Happy Ever After

by Selena Kitt

  The rabbi's look was direct and honest. “I said nothing of feasibility,” he said, then softened. “But this place is not the best for keeping such a creature. You must be very careful about not allowing her existence to be known to the world.”

  Begrudgingly, Emet nodded, then smiled rakishly. “So I have to keep her locked up, and all to myself, then. At least until I can afford better accommodations.”

  Rausch rolled his eyes, but he nodded with a chuckle. “Just be careful, Emet.”

  The sculptor offered his hand. “I will, rabbi. Thank you.”

  * * * *

  As soon as the door closed, Emet heard Galatea moving behind him. There came the clattering of metal as the awl fell to the floor, and the sculptor turned, watching as Galatea approached the bed. Obviously responding to the sudden spike in her creator's libido, she crawled onto the dirty mattress, settling on her knees with her thighs spread widely apart. She bent over, stretching her arms toward the pillows at the head of the bed.

  Trembling desire overcame the sculptor. He hastily removed his coat, then shirt, shuffling toward the deliciously—and lewdly—displayed backside of his mystical lover. His pants fell around his ankles, revealing a stiff and ready cock. Hands caressed the firm round rump of his personal goddess. His eyes settled on the forbidden treasure of her anus, which was as pale as the rest of her skin with just the slightest hint of pink at the wrinkled aperture. Emet was certain the fact that Galatea had positioned herself at just the right height was no coincidence.

  He trembled in bliss at just the barest contact of the tip of his erection against the puckered, pursed opening. “Is this what you want, my dearest?” he asked her. “Do you want me...in there?”

  Golden hair bobbed about her head as Galatea nodded.

  Emet found his throat dry, head light. The devilish kink of anal sex had always intrigued him, had always been an unsatisfied fantasy. Now, on the verge of making that fantasy real, he was nearly at the point of ejaculation already. With effort, he managed to control himself, taking his cock in hand and pushing the head against Galatea's nether orifice. He was surprised to find her damp there. His creation, it seemed, had the ability to make any part of her moist and accommodating.

  He watched the pale opening spread slowly around his cock, revealing deeper and deeper shades of pink as the head popped inside. Emet groaned, gripping his lover's hips. Galatea pushed up on her hands and arched her back more deeply than even the most willing whore. The snug, gripping tunnel of her anus pulled his length in, sucking like a mouth, burning like a furnace. Inch by inch, the whole of Emet's phallus was consumed.

  For a long moment, he simply leaned against her, relishing the incomparable sensations. His cock throbbed almost painfully, but exquisitely so, massaged along the full length by muscular movements no mortal woman could possess. He caressed her taut cheeks, the furrow of her spine.

  Galatea looked over her should at him. Her face was flushed, sweaty, eyes blazing with an expression of pure lust. Lips pouted and trembled. Full breasts heaved. To further eroticize the moment, she took one of her hands from the bed and cupped a perfectly round, firm teat, pinching the engorged nipple.

  Emet moaned, reaching for a handful of his lover's luxurious hair. It felt like silk as he gathered a fistful and jerked back. Galatea reacted as if grunting in painful pleasure, but of course, no sound issued forth. That little fact did not matter to Emet. The expression was enough. It showed her submission to him, his dominance over her. Pulling back until just the head of his heated cock was nestled within her ass, he shoved home to the hilt. Galatea bucked and writhed, shaking as he pounded into her again and again.

  The cool, quiet air was filled the sounds of wet skin slapping together, Emet's groans and grunts, the protests of mattress springs. Emet alternately watched his creation's sweaty face—at one point, a tear trickled from her right eye—and the bacchanalian sight of his penis sliding in and out of that most taboo of a woman's openings. He was not sure which excited him the most.

  He nearly screamed the arrival of his orgasm, pleasurably sending liquid fire into the body of his lover, creation, and conquest. He shuddered against Galatea, slapping both hands to her quivering buttocks to keep from falling atop her body. He felt every trickle of seed leave his cock as Galatea milked him of every drop.

  Drained, dulled, and satisfied, Emet swayed on his feet, eyes closed and sweat dripping from his nose. “That was incredible, Galatea,” he muttered. “You truly are...my perfect woman.”

  Galatea eased forward on the bed, letting her master collapse atop her. As always, she said nothing. The flush drained from her face and the “sweat” dried. As Emet slid off her to the mattress on his side, she stared blankly at the wall for only a few seconds before closing her eyes.

  * * * *

  The following several days saw a rejuvenated Emet obsessively at work, crafting figure after figure. His imagination sparked by the carnal experiences provided via his lover, he indulged in the motifs of Greek and Roman myth. Lustful satyrs, coy nymphs, and erection-sporting conquerors became his new theme. He found his hands and tools flying effortlessly about the mounds of clay, creating artful and intricate renditions born from his own base and lustful mind.

  And whenever he was ready and randy, Galatea was available to him without him having to speak a word. Whatever his debauched desire, she acted out her part without hesitation or judgment. Emet allowed himself the fantasy of reading into the golem's sweaty and impassioned face a true desire for whatever it was she did for him. Ultimately, he knew none of it mattered; she was simply a creation, after all, with no more feeling than the tools he had used to create her. Still, a part of him wanted to ascribe to her at least some humanity, even if only to lend satisfaction to his acts of dominance.

  Five days after Rabbi Rausch's visit, Emet oversaw the loading of three boxes of hardened clay figurines onto the back of a truck. Michael the art dealer had consented to accept twenty-three statues—the number surprised the younger man—in good faith, with the agreement that, if he did not like them, he would have his driver return them without charge to Emet's apartment.

  Oh, he will take them, Emet thought assuredly as the hefty driver carefully arranged the boxes in the back of his truck. Emet had not allowed the man to enter his rooms; he had set the boxes just outside the door, which remained shut so as not to afford any accidental glimpses of Galatea.

  Taking a moment, Emet opened the door to his basement apartment, peering inside. Galatea turned to look at him from her usual perch upon the cinder column. He smiled fondly. “I will return later, my lovely,” he said as if to reassure her.

  She nodded.

  “And, do not go near the windows,” he continued. “No one can know you are here. Do you understand?”

  Again, she nodded.

  Satisfied, Emet closed the door and locked it, then ascended the steps to join the driver in his idling truck.

  He did not notice the curtain in Mrs. Rudolf's front window, the one which oversaw the stairwell down to his rooms, as it settled back into place.

  * * * *

  Who was he talking to? Mrs. Rudolf wondered as she stepped back from the window. Suspicion burned through her mind. That little weasel of a man better not have anyone staying with him.

  She sipped her coffee in contemplation, maneuvering the bulk of her body around the cluttered living room.

  He's been acting strange lately. When he came to pay his rent, he was actually smiling. Only two things make a man smile. Money and pussy.

  She soured. He clearly is not making money, otherwise he wouldn't be here. Which means...

  A distasteful look crossed her face. He must be keeping one of those trashy, disease-ridden whores from down the street, she decided. And I can't have that. Not in my house!

  “Carl! Jeffrey!” she shouted in her shrill tone.

  Within moments, a pair of large, dim-witted men assembled in the living room, one from the kitchen, the other from
one of the rooms upstairs. She gave them a sneering look while taking a ring of keys from within her voluminous house dress.

  “Go down to Mr. Lowe's apartment in the basement,” she ordered. “See if there is someone staying with him.”

  “Yes ma'am!” answered Carl, the larger of the two.

  “What we 'sposed to do if there is?” asked Jeffrey.

  Mrs. Rudolf grinned evilly. “Send her back to the street and deposit all of Mr. Lowe's things onto the sidewalk. He has breached his rental agreement.”

  The two men nodded and grinned. Carl took the key Mrs. Rudolf held out.

  “I have some errands to run,” she announced. “I should be back in a few hours. I trust this matter will be cleared up by then.”

  “You bet, Mrs. Rudolf.”

  * * * *

  Michael regarded the boxes of small sculptures with impressed eyes. He had always known Emet for creating rather typical depictions of woodland animals and other such fare. Well-rendered and with acute attention to detail, but not exactly eye-catching. What he saw now, however, went against the grain the middle-aged sculptor normally offered.

  “Emet, old man,” he finally said, reaching into a box to take up a detailed statuette of a nubile, naked woman astride a unicorn with an obvious erection. “I am impressed.”

  The sculptor grinned with pride. “As I said, I have been inspired.”

  Michael chuckled, replacing the diminutive statue and picking up another. “She must be one hell of a woman,” he remarked, brow furrowed as he looked the detailed carving over. It showed a muscular satyr, standing with goat legs splayed wide. Two massive, detailed erections jutted out from the creature's groin, pointed toward a pair of crouching, naked fairies with their mouths open and tongues outstretched, as if about to catch the streams of the satyr's orgasm.

  “She is unique,” Emet responded. “So...?”

  “Well, I'll be honest,” Michael said. “I get a lot of customers looking for erotic pieces like this. Seems to be all the rage now.”

  Emet grinned. “These boxes constitute only a small sample,” he said. “In fact, given the proper advance, I could purchase enough clay to make three times as many pieces as this.”

  Michael arched an eyebrow in interest. “Oh, really?”

  The sculptor met the art dealer's eye. “Yes. Really.”

  The younger man contemplated the implied offer for a moment, then nodded. “I'll tell you what,” he finally said. “Five hundred as an advance against sales. I'll put them right in the front window and price them from fifty to seventy bucks to start. If they sell quickly, I'll raise the price and settle at fifty percent.”

  Emet was quick to counter. “Twenty-five percent,” he said. “The rest to me.”

  Michael narrowed his eyes. “Thirty-three,” he counter-offered. “The rest to you.”

  Emet smiled and held out his hand. “My advance, if you please. Oh, and I will need the services of your driver for all the clay I'll need to take back to my apartment.”

  * * * *

  As with the morning, Emet did not allow Michael's driver to enter his apartment. He had the burly man deposit four hundred dollars' worth of malleable clay in several boxes upon his basement doorstep, then sent the man on his way. As the truck rumbled away, the old, dented Cadillac belonging to his landlady sidled up along the curb. Emet gave her a disparaging look.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Rudolf,” he said without disguising his contempt.

  Her eyes searched the sidewalk, as if looking for something. She seemed displeased that she did not see what she had expected. “Mr. Lowe,” she responded after emitting a small belch. Paper bags and fast food wrappers littered the front passenger seat. She wiped her slovenly mouth. “Is everything in order with your rooms? I like to make sure my tenants are well cared for.”

  “Oh, I'm sure everything is fine,” he said. “I only just now returned home, but I am sure my apartment is unmolested.”

  She smiled mirthlessly. “Then all is well, Mr. Lowe. Good day.”

  “Good day.” He watched as Mrs. Rudolf put the aging Cadillac in gear and pulled away from the curb, then as she drove around the corner to the rear parking lot. His dislike for the woman had grown with that simple exchange. Feeling a spike of anxiety stab through his heart, he turned to the steps and descended to his door.

  * * * *

  The sight which greeted him made Emet stumble in the doorway, gripping the handle of the door for support. His mouth gaped; eyes bulged. Even with the pale light which seemed to transform every color into lifeless shades of grey, the streaks, spatters, and puddles of congealed blood all but glowed with unnatural radiance.

  Two large, muscular young men lay upon the floor, their bodies crushed and twisted at obscene angles. The closest one lay with his chest to the floor but his head turned all the way around. One arm was canted upward, broken in several places, the limp hand hanging down toward the middle of the back. The other corpse stared upward with an expression of perpetual pain. Both had apparently been bludgeoned to death.

  “Oh, no,” bemoaned Emet, looking upon the surreal scene of carnage. “What happened? Galatea? Galatea! Where are you?”

  She emerged from the darkest corner of the room, beautiful sublime body decorated with blood. Both of her arms were streaked with drying crimson ichor, with more spots and lines upon firm, naked breasts. Her face remained innocent, unperturbed, as if heedless to the violence that had been committed.

  “G-Galatea?”

  She nodded slowly, and smiled, raising her blood-stained hands in welcome.

  Quickly, Emet shut the door behind him. The spike of anxiety from moments before became a pounding wave against his chest. “Wh-what did you do?”

  His creation lowered her arms and glanced to the bodies upon the floor. Her brow furrowed as she returned her gaze to Emet. It was as if she could not understand why he was acting the way he was.

  I only told her to remain inside, he thought, remembering. Not to go near the windows. I told her...

  His face paled as he recalled his words, and the chilling directive he had inadvertently given Galatea.

  No one can know you are here.

  He sighed deeply, heavily. By telling her that, I opened the door to this carnage. If she was discovered by someone, how better to insure no one knew of her existence than by killing those who discovered her?

  And now I have a mess to clean up. He pinched the bridge of his brow, trying to stem off a headache. Where did they come from? Thugs from the street, seeking to rob me? A dark chuckle escaped his throat and he squatted beside the second corpse. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked with morbid glee. But his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he looked past the dried blood on the body's face. “Wait. I know you.”

  Hurriedly, he dug beneath the corpse's backside, seeking the wallet. Finding it, he flipped it open—forty dollars went into Emet's own pocket—and extracted the driver license. “Well, hello, Carl Wilson,” he said with a sneer. Upon reading the address, Emet craned his head, looking upward as if through his ceiling to the rooms above.

  A cold, malicious smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  * * * *

  Emet found the fat woman as she sat before the aged television in the living room of the house. She looked up from a box of cheese crisps with an annoyed frown. “Mr. Lowe,” she grumbled. “You don't often crawl out of your hole, and today I've seen you twice.”

  He glared back briefly, then dropped a pair of well-worn wallets onto the coffee table. “I found these outside in the garbage,” he said simply. “They belong to a couple of the other tenants, I believe. You might want to be sure they get them back.”

  A cold hand squeezed Mrs. Rudolf's heart, but only briefly. She gave Emet a dismissive look. “Thank you, Mr. Lowe. They'll be glad to have them back.”

  “I only hope I don't find any others,” he said as he turned back toward the door. “No one wants to be caught dead without their identificat
ion around here.”

  * * * *

  Mrs. Rudolf finally turned off the lights just before eleven o'clock. The world news was over, and she was no fan of late-night Seinfeld reruns. Still bristling over Emet Lowe's earlier smugness, she pushed away thoughts of how such an ineffectual little man could have fended off two hulking men as Carl and Jeffrey, as well as the location of her erstwhile tenants. She simply assumed the buffoons were avoiding her due to their failure.

  This isn't the end of it, she told herself firmly as she ambled up the stairs. I'll see that little weasel gets put on the street, along with whatever little tramp he's got stashed away.

  The muffled—but still loud—bass emanating from one of the apartments just past the landing made her scowl. She went to the door and hammered a fleshy fist against it. “Hey! No loud music after ten o'clock!” she yelled. “Or whatever you call that shit you're playing!”

  Fucking losers, she thought to herself, smirking as the noise behind her abated. Most of her tenants, she knew, could not afford a late-night visit from the police for a noise disturbance.

  Past the four rented rooms on the third floor, Mrs. Rudolf arrived at her own door. The exertion from climbing two flights of stairs was telling; her face was swollen and red, and sweat trickled down her neck from her temples. She recalled the days before the late Mr. Rudolf passed, when she rarely had need to leave the “penthouse” on the top floor. Curse the old bastard for dying on me, she mused darkly.

  The room beyond was cluttered with stacks of newspapers, magazines, and other recyclables Mrs. Rudolf had long planned to have taken away. The odor of mildew and rotting food filled the room. The capacious woman wrinkled her nose briefly, but she was used to the smell. Ignoring the clutter, she headed for the kitchenette, looking for a last snack before bed. A half-full jar of pickles would do the trick, she decided.

  Turning back toward the living area, she gave a startled gasp, inadvertently letting the jar slip from her grasp.