Pygmalion hid himself from the lustful nature of women littering Cyprus… 

…and instead carved a virgin in ivory to match his expectations of a woman.

~oOo~

He outlined her form with a copper chisel and a steady mind, but when it came time for the details, his inner desires crept from the crevices. 

The most beautiful woman his eyes had ever seen was taking shape before him. 

As he tenderly cupped her freshly chiseled face, he poured his feelings out to her. “You are captivating me more than I could have imagined. I cannot eat. I cannot sleep. There is only you.”

He meticulously carved her perfectly rounded, symmetrical breasts and buttocks during the day; impure thoughts of the statue kept him restless at night, his body trembling and spurting. Maybe she was too beautiful as his fingers began to fondle her gentle curves. He slid fingers up and down her cleft between her buttocks, pretending to check for remaining rough edges. Pressed his face into her bare mound. Gazed into her vacant eyes for hours as if they might finally blink. 

How much time was spent ruminating over the size of her nipples? Not surprisingly, his skilled hands shook while sculpting the center adornments to her breasts. He could not remember at what moment he first longed to roll his tongue around each perfect bud.

He began imagining the alabaster beauty blushing from his touches, which stirred—with uncomfortable persistence—what he’d previously kept to himself beneath his robes.

He finally succumbed to his uncontrollable desires and tasted his creation’s hardened lips, begging for softness and forsaking the purity he’d created. 

By the time he had polished every glorious inch of her, he believed himself in love. 

However, when Pygmalion looked upon his statue, he told himself something was missing. How could she truly be the perfect woman without expression? And so, he prayed to Aphrodite. 

The goddess Aphrodite heard his cries, and in the cover of darkness, her potent tongue found the crack in the ivory, awakening the essence within the stone. 

The following morning, the softest of lips returned Pygmalion’s kissing. He cried tears of joy! And when he took a step back to admire his creation in her sumptuous nakedness, she fell to her knees before him, casting her eyes on him for guidance. 

He named her Galatea. 

A part of him wanted to leave her untouched, but the deeper ache drove him to part her lips with his phallus. As is its way, nature took over, and the innocent Galatea gently sucked him. Inch by inch, her petite mouth swallowed him until his curly hair tickled her nose. Savage need overtook him, and he gripped her face too harshly, thrusting his hips, forcing himself too deep. Upon seeing her fearful, tearing eyes, he withdrew and gently laid her on the bedding. He cursed his loss of control; a virgin needed a softer touch. 

Slowly, he crawled up her body, licking, nibbling, and kissing. She touched the spots he’d moistened, and the susurrus from her mouth blossomed into throaty moans. His hands never paused, grazing every curve and crevice, maybe making a memory, as if he feared she might return to stone at any moment. 

Galatea closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel each new sensation upon her flesh. Warmth flooded one part, then the next, until tiny dew-like beads dotted her pristine body. She became acquainted with passion and wanted more of it.

Once alongside her, he parted her thighs and dipped a finger inside, gathering wetness and spreading it along her most tender skin before pressing inside her unspoiled parts again. She knew not what was coming but just that she needed more. A single finger did not quench her growing thirst. She writhed against him, every frantic breath telling him what she didn’t yet know the words to ask for. 

Pygmalion hovered above her, his crown poised at her opening—with a hesitation too slight to be considered intentional—before he pierced her virgin veil that he had so carefully sculpted. 

Blood spotted the sheets. 

The virgin was no more. 

His thickness stretched her insides. Galatea loved the pain of it and let her knees fall to the sides, allowing him deeper, craving the thick, pulsing flesh inside her. She met his thrusts; she encouraged him. Any remaining restraint left him, and he ravaged her like a man feeling the inside of a woman for the first time.

He lowered her head to lick her nipples, and when they hardened on his tongue, he thrust with more vigor. She gripped his backside for support as wetness dripped down her thighs. Something indescribably coiled within her tummy, its pulses blossoming and spreading between her legs. She arched her back off the bedding, taking him faster, deeper until she hung on the edge of something powerful; she dug in her nails and held her breath…waiting…instinct telling her to hold on… hold on…and then let go.

She came. 

He came. 

Exhilarated, she tilted her head back, repeatedly sniffing, unable to get enough of the scent of sex in the air. Then, she looked into his eyes. Her reflection she saw–and she thought herself beautiful and, moreover, desirable!

Before Pygmalion closed his eyes to sleep, he promised, “I’ll make you my wife,” thinking that oath made everything righteous.

However, Galatea could not sleep. Having tasted ecstasy, she hungered for more than he alone could provide. She had been awakened by Aphrodite after all. How could one man sate her? No, a sexual appetite like hers needed to be shared among many. 

And so, she fled Pygmalion while he slept, joining in the rampant sex of Cyprus that he’d scorned. 

Pious Pygmalion was left alone and holding his phallus once more.