by Selena Kitt
He swallowed thickly, feeling his heart hammering with arousal and anxiety. The plump lips of his creation's sex parted, allowing the glistening, sleek inner folds to play out like the petals of a blossoming rose. The bulbous head of her clitoris swelled and pushed outward, shining like a pearl above a bed of pure, pink silk.
Emet cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Y-you shouldn't do that,” he stammered, attempting in vain to tear his gaze from that succulent vision of sexual loveliness.
Galatea's response was to spread her legs even more brazenly. She reclined in the chair, slipping her firm buttocks to the edge. Her labia flared, glistening as if with true womanly arousal.
Emet pulled his hands from hers and forced himself to meet her penny-colored eyes. “You don't know what you're doing--” he began, but caught his words in the back of his throat when she reached to cup the obvious bulge beneath his dirty pants. Her touch was firm yet soft, massaging and exploring. Her sweet round eyes quested within his.
“You...you cannot know what you are doing,” he said, even as she lowered her gaze and brought up her other hand. Lips pouting and eyes glowing with what seemed to be interest, Galatea worked her fingers to undo Emet's pants, pushing them off his hips. He wore nothing beneath, and his erection jutted out firmly and fully, surrounded at the root by a thick patch of dark, sweat-dampened hair.
She smiled, then, cheeks bulging, and lifted her hands to caress the firmness of Emet's cock. The sculptor shivered, wavering on his feet. It had been years since he had been touched in this way. And never before had he felt the sweet, searing heat and luxurious wetness that now bathed him as Galatea bent and slid her soft, eager mouth around his shaft.
“Oh, god,” he panted, light-headed, reflexively pushing forward. He watched in rapture as the full length of his penis disappeared into the accommodating mouth of his impossibly alive statue. He groaned when her nose pressed against his flat abdomen, her chin against his hairy testicles. She suckled him affectionately, pulling and caressing with lips and tongue. Her hands caressed up and down along the outsides of his thighs, then between to find and knead his swollen sacs.
This is not real, he thought even as he pumped into Galatea's mouth. It cannot be. But, by God in Heaven, nothing has ever felt so delicious, so pure...surely no whore upon the street above could match my Galatea's skill at giving pleasure.
Such thoughts faded away, destroyed and cast upon the winds of lust as the pleasure continued. Emet grunted and moaned, settling his hands to either side of Galatea's head and entangling his fingers in her hair. He jabbed and pushed, feeding his lover the full length of his staff again and again, and never did she balk, or gag, or protest in any way. She merely continued sucking, pulling, massaging, coaxing out from within him the gift he had rarely shared with a woman throughout his life.
“Oh, Galatea! My angel! My goddess! My--” further appraisals became gibberish as Emet groaned and bucked against his lover, feeling the rush of supreme pleasure as it sped up from the ends of his limbs, gathered in his groin, then burst through the tip of his spasming penis deep within Galatea's mouth. He cried out in ecstasy such as he had never known before, clutching her head close to his tumultuous groin.
Stop! Stop, my love, he thought, as her oral ministrations became too much. Suck it gently...bring me down slowly from the heights...
As if in accordance with his thoughts, Galatea did as Emet wished, massaging his cock with slow, soothing caresses of her tongue, allowing him to soften in her mouth. Only when the sculptor sighed in gratefulness did he pull back, drawing his spent manhood from between the living statue's lips. He cupped her face in his hands, gazing euphorically upon her angelic, perfect face. A single thick bauble of milky cream decorated her lower lip.
She gazed upon his face, once again seeking direction. The dollop of fluid upon her lip dripped to the floor below.
Emet smiled beneath glazed eyes. “Come to bed with me,” he whispered.
Wordlessly, Galatea rose and followed her master to the bed in the corner.
* * * *
For the first time in more years than he cared to think about, Emet Lowe was smiling as he rode the train the following morning. He had patently ignored the shuffling homeless and shiftless dealers on the way to the station—the prostitutes would not be about for hours yet—as if they were little more than minor obstacles in his path. Nearly all of his thoughts were directed toward his lovely Galatea, who had awakened him that morning with her mouth and hands, bringing him swiftly to erection before impaling herself.
She had ridden him with enthusiasm, and though she made no noise, she became flushed with a wanton look which served to heighten her lover's enjoyment. Emet had briefly wondered how a construct composed of three hundred pounds of clay could be so light atop him before deciding he was happy that it was so.
The owners of the various shops and stores in the Deco District were surprised and even wary to see a smile upon Emet's face and buoyancy in his step. All they had ever known of the skinny, sunken-eyed man was dourness and angst, the hallmarks of the tortured artist. The man they now met had a brightness in his formerly pale, beady eyes and a smile upon thin lips.
“What happened with you, old man?” quipped one of the collectibles dealers he met, who then jabbed Emet in the shoulder. “Don't tell me you finally got some.”
The sculptor—who often bristled when the dealer called him “old man” since, by definition, he was still only middle-aged—frowned. “A gentleman does not discuss the details of such things, Michael.”
Michael shook his head with a grin. “Well, whoever she is, thank her for all of us.”
“You can thank me by making an advance purchase of my statues,” Emet responded readily. “I have a feeling I will be turning out some rather inspired pieces soon.”
Michael mulled the idea over. “Tell you what. Bring me something in a few days, and if I like it, I'll take as many as you got.”
Emet snapped his fingers. “Done!” he declared before whistling his way out the door.
And so it went through the remainder of the morning and into the afternoon. At another store he was greeted with news that one of his pieces had sold just that morning, which resulted in much-needed money in the sculptor's pocket. After a quick lunch from the counter at a deli, Emet made the purchase of twenty more pounds of clay, in anticipation of a productive night.
In more than one way, he chuckled mutely to himself, his thoughts and libido turning to the beautiful Galatea. But he forced clarity into his mind. There is still one last stop to make.
If he had not pushed away thoughts of carnal pleasure before, they would certainly have faded upon approaching the steps of the synagogue. It had been quite some time since last he had stepped through the heavy doors, since last he had worn the yarmulke. Even with his minimal possessions, it had taken some digging through his dresser to uncover it. Somberness fell upon him like a giant hand as he settled the little knitted cap atop his head.
A faint hint of incense greeted him at the door. Through the heavy walls, he heard faint prayers from the sanctuary. No coherent words, just the haunting mumbles of devoted men. Though guilt gave him pause for a moment, he decided not to offer his own prayers to God; after so many years, what would one prayer do now?
The hallway to the offices were less austere. Emet found what he was looking for at the third door. After setting his heavy bag on the bench seat in the hall, he faced the door. His hand hesitated before knuckles rapped against the polished wood.
“Come in,” a ragged but vaguely familiar voice called.
A lump settling in his throat, Emet pushed the door open, tentatively following it in. The office beyond was simple, nearly spartan. Merely shelves lined with books and a large black desk in one corner. Seated alongside the desk so that he could face the door was a man who appeared to have aged not a day since Emet saw him last.
The younger man's words were timid. “Rabbi?”
Rabbi Rausch gla
nced up from the newspaper he had been reading. His expression behind thick-framed glasses was at first stoic and inscrutable as he beheld the man before him. Eventually, dry lips parted and brow furrowed. “Emet. How long has it been?”
Chastisement descended upon the sculptor as he let the door close behind him. “Probably too long.”
The learned holy man sat up straight and set the paper aside. He offered a curious smile. “I am not sure whether to commend God or just chalk it up to serendipity. I was just wondering about you the other day.”
Emet looked admonished. “Wondering why I haven't been back to temple, I'm sure.”
Rausch shrugged. “Not so much,” he said. His expression and demeanor became more grave. “Are you all right? I had heard you moved into the Devil's Block.”
The sculptor nodded. “It's been a rough go of it lately,” he admitted. He managed a smile. “But things are looking up.”
The rabbi smiled. “Well, then, I suppose I am both sad and glad to hear of it.”
“Thank you, Rabbi.” He shifted on his feet, looking furtive.
The older man was quick to read Emet's anxiety. He smiled reassuringly. “Why don't we take a walk?”
* * * *
It was difficult to begin his narrative, but once he did, Emet prattled on with all the bubbly effluence of a teenager in describing—without too much detail—the circumstances of Galatea's animation and her subsequent amorousness. Rabbi Rausch listened carefully all the while as the two men strolled through a city park near the synagogue. Finally, he directed the younger man toward a park bench and sat.
“...I know this all sounds crazy, Rabbi, but I am speaking the truth,” Emet insisted as he, too, took a seat. “I carved a statue and...she's alive!” He hung his head, smiling wistfully, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. “She's the perfect woman.”
Rabbi Rausch pursed his aged lips, the wrinkles around his eyes darkening. “Perfect, you say.”
“Yes. Perfect.”
“Because she does as you command?”
“Because...because she knows what I want, before I even know what I want!”
“On the contrary,” informed the rabbi. “She is merely feeding off your desires. The more base, the easier it is for your construct to respond. You must take care, for she will act in accordance with the simplest of your urges.”
Emet grinned rakishly. “I don't mind it so far.”
“Then you have not thought about it,” chided the rabbi. “Consider the possibilities: lust is one of the most powerful basic instincts a man possesses. But so is pride. And anger.” He spoke the last two words while looking the younger man directly in the eye.
Emet swallowed thickly, agreeing slowly with the learned man. “I need to be careful, then, how I express myself around her.”
“More than that. You must guard against feelings such as hate.”
A dark look of realization crossed Emet's face. “Truthfully, I expected you to tell me I'm crazy,” he said with a nervous laugh. “But you talk like this is nothing new.”
“It isn't,” the rabbi answered simply. “Do you know the legend of the Golem?”
A deep furrow between Emet's eyes was his only response.
Rabbi Rausch rolled his eyes with a huff. “You never did follow up on your studies,” he lamented, then cleared his throat. “When your mother first presented you to me, I wondered as to why she chose the name she gave you. It seemed, at the time, an appropriate name, especially considering the particular spelling. The circumstances of your conception, after all--”
Emet ground his teeth. “I know all about that,” he said quickly. “Mother told me just before she died.”
Rausch nodded. “I cannot imagine it would be an easy thing to accept that you were the product of a violent rape. I offer my sympathies for that. I only bring up the subject to offer context.”
“What kind of context?”
Rausch met Emet's eyes directly. “Do you know what your name means?”
The sculptor frowned in confusion. “Well...no.”
“You see, the name 'Emmet,' with two Ms, means 'universal.' But your name is spelled E-M-E-T.” He glanced to the younger man to insure his attention. “The word 'Emet' means truth, or life, in Hebrew. I always assumed your mother wanted that name for you, with that spelling, in order to erase the horror of how you came to be.”
Emet's face darkened. “You certainly know how to brighten a man's day,” he remarked with sarcasm. “But what does my name have to do with this Golem?”
“In light of what you have told me, everything,” the rabbi said. “You see, in the seventeenth century, a rabbi in Prague constructed a massive statue of clay in order to protect the Jews in that city from the mayor's soldiers. That statue was a golem. It could not be stopped or killed, and followed the wishes of its creator. In the end, the mayor of Prague gave in to the rabbi's demands and spared the Jews. The golem was sealed inside an attic, where it supposedly remains to this day.”
Emet blinked, waiting.
Rabbi Rausch continued. “In order to animate the golem, the rabbi needed to inscribe a particular word onto his creation. The word was 'Emet.'”
The sculptor suddenly nodded in understanding, his memory flashing back in less than a heartbeat to his act of carving his full first name upon the foot of the statue. “And I did the same with Galatea. Every artist signs his work.”
“I suspected as much. The moment you did, somehow, your statue became animated. But do not think that is the same as coming to life.”
Emet looked uncomfortable. The strange coincidences of his life had led to the creation of a potential monster. He did not want to admit that.
“Emet?”
The slender sculptor nodded his head only once. “I'm listening.”
Rabbi Rausch inhaled deeply, then let it out as a long, contemplative sigh. “I would like to see this creation of yours.”
Again, Emet nodded, then rose wordlessly from the park bench. He did not look to see if the rabbi followed him; he knew the older man would.
* * * *
Apprehensive hands fidgeted with the lock to Emet's home. With the presence of the rabbi behind him, he felt to be under scrutiny. He was not entirely sure what awaited beyond the door. A small part of him wondered if the bliss he had shared with Galatea had all been a dream.
Finally, he slipped the correct key into the slot beneath the weathered brass doorknob and disengaged the lock. Carefully, he peered within before Rabbi Rausch could see anything.
Galatea sat like the statue she was upon the cinder-block pedestal in the middle of the room. Her skin glowed with ghostly pale radiance. Her eyes remained blank, and her hair matched the color of her milky skin. She was apparently immobile and unaware of her surroundings, until Emet stepped into the room, the rabbi following.
Pale clay turned a slightly more fleshy tone and the eyes came alive with color. Her hair splayed away from the round, angelic face as Galatea turned to look upon her master. She smiled warmly, glittering eyes catching the pale light of day flooding into the room. Only briefly did she glance to the aged man behind Emet, whose presence, apparently, bothered her not a whit. There was no modesty within her as she rose in her unabashed nudity.
“There,” said Emet proudly. “My Galatea.”
Rabbi Rausch cleared his throat. “You, eh, certainly took a lot of care in your, eh, rendering of her,” he commented, looking over the woman's exquisite form.
“She is, without a doubt, my best work.”
Galatea smiled demurely, eyes boring into Emet's while she awaited his commands.
The rabbi stepped around, gingerly approaching the animated statue. “Would you mind?” he asked carefully with a glance to the sculptor.
“Of course, rabbi,” Emet said. “She is perfectly docile.”
Indeed, as the Rabbi approached, Galatea stood straight, arms at her sides and breasts thrust out as if encouraging the elderly man's advance. The rabbi blushed,
having trouble believing that this delectable woman before him was nothing more than a clay statue animated by a combination of ancient Hebrew mysticism and distorted luck.
His hands settled to her shoulders; they felt firm and warm, like any real woman's. His touch traveled down her arms, gently pulling them out so he could see the palms of the woman's hands. As he deduced, they were as smooth as the rest of her skin. Nor did she possess fingerprints.
He glanced back to Emet with a meaningful look. “You must trust me, Emet. What I am about to do may seem painful at first glance. But, if Galatea is what you say she is, it will not affect her.”
Hesitantly, Emet nodded, then watched as the Rabbi reached for a long metal awl on the sculptor's stand. Holding the fingers of Galatea's right hand, he settled the point of the awl in the middle of her palm and pushed.
Emet winced at first, but a quick look to Galatea told him she was completely unperturbed by the rabbi's actions. Rausch pushed with as much strength as he could muster, causing a spike of clay-like skin to form on the back of Galatea's hand. There was no blood, no seepage of any kind other than a few drops of clear moisture around both the point of insertion and when the awl finally broke through the other side.
Rausch let go of the awl and turned Galatea's hand over. The skin retracted slowly back along the length of the slim metal tool. He shook his head in amused disbelief. “Truly amazing,” he muttered.
“It is as I said,” Emet gushed, smiling broadly. “Why, this can only be a miracle sent by God himself!”
The rabbi raised a cautionary finger. “Be careful of your words, Emet,” he warned. “There are miracles, and then there are things unexplained.”
“But, rabbi--”
Rausch silenced the sculptor's protest with a short hissing sound. “You must keep her hidden. Do not tell anyone about her. In fact, if you are adamant about keeping her, I would suggest you locate a more secluded place to live. This neighborhood has many wandering ears and eyes.”
Emet frowned. “I am a poor artist,” he bemoaned. “It's good that Galatea doesn't eat, because I could not even afford to buy more food! And you want me to move?”