The Sculptor – Part 2: Fired Clay

It was the discipline of stillness. She made him hold a pose for twenty minutes at a time, and corrected the tiniest tremor with a murmured word. She made him kneel on the cold platform while she sketched, silent, and the pencil scratched like rain. She told him in a low flat voice precisely how she saw him, and what she required, and he took each word in as if it were water. She put a cool, clay-dusted hand under his jaw, tilted his face to the lamp, and looked, and looked, until he trembled.

Every half hour: "Do you wish to continue?" "Yes, Maestra." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

By two he was weightless, drifting somewhere above his own skin.

"Kiln," said Ottilie, quietly.

She said it for them both. The apron came off. She stepped onto the platform, wrapped him in a heavy woollen blanket and sat down with him on the wooden boards, her back against his chest, her arms over his.

"How are you?"

"Fired," said Raphael, with a slow, hoarse laugh. "And glazed."

"A good firing." She kissed his hand. "You were a superb model."

"May I see the sketches?"

She held them up in the lamplight. Pages of long, careful lines, a man at peace.

"That's me?" he said, wondering.

"That is you." She smiled. "I'm going to cast it in bronze. Life size. It will stand in the garden."

"And the sculptor?"

"The sculptor will require a great many more sittings."

More consensual femdom stories: Velvet Contract · Silk and Steel · Gentle Hands, Gentle Femdom