The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

deep brown circle of the circumcision scar, the shape of his sex. He existed in his body as he always had, except for the face, and she remembered.

Emma unbuttoned her dress, slipping out of it, letting it fall to the floor.

His chest rose and fell with his quick breaths.

She stripped away her shoes, stockings, and undergarments, and climbed on top of him, pressing her vagina against him, loosening up, for she was tight with emotion. She cried out when he entered her, but soon moved in unison with him, meeting every thrust with an equally intense motion and pleasure. Her hands massaged his chest and she caught sight of the scar on her finger with its flash of silvery skin.

Emma stopped her thrusts.

His hardness tensed.

She squeezed in response and held him tightly inside her.

Lifting the mask from the bed, she ran her finger over the cleft in the metal and then peeled back one half of the tear, exposing the jagged edge. Holding Kurt’s left arm, she positioned the mask against his wrist and prepared to slash the metal across the blue vein rising from the white skin.

Kurt shut his eyes in anticipation of the cut Emma was poised to deliver.

Instead she swung the mask above his hand, purposely missing the flesh, dropping it to the floor where it fell upon his notepad.

His eyes flashed open, sexual fury boiling in them.

“You wanted me to cut you, just as I cut myself,” Emma said. She looked down at the man who lay with his arms thrust over his head, his body as rigid as stone. “I won’t give you that satisfaction.” She reached behind her, nearly collapsing on his chest, massaging his testicles as he thrust in-and-out of her in rapid strokes. Within moments, he came in violent spasms and their bodies shook in unison, his slickness combining with hers. She held him inside until his penis slipped from her and lay limply against her buttocks. Emma rolled off and tightened her groin to keep the fluid inside. When she finally climbed off the bed, she accidentally stepped on the mask. It crunched like a dead leaf underneath her feet.

Kurt yowled like a wounded animal.

The mask lay flat upon the wooden floor.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, despite the thrill of revenge that crept over her. “Come to the studio. I’ll make another.”

Kurt never moved, but stared at her with desolate eyes, as she dressed and slipped out of the apartment.

The night air invigorated her as she walked back to the studio, her senses heightened, the broad sweep of the city electrifying her. She spent the night alone in the bedroom thinking of what she had done—the others at rue Monge were wrapped up in their own celebrations of the war’s end. As the night grew long, the dream of the faceless infant gradually receded from her memory.

* * *

The next day she saw Kurt again at his apartment. He wrote: I am lonely.

She wrote back: I want our child.

Emma made love to him several times before she left Paris. Each successive time, her revulsion about her sexual liaisons lessened. She only had to think of a child growing inside her to erase the guilt.

Many days, she lay in her bed until Virginie called her to work. The fall and winter dragged on and their chilly depths depressed her. Even Christmas was cheerless and dull for she still wanted no contact with her husband. Despite the war’s end, Emma found it difficult to be joyful. Thoughts of Tom and Kurt quickly erased any sense of happiness. More often than not, she found herself thinking of Linton and the love he offered—the true affection she had foresworn for France. The memory of his face lifted her briefly when no other joy could be found.

The year drew to a close, but Kurt never returned to the studio for another mask.

PART FIVE

BOSTON JANUARY 1919

CHAPTER 11

19th January, 1919

Dear Virginie,

Hello, my dear one.

In life one often runs squarely into the obvious—sometimes at great cost. Writers are told to avoid clichés, but I must take exception and reiterate how profoundly my life changed in France and how much I miss you and the staff.

When I left the studio that morning after the New Year, I avoided a look back at the staircase. I couldn’t stand to see you or Madame Clement weeping at the door—God knows, even Hassan shed a few tears over my departure. However, I sleep peacefully in Boston knowing the studio is in your prosperous hands. I have the greatest confidence in your abilities and I’m certain you will carry on our work to the great benefit of your country and all soldiers in need. Be forewarned, I know John Harvey will figure later in your life somehow. Please, be gracious and welcome him with open arms. He really is a good soul at heart, and I think every one of you may benefit from any kindness he displays.

My trip home on the USS Manchuria was uneventful—if sailing on a ship loaded with American doughboys can be described in such a conventional manner. They were a gay crowd and carried on much longer into the night than I cared to, but these are men who deserve to celebrate every minute that life allows them. Even those hampered by crutches or arm slings held their heads high. But despite the congeniality onboard, I couldn’t help but think of Lieutenant Stoneman and my voyage to France, filled with my fears of German submarines and the unknown fates that lay beyond. I suffered none of those concerns on my return trip.

My arrival in Boston was tearful as well—exhausted as I was after the sea journey and the rail trip from New York. Anne and Lazarus met me at the door—Anne with a smile, hugs, and tears, and Lazarus with a subdued wag of his tail. I think he has forgotten me over the past year and a half of my absence and has grown fonder of Anne.