A Bride of Stone by Eva Slipwood

A Bride of Stone
    My king commands me and so I abide.
    “I must have a queen,” he tells me, “But I have scoured the kingdom and no earthly woman has the purity of heart or grace of soul to be worthy. You must make me a bride.”
    I am the greatest sorcerer and craftsman in the kingdom and I tell him I can do this thing. So I work.
    I spend a year travelling throughout the kingdom, stopping in every city, town and village. I spread my search further, through neighbouring kingdoms until I have travelled to the corners of the earth and back. I visit every quarry I can find in every land, inspecting the quality of their stone. From these I select the hundred best and have them send the finest, purest block of marble to my workshop. It takes years for all the blocks to arrive, but my king is patient and his wealth and power limitless. I examine each of the hundred blocks, putting aside any with the slightest impurity or imperfection. Eventually, from the hundred blocks I find one which is perfect, unblemished in any way, the whitest, smoothest marble in the world, and with this block I begin my task.
    I chip and chisel, working a perfection of beauty from the clear, white stone. She takes shape under my hands, slowly, day by day, each chip and flake revealing more of her. I tease from the cold stone the shape of her feet, her delicate toes, her perfect arches. Her ankles, the lithe curve of her calves form beneath my hands. My tools trace their way up her luxurious shape to create the contours of her thighs, the sweet curve of her buttocks. Her back is molded, smooth and supple; along with the graceful pose of her arms, her elegant fingers. I chip away more stone to fashion her shoulders, the delicate, enticing line of her neck.
    I am enchanted by the body which is forming beneath my hands.
    I continue to work, devoted to my task, as I carve each line and curling strand of hair on her head. With great care I chip away the stone to reveal her brow, her eyes, the fragile eye lashes. Her eyes are closed and I can’t help but wonder what color they will be when I breathe life into them. I trace the elegant line of her cheeks, her dainty nose. With my tools I fashion her full, voluptous lips, slightly parted, expectant. I wonder what words they will utter and the supple taste of them. She is an astonishing beauty, revealing herself slowly before my eyes.
    From the stone I coax her full breasts, large and firm, her nipples erect, enticing me like jewels. In a moment of rash passion, I caress her breasts, tease her nipples with my tongue, hoping to taste the soft flesh, but they are still merely stone. I carve away more rock to create her slender waist, her belly, her hips. I stroke my hands down her hard form, desperate to feel her soft, quivering, beneath me. A bulge begins to form in my trousers and my breath quickens as I imagine bending her supple form before me. I kneel before her in supplication as I carefully shape the folds of her sex. This part I savor the most, longing for the tart taste of her, imagining her lips parting at the touch of my questing tongue.
    She stands finished before me, a radiant figure, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, carved in cold stone. I weep with joy at the sight of her convinced I may never see another woman as beautiful anywhere in the world. My heart swells with love for her as my body swells with lust.
    My king is pleased with my work and a bitter distate for the man awakens within me.
    I begin the ritual which will bring life and warmth to my new love’s body, to fill the cold stone statue with a soul. I kneel in the gloom of my workshop, lit by the soft glow of candles, meditating and chanting for days on end. Drawing a soul from the ether takes time and all the subtlety of the sorcerer’s art. In the end the ritual is complete. I look up at the statue, standing cool and aloof above me. It does not move; no breath sighs from it.
    Standing, I pace around her, admiring my