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When I enter the room, my host, who has been gracious and lively all evening, holds the heavy door for me. My eyes fall upon the central column.
First glance. A figure, human-like, appears to be bound there.
"My most recent sculpture," my host says as the door clicks shut behind us, a dull sound that echoes throughout the large, open space.
Second glance. I gaze at the sculpture and walk, scribing a wide circle about the piece.
"The ropes are real," I say, astounded.
"Most assuredly."
He’s smug, pleased. I am a little annoyed at his manner, but the piece is lovely.
"Obsidian?" I ask, guessing about the black material he utilized to carve the semblance of a female body bound to the pillar.
He laughs, not loud. An irritating laugh.
"A perfect body," I add, "But too perfect, don’t you think? Such lovely breasts."
I walk closer, my heels tapping on the black tile floor, feeling a tingle in my own nipples, for a moment sensing ropes gathering my flesh into its embrace. "A peculiar effect," I murmur.
He watches me closely. "What do you mean?"
I’m about to answer, when I freeze. Certainly it didn’t move, this being, this figure that absorbs me, so black, so meticulously rendered.
The chest, the breasts, exquisitely molded, rise. Fall. The movement was imperceptible from where I stood before. And at her feet in a perfect circle, drips of her sweat fall and coalesce, delineated by the hem of her long black dress.
"My God." I think I whisper the words. But they have a grotesque effect. Because the figure reacts as though it can hear, as though it is not the fabrication of a human form rendered in the glass of volcanoes.
The "sculpture" struggles.
Droplets of saltwater splash about her feet.
Black rubber. I can see that now. I can see everything, or so I think.
I note his smug happiness, his elation at my dismay. And I smell her, recognizing that smell because it is so close to my own. The rich smell of Female.
Her feet press downward into impossible heels. The dress widens beneath the breasts to give a subtle foreshadowing of her waist and hips, hinting at what lays farther still, between her thighs, those gentle folds of flesh. It is the opening of a wound that each woman bears, the labia, and hidden in the fleshy hood, that shrunken penis, the clitoris. And waiting within the clitoris. . .orgasm, that shriek, that bright tidal wave of flesh gripping the thighs. Life, darkness, fluid.
Her breasts, captured by the rubber in exquisite black shudders, draw me forward. Her neck is sculpted with rubber also, a thick collar forcing her chin upward at an unnatural angle. She struggles against the collar, her head encased in rubber, smoothing her features, giving her the look of something not real, something newly formed, ideal.
Black sheen of rubber. Shape of woman.
He moves forward, touching her. She moans.
"Does she frighten you? My sculpture? My perfect creation?"
I try to speak, but can’t. A drip of sweat trickles between my breasts.
He smiles at me, a hungry smile. And even though his hand rests upon the nipple of her breast, his eyes fix upon mine. My nipples rise, harden, brushing against the silk of my blouse, all that separates my flesh from his gaze, his touch.
He turns to his "sculpture" and slowly draws two zippers downward, zippers that reveal her breasts. He lifts them out, white, deliciously round, the nipples darkened, waiting. She moves in hypnotic motions.
"Touch them," he says.
I raise my hands. I touch them. She moans. Drips of her sweat fall upon my feet. I don’t care. I want her, this idealized being, this female made more luscious, lustrous, a demon bound. Even her hands are enclosed in restrictive rubber, so that they can not beckon, can not grasp or gesture, and in that way, portray her humanity to me.
Between my thighs, I grow warm and moist. Then more so, the wetting of my inner thighs, the downward drip of fluid. I’ve always lubricated heavily.
"Suck her nipples," he says to me.
I bend forward. Her nipple hardens between my lips. Mine follow suit. His hand grasps my thigh from behind, rising slowly, pressing my skirt between my legs. I moan. His other hand slips between my mouth and her salty, wet nipple. He presses me backward with force, crushing me against his chest. I fight only for a second, then give way. I want this. I ache between my legs, that dark wet well that wants beyond reason. He holds my mouth closed.
"We will have her tonight, together," he whispers in my ear. "And then, I’ll decide what to do with you." His fingers search, penetrating me from behind. "We’ll see," he says.
He has me unmake her, piece by piece, as he sits coolly and watches. He holds a small whip, striking me if he becomes displeased with my performance. I remove the dress from her body, then the rubber bustier, the cupless bra, the rubber underwear equipped with a fortunate slit. Through the slit he had inserted a black rubber penis, inflating it to keep it in place.
I excise her layers. I ravish her skin, her body, as he instructs me. When I am done, he leaves me in place. But he releases her and dresses her in an overcoat, escorting her out of the room. It shuts with a dull click. I have no doubt that it is locked.
"Now," he says, returning to me, caressing me with his whip. "It is time to sculpt you."
I am waiting in darkness, buried in obsidian, in rubber, a pressing, forming thing. I am helpless, wet from the sweat of my body, tormented by rubber, pained, held tight to the column by ropes. Silence darkens.
I hear the dull click of the door. I hear footsteps. I hear his voice.
"What do you think of my sculpture?"
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