Historic Fiction
Dawn of a Golden Age
The pearly pillar pierces her core -a bright pink outlining it- a fraction of an inch, then a bit more…
The mallet clacks riotously against the iron chisel, spreading marble flakes like confetti. With care, I tap the remaining slivers out of place, wary of marring the lifelike appearance of solid flesh. The last phallus I forged cracked in two, rendering it useless. I must be vigilant while smoothing the shaft; make it as defined as the real thing, without having it split asunder.
Switching to the rasp, I smooth the rough edges away. Dust, fine as flour, piles beneath me on the floor. Sweat runs in rivulets down my back as I concentrate on the task at hand, but cools as the door opens, leaving me chilled. Like a harbinger of chaos, a tumultuous wind sends parchment towards the heavens while extinguishing the flames of handmade candles.
“Gio! Gio! What are you doing in here? You’ve been in this workshop all day and night. And the night before. I need you. I’ve tried riding horses and going for a walk, and I’ve even tried to do it myself, but it’s no use. The only one who can help me with my hysteria is you!”
I love the woman greatly and can also appreciate that she’s eager to aid me in my lust. But I think maybe she’s needing it as much as I do, perhaps more. She’s ruthless, never allowing me to get a wink of sleep. Does she think sculptures create themselves? Or that the bronze statues commissioned by Pope Pius IV just miraculously appear? Well, they don’t. And I’m not getting them finished either when I spend all hours of the day keeping her from hysteria. What a strange term for something so easily solved. Or at least I thought it was, before I was spending every waking hour attentive to her needs.
“Watch your feet. Mind the stone chips.” I warn for the hundredth time. “I’m working on something to aid you, milady,” I reply, while thinking it’ll also help me get some work done. The Pope will hardly be overjoyed to hear I didn’t finish the Fountain of Neptune because I was aiding a woman in curing her effeminate malady. Maybe men who have taken vows of self-restraint are doing it right. Although, many a priest have perished — death by celibacy — so, I can’t say abstinence is the solution for my problem. Hopefully, my project will mean there’s no need.
“Oh. It’s beautiful, and it looks just like your tinkler. May I touch it?” she asks, fingers reaching out until I snatch it away.
“Well, of course it looks like mine. Where else do you think I’d get the model from. There isn’t a long list of organ models to choose from. Besides, no one can know that I’ve made this for you. It considered a sin to self-indulge.”
“Gio! It’s a sin for us to fornicate, yet we do that every day, when you’re not in this workshop. We could get married and then the church wouldn’t think it so bad.” She gives me a pointed look. Whether about the fornication or the prospect of marriage, I can’t say. I know that marriage is not an option. Not because I don’t want to, though I don’t, but because the Medici will never allow it. First, because I pay for her services- although I wonder of late who is serving whom- and second, I am to be interred in Florence, forever to remain.
“No worries, dear one. This will be the cure you need.” Grasping a handful of straw, I buff the marble until the friction warms my hand then close my eyes and caress the veined stone. Carefully, I glide my fingers, then palm over the carved alabaster, recalling from memory the shape and size, for accuracies’ sake. It warms in my embrace, the chill quickly dissipating. Although it’s as smooth as flesh and appears animated; readily being filled of blood, it’s hard as, well… stone. And perhaps a fraction heavier than the original.
It’s probably my best work. And like so many artists before me, likely never to be given its proper ado. The specimen is as silky as the softest fur, translucent in its splendor. I hold up my latest masterpiece, turning it back and forth to show my dear lady how it appears in the light.
She gasps before her fingers reach, then linger over the phallic substitute once more. A slight tremor belays her excitement.
“It’s glorious Giambologna! Magnifico!”
With a single finger, she appraises the sleek lines. Her eyes flick up to mine as she realizes it feels almost lifelike. Except for the cooling characteristics of rock, only absorbing heat, but not emitting it, it’s a perfect replicate. She is as amazed as I at how realistic it is.
“Oh Gio!” she exclaims. “When can we try it?”
I remove the appendage from her hand, dust it vigorously with a brush and use a rag to wipe away any silt that remains. A few last strokes with the riffler, and it’s polished to perfection.
“Go ahead, milady.” I say, while placing it in her hand. “Let me know your thoughts. I’m going to clean up here, then I’ll be in for supper.”
With a shriek that makes her appear years younger than life has granted, she kisses me wetly on the mouth and scrambles away, leaving the workshop door ajar in her haste.
Quickly, I collect any larger pieces that may serve a later purpose and do an inadequate sweep, then blow out the few candles still alight. It would appear, I have a date.
She must have untied the laces of her dress before making it through the door. I find her laid bare on the table like an offering, legs spread wide. With fervor, she runs the marble column through her nether lips, her womanly fluids bringing it to a lustrous shine. The amatory gesture creates a stirring in my loins. I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight. Bellissima!
“I wanted to wait for you before I took it inside. It’s so smooth, like velvet.” She breathes a deep sigh.
“Don’t delay on my account.” I say, pulling up a stool and sitting an arm’s distance away. From my vantage point, the evidence of her desire is a sight to behold. Michelangelo himself would weep at her beauty. Her center is plump and moist, blooming like a flower at dawn. I’d give up my chisel if I could paint her hills and valleys for the rest of my days.
She begins slowly. Whether to extend the sensation or of wariness, I can’t tell. The pearly pillar pierces her core -a bright pink outlining it- a fraction of an inch, then a bit more. As she stretches around the rigid rod, her head rolls back and she expels a satisfied sigh. My manhood stands at attention, believing her sounds of enjoyment to be an invitation. I squeeze it in hand, not quite ready to forgo the display before me.
My love finds a preferred angle and increases her pace. The squelch of her cony adds to the melody of her whimper and sighs. I sit transfixed as the marble slides in and out of her delicate flesh, my vision becoming blurry until I comprehend that I’m holding my breath. Releasing it, I stand and walk to her side, taking the replica from her grasp.
“What do you say, il mio amore? Do you think this will aid you with your hysteria?” I thrust it deep, farther than she’d pressed it so far. Her eyes widen before she squeezes them tight, rewarding me with a deep groan. She raises her hips, silently begging for more, so I pull it out instead, leaving only the bulbous head tucked inside her entrance.
Ever a woman to take what she wants, she thrusts forward, impaling herself fully. A gush of wetness fills my palm, and the next groan is my own. Propping herself on her hands and feet, she arches her back and repeats the motion, gyrating wildly as I hold the implement in place. Her nectar of Venus saturates my hand as her scent impregnates my senses. Each inhalation feeds my excitement, and I open my flies, finally allowing my stroker free. While maintaining her rhythm, milady takes me in hand, squeezing before sliding her soft thumb over the tip, spreading the drop of fluid found there.
Reaching over, I pinch the fleshy bundle below her mons, enjoying the effect as I do. She bucks, taking more of the stone, uttering an enticing cry. I alternate between thrusts and tweaking her button until she falters. Resting against the table, she spreads her legs further while simultaneously pumping my rod. Her chest raises in rasping breaths, back arching from the oak top.
With a lusty sob, her eyes roll until only the whites show and a renewed stream of ambrosia pours from her. With a grunt, I release my seed onto the stone floor, thrusting into her hand as I slow the stride of mine.
The small room is loud with our joined ragged breaths. She looks at me shyly and smiles. Removing the dampened stone from her well, I hand her the penetrating device, still coated in her serum.
“So, milady. It seems to have the desired effect. What should we call it?”
Her words are garbled, like perhaps the hysteria isn’t remedied after all. I think she means “diletto,” but she enunciates it “dildo.” Either way, this may be the Dawn of a Golden Age.
I based this short story on real-life. Want to know where I gathered the idea? Check this out!
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