AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The clay is slick under my hands. My fingers are firm and steady in their pressure as I begin to manipulate the material inward and upward, unable to shake the memory of doing nearly the same thing to myself, working myself in the same way. Yet where the clay is cold and easily controlled beneath my fingertips, I’d been hot and desperate, rocking my hips into the pleasure.
Because of a gargoyle. A massive, frightening… intriguing stone monster.
“I’m going to head out, honey,” Glynnes calls out as she leaves the drying room and heads for her bag.
“Do you think monsters are real, Glynnes?” I burst out.
All year, I’d stare at the gargoyle as I crossed the courtyard to the faculty residence. The broad, blunt cuts of his muscled stone arms captured my interest when I first spotted him. The detail in his outstretched wings and coiled tail were so well preserved compared to the gargoyles I’d seen around the city or on campus. I couldn’t find any documentation of his origins in the school library, so I concluded he must’ve been created by a different stonemason than the rest, placed atop the bell tower at a later date.
“Absolutely,” she answers without skipping a beat. “Big Foot, the Jersey Devil, Mothman—my cousin saw him in sixty-seven.”
I can never tell if she is joking or not.
“Why, what happened?” Her eyes go wide with eager anticipation.
“Nothing,” I answer quickly.
“No.” She narrows her eyes at me. “I know that look in your eyes. It’s the same look you got before you spent three months digging through Pittsburgh’s records on steelworkers, even going to worksites to begin your tradesman series. Are you going to do your residency submission on monsters? I like the erotic kick you’re on tonight, and combining it with monsters could be very interesting—”
“I’ve kept you long enough,” I say. My pulse quickens as Glynnes inadvertently circles the truth of last night. “Thank you for your help. I’ll see you tomorrow, say two-ish?”
“Okay.” Her brightly painted pink lips curve in playful suspicion. “But I’ll get it out of you.”
I ignore her threat and call out after her as she exits the studio. “I’ll lock the gate up when I leave.”
As the studio door slams closed, I remind myself that no matter what Glynnes said, gargoyles aren’t real.
He isn’t real.
Yet, there’d been a moment last night, when I’d been so lost in the sensation, teasing my way to an orgasm, that I swear it appeared like the stone sculpture might leap from his perch to my window, making fantasy reality. It was like he might be enjoying the show I was giving him, just as much as I took pleasure in giving it.
Wishful—horny—thinking,I chastise myself.
I’d worked my fingers in and out of myself, imagining they were his stone cock, picturing what it might look like beneath his loincloth.The artist who created him in all his detailed glory couldn’t have forgotten that important detail.
A familiar throb pulses between my thighs. I’d ached for more than my hands last night, and I’d finished to the thought of being filled by so much more.
“Christ, Astra, get it together.” Eyes closed, I shake my head, my hands tensing over the clay as I feel myself rock on my stool. When I finally open them, I see the mangled piece of clay in front of me.
“Shit.” I sigh. There is no saving the piece. It’s a complete restart.
I cut the lump of clay off the wheel and toss it back into the bin it came from, sealing the lid tight so I can attempt the vase again tomorrow. I’m too worked up like this, my body humming with energy. The release I crave is only a short walk across campus and an open window away.
I change out of my coveralls, grab my tote bag, and lock up the studio before heading out into the dark.
The cool summer night hits my heated skin, and I shiver. When I dressed for the studio, I hadn’t expected to leave this late. Pulling my tote bag high onto my shoulder, I lock the iron campus gate Glynnes left through before I walk quickly down the dark, narrow pathways along the edge of campus. Any stray light from the street is blocked out by the dense foliage of the trees.
I’m letting my desires get the best of me, fantasizing about an imaginary monster, but my body hums at the thought of repeating my performance in the window. My fingers won’t do this time. I’ll need to grab one of my toys, something that will satisfy my curiosity of what it would be like to have him—it—inside of me.
As I move through an ornate gothic archway that leads towards the open courtyard, the only sound I can hear is the sharpclick-clackof my shoes echoing off the cobblestone walkway. It has a soothing, meditative effect, drowning out everything but my thoughts of the monster.
My identity, as both an artist and a woman, has been slowly overshadowed by my position as a teacher, and last night, I just needed to be seen exactly as I wanted to be seen. The wayitstared at me as I touched myself, that hint of approval I found in the sharp contours ofitsface—I hadn’t noticed it until last night, but it had been everything I needed to send me over the edge.
I replay that sudden softening I’d seen in the statue’s face to the rhythm of my footsteps, but something changes in the sound. The abrasive scrape of a pebble over the cobblestone rings out somewhere behind me.
The sharp clicks of my heels echo as I freeze, then stop. My world is silent, and I turn in place to see only darkness behind me.
“Glynnes? Hello? Glynnes, did I lock you in?” I call out.
