallory made Alison's juices trickle farther down her thighs each time; the desperation to race home and finger-fuck herself slowly building to a peak within her as each session neared its end.
Tasha's new client seemed to keep her busy at all hours. The one occasion Tasha that came home early, Alison made a meal, but she'd been so pre-occupied with her own thoughts that she could hardly find a word to say to Tasha. Alison hoped Tasha hadn't noticed. In truth, Tasha seemed pretty pre-occupied herself these days.
Just a rough patch. They'd get through it.
"No, not working," Mallory snapped her knife down on a small table with sketches scattered across it. "I'm going to get a drink of water. You can relax."
Alison watched Mallory's long, black hair disappear through the curtains. Yearning thrumm'ed through her core.
What did it mean if the sculpture didn't work? Would they have to stop? Had she failed some how? A terrible void opened inside.
Alison turned and looked down at the sculpting knife on the small table. It lay on one of Mallory's sketches.
Alison saw herself in the sketch. Abandoned to lust, eyes shut, lips parted. Just like Mallory's other sculptures.
The image blurred and Alison blinked. She arched her back more, blonde hair dangling down below her shoulders. Heat pulsed inside and out, and she could feel hot breath blowing across her bare skin. The sculpture needed something more.
Alison knelt on the podium. Her breasts shook gently as a little orgasm took her.
Kneeling, felt so right. So true.
Alison opened her eyes and saw Mallory watching her as the sculptor sipped a glass of water. Mallory smiled. Alison moaned softly and shut her eyes.
"Yes, that's much better," said Mallory. "I can see the sculpture now."
Alison shivered as she heard the scrape-scrape of the knife.
* * *
Alison hurried down Mallory's street, her mobile pressed to her ear.
"No, I'm sorry, Deb, I can't. I miss Abigail too, but I'm working on a project," Alison rolled her eyes. Stop being so damn pushy and look after your own daughter.
"Mmhmm, I'll let you know. Thanks, bye."
Alison pocketed her mobile in her baggy shoulder bag and reached Mallory's buzzer. She took a deep breath to calm the sense of anticipation already building between her legs. Pressed the buzzer.
"Mallory, it's me, Alison. I'm here to pose."
"Oh, come back in a little bit could you? I've got company."
Alison's mouth opened and closed. She wanted to scream.
"Um, okay, I'll come back in, uh, an hour or so?"
A long pause.
"Make it two, I'll be ready for you then."
Alison teared up as she walked down the street to sit in the park. She called Tasha, but her wife didn't pick up. She tried Tasha's secretary, but the new client had called Tasha to a meeting out of the office.
Alison sat on a bench and counted the miserable seconds till Mallory could sculpt her once more.
* * *
Alison's nostrils flared, savoring her own musk as it mingled with the sweet scent of oil. Mallory rubbed the oil across Alison's flesh with a rough cloth, making it glisten. The cloth left hot stinging needles of pleasure in its wake. It brushed across Alison's nipples, newly pierced with the little silver studs Mallory had instructed her to get for them.
Another stud pierced Alison's navel, a delicate chain hanging from it, a little red jewel twinkling at the end of the chain. The jewel drew the eye down to her shaven cunt, its constant dripping arousal starting to stain the wood of the podium.
Alison thought of herself in her bathroom in the apartment, shaving her hot cunt for Mallory. Because Mallory wanted it to look that way; to let the sculpture live. The cloth pressed between her legs and brushed across her mound.
Alison whined. Mallory shushed her.
Alison fought with Tasha all the time now. They both hated it, but it seemed the only way they could interact. After the last fight they'd tried to make love, but neither had the heart or desire for it. They lay in bed side by side and promised each other to work harder.
It didn't matter. If Tasha even noticed the differences in Alison now, she didn't comment.
The cloth lifted. Alison's breath came in short gasps of anticipation.
Mallory's steps sounded on the floor of the studio, moving away from her. She mewled as she heard a big wooden desk drawer sliding open.
Alison's eyes fluttered open, wanting to see the rope. She heard the sculptor coming back towards her. Mallory's blue jeans and white tee appeared in one corner of her eye as the sculptor leaned in.
Thought dissolved as Mallory started to wind the hemp rope around her, binding clever knots across her skin. Alison shut her eyes.
The sculpting knife scrape-scrape-scraped.
* * *
Tasha hadn't come home last night.
The fact kept repeating itself in Alison's head as she blew her nose with another tissue; her eyes gone red with tears. Maybe Tasha just had to pull an all-nighter, she tried to tell herself. But why wouldn't Tasha answer her phone then? Why didn't she call?
Alison sat on their comfy old leather couch and looked across at the big wooden table in the kitchen. Remembered how the two of them laughed trying to fit it in the elevator. Talked about maybe having family dinners around it one day.
Mallory. It all started with her.
No. Not fair. It started with me, thought Alison. I should have thrown that card away.
She jumped as her mobile rang.
"No, it's Mallory, you're late and I told you I wanted to get started before nine. We're almost done with your sculpture."
Alison swallowed, "Mallory, I . . . can't. Tasha didn't come home last night, I don't know where she is."
Alison heard a long sigh and her lower lip trembled at the sound.
"Alison, she's a big girl, Tasha's fine, she just got tied up with something. In fact, I'm certain of it."
Alison nodded, wanting to believe, "You're sure?"
"Absolutely, now come over here. It's time to finish this."
Alison twisted her left hand in the cloth of her cotton dress, "I don't think I should, Mallory, it's been . . . too much. I think we should maybe step back. I think that . . . ."
"No, that's wrong, Alison, you don't think that at all."
Alison's breath sucked in. Her hand stopped twisting in her dress, the cloth bunched up between her fingers, its knuckles pressing between her thighs.
"The truth is . . . you can't stop thinking about it."
Alison's thighs parted.
"The way it feels to be on your knees. The rope against your skin. Your nipples so hard on top of your big soft tits."
She whimpered as she listened to Mallory's soft voice in her ear. Shuddered, as her fist pressed through the cloth against her pussy.
"The things you've done for me . . . the piercings . . . shaving that hot little cunt. What's it all been for?"
Her cunt burned hot through the cloth dress and raw need made her start to pull it up over her legs.
"You're as desperate to finish this sculpture as I am, aren't you? That cunt is dripping just to think about it, isn't it?"
Alison moaned. Her hand gathered up the hem of the dress, the suddenly hot air kissing her skin.
"You're out of control, but, oh, so, very, very controlled. And you love it."
Alison's thighs spread wider as she pushed her fingers into the front of her wet panties.
"Big soft tits being squeezed up by my rope, for anyone to reach out and touch. They'll be all around you, watching you, wanting you, and you want it like that, don't you?"
Alison's breath became ragged. She shut her eyes.
"That's why I knew I could sculpt you. Because you want to give in, to let that hot cunt do all your thinking. I could see it. It's a gift. It's my art. This sculpture we're making—and we are both making it—it's . . . have you ever felt more alive than when you give yourself to it?"