She had hesitated to agree to the blind date. The man was an artist, after all. That usually was code for unemployed. But when he proposed to meet her at a Michelin-rated restaurant, she figured it was with a shot.

And he had shown up. And his picture had matched his profile. And he encouraged her to order whatever she liked. Now she was incredibly curious about the man’s art, since it was clearly lucrative.

“I’m a sculptor,” he explained. “I just love taking an undefined lump and turning it into something beautiful.”

“So you work in clay?” she asked as she discretely slipped a hand down her front and began to stroke herself.

“No, I sculpt women, mostly,“ he confided. “I start with their minds. I’ve been in yours since they brought out the appetizer.”

“You’re in my head?” she asked, blushing. “That makes me so horny!”

“Of course it does,” he agreed. “You’ve always dreamed of being my plaything, of being shaped into whatever I want you to be.

“I have,” she nodded in confession. “It’s my only dream.”

“I’m so glad I could help you with that!” he grinned. “I could do so much more to you if we could just be alone for a few hours, though.”

“Let’s go to my place!” she proposed. “I’ll get the check!”

“That’s very generous of you,” he said, and she shivered as she was hit by an unexpected orgasm. She wanted to be so generous!“

As he drove her to her apartment in her car, she confessed that she rarely took a man home on the first date and certainly not while masturbating in the passenger seat while he drove. He explained that keeping her aroused helped her keep from thinking too much about what he was doing to her until he was done. She didn’t know if that made sense, but it sure as fuck felt awesome!

She kissed him passionately when they reached her apartment building. He kneaded her ass while she did so, tightening and rounding it. Riding the elevator up, he stroked her face as she stared adoringly at him and her face was sculpted into liquid sex.

“Remake me!” she begged. “Mold me! I’m putty in your hands! Hot, horny putty!”

“ Yes, you are,” he agreed, fishing her keys from her purse and letting them in. “And soon you’ll be a work of art.”

“Sculpt me!” She begged as he stripped off her clothed in her living room. “Make me art!”

He bent down and grabbed her ankle, then worked his way up her legs, pushing flab and cellulite up, leaving them tight and toned, pushing the adipose tissue over her hips and up her sides to sit in lumps besides her breasts. He then did the same with the excess flab on her back and belly. Then he began to work the fatty tissue into her breasts.

“Oh my breasts feel so good!” she exclaimed.

He paused and briefly massaged her brain.

“Oh my titties!” she corrected herself. “My big, fucking titties! I love what you’re doing to my titties!”

Once her titties were perfect, he held her back by the shoulders and looked her up and down. He let go and twirled a finger and she dutifully showed off what he had done to her body, wiggling her perfect ass, hugging and jiggling her perfect titties. He made tiny touch ups here and there as she turned about, then stopped her.

He placed an index finger on her forehead and his eyes went unfocused as he did touch-up work on her mind. Then he slid his finger down the bridge of her nose. As it reached her lips, she hungrily took it into her mouth and sucked at it meaningfully.

“You’re a work of art,” he told he. “But a very functional one.”

“Master, may I blow you now?” she asked.

He nodded and she knelt, Galatea to his Pygmalion, a fuckable masterpiece.

All around her apartment he fucked and fondled her, giving her what she craved, what she lived for, what she was made for! Over and over she climaxed, screaming out ” Oh God!“ by whom she meant, of course, The Master Sculptor.

When she awoke, he was gone. She was sad, but not surprised. She was finished. He had other work to do. Other art to make.

But she was complete, a work of art, and needed to be maintained. She carefully cleaned herself of the wreckage of their frantic fuck. She carefully did her make up, then went to her closet and sighed. Nothing she owned was worthy to adorn The Master’s work.

But then she saw the box. Lacy, frilly, tight and abbreviated, The Master had left her half a dozen dresses worthy of her goddess-like body. And tucked within was a business card for an adult photography studio.

She was a work of art. And art should be displayed.

More of The Sculptor. Fantastic.